She doesn't know how long she has been languishing in the copper tub.
The water has turned tepid twice but she thinks of the sun and her palms tingle, heating the water to her desired temperature.
She closes her eyes; partly from fatigue and partly to see the dream behind the lids and she opens them again, not quite distinguishing the fantasy from reality.
Snow piles melt in the corners of the room, soaking the Persian rugs and staining the draperies; the white gossamer canopy draped over the hand-carved four-poster bed sags, pregnant with icy water, threatening to collapse and deluge the feathery mattress.
Bonnie isn't bothered, she eyes the darkening of the rug from the water, inch by inch, curious to see the room warp as the others once had, to see the floors buckle and walls bloat.
She had helped his mother try to kill him.
Of this revelation she is certain, even though there is no definitive memory to tie this conclusion to, only the feel of a matronly hand on her shoulder, a glimpse of weary blue, and a spatter of a conversation.
"My son is an abomination."
It wasn't farfetched or shocking to her that she would have attempted to kill him; hell, it was only twenty-four hours ago that she tried to end him. She can reconcile whatever reason she had to put him down in her past life it was deserved.
But what mother would kill her son?
Weren't mothers supposed to love you despite you being a murderous psychopath? Sure they wouldn't help you mutilate and conceal the bodies, and they wouldn't lie about your nature and testify to your innocence to the court. They would mourn and wail and they would grieve to the end of their days that you received your just punishment.
But what mother would administer the punishment herself.
What woman could have birthed you and then be the one to line you and pull the trigger.
Bonnie brings her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms protectively around herself, and gently asks the snow to stop falling.
After her bath, she ruminates over mothers and rummages through the large leather trousseau at the foot of the bed. She tosses aside tissue wrapped beaded gowns and glossy blouses, the smell of cedar and musk cologne intoxicating her. She tugs out a green watered-silk kimono, unfolding the slippery robe in her slender hands, revealing a delicate embroidered image of a dragon covering the length of the back.
Wrapping the garment over her wet cures and limbs, she takes a seat at the mirrored vanity and wonders about Abby, her own mother, the name scribbled in cursive on the branch above her on the family tree in her grimoire. Bonnie admires herself in the mirror, imagining an older woman with similar features, a woman who loved her despite her being a murderer, a woman with dewy brown skin who would brush out her curls until they became frizzy waves and tell her to be careful, to watch out, to not let her heart take leap at the delight of danger.
She plays with the glittering jeweled bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes, tries on costume necklaces and rings, caresses the pearl-inlaid hair brushes and hand held mirrors, presses the teeth of combs in her palms until they leave a line of indentions. There is one particular comb that stands out, an ivory hair comb carved into a rose. She gathers her curls and fashions the exquisite comb into her hair and like a kid she opens the drawers to play with other trinkets, and is immediately drawn to a silver case engraved with an inscription of what Bonnie assumes is a poem. She opens the clasp, and is greeted by a pair of sweethearts, the yellowing photographs of the lovers adjoined by the metal frame, one a beautiful cold blonde and the other a dark-skinned man with a mesmerizing smile, a stark contrast to the straight line on the woman's face.
Bonnie smiles back at the photograph until she hears footfall on the stairs and she places the silver picture case back in the velvet-lined drawer and closes it shut.
BKBKBKBKBKBK
Everything belongs to him, including her she supposes. There is no allowance for autonomy, and reprimanding him for entering her room without asking is a waste of her breath.
"Looks like Sunday will be your grand debut, love," He says, striding across the room, holding a champagne bottle and the stems of two flutes in one hand and hiding his other arm behind his back.
She feigns disinterest, even though she's intrigued by what's in his other hand.
"Sunday seems pretty soon, don't you think?"
"Not at all. You will be the talk of the town and your magic won't even be required immediately, at least I don't expect it to. Marcel may be a lot of things, but I highly doubt he has reached the low to disgrace a funeral."
"You would," She states, leaning back on her stool to make out what he is holding.
He laughs, filling up the room with the hearty sound, and he leans over her, smelling of dirt and cut lawn. ""Don't worry, love. I don't move pieces for the joy of the game," he says with his blue eyes darkening to ink as he reveals what he has hidden. He lays the bulky linen napkin on the vanity table and uncovers two slices of strawberry cake in the thickest pink icing with piped frosted rosettes. "There is an entire spread waiting for you in the dining room."
She almost forgot that she hasn't had a proper meal; the thought of the cheeseburger she craved earlier was obliterated by the satiation of blood.
The cork pops and the champagne flows and there is a mirth between them as they clink crystal. She giggles from the bubbles, feeling effervescent, lifted by the hybrid's excitement, turned on by his mercurial nature as he kicks off his boots, picking up the fire poker at the hearth and waving it about like a sword.
They talk to each other with ease, finding a rhythm that was not there prior. He lists off what she is to practice in the days to come, what spells he requires her to cast, and that Elijah would be arriving Saturday to assist in the ruse of their formal attack.
And she bobs her head along with the conversation, finishing the bottle, nodding yes and offering up her opinion from her limited toolbox, and she runs a finger into the icing, pinching a piece of the cake into her mouth, savoring the sugar on her tongue, and she is suddenly aware of the hug of the green silk, the friction of her nipples pressed into the lapels, and she looks up into the penetrating blue.
She coyly nods towards the remaining piece of cake, "If you don't get to it, I'm going to finish the other piece."
He aims the iron at her, "Both are for you."
"You're not hungry?" She asks, pondering if hybrids liked strawberry cake.
"Famished."
He drops the poker and picks up a broach from the table, one of the more risqué costume pieces Bonnie had observed earlier, a cameo of a man and a woman coupling, "This used to be my sister's room," He snorts, tossing the piece without the delicacy the material demanded.
"Really," Bonnie quirks a brow, "What's her name?"
"Rebekah," He states as a matter of fact, "This was her home actually, her home away from the Quarter, her own respite from Elijah and myself. " He says as if it were meant to be humorous. He fingers the necklaces on the vanity with his eyes downcast. "Elijah and I would visit, spend time in the country with her but New Orleans held too much to stay away for too long. Her intervals out here were a kind of meditation, a coming to terms with our nature, our intensity she called it, or at least that's what her frequent departures led Elijah to believe."
And you?
She notices his attention suddenly draw to her hair, "It made me question her loyalty." He states, pulling the ivory comb from her hair, letting brown curls cascade over her shoulders. He threads his fingers into the weight of her tresses, brushing his knuckles against her skin, "I prefer your hair down."
"I, " she starts, averting her eyes, her heart quickening to his touch, "Loyalty", She begins, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth as she isn't sure what to say, but she wants to assure him, and to say something that will make him continue to caress her, "I'm sorry I tried to kill you," is what fumbles out despite her best effort.
His hands are still tangled in her hair, "Are you," He snorts, wrapping her hair into his fist and tugging lightly with a threat that he could easily turn darker if spurred , "Why, Bonnie?"
She wants to blurt because you told me I am made of you, and there is no mother here to brush out my curls and warn me of men like you. I'm not sure there ever was. And there is also no mother who will plot against me, no mother who will kill me for dishonoring her for all the death I will bring in your name.
And she pictures another family tree, one without many branches, just two bony boughs.
Flesh of your flesh; blood of your blood.
She reaches for his hands, tenderly stroking them to release her, "I won't betray you." She says with all the vulnerability of a child.
And for a split second the mirth that still lingers in the room enters his eyes, brightens them to a shade she has never seen, the look of surprise is uncommon to the hybrid's face. She is poised to stand, to let him see her how she sees herself but champagne is jumbling her thoughts and before she is able to reveal more, he yanks his hand from her as if she had burned him, and mutters that they will have an early start in the morning. And with the same the ease he entered her room without acknowledging if she even wanted him there, he leaves her, he leaves her dangling and confused, navigating her only to his amusement.
Author's Note
Thank you for reading. Thank you for leaving comments and critiques. I appreciate them all. I really enjoyed writing this scene and can't wait to delve more into the development of their relationship. And for those of you lamenting that Bonnie and Elijah don't have a friendship, don't worry.