3. Haunted
3
HAUNTED
L uella closed the door to her room firmly behind her. Her back sagged against it as she felt the weight that had pressed down on her relieve. Ever so slightly.
The dinner had gone well, compared to past dinners with her parents, at least. None of the serving staff had been marred or made an example of, and she was able to leave quietly, just as she wished she always could.
She wasn’t sure how to feel about being sent away to Syreni. One part of Luella yearned to leave. Escape and never return. Discover the secrets held within the world and differing cultures and cityscapes and kingdoms and people. She itched for it all. But another part of her warred against those feelings, desperately hoping to make a stand for once in her nearly twenty years of being alive. The choice had been ripped away from her, though, with her father’s decree.
As she prepared for bed, she glanced at the window, still open and letting in the cold, night air—it made her arms pebble with the frigid crispness wafting throughout the room—but no raven perched anywhere nearby. The windowsill was bare, save for the little golden flower. The petals shifted lightly in the breeze, and Luella tried not to feel dejected by the loss of the raven. If she had wings, she would fly free, too, and never be confined to one place.
The windows creaked as she closed them, but not all the way, though, leaving them open enough to give the room a fresh sense of openness, letting in the salt air and faint sound of crashing waves against the ocean rocks below. A lullaby for sleep, no matter how restless it may prove to be. She dropped the dress away from her body, quickly disrobing the shift, a backward replica of her earlier dressing routine.
Now bare, save for the scant material of the silk around her hips, Luella padded to the small, wicker frame of her dresser that held a few sleeping gowns. It opened to reveal short dresses and gowns, all of varying colors. Some were lighter in fabric, and others thicker for the colder months. Her hands passed over the heavier weaves, heading straight for the light, airy gown that was almost translucent in color. Her favorite for sleep. She slipped the nightgown over her head. The material fell to barely cover the small rise of her hips and backside.
Luella never liked being confined with thick garments while sleeping; she much preferred to have an ever-present chill and wrap herself in countless furs and downy pillows. The air was brisk and frigid, and she couldn’t wait to curl up and dream the night away.
The sharp air slightly stung her nose as she breathed in. Luella loved how it made her feel alive. It comforted her, as well.
The two straps of her nightgown were like the thin webbing of a spider’s trap. Lace covered the bodice of the gown, and the material was a pale, white cotton, softer than the slip of some of her day shifts and gowns. Much more comfortable for sleep.
A small, golden flame flickered from the candle on the vanity. A servant must have been here earlier to light it. Luella bent over the flame, her golden hair falling slightly over the chilled flesh of her skin. Warm breath puffed from her wine-stained lips as she blew the flame out. Just before it was extinguished, she could make out the impression of the cloud of her breath floating in the air in front of her.
Now dark, the room seemed rather imposing, like she could pick out monsters emerging from the shadowy walls and hidden crevices.
Shuffling to the bed, Luella pulled back the thin sheet and slipped underneath for the night. The pillow was cold against her flushed skin, and the fur tickled her chin, where she had pulled it tightly around her body. Roaring and crashing waves were like a soothing lullaby.
She felt her eyes drift shut, darkness speckled with stars behind her lids, the only thing she could see as the overwhelming anxiety in her mind simmered—not completely gone, just shoved away for the night.
Luella would deal with it all in the morning.
All thoughts of voyages and war were banished, and instead, her mind began to conjure up images of crackling fire, illuminating some grand study in an unknown place. As her breath evened out and her limbs grew heavy, she fell willingly into her dreams. Mind falling, falling into oblivion, while her body stayed tucked safely into the warm cocoon of furs.
It was discombobulating. As though she could feel her soul slip out of her flesh and escape to some different realm as easily as she had slipped out of her dressing gown or into the silk sheets.
There one moment and gone the next.
She slipped into the escape that could only be found in her head.
From a cloud of wispy smoke and hazy night emerged a shadowed figure.
He drew closer while Luella stayed perched upon some hazy armchair. She could feel the leather underneath her bare thighs, the fire that warmed the tips of her toes where they curled into a plush throw thrown across the wooden floor.
She could feel , and she could smell , and she could hear . But she could not truly see .
Sight escaped her. Where there might have been the vision of intricately woven rugs and leather-bound copies of worn and tattered novels, she merely saw faint impressions of these things. Her mind couldn’t quite focus and grasped desperately onto the images, but they fell through her fingers like fine grains of sand. Unable to be held.
She had always had vivid dreams, but none so much as this.
The shadowed figure grew closer, kneeling in front of her.
Even in the dream, she could feel the firm weight of hands against her shoulders as they settled there. Not pulling or pushing, just resting in all their ghostly might, committing the slim shape of her frame to memory.
From the size of the shoulders and height—towering over her, even when kneeling—Luella could tell it was a male. A big one at that.
He was like a painting unfinished. With the edges blurred and features undone. She could make out dark hair, blended with the shadows, and large, strong shoulders, but everything else escaped her. When she tried to focus, it became even more blurred.
In this dream, Luella did not have cares or worries. Haunted by the things she wanted but could never have.
The male leaned closer to her, and the scent of spiced bergamot permeated her senses. Subtle and enticing, but something deeper and richer clouded the notes. If scents had colors, this would be scarlet. A rich and luxurious shade. The color of passion. Or blood.
His breath whispered over her skin, warming her cheeks. She closed her eyes, mouth parting involuntarily as she anticipated what the male would do.
"I’m waiting for you." The words were a quiet declaration in the hazy space of her mind.
Though she couldn’t make out the sight of his eyes or the features on his face, one thing was startlingly vivid: his voice. It was crisp and deep. A perfect tenure. She imagined the voice whispering sweet nothings and flirtatious words, and a blush crept up on her cheeks.
Luella swallowed from the intensity.
The trance that had settled over her was broken as she distantly registered the soft caw of a bird. But there were none to be found in the dreamscape before her—the shadowy fire and looming bookcases stretched high above, and what Luella imagined were stuffed to overflowing with tomes and scrolls.
She closed her eyes, afraid to break this trance.
"I’m so sorry," the male whispered.
She wanted to ask, What are you sorry for? But Luella could not speak. She was left only to imagine what could make such a beautiful voice be tinged with such sorrow…
The male’s presence disappeared just as subtly and unassuming as he had appeared. There one moment and gone the next.
Though her eyes were closed, she knew without a doubt if she looked, the male would not be there. He was gone, but she could still feel the ghost of his breath against her skin, and she lifted a hand, brushing it against her soft cheekbones. Fingers skimming across her face in an attempt to replicate his phantom touch.
The raven cawed once more. Luella cursed the creature for disrupting her dream.
If she opened her eyes, she wondered if she would awaken and see the raven perched once more on the windowsill. Or if the sound somehow haunted her even in her dreams, chased her where no one but herself may escape?