Chapter Two #2
He finds a particular fascination in the marble busts that stand twin on either side of the stairs.
One a beautiful soft grey that depicts Azizi, and the other a deep black that depicts a man I do not know.
Both are expertly crafted, with detailed and intricate designs carved into the marble, so small that one would not notice until they were close enough to touch.
Beautiful, of course, though I find I do not like them near as much as I like the paintings in Azizi’s hidden room.
The boy does not see her, but Azizi stands in the doorway of the library, tucked away in the shadows where the candles can only glint across the red-brown-gold of her eyes. She watches him, a curiosity in the primal tilt of her head, like she cannot decide if she wants to play with him or eat him.
He draws a finger down the long, graceful slope of Azizi’s stone reflection, tracing one of the floral swirls over the marble’s cheek and down its throat.
He stares at the statue the way I stare at the paintings.
Entranced. I wonder if he can see the animal in her statue that I can see in her flesh.
“That piece is titled ‘A Gift So Precious’.”
Our guest jumps when Azizi speaks, arm knocking into the plinth, and he scrambles to grasp at the bust before it goes scattering across the floor. It wobbles for a moment, then settles back into place as if nothing happened at all, and the boy lets out a relieved breath.
Azizi is only a few steps behind him when he turns, Mr. Allard nowhere to be seen, and she smiles sweetly at him as she folds her hands behind her back. “Do you like it?”
He stares at her for a long moment, frightened, perhaps, or mesmerized.
I would not blame him for either. He glances at the statue, then back at Azizi, his fingers twitching at his sides, like he is stopping himself from reaching forward to trace the same path down Azizi’s warm skin.
His face burns a bright red and he nods.
“It—it is beautiful, ma’am—I mean, my lady.
Who is the artist? I don’t—I don’t recognize it. ”
His voice surprises me. It is much younger than I expected for his age—pitched awkwardly, like he is trying to deepen it despite the quietness of his words.
The light of the oil lamps spark against the gold in Azizi’s eyes as her gaze latches onto him. “Do you much like art? To be able to recognize a piece in someone’s home?”
Her words are more curious than accusatory, but the boy curls in on himself as if offended, a stubborn pride setting his jaw. “I know some,” he says, glancing away from her and back towards the statue.
Azizi takes a spot beside him, observing the delicate designs scarred across her own features.
“My father is the artist,” she says, drawing the boy’s gaze back to her.
She casts a hand towards the other bust—a man with a strong jaw and even stronger cheekbones, his curled hair pulled back into a ribbon at the base of his neck.
“There are currently six in the collection, though he is working on the seventh now, if he has not finished it already.”
“So many?”
“One for each of my siblings, then one of him and my aunt. He carves them from marble and takes great care to etch unique designs into each one.” She traces a long nail down the same path the boy took, a fondness settling somewhere in her smile.
“My father says he etches the designs so intricately and so faintly because he wants people to not only look at the art he has created, but to see it as well. To know that there is more to each of us than what others might see from afar. Statues are fairly forgettable, you know,” she says with a soft smile, “but those carved with such passion as these? People tend to remember them.”
The boy does not speak afterwards, and even I find myself fascinated with the story behind the art. I wonder how many of Azizi’s hidden paintings hold the same care and passion that her father shows his own works.
“I shall let him know his work has met your approval,” Lady Azizi continues before turning to face the boy fully. “Am I correct to presume you are Mister Villin’s boy?”
“Oh!” He nods politely before dropping into a bow, the movement stuttered and unsure. “Theodore, ma’am. Theodore Villin, though, um—most people just call me Theo. If you like.”
She hums, and I wonder what she sees when she walks her gaze from his worn boots up to the tips of his curls.
Does she see the brightness that I see? The life that fills him like glittering sunlight, spilling from the cracks and tugging at his seams?
Does she see how he holds it back, tightening the stitches in his mask to hide its glow?
I stand beside her and try to imagine him as she might. Try to see him in wide brush strokes and dollops of paint. It is more difficult than she makes it appear.
“And you know why you are here, Theodore Villin?”
“My father told me I’m here to clean and unpack, run errands and the like,” Theodore answers. “I appreciate the opportunity, my lady. I won’t disappoint you.”
“See that you don’t.” She does not sound worried, but there is still a warning in her words, hidden beneath the polite smile and gentle tumble of hair over her bare shoulder.
“Mr. Allard will be overseeing your duties while you are here, but allow me to give you a tour of my home first so you might know what exactly my expectations are, yes?”
My home.
The words cut into me like one of her palette knives, and I stumble as the floors warp and bow beneath my feet, waterlogged and seeping.
They flood into my lungs like the ocean’s freezing waters, choking at my throat and seizing my ribs with greedy fingers, pulling me further down into the briny depths until even the sun’s rays cannot reach me.
I did not know ghosts needed to breathe, but I find my breaths escaping me in great, choking mouthfuls of sand. They slip through my fingers and cling to the corners of my lips like bile, eating away at my skin until there is nothing left but rot and bone.
“Mr. Allard and I have unpacked my necessities already, but there are still many parts of the house that have not been emptied from its previous owners, so there is no place for my own things to go,” Azizi is saying, though her words slosh through my ears, muddied and distant.
I follow them up my stairs and through my halls like a pet on a leash.
Opium fills my veins; my vision grows black at the edges the deeper I sink.
Distantly, I notice how Theodore lingers at the paintings in the halls, how his fingers brush the wallpaper like he sees a beauty in it.
I want to warn him away from the thorns. Warn him that they will suck him in and trap him in my madness if he is not careful. I open my mouth, but only bubbles escape, my screams throbbing inside them as they bounce to an ocean’s surface that I cannot see.
My home.
“For the most part, Mr. Allard will do the cleaning, though he might demand your assistance from time to time as needed. I’d like you to go through each room and inventory what has been left behind, listing what could be kept or gotten rid of.
You will also assist Mr. Allard in unpacking the rooms as he sees fit. ”
Azizi’s pace is lazy and wandering as she speaks, pausing briefly to point out various rooms and their uses as they pass, accounting for the young man’s constant pausing and ogling with a surprising amount of patience.
“What will you do with the things that you don’t wish to keep?” he asks.
Azizi shrugs in a graceful sort of way, strands of her dark hair slipping off her shoulders like a waterfall. “Donate them, most likely. It depends entirely on what is left. I have explored the manor a bit so far, though only enough to get settled. I’ve no idea what things have been left behind.”
I come to awareness in spasms, distance covered in what feels like the blink of an eye.
Hallways passed without so much as a glance in their direction.
The sensation is not unknown to me. Time is a strange bedfellow to the dead, and I have long since gotten used to its ever changing moods.
Something about this feels different, however.
Like I am here, watching them speak to each other, none the wiser to their spectral shadow, and yet my mind can only focus on those words.
My home. My home. My home.
I have no memories of learning scripture, but I remember the story of a man who could walk on water.
A man who loved both kings and whores alike, who fed the starving and cleaned the feet of beggars.
I wonder if he could hear the screams of the dead in the waters below him as he walked.
If he could feel the ripples beneath his toes as they clawed and thrashed for freedom.
I wonder if he could hear their prayers.
Azizi and Theodore walk above me like that holy man did in the stories, their voices muffled by the scores of water between us, no knowledge of the way my bones decay on the ocean’s floor beneath them or the way my screams are lost amongst the crashing of waves and gales of violent wind.
Would he hear me if he was here? That holy Savior who could bring sight back to the sightless. Who could cast death aside and wash sins away with a brush of his hand. Would he hear my pleas? Would he see me reaching for him from the depths below and stop his walking to reach back?
I pause at the top of the stairs as my guests return to where they began.
The tassels of the rug wrap around my legs like seaweed, an unwilling anchor locking me in place.
They slip between my toes and my fingers, pry open my mouth and pull at my teeth.
They press those words into my skin over and over again until I am sure there is no part of me left unblemished.
My home.
If it is her home, then who am I? Where do I belong if not here amongst my endless halls? Here, where the wallflowers are my gardens and the rugs my fields? Where my feet dig into the carpets at night, and though they leave no mark, I am still here.
I am still here.
I shove my fingers down my throat and tear the weeds from my lungs. I spit them out until blood and bile cloud the waters above me, and I scream until the wind howls and the candle flames flicker and go dark.
This may be her home now, but it is my sepulchre, and I do not wish to part with it.