Chapter Ten
Kolfina
Something has happened, though I know not what.
A storm passed through the forest days ago, the rain soaking through my vines and trellises, pulling down my hair and skirts until I sank with the weight of it.
The next day, my home was empty. Azizi packed a few bags, sent a letter off with a courier, and disappeared into the night.
Theodore has not returned from the village in a handful of days.
Even Mr. Allard, who left days before Azizi, has not yet returned.
I find myself lonely once more. In this house that is no longer my house.
It's hard to find the remnants of myself here, now that Theodore has cleaned it up and Mr. Allard has gotten rid of many things that were left behind. Outside of my music room, there is no memory of the woman that once lived here—if she ever lived at all.
Still, my home has become unrecognizable as I wander its halls now.
The paintings I scarcely remember have been replaced with Azizi's personal collection.
The few statuettes and pottery I am sure once decorated my rooms are now replaced by the works of her father and siblings.
My closets—once filled with pale blues and soft yellows, petal pinks and gentle greens—are now filled with deep crimsons and mourning blacks, slate greys and jewel-toned sapphires and emeralds.
Even the back library and office, which I do not remember much of in the first place, is more a studio now, artfully messy in a way that seems to fit the wild thing that resides in Azizi's skin when she paints.
I find myself spending most of my time in the attic when I am awake—though I do not think I can sleep, as it were.
I sit alone in my little room, and I mourn the woman that used to sit in my place.
I run my fingers over the keys of her piano and imagine what it might be like to press down and hear the sharp note ring out into the night.
I stare at her portrait and try to imagine her face on mine, try to compare it to the frightened thing I see in the mirrors now.
I open my mouth to sing her songs, yet I cannot find her voice.
When Theodore finally returns, it is nearly five days after his last visit, and he brings with him a bouquet of forget-me-nots in a small misshapen vase. He sets them on my piano, twisting the vase to and fro until he is satisfied with the way the sunlight falls across the petals.
"I'm sorry it's been so long since I've visited," he says to the flowers, rubbing a small purple petal between his fingers.
"I caught ill from the storm. Or from running home in it, rather.
To be honest… I did something I shouldn't have and am still trying to reconcile myself to it.
Still, with Lady Alilovi? and Mr. Allard gone, I imagine you are terribly lonely in this house on your own. "
With a jolt, I realize he is speaking to me. While he has spoken to me before as he cleaned my music room, it was mostly passing comments and quiet jokes. Conversation easily passed off as speaking to himself to ease the comfort of an empty room.
Now he glances up at my portrait as if he expects a response, holds himself tightly like he worries that I will be angry with him.
“I’m sorry if you saw anything that night. I’m—” He pauses to swallow, scrubbing a shaking hand through his curls. I cannot help but notice how pale he is, how thin his wrists are.
Was he able to eat at all when he was ill? Has he recovered enough to make the trek up my mountain? And for what reason? Just to see me? To make sure I am not lonely?
Vines twist in my stomach at the thought, clogging my throat with an emotion I cannot remember the name of.
“I’m not quite sure what came over me—well, no… that’s not entirely true,” he continues, squeezing his eyes shut against whatever memory he is reliving. “I do know, but you shouldn’t have had to see it. If you saw it. I’m not sure if you even did, but—”
I do not know what he’s speaking of, but the distress in his voice has me worried anyway. It tugs at my dead heart, and I feel the need to hold him, to gather him in my arms and assure him that whatever he did, it was okay.
How could someone so kind as to assign himself mourner to a woman he has never met, think he must apologize for anything?
Before I can stop myself, I reach out for him, my fingers no more than a gentle breeze over his shoulder. I cannot feel the heat of his skin or the coarse fabric of his shirt, but something deep within me aches for him to know that I am here, that I am listening.
To my surprise, Theodore tenses and whirls around. I wait for his gaze to cast around the room, searching, but his eyes find mine instantly, growing wide with terrified fascination. He sucks in a breath, and I wait for some kind of sign that he has truly seen me. That he has felt me.
“Hello,” he says quietly, softly. Like he is afraid a single loud word would frighten me away. It might. “Are you Kolfina? I saw you before, but you always disappear.”
I want to tell him that I can’t help the disappearing. Want to tell him that time is a strange push and pull of the ocean’s tide, and I cannot control when it drags me under again. That I am awake without knowing and sleep when the wallpaper demands it.
But I am terrified of opening my mouth again, of letting the water and seaweed puddle on the floor from my open lips. Already I can feel it bubbling in the space between my collarbones, rising into my throat and coating the back of my tongue.
Theodore must understand this, because he glances at my pinched lips and frowns.
“Can you not speak? I’ll admit, I’ve never met a ghost before, so I’m not quite sure how all this works.
I—to be honest, I wasn’t even sure ghosts were real, but if other things are real, then I suppose you must be as well. ”
You must be as well.
Am I real? I cannot be seen by others; I cannot be touched. Yet he can see me. He can feel when I reach out for him.
Does that make me real? Does he make me real?
“Wait!” The boy lurches towards me, hands outstretched as if he means to grab me, and I flinch away. “Don’t go! I’m sorry, I was just curious. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Was I going? I glance down at my hands, but they look the same as always—tucked inside a pair of silk gloves, the fingers stained with dirt and sap and the ruffles cinched tight around my wrists.
I know they are no longer real, but I wonder what it’d look like if I pulled them off.
Were they leaving little red indents in my skin?
Would I feel it if I ran my fingers over them?
“You were fading,” Theodore says when I look back up at him in confusion.
He watches me with an intelligent gleam in his eyes, like he’s studying my face for signs of what I am thinking.
I wonder how much he can see, how much he might know.
“When I asked if you could speak, you started to… disappear.”
I do not know what keeps me here with him, or what drags me away when I go, but his voice is a tether I latch onto regardless, praying it will hold me above the water long enough to prove to this boy that I am real. That I am something.
I swallow the seawater swimming in my throat and nod, pressing my fingers to my lips in the hope he understands.
“But you are her, right? The Lady Kolfina?” He gestures to the painting above my piano, and I nod again.
A smile lights up his face, excited and boyish.
It makes me blink, blinded a bit by the suddenness of it.
Has anyone ever smiled at me like that before?
So carefree and happy, simply because I am here?
I cannot remember. “I see glimpses of you a lot, but I don’t think you notice me.
I wasn’t sure—” He pauses, his cheeks flushing a soft pink beneath his freckles, and he shrugs.
“I wasn’t sure if I was simply going mad, if I’m being honest.”
You’re not mad, I want to tell him. I am the mad one.
The wallpaper makes sure of that, wrapping me in its embrace as it whispers hauntingly in my ears. “You are lost, little bird. Forgotten. Erased. There is nothing left of you but the emptiness of insanity. Let go. Give in.”
Even now I can feel the peonies tugging at my loose curls, the vines tightening around my waist to pull me away.
I do not want to give in. Not when I am standing here, beneath the soft moonlight that filters in through the stained-glass window, being seen for the first time since I can remember.
I dig my bare feet into the carpet, and I stare at Theodore as if he is my anchor in this world.
I ignore the sting of the thorns on my skin and the taste of dirt in my lungs, and I focus on the brightness of that smile, imagine it as a lighthouse guiding me back to shore.
“Oh! I found your music!” He digs through the bag at his side and tugs a leather book from it, placing it atop the piano and flipping it open so I can see the sheet music inside.
Curious, I step closer, dragging my fingers in the air above its pages, letting the memories sink into my skin like fresh ink.
I can hear the notes playing in the back of my mind.
Can feel how the words might shape along my tongue, what they might taste like and feel like.
My fingers twitch in rhythm as if playing the keys or plucking the strings.
I do not remember writing the music he's opened the manuscript to, not truly, but I know its sound as if I have always known it. As if it is a part of me, lost and forgotten.