Chapter 7 - Rosalia
It had been three weeks.
Three painful, agonizing, terrifying weeks.
She couldn’t relax. Couldn’t sleep most nights. She lay awake for hours, staring at the canopy, flinching at any tiny sound or movement.
Logically, she knew she was being ridiculous. Rick had said he wouldn’t touch her, and he hadn’t.
But it wasn’t him she truly feared.
It was her father.
His shadow seemed to lurk in every dark corner, hiding behind every curtain, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack.
She had disobeyed him. She hadn’t made Rick happy. She’d jeopardized the whole marriage.
If she put so much as a toe out of line, then Rick would discard her.
And she would have to face her father.
She’d come up with a thousand hair-brained plots to seduce Rick. To run away from him. To collapse on her knees before him and beg his mercy. To shift into a wolf and tear him apart.
Perhaps it was her tiredness driving her to mania. Or perhaps it was the fact that she hadn’t left the house since the wedding. Even the thought of stepping out into the cold, vast expanse of outside made her want to scurry under her bed like a damned child.
Some of the pack females had tried to visit her. Daisy and Cassie, mostly. She had sat through painful conversations, her lips scraped back into a smile, until they had given up and left her to her silence.
Their visits were becoming less frequent, but their expressions grew more and more alarmed each time they saw her.
She had lost weight. She no longer bothered with fancy jewelry or hairdos. She barely said more than three words to them.
It was killing her.
She was better than this. Stronger than this. And yet she still trembled whenever she smelled Rick’s presence in the house, heard his footsteps echoing down the halls.
She hated herself for it, hot, angry tears rolling down her cheeks late into the night as she wallowed in her own pathetic weakness. She was no better than a ghost, a mere specter haunting the halls of Rick’s home, stinking it up with her ridiculous fear.
And yet, he never said a word to her. Never admonished her, never raised his voice. Most days, they didn’t see each other, and if they did, he would greet her with a curt nod, and she would scuttle away like some kind of mouse fleeing a tiger.
Some wife she was turning out to be.
A hazy autumn morning found her, bleary-eyed and pale, knees drawn up under her chin at the wide oak desk in her room, ink from her fountain pen slowly bleeding into her fingers as she stared listlessly at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.
She was writing a letter to Katie. Or at least, she was trying to. The words seemed caught in her chest, trapped in a net of her own fear, twisting and writhing and desperate to be free. She wanted to write everything, every ugly, horrible emotion. Get the vile, acrid poison out of her.
But writing it would make it real. Make it tangible. And if anybody ever found out…
She wiped the back of her nose with her silk robe, a decidedly unladylike gesture.
What did she care. Her hair was unbrushed, her face bare, her skin dull and tired.
She had to write something. Her father would get suspicious if she didn’t carry on as normal. She had to do what she had always done. She had to put on a mask.
So she began to write.
Dear Katie,
Thank you so much for your last letter. It’s so wonderful to hear that everything is lovely back home. You’ll have to tell me more about the summer races, you know that was always my favorite of the pack sporting events.
She paused, her throat growing thick, tears clouding her vision and making the words blur together on the page.
I can’t believe I haven’t told you about Silvermist! It’s so wonderful here. Everybody is so welcoming. I’ve already agreed to help with the autumn festivals, and I’m so looking forward to it.
A tear dripped onto the desk, and she wiped it away before it could reach the page.
I’ve also been enjoying getting to know Rick. He may seem intimidating, but he’s actually quite warm and gentle. His house is beautiful, and his daughter is an absolute delight.
A choking sob broke free, her hand trembling so badly that the letters all squiggled together into one incoherent mess.
I don’t want to complain, of course not. It’s such a small thing, inconsequential really. But if I could…if I could wish for one thing, it would be that I want to scream and rage and tear this WHOLE DAMN PLACE APART—
The paper ripped as she slashed her pen through the paper with a roar of anger, the nib crushing, black ink rippling out and staining the desk.
She sat, chest heaving, hands stained.
Enough.
That was enough.
She couldn’t go on like this. Not if she wanted to keep her sanity.
She inhaled deeply through her nose, pushing her hair back from her face.
She was Rosalia Reinhardt, formerly Heath, and she would not be defeated by her own fear.
Standing, she dumped the ruined paper and pen into the bin. She would do her best to salvage the desk later. Right now, she needed a hot shower.
***
When she emerged from her room several hours later, nobody ever would have known that she had allowed herself to slip so far into her self-imposed madness.
She had scrubbed her body to a shining gleam, lathered her hair in all her most fragrant shampoos and conditioners, and swept an elegant amount of makeup over her face.
She had chosen one of her nicest day dresses, ruby-red in color, and accented it with gleaming silver jewelry.
She didn’t allow herself a moment to pause, to fret. She marched down the hallway, following the sounds of the piano drifting up from the library.
Her heels clacked sharply against the wooden staircase as she descended, her posture perfect, every movement sweeping and graceful. Just going through the motions of herself from a month ago made it all the easier to strengthen the walls. To refine the mask. To play the part.
Pushing the door to the library open, she couldn’t help the smile that broke out on her face at Eva’s fierce look of concentration as she ran through her scales and arpeggios.
She looked comically tiny at the grand piano in the center of the room, barely tall enough to reach the keys, straining her feet for the pedals.
At the groan of the door, Eva whipped around, shock and trepidation coloring her features as she watched Rosalia walk in.
“That was quite beautiful,” Rosalia said softly, by way of greeting. “Have you been learning the piano long?”
Eva blinked at her, the curiosity plain on her face, but she was far too well-mannered to let the questions she truly wanted to ask escape her.
“Not long. I told Papa I liked Auntie Daisy’s playing, and he bought me a piano.
And a piano teacher. I’m trying to learn all my scales, but… some of them are really hard.”
“I bet they are,” Rosalia said, lowering herself into one of the armchairs that littered the library, crossing one leg over the other.
Eva swiveled over the piano stool to face her, gnawing at her lip.
Rosalia cleared her throat. “Eva, I want to apologize to you. When we first met, I said I wanted to be your friend. And, well…I haven’t been a very good friend at all. ”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Eva said, her words rushed, “you’ve been ill! Papa told me not to disturb you. He said you’d play with me when you were feeling better!”
“Did he?” Rosalia asked, something in her chest freezing over at the thought of Rick talking about her at all. “Well. I suppose he was right. But I am better now, and I’d very much like it if we could spend some time together.”
Eva’s answering smile lit up the whole room.
It seemed that the little girl had been saving up a rather long list for them to do together. First was a tour of the manor, a proper tour, with Eva spouting facts about her long-dead ancestors with all the pomp and circumstance of a tour guide to the Vatican.
“That’s Great-Uncle Leo. He came over to America in 1948 after people found out about his involvement in the English parliament during World War II, which went against the early shifter-human laws.
“That’s Lady Joan. She was a friend of Queen Catherine de Medici of France, and some say she was actually a spy for the English and had a hand in King Francis’s death in 1560.
“That’s my great-grandfather, Alexander. We have his pelt somewhere in the house, but Papa won’t tell me where. He was killed by the humans during the Conflicts.”
“How do you know all this?” Rosalia asked, amazed at Eva’s intellect.
Eva gave her a toothy grin. “Papa likes to talk about it. A lot. And he likes it when I remember.”
“I’m sure he’s very proud of you,” Rosalia said, earning a bashful laugh.
Next, of course, was tea on the veranda, with a full view of the beautifully manicured gardens. It was here that Eva’s age truly showed, as she insisted several of her stuffed animals join in the fun, which included rather more cake than any tea party Rosalia had ever been to.
She didn’t mind. She laughed as Eva gave her toys funny voices, and introduced Rosalia to them with molten intensity.
“This is Giraffey. He doesn’t like Horsey, because Horsey ate all his food, even though Horsey said he was sorry and that he only did it because he was really hungry. Giraffey said that Horsey needed to be arrested, so Officer J.M. Barrie locked him up, and now he’s going to be executed.”
“Officer J.M. Barrie?”
“Papa named him.”
“Of course.”
It became apparent to Rosalia, as they concluded the day curled up back in the library surrounded by Eva’s favorite books, that the little girl was perhaps as lonely as she was.
“Eva?” she asked as the girl rifled through her bookshelf to try and find her copy of Peter Pan to show her a picture of Officer J.M. Barrie. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes?” Eva said, pausing to blink up at Rosalia.
“Who normally looks after you when your papa is at work? Don’t you want to go and play with the other children?”
“Oh,” Eva said, clambering down, Peter Pan clutched in her hands. She traced the title with her forefinger. “Well, I have a lot of tutors; they look after me. And when they’re not here, like today, then Mrs. Williams watches me.”
“Mrs. Williams?”
“The housekeeper,” Eva said. “You haven’t met her because Papa told the staff to stay away from you.”
Rosalia’s stomach dropped. “Why would he do that?”
Eva shrugged, her fingernail catching on the edge of the book as she fiddled with it. “He said you weren’t to be disturbed by anyone.”
Rosalia looked down at her hands. She had been able to scrub most of the dark ink away, but some still lingered at her very fingertips. “I see.”
“And I do get to play with the other kids, when they come over to visit,” Eva said, her voice brightening, “we’ll go swimming, or play a game in the woods, or—”
“But don’t you ever visit them?” Rosalia asked.
Eva frowned. “Well, sometimes we go to the Club, but that was destroyed by Red Teeth.”
“But don’t you…” Rosalia stopped herself, snapping her mouth shut. It was clear the girl didn’t get to go out and play with the others as much as she might like to. Badgering her about it was hardly going to make that any better.
“It’s okay,” said Eva earnestly, “I’m very happy. And now you’re here too!”
Rosalia smiled weakly, “Yes. I’m here too.”
“Look here,” Eva said, opening Peter Pan to an illustrated page of a crocodile slumbering on a rock. “This is Officer J.M. Barrie.”
Rosalia stifled her laugh. She highly doubted Peter Pan’s author related much at all to the scaly representation of mortality. Probably more to Captain Hook, or Peter Pan himself. But Officer J.M. Barrie was a crocodile plushie, so she supposed needs must.
The door to the library creaked open, and Rosalia whipped around, her heart in her throat.
Rick entered, dressed casually in a soft green sweater and black slacks, his chestnut hair artfully styled. At first glance, he looked warm, approachable even. But look for more than a second, and the danger beneath was impossible to miss.
And Rosalia never made the mistake of relaxing around an alpha male.
If Rick was surprised to see her, he didn’t mention it, merely nodding in greeting to his daughter. “Eva. I trust you’ve had a good day?”
Eva sprang up and ran over to him, stopping just short of colliding with his legs. “Yes, it was the best! I showed Rosalia all the paintings and then we had tea and I was telling her all about Officer J.M. Barrie and—”
“My my, you have been busy,” Rick said with an indulgent smile, “but I hope you’ve done your piano practice?”
Eva seemed brought up short for a second, but then she caught herself and nodded vigorously. “Yes, Papa.”
“Excellent,” he smiled at her again, “I look forward to hearing you perform.”
Eva beamed at him, but there was something slightly hollow about it. Perhaps it was the small tug of her eyebrows together, or the way she seemed to deflate ever so slightly. Rosalia’s fingernails bit into her palms.
Rick turned to her, and she straightened quickly, relaxing her hands into her lap. She hadn’t gotten up from the floor cushions, unwilling to attempt the ungainly clamber upwards in his presence, and she hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t be offended.
“Rosalia, I hope you are well?”
She nodded stiffly, avoiding his penetrating gaze. “I am, thank you. Very well. I’ve had a lovely day with Eva.”
He didn’t reply for a moment, and she risked a glance upwards, her chest tightening at the calculating look on his face.
Panic began to claw at her stomach as she tried to decipher the predatory expression.
He was looking at her like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, and yet one whose prize he nonetheless coveted. Keen and hungry.
She cleared her throat, risking inelegance as she climbed to her feet, brushing imaginary wrinkles out of her dress. “If you wouldn’t mind, I shall retire to the sun-room for dinner.”
He nodded once, his expression unchanging.
Smiling at Eva, she gave the girl a brief hug, not missing the way Eva’s little fingers curled into her arms with a desperate eagerness that made her heart clench. “I’m looking forward to playing with you tomorrow. Perhaps you can show me the gardens?”
“Yes, please!” Eva said breathily.
She walked towards the door, every inch of her skin prickling as she passed Rick in the way one might be hyperaware of their limbs as they passed a snake coiled in the grass.
Rick didn’t move a muscle. His eyes didn’t leave her form.
He didn’t say another word to her.
Only once she was safely back in her bedroom did she allow herself to crumple against the door with a heavy exhale, pressing a hand to her beating heart.
She had done it. She had survived.
And now, all she needed to do was carry on surviving.
One day and a time.