Night

The room is huge. For a minute, all my fears are forgotten as I stare at it. A large fireplace casts light and warmth, as it is night and a chill creeps in through the large windows. The gossamer curtains flutter quietly. A few couches are pushed into the corner, and a long table groans under the weight of cold meats, fruits, bread, and drinks. But to dominating thing in the room is a wide bed, piled high with pillows and blankets. At this sight, the anxiety comes rushing back, and my knees nearly buckle under the weight of it.

He is at the table, pouring himself a drink. As he raises it to his lips, he pulls the veil off and drops it to the ground. He is…perfect. Dark hair falls casually to his ears, and his features are sharp, highly defined, as if deliberately sculpted to be that way. His eyes are a warm brown, shown off by thick, dark lashes.

Surveying me over his cup, he waves his fingers at me, bidding me to approach. I do so quickly.

"Your name is…Christa, correct?" His voice is pleasant-sounding.

"Christine." There is more silence as he finishes his drink.

"Take that off," he says. "Your veil."

I cannot hide a slight tremor that passes through me as I unwrap the shawl from my shoulders and pull it off of my head. Already, my eyes are trained on the floor. I can feel his eyes on my face, but we say nothing. There is a gentle thunk as he sets his drink down on the table, and his hands, which are warm, take my face. He turns it left and right, examining. When he's finished with my face, he pulls off the next layer. My arms are revealed, and he takes them and inspects. I do not know what he is looking for. A scar, perhaps, some blemish that would render me unworthy? This goes on. Layer after layer is taken off, and he scrutinizes all the new flesh that is exposed. Chills run up and down my spine, pooling in my stomach before taking off again. I have been very good as to controlling myself, and I cannot break now.

But as I feel his fingers brush my stomach to pull off my red chemise, I lose the little courage that I had. A sob escapes my throat, and I press m y hand to my mouth quickly, trying to stifle the tears that I cannot afford. They come anyway, and I fall to his feet, a sign of desperate submission, and bow my head.

"I'm sorry," I choke out. "I am sorry, I'm sorry…"

I wait for the punishment, staring at the floor, but it never comes. Startled, I feel him kneel in front of me, and his hands once again take my face. I allow him to raise it, but I keep my eyes on the floor.

"Look at me," he commands, though his voice is still light.

As if it was to be the last thing I do, I meet his eyes, terrified. There is no way to miss the shadow of surprise that flits across his face. He shifts closer in order to examine.

"Amazing," he murmurs. "But…of course you aren't the only one, but to see them…"

"Doctors say that it will not be passed on," I say desperately. "Brown is the dominant color." I wish to assuage his doubts; there can be no question that his life must be perfect. His children cannot have blue eyes. He nods.

"Yes, of course."

The cracking of the fire is the only thing heard for a very long time.

The rest of the night can be described in a single word: uncomfortable. My comfort hardly matters, but nevertheless, it is still a strange and unpleasant experience. I didn't know what to expect; it isn't as if I have anyone to speak to about…this. My few friends were married earlier than I, and I have not seen them since.

My one solace is that I will not have to endure many nights like this. Perhaps five or six - seven if I am young enough. The good thing is that it does not last long. Soon, he is leaving. The fire has burned low, casting large shadows over the room. Before he closes the door, he pauses.

"Oh, my name is Raoul." The door clicks shut, and for a very long while I am completely still, listening and waiting. Then, when I know that I am alone, I begin to sob. It does not take long to expel all my emotions, and, hiccupping, I crawl out of the stained sheets, pull on a nightgown, and retreat to the couches. Although they are cramped and uncomfortable, they are much better than the bed. The night stretches on. The fire dies, but I cannot relight it, and the chill sweeps into the room. I huddle in the couch, curling for warmth.

I must have dozed, because I wake to the sound of someone opening the door. Immediately, I stand. It is a short, frizzy-looking woman dressed in black. She pulls the curtains away from the windows fully before addressing me.

"I have drawn your bath," she says. "When you're finished and dressed, I shall take you to the carriage."

The room right across the hall is the bathing room, sumptuous in every detail. As I climb into the tub, water sloshes over the top, so full is it. The woman never stands still. She leaves and comes back with soaps, leaves again and returns with towels, and exits once more to bring back a gown. All conversation I attempt is snapped off with impersonal and hurried replies. She pulls me out of the bath and I dress quickly, my hair still damp. After another fifteen minutes, she has managed to make my hair presentable, and I follow her down the stairs and out into the familiar courtyard, where a large carriage is awaiting. I climb in, wincing slightly as an angry ache rushes through my stomach and down through my legs. My stomach growls with hunger.

As soon as the door is shut, the carriage takes off. I do not know where I am going, and I do not know why I am leaving the Capitol. All I know is that members of the Oligarchy do not live in the Capitol, but I wish that someone will tell me where my destination is. But it does not take long to get there, wherever it is. The door is opened for me by a tweedy-looking man who points to a heavy wooden door. The building I am standing in front of is similar to the Capitol, yet grander-looking, decorated and gilded with excess. When I walk inside, I see another woman dressed in black hurrying to meet me.

"Follow me," she says, and brushes past me. My frustration has mounted even higher. It is true that I have never been told explicit details to events, but I have always had some idea what was going on.

"Excuse me," I say quietly. "Where am I?" I feel idiotic, stupid, worthless, but I cannot question it any longer. The woman stops in surprise and turns around.

"Why, your husband's house, of course! Well, his brother lives here, too, and his wife and children. How could you not know that?"

I do not respond, and she begins to lead me once again. My stomach is rumbling angrily. This is the house that I shall have to know my way around. I try to memorize the way she takes me. Up a flight of stairs, through two hallways, across a drawing room, and the third door on the right, but as soon as I get there, my mind is erased. It is my bedroom, the room where I will be spending much of my time. It is larger than my one at my old home, but styled similarly. The walls are deep cream, and the windows wide. I do not love it, but I do not hate it. The bed, however, is much larger than my old one. I swallow at the sight. A snarl escapes my stomach once more. The woman hears it.

"I'll be back with something," she says, and turns to leave.

"Wait!" I bite my lip for a moment. "Is there…any possible way I could get embroidery materials?"

She looks at me for a moment before nodding and disappearing. I explore quietly. The wardrobe is stuffed with frills and laces, and a drawer is sparkling with jewelry of all kinds. For a moment, I wonder what my mother and father are doing. It is late morning; my mother will be starting to supervise lunch, and my father will be trying to pick a book to skim through, or perhaps speaking to those who live in the house next door.

As I am fingering the bottles on the vanity, the door opens, and the woman reenters with a tray. My brunch is a hard-boiled egg, some sliced strawberries, and a piece of unbuttered bread. A small pile of thread and material sit by it. I thank her, and she sets it on a low table that rests by the small fireplace.

"Tomorrow morning, someone will come show you the way to the kitchens. I will return later tonight with your supper."

I eat everything hungrily after she leaves. Setting the tray aside, I pick up the embroidery. This is something that I love, something that I do constantly. I cannot remember how many handkerchiefs I presented to my parents and siblings. I thread the needle and quickly begin.

Through this escape, the hours slide by quietly. For a few precious moments, I am content. The sun moves, casting different shadows. The woman returns, as promised, and presents me with another meal, this one slightly more substantial, as it consists of a small piece of beef. Someone else comes, a gentle-looking old man, to light a fire.

As the sun is dragged out by the distant mountains, I slip into a nightgown, eager for a full night of rest. As I am sitting at my vanity, unpinning my hair, the door opens, and I look at the intruder in my mirror.

It is Raoul. I stand quickly, turning, and offer him a good evening. He smiles slightly and shuts the door behind him. His loose shirt is open at the top, and I can feel myself blushing. I watch him as he walks to pull the curtains across the windows. My stomach suddenly wants to empty its contents. As he approaches, I suddenly burst out,

"I am sorry, sir, but…what are you doing here?" A wave of heat crosses my neck and face as he stares at me, and I press on stupidly. "You…you were just here last night, and…well…"

An unbearable silence fills the room as he continues to look at me. Suddenly, he laughs. It is my turn to stare at him while he continues to laugh. Finally, still smiling, he gazes at me with some kind of pity.

"Christine, it takes more than one night for…well…what we're looking for. Surely you knew that? We keep trying until we're certain."

I feel the blood drain out of my face, and suddenly the night seems much darker than usual.