Chapter 32
We move past large oil paintings—landscapes and still lifes—on the wallpapered walls, past a suit of armour. And I can hear Mr Parker’s heart beating faster as we take the stairs, smell his B-positive blood. He’s human. Does he know what Oscar is? What I am? He opens a door and ushers me inside.
To my right is a wall with a bookcase, and to my left, centred against the wall behind us, is a huge, dark wood, four-poster bed with crisp white sheets.
The room has three large windows, each boasting heavy navy curtains held aside with thick golden rope, looking out onto a vast garden.
Beneath the central window is a writing desk with an antique porcelain vase, holding an array of fragrant red roses, just like the ones downstairs.
There’s a dressing table with a mirror, then a doorway to what I assume is the bathroom, and against the far wall stands a big, wooden Narnia-style wardrobe.
Mr Parker nods, puts my suitcase by the door, then leaves the room without another word, closing the door behind him.
I lift my suitcase onto the bed, take out my toothbrush, toiletries and make-up, then push the case under the bed. I’ll unpack later, once I know the lay of the land. The last thing I need is somebody seeing that cooler bag, discovering I’ve come prepared. Taking it off me.
I take my things into the bathroom—white marble, gold fixtures, a big mirror and a huge freestanding bath, then return to the bedroom.
I look over towards the wardrobe again.
The doors have ornate carvings of flowers all around the edges and an old-school key in the lock. As I move towards it, my stomach churns because what exactly did Oscar mean by an outfit?
As I pull open the doors, the smell of potpourri and old wood filters out.
There are multiple hangers on the rail, but only a few in use, holding up the various layers of an old-style Victorian ball gown—the corset and petticoat, the bustle, and then the dress itself.
I reach for it and trace the fabric with my fingertips.
It’s silk, and a deep, blood red—which feels a bit on the nose—and long, the hem sweeping the ground.
I study it, imagining how it will all look once it’s on: it’s off the shoulder with a trail behind it that’s gathered at the base of the spine in a bustle.
Something twists in my gut.
A flash of that first night, when I woke up this way.
Me looking around, opening my wardrobe, trying to figure out who I was, what I was, and what the hell was going on.
Amid the more plain cotton dresses, there were also gowns like this.
Ornate and expensive; rich colours and textures.
The kind I’ve only seen since behind glass cages in fashion exhibitions at the Royal Victoria and Albert Museum in South Kensington .
. . the exhibitions I’ve wandered through over the years, hoping something would spark a memory, remind me of everything I’ve lost. Everything I’ve forgotten.
My gaze moves down, to the base of the wardrobe, where some matching dancing slippers sit.
I smile as I reach down for them and warmth moves through me; I haven’t seen anything like these in a long time, not since just after I was turned.
I sit on the bed and put them on, nostalgia flowing through me as I tie the ribbons.
I get a flash back to my early years, when these were commonplace for balls .
. . I bought some for myself once, wore them at home, pretending.
But then the warmth turns to heat.
Because I never went to balls. It always seemed too high risk.
If I allowed myself to become a part of society, people might notice when I was forced to fade out and move on.
All I could do was stand at the edges, watching, imagining what it might be like to dance in a crowded room without fear of being noticed.
Who the hell does Oscar think he is?
He abandoned me when I needed him most and now, what? He’s back and ordering me around, treating me like some vampire-Barbie he can dress up?
I think not.
I imagine myself storming out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and demanding answers. Letting everyone know our secret. Letting him deal with the mess he’s made.
But 150 years of being cautious can’t be undone that quickly. I can’t predict what he’d do. For all I know, he’d kill Mr Parker the way he killed Kenny, and then I’d have two lots of blood on my hands.
So I don’t do any of that. But the churning in my stomach continues, and there is no damned way I’m going to Oscar’s silly little soiree tonight. I’ll learn what he has to teach me, but I will not be dressing up for him.
I will not be wearing the dress that he picked out like he’s the boss of me . . . even if I do like the dress.
Tap, tap, tap.
I look towards the door.
‘Come in,’ I say, ready to tell Oscar I’m not going.
But it’s not Oscar. Instead, a small woman pokes her head inside.
‘I’m Mrs Parker. Mr Carmichael has requested that you wear this in your hair,’ she says, coming over to me. She’s human too, just like her husband.
She hands me a hairpin. It’s crimson and gold, with little stones reflecting the light. ‘And you’d better hurry up and get your make-up done. People will be arriving soon.’
‘I’m not putting on make-up, because I’m not going,’ I say, folding my arms over my chest.
‘Miss, you need to go,’ she says gently.
‘Mr Carmichael won’t respond well if you refuse.
And it’s a party, you’ll have fun. We do it every year, everyone dresses up.
’ She smiles hard, like she’s hoping that will convince me.
‘Here,’ she says, reaching into my wardrobe and pulling out the ornate dress. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’
I want to say ‘no’, stand my ground. But I can see the fear in her eyes, hear her heart speeding up at the very idea of me defying Oscar, and after Kenny, I don’t want to find out why. So I’ll do it. I’ll wear the silly dress, smile and get through it. Let him believe he’s in control of me.
I nod. ‘Fine, but I’m not putting on make-up.’
She helps me into my dress, putting on the many layers and lacing up the corset tight.
‘There,’ she says, as we study my reflection in the mirror. ‘You look beautiful. So young and fresh. I think you’re even more lovely without make-up.’
And I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I do look lovely.