Chapter 10
TEN
Nights bled into mornings, and at each sunrise, I found myself increasingly unable to leave the confines of the bed.
I lingered under the weight of my grief, the world outside growing distant with each passing moment.
The grandeur of Thornwood mansion felt cold and unwelcoming, and the prospect of venturing beyond the safety of the bed linens filled me with an unspoken dread.
I had lost track of how many days had passed. I only knew it had been too long since I’d left this room. I hadn’t seen Draven since he first showed me around the house, and guilt gnawed at me for missing dinner with him that first night.
I couldn’t explain it. The thought of facing him again stirred a quiet nervousness in me.
His gaze, icy and piercing as a moonlit night, seemed to see right through me. And yet, he had ignited a flicker of curiosity in me.
I often drifted in and out of sleep, my dreams haunted by the echoes of my mother’s laughter and the rustle of her favourite linen skirt.
The bed, while a haven during the day, was a vessel that carried me into the haunting landscapes of my subconscious at night.
I felt like a specter of myself, my energy waning, as my world grew darker.
I’d beg my eyes to stay open, but they’d grow heavy, pulling me down into an endless sleep of nightmares.
Draven was always in my dreams, entering my chambers through the window and brushing his hands along my cheek, neck, and down my arms. Sometimes when I woke, I could still feel the coldness of his skin lingering on mine.
Imalda, one of Draven’s servants, became my only connection to the world beyond these four walls. She appeared each morning, gently knocking on my door, rousing me from my dreams. With her kind eyes and soft-spoken nature, she was a comforting presence.
“Good morning, Miss Rosalia,” she’d say, bringing me trays of food and opening the curtains that led to the balcony.
She would whisk open the doors, welcoming the fresh air.
“It’s good for you,” she’d say, though I suspected her real motive was to air out the room.
After all, I hadn’t had the energy to bathe.
I would often mumble a reply from beneath my covers, my face hidden from her view as she’d walk inside, closing the door behind her.
I was not sure if she understood the depths of my despair, but she never pressed me for answers.
Instead, she carried on with her daily tasks, tidying up the room and leaving trays of food by the bedside, knowing full well I regularly left it untouched.
Was it her duty alone that guided her to my chambers each day to bring me food? Or was it by Draven’s request?
As the days went on, I could sense the concern in Imalda’s demeanor.
She would sit by my bedside for a few minutes after finishing her chores, even as I remained cocooned in the sheets.
I often wished for her to say something, but she never did.
She spoke only a few sentences upon entering to let me know she was there, and she always wished me a good day as she slipped out the back into the grand hallways of the mansion.
One morning, as the sun’s rays danced across the room, Imalda’s voice was softer than usual as she whispered from the balcony, “Miss Rosalia, it is a beautiful day outside. Would you like to join me in the garden for a while?”
“Not today, Imalda,” I mumbled, my voice heavy from crying.
Just a week prior, the thought of going out to the garden would have filled my heart with glee.
Most days, I would be outside even before the sun and the birds, right alongside my mother.
Not anymore. Not ever, I thought. Without my mother, what was the point?
I knew what was out there. Those creatures that roamed the night.
Imalda simply nodded and silently retreated from the room. As much as I longed for the courage to leave my bed, grief held me in its relentless grip.
That night, I heard a knock on the door and footsteps reaching my bed.
“Please leave, Imalda,” I said, pulling the blanket over my head, sinking back into the darkness. But it was not Imalda who replied.
“I was pained when you did not join me for dinner the other night, and now even more, hearing that you believe I resemble Imalda,” Draven’s cool voice conveyed.
I lifted my head out of the covers to look at him. I was startled that he was in my room and not just in my dreams. He stood beside my bed, his hair and skin illuminated by the candle in his hand. His long shadow danced on the wall behind him.
“Not that Imalda lacks beauty,” Draven continued, “but I insist that I bear no resemblance to her, neither in appearance nor voice.”
If Imalda was as soft and delicate as a newly bloomed flower, then Draven was as hard and angular as a mountain peak.
I could barely make out the contours of his face in the dark room. Fortunately, considering I hadn’t brushed my hair in days, it lay piled on the top of my head.
“Here.” Draven tossed me a housecoat. “Put this on and get out of bed. I have something to show you.”
I moaned and rolled over. The last thing I wanted to do was leave the warmth of my cocoon to venture out with Draven into the darkness of the mansion.
“I understand your emotions, Miss Bertrand. However, you are not doing yourself any favours by withering away in bed.” Draven’s words were sharp.
“Do not get me started on how badly you smell. You are a guest in my home, and I expect you to bathe. Unless you would like to leave,” he added, as I held my breath beneath the covers.
“I will be waiting outside in the hall,” he declared before his footsteps echoed along the wooden floor, and the door closed behind him.
His words stung. The audacity of him pretending to understand my feelings!
Yet the remark on my smell struck a nerve, making me self-conscious.
Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed, my limbs stiff as I put on the housecoat.
I touched the fabric. It was unlike anything I’d felt before, as soft as I imagined clouds to be.
The garment draped down to my ankles, a few sizes too big for me, but the silky and luxurious fabric almost made me feel like I was still in bed.
I brought it up to my nose; its rich, heady scent filled me with comfort, and after a moment, I met Draven in the hallway.
As I opened the door, I swear I saw a grin appear on his lips, just for a second. Though I could not be certain. Draven held out the candle, and I followed him down the dark hallway and down the staircase.
The soft tapping of our footsteps echoed as we descended the creaking steps, the scent of beeswax in the air.
Reaching the bottom, Draven guided me down a narrow corridor.
The distant clink of cutlery from the servants in the kitchen faded as he led me past it, opening a door at the end of the hall.
He gestured for me to enter, and as I stepped inside, I was greeted by the cracking sound of the fireplace and the warm light that flooded the space.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books met my eyes, and I marvelled at the sheer volume of literature surrounding me.
Growing up, I repeatedly read the few books we owned, longing for more.
I walked over to a shelf, running my fingers along the fabric and leather spines, and pulled out a small, blue book.
Memories of my mother immersed in her reading flooded my mind.
The last image I had of her was on the porch, seated with a book in hand.
Tears welled in my eyes, cascading down my cheeks and staining the pages of the book. I turned away from Draven, desperate to shield my vulnerability from him. Yet, I felt his hand rest on my shoulder, guiding me back to face him.
With a gentle touch, he tilted my chin upward, compelling me to meet his eyes. His gaze sparkled in the firelight, and he reached into his pocket and offered me a pristine handkerchief, which I accepted.
“I presumed you might appreciate this library, as you are undoubtedly seeking an escape from whatever it is that is keeping you locked away in your room. What better way to escape than with your nose in a book?” Draven offered, his words carrying a thoughtful warmth.
“I want to help you,” he added, as I wiped the tears from my cheeks.
His hair cascaded like a curtain around his face, and for a moment, I was drawn to his comforting presence.
However, as I looked into his eyes once more, I realized he was still a stranger.
Someone I had just met, and I couldn’t shake my feeling of insignificance.
“I don’t even know you,” I blurted out, my words tinged with frustration and apprehension, taking a step back.
Draven’s arms dropped to his side, and he stiffened at my words.
His gaze, with those piercing, ice-blue eyes, bore into me, casting a chill that seeped into the room.
The atmosphere shifted, growing colder. My outburst must have caught him off-guard, and for a fleeting moment, a trace of hurt flickered across his face before it returned to its usual stoic expression.
“You are correct.” His voice was soft, devoid of the earlier irritation. “You do not know me, Rosalia. However, you cannot be isolated in your room forever—”
“It is not my room!” I interrupted, my voice rising in a raw, desperate cry.
Tears blurred my vision, and I struggled to hold them back.
“You do not know me or what I have been through, and all these books, and food…it is not going to…” I couldn’t finish what I wanted to say.
It is not going to bring my mother back.
“Do you believe you can mend my heart with these material things?” I paused, glaring at Draven, my bitterness growing.
“You sit in your grand house with your superficial objects. You think you can fix everything with your wealth, but you have not the faintest idea of what it means to truly care!” I spat at him.
I knew I was overreacting, and it wasn’t his fault, but I couldn’t help lashing out at his shallow attempts to help me.
Draven spoke after a moment, his voice sterner than before. “I know you are hurting. But I will not be spoken to like that in my house. I will leave you alone if that is what you wish.”
I stood there, my emotions a tangled web of anger and grief. I wanted my words to sting, but I knew Draven was right. I couldn’t keep wallowing in my misery forever, locked in a room that was, indeed, his.
I lowered my eyes, unable to meet Draven’s intense gaze, feeling ashamed for my outburst. “My apologies,” I whispered. “I did not mean to be discourteous. I … I believe I require some time … to heal.”
“Then time is something I can grant you,” he said, taking a step toward me, but he stopped. I looked up at him, sensing unspoken words from him. “Make yourself at home.” Before our eyes could meet, he turned around and left the room.
With a steadying breath, I wiped away the traces of my tears and felt the dormant strength within me stir. I blinked, looking around the grand library.
I was out of bed, and I was in a new room in the house.
It was a small victory.