Chapter summary: This is much worse than I thought it would be. Much worse. How do I keep cold and distant? I must. But how do I do that when she doesn't even have the confidence to look in a mirror? She cannot believe what she said about herself ... can she?
The door banged open, and I jumped a bit. Was I just thinking about chores? Because Rosalie walked in carrying a large galvanized oval metal tub. It was just big enough for me to stand in easily, or sit in if I scrunched my knees up to my chest.
I guess the first chore would be a bath, then. She set the tub by the stove, and I saw that there were two wooden pitchers in the tub. The pitchers looked to be about a half-gallon in size each.
Rosalie looked over to me, looked back to the tub by the stove and grimaced. She moved it to sit by the foot of the bed, but she seemed not to like that either, moving the tub to the center of the cabin, away from everything.
Away from everything, but right next to it.
I rather didn't like that all that much, myself.
She went to it, and I looked away. I heard movement of furniture, then pouring of water, which I surmised was going into the tub. The door opened and closed, and then I heard Rosalie's beautiful, musical voice by the tub.
"I really have to wonder what's right outside the window that's so fascinating for you to be so transfixed."
"I..." I started, looking over to Rosalie with her black eyes, but I stopped when I saw me right next to her, sitting on the bed.
Rosalie was standing right next to the right-most mirror.
Gah! I got an eyeful of exactly what I was trying to avoid. I looked hard at Rosalie only, avoid looking at the rearranged centerpiece that now angled around the tub, facing more toward the stove, but with the right-most mirror pointing straight at the bed.
Rosalie was looking right at me, but abstractly, distantly. She had a large towel draped over her arm. When I didn't continue, a puzzled expression crossed her face, but then she pushed into my silence.
"Your bath is ready. Check to make sure the water in the bottom of the tub isn't too hot." She began pointing: "Water," at the pitchers, "which should be the right temperature, but check first, please," then she pointed again: "and soap. You'll wash your hair after you bathe, okay?"
"Rosalie, why are your eyes black? I don't have my ..." I needed to know, but I stopped again, because Rosalie came at me, calmly, but very, very controlled.
"Girl, why are you asking questions?" She was looking right through me. She still couldn't see. "Bathe. Now."
She extended her arm holding the towel carefully, almost bumping my nose. I murmured a 'thank you' and took the towel from her, but I didn't get up from the bed.
That elicited an impatient: "Well?" from Rosalie, who did one of her elegant not-pointing but waving-toward the tub to help the obviously addle-minded girl find her direction.
"Um, Rosalie, please, I'm sorry, but ... could you, like, I don't know, put that away or cover it or something?" I asked her quickly, not looking toward the object in question, not looking toward her.
Rosalie muttered an 'I don't believe this!' but then spoke more forcefully, "Look, girl, the mirrors are facing away from the tub, see? You are going to be able to bathe in privacy, and you'll have a lovely painted image to admire as you bathe. Very relaxing." She spoke as if to a child. "You have nothing to fear, ... except for the small fact that there's a vampire in the cabin." She grimaced as she said that last part but then continued: "I'm giving you some privacy. I'm not going to turn the mirrors on you as you bathe, you kn..." She stopped suddenly.
And so did my heart. My mouth went cotton dry. I couldn't have imagined something as terrible as she said, but when she said it, I couldn't get it out of my mind. Me, bathing, and suddenly, her, turning the mirrors onto me, a girl standing in the tub totally exposed and with nowhere to run or to hide.
And she read it all. I couldn't hide my thoughts from her.
"I cannot believe this!" She was furious. "You know I wouldn't do that to you, don't you?" she was nearly shouting at me.
I couldn't answer. I couldn't speak, ... and I didn't know. She said she wouldn't, but what if she got it in her head that she needed to do that to me for some reason?
Like last night.
My heart was beating a mile a minute.
Rosalie gritted her teeth and forced out an "I do not believe this!" but not so quietly this time. She crossed her arms and stared toward me with unmasked disdain.
I dropped my eyes but eventually looked up again. She just stood there. Was she waiting for me to give in and go to the tub?
No, that wasn't it. Her eyes were brightening. She wasn't breathing. She now looked directly at me. She now could see me; see everything. She gave me a once-over, shook her head and marched over to the piles of clothes in the corner of the cabin by the table. She pulled out a bed sheet and quickly tied off the corners of it to the corners of it, hiding the mirrors.
She looked right at me, and her eyes shifted from golden to black in an instant.
"There, see? Now, would you please ... ?" she asked as she waved toward the tub.
She was still Rosalie: she was hard and cruel and angry. She was Rosalie, but she was being polite, too, and accommodating, even though, for some reason, it went against her grain.
"Yes, thank you," I whispered in awe.
She was looking toward me, but she didn't see me, so I felt safe to disrobe quickly. Chores, I reminded myself, so I wrapped myself in the towel and folded my PJs on the bed.
"Tick-tock!" Rosalie said impatiently. "Any time now! The morning is gone, and the day fast on its heels. There's so much to do that there isn't time to waste."
"... Coming!" I gasped as I finished tweaking the fold of the shoulder of my PJ top into a perfect corner. I flitted quickly past her, seeing her not seeing me as she turned, following the sound of my movement.
I stood by the tub and carefully raised my leg over its edge, fighting to maintain my balance, and put my big toe in the inch of water in the bottom of the tub.
Ah! Perfect! I flattened my foot down in the nice, warm water, and it came to rest on the nice, warm galvanized tub bottom. I took off the towel and put my other foot in.
I squatted in the tub and picked up a pitcher of water, feeling the hot water with a finger ... the perfectly hot water in the pitcher. I poured it over my shoulder and felt it traveling down my back.
Oh, God! So wonderful!
I picked up the soap and the wash cloth it rested on by the side of the tub and started lathering my back.
"Have everything you need?" Rosalie asked in my direction, causing me to jump a little bit in the tub. In my bliss, I had forgotten she was there. I had forgotten the world was there.
"Um, yes, thank you," I responded, not looking toward her. I couldn't see her, so she couldn't see me, I reasoned.
"Good," came the crisp reply, "now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do here."
That response did make me look over my shoulder, but she was no longer by the triptych. I did, however, hear movement from beyond it.
I looked at the triptych — so peaceful, so beautiful — she was right: looking at it was very relaxing. I picked up the pitcher and poured hot water over my front side and lathered myself there. Each time I rubbed soap in and rubbed myself with the washcloth I felt a layer of dirt fall off me like an old layer of skin being shed from a rattler. I felt I was being reborn.
Then I heard it: the sound of ripping by the stove.
Ripping? Oh, no! I thought of the sweater I had held through the night being shredded and thrown into the fire.
"Rosalie, stop!" I shouted as I ran around the side of the triptych to stop her.
Or would have run around its side ... see, there's this tub I was in that I didn't quite lift my legs over.
I tripped over the edge of the tub and then fell. My face hit the floor again, and my shin hit the side of the tub. Hard.
"Ow!" I shouted. Damn it, damn it, damn it! That really hurt.
What really hurt, the face slam or the shin bang? My answer: yes. Well, okay, I think my shin hurt much, much worse. I started to pick myself up when I was interrupted by a fierce command:
"Don't move!" Rosalie shouted at me, so I froze, very aware that my back side was topside.
I looked up to Rosalie towering over me, who was, thankfully, looking away, toward the front door.
"Are youh bleedin-k?" Rosalie asked tightly. I could recognized the not-breathing-in voice.
"Um, ..." I started, but I guess I wasn't fast enough for Queen Rosalie.
"Tell mhe RAIGHT NOWH!" she shouted, still looking toward the front door.
"I'm looking, okay?" I shouted right back. Jeez! Was it going to kill her to wait half-a-second?
I twisted my head around and lifted up my leg a little bit. There'd be a bruise there, but the skin wasn't broken.
"Um, no, I'm not bleeding, okay?" I wanted to mention something about standing down from red alert, but Her Majesty didn't look like she was at all pleased.
She turned to me with a very displeased look on her face and immediately picked me up — hey! — and deposited my soapy self into the chair closest to the tub. Thankfully the mirrors were covered, but they weren't pointed at me anyway, they were facing the stove.
She grabbed my chin and turned my face to the side, not so gently, I'd like to mention right here, and examined my face critically. She then crouched right in front of me to examine my legs.
Yes, I am aware what was at her eye level, okay? My belly button, thank you very much for wondering. Do me a favor, okay? Next time, don't wonder.
She looked down — okay, she looked way down to my shins, okay? Jeez! — and examined them critically with her eyes and very soft strokes of her fingers. My shins. She examined my shins, okay?
"No bleeding," she announced, looking at me with black eyes.
I think I told her that already.
"... but your going to have a bruise there," she continued after her concluded her exam, looking back at me.
Really? I was going to have a bruise there. Oh, my! Her grasp of the obvious was astounding.
But she was looking at me with considering eyes, she kept shifting her gaze between my shin that was throbbing and my face with her more-than-considering eyes.
I blushed. What exactly was she considering?
It didn't help any that I was clothed in less and less soap bubbles as she considered. And the water evaporating off my skin, um, cooling it, ... well, it was hard not to react to that and her stares, okay?
Looking away helped a little, I guess, but that didn't last all that long either.
"So what was so important that you had to risk your life for it, princess?" Rosalie asked with a tinge of amusement to her exasperated question.
I wasn't amused: "Princess!" If anyone in this cabin were a princess it would be Her Highness squatting before me.
"Yes: 'princess,'" she retorted. "See?" she explained, "you've been captured by the wicked vampire," she smirked here and then continued: "and have been brought to her fairy-tale castle." She waved expansively at the cabin.
My heart stopped again, and my breath caught in my throat ... again. The blood drained from my face. Fairy-tale castle? I stared at her intently, trying to see if I could somehow see Carmilla beneath the Rosalie exterior. But as I was staring at her intently, her eyes whipped to mine, and she was staring right back, and just as hard. She was staring right into my eyes, but I realized she could look anywhere she pleased: I had nothing to hide, and nowhere to hide it.
I guess today was the day for me blushing. I hope there wasn't a maximum quota, because I might have exceeded it already. I crossed my arms over my chest. That helped, but not everywhere.
She looked away quickly. Wow, I had just won a staring contest with a vampire! Do they hand out trophies for that? Then she said something I didn't expect to hear.
"Look, could you please do me a favor? Try not to look so temptingly delicious at every single thing I say."
Oh, God. My blush was really hitting her hard. I blushed harder and looked away, muttering something about how I'd work on that. I really wished I could cross my legs, but Rosalie was right there, and I didn't think I could be subtle about doing that if I were kicking her in the face.
But she did get up and went over to the piles of clothes, picking up two towels, so as she was doing that, I crossed my legs. I didn't know if I had permission to leave the chair yet to get my own towel, and I wasn't looking forward to being shouted at again.
She went over to the tub and looked at it, examining it closely and then looked at the towels. She sighed and muttered something about too much scent, looking over to me and tossing me one of the towels. I unfolded it and covered my front side.
Then Rosalie stooped down over the tub, and started twisting her hands over the edge of it. It almost looked like she was peeling an orange. The metal complained faintly, helplessly, in protest to what was being done to it.
When she had circled the tub, the edge of it, its lip, instead of being straight up was curved away and down, just as the lips of the porcelain bath tubs were made. She circled it once more, touching here and there, perfecting her already perfected work.
"Good," she noted, business-like, and came back to crouch in front of me, a bit below eye level. "Now what was the crisis that started all this?"
But I ignored that question: "You can see now!" I exclaimed.
Rosalie raised one eyebrow. The last three days actually did me some good, for now I could read her expressions better. This one was saying, 'brilliant observation, genius!'
Okay, maybe the last three days hadn't done me all that much good, but ...
"But why couldn't you see before?" and what had changed? Was a taking a bath all that helpful for her? How often would I need to bathe, then?
Rosalie entirely ignored my question: "Crisis?"
The last three days hadn't improved her patience much.
"Um, oh!" I recalled what all the falling was about. I looked quickly over at the pile by the stove. I saw the sheets from the bed, the top one torn into ragged pieces. I didn't see the red sweater, but there things under the sheets, maybe ...
"Um," I started, but Rosalie grimaced and looked like she was about to say something, so I waited. She didn't say anything however, just raised her eyebrows, waiting for me. "Um, the red sweater you wore last night ... is it in that pile?"
Rosalie didn't look over toward the stove, but she did stand up.
"Yes," she responded guardedly.
"I'd like to keep that, please. Please don't burn it, okay?" I asked. I tried to ask like it was my sweater, because she gave it to me, sort of, and not asked like begging. It mostly worked.
"I can't bel-..." Rosalie broke off, crossing her arms.
"I'm going to be saying that all the time, aren't I?" She looked at me and shook her head.
I looked down and whispered: "I don't see what the problem is ..."
"The problem is this, my dear, the problem is that particular piece of clothing you ask for has the worst embedding of your scent on it. The worst!" Rosalie looked very cross.
But I wasn't focused on her anger. I was focused on the words. Two words: my dear. That didn't mean anything, did it?
I recollected myself. "I could wash it ... I could wash all those; you don't need to burn them. I could take care of that."
This, however, set Rosalie off.
"It that what you think I brought you out here for? To be my washer woman? Is that what you see yourself as? The Hale's little maid? Is that the sum total of your ambition?" She just kept getting angrier and angrier.
"We did have a little scullery maid that did the laundry as well ... brown hair and brown eyes, and about your age, too. She wasn't even a servant: she was a servant to the servants, cleaning up after them. Is that what you want out of your life? Was that what she wanted? Did she decide when she was born or when she was a little four year old girl, 'Oh! I want to be the Hale's laundry girl!'?"
Now Rosalie rounded on me.
"No, it wasn't, but somewhere along the way, she decided, or her parents decided for her ... and she went along with it ... that being a scullery maid was her life's purpose. And do you know what her reward was for choosing that path?"
Rosalie glared at me, furiously. I was struck mute by this outburst.
"Do you?" she demanded, so I shook my head no. I guess it wasn't a rhetorical question.
Rosalie hissed her answer to me: "She ended up out on the street, destitute. Imagine that, a little girl, just like you, cowed by the other servants and cowed by me, for no reason at all other than that she saw herself as the scullery maid, and her reward was poverty and maybe even death out on the streets. Why didn't she come out here instead of choosing that life? Why didn't she just go somewhere else and seize hold of her life and make her own choices? Why? Because she thought she had to do the dishes and then the laundry, that's why! Is that what you think, girl? Is that how you value yourself? Is that the measure of your worth?"
She was right in my face, spitting out these words in hate. And I was pressed against the seat back, mesmerized by her onyx eyes and that intoxicating honeysuckle and rose scent that seemed to be so much stronger in her anger.
"I just ..." I whispered into that angry face.
"You just what!" Rosalie didn't back down an inch.
I swallowed hard, but I couldn't stop the tears from leaking out, so I looked away from her and tried again.
"I just wanted to help. That's all. You're doing everything, and I just ... I just wanted to help."
The whole 'helping with the chores' plan just flew like a lead balloon, didn't it?
I felt her recede from me, so I looked up at her pleadingly.
And saw conflict warring on her face again. She reached out toward my face, then hesitated. She grimaced, then turned away from me, toward the stove.
My heart broke. She was reaching out to me, but she stopped herself.
She strode purposefully to the pile by the stove and then retrieved the sweater, came to me and handed it over.
I cradled it to me. It covered me, it was that big, and I held it to me. Rosalie grimaced again, but spoke quietly.
"That'll need to be washed, washer girl," she looked away.
"Okay," I replied rising from my chair, going around her, favoring my bruised shin, heading toward the tub.
"What are you doing?" Her voice went from soft to surprised.
"I'm going to wash it ..." I explained.
"In that?" Rosalie looked toward the tub in shock.
"Yes, just to rinse it first, ... then I'll use ..." I started to tell her what I was going to do, but angry Rosalie was back now.
"Putting more of your scent on the sweater is not rinsing it." She held her hand out imperiously. "Give that back to me."
I looked at her, then looked down at the sweater.
"No," I whispered.
"I beg your pardon?" Rosalie's voice was very calm. Very deadly.
I wondered if she'd ever been told no before.
"You can't take it back. You gave it to me; it's mine now." I held the sweater tightly to me, head bowed over it, looking down into it. Not looking at her, but not backing down. This was my sweater now.
"You are wrong," Rosalie stated quietly. I was surprised at how calm she was while she spoke. She was so controlled. "You may forget, but I do not: I am a vampire. I can take, and I do take. That's all I do. But I'm only taking the sweater to wash it in clean water, now ..." She paused here for a brief second, then said: "would you please give me that sweater, and I will return it to you when it's clean?"
I was still looking down at the sweater, holding it to me, reluctant to let it go.
"Do you promise to give it back?" I asked, hoping to have some hold over it, some guarantee of its return.
Rosalie crossed her arms and didn't answer. I looked up at her finally. She was staring at me, intently.
"Girl, listen to me." She demanded so softly that I had to strain to hear her words. "A vampire gets to make one, and only one, promise in its entire existence. I gave you it last night. So all I can do now is to ask for you to please give me the sweater now, and I will return it after it's clean. That's all I can do now."
I looked at her. Her words striking me with their seriousness. She had given me her only promise. I had guessed last night that it was forever, and she had just now confirmed it. She could never promise anything, ever again, because she gave her only promise to me.
I swallowed, grasping finally the significance of last night's gesture, and two more tears leaked out of my eyes. I handed her the sweater, and she held it gingerly, moving toward the door.
"Now, please wash your hair. The bottle of shampoo is next to the Listerine. I will return shortly." She opened the door and stepped out, but then turned back: "Oh. Please do not use that towel. Leave it by the stove."
"No more requests for promises, okay?" And she was gone.