Julian #2
Feeling her eyes, I look up and into the mirror, catching our reflection. I look like a dutiful butler taking care of a sweet, innocent heiress. And in some ways, I guess I am.
My life has changed so rapidly, and some part of me feels as if I’ve been shoved into the pages of an old fairytale.
“You think I’m adopted?” Abigail suddenly asks, and I startle, accidentally tugging on the purple strands of fabric before loosening my grip.
“What? Why would I think that, missus?”
She shrugs, her green eyes never leaving mine, as if she refuses to appear embarrassed or belittled.
“Because I look different. I do not look like Papa or Momma, or my brothers.” She says it simply, as if this accusation has been made before.
Some part of me wonders who, in their right mind, would tell a sweet child like Abigail that she must be adopted due to her appearance.
“No,” I tell her firmly. “I didn’t think that for a second. You’re a very pretty young lady, and I see how you resemble your family.”
“You do?” She perks up, moving to sit on the bed once her bow is finished. “How so?”
“Well,” I begin, accepting the socks she extends to me. I settle onto my knees before her and begin to slip them over her feet gently. “You have the same gentleness I feel from Lady Theodora and from Young Master Atlas. And you appear to be as brave and strong-willed as Master Abraham.”
As I reach for her dress shoes, I catch sight of Abigail’s watery eyes. But she’s quick to wipe at them and to give me a small laugh.
“That’s very true, Julian,” she agrees. “I’m also just as funny as my biggest brother, Atticus.”
Funny? For some reason, I have a feeling I’ll never get to see the funny side of Atticus Chastain.
“I’m sure you are, Missus Abigail.”
I finish strapping her shoes over her feet, and she jumps down from the bed and takes my hand, dragging me from the room.
Soon, we’re entering the bathroom that sits between her and Atticus’s rooms, and I leave the door open as she positions herself in front of one of the mirrors and extends a hairbrush to me.
I take it, and slowly, I begin to detangle her long hair.
“How old are you?” I ask, and Abigail watches me through the mirror once again.
“I’m nine,” she responds. Even younger than I once thought, then. “I will need a lot of attending, so we can become friends, right, Julian?”
“Definitely.” I give her a smile as her hair finally becomes silky and unknotted. “I’m sure you’re a great friend to have.”
“I am,” she agrees again. “Atticus doesn’t normally like being attended, and Atlas is mostly glued to Momma.”
I noticed that. How he sat with her while the other two Chastain children sat on the other side of the table. How Theodora placed her hand comfortingly over Atlas’s, and how she called him darling.
“Well, I am more than happy to attend to you, Missus Abigail,” I tell her.
She grabs a headband from a drawer to our right and slides it into her hair.
“Let’s go to the music room, then. I’ll play the piano for you. And soon, you’ll learn to braid, and I won’t have to wear these headbands every day.”
With that, she turns and exits the bathroom with me trailing behind her dutifully. I’m not sure if lounging in the music room is in my job description, but I am meant to attend to her, and she is requesting this.
As we enter the landing, Abigail turns to look out the large, floor-to-ceiling window. I follow her gaze, finding a figure standing at the edge of the back courtyard, gazing into the raging ocean below.
It’s Atlas.
“What is he doing?” I ask, before I think better of it.
“Waiting,” she responds quietly.
We stare at Atlas for a moment longer. At his curls being tossed aggressively in the wind, and his large coat that whips around his small body.
I do not press Abigail about what he’s waiting for, but I am curious. Incredibly curious.
And oddly enough, even with his back turned to us, it feels as if he’s staring right at me.
As we turn and walk away from the window, heading into the music room, that image of him standing on the cliffside never leaves the front of my mind.
The air around me is heavy, pressing into my chest as if to strangle my every breath. I stand in the foyer, having just used the bathroom, as the clock tower strikes 1 a.m.
My eyes are drawn toward the main staircase, and before I can think better of it, I’m following the eerie feeling coursing through me straight up the steps. The temperature rises as I climb and only increases the closer I get to Hall W4.
As I approach, it’s almost as if something insidious is hiding within some dark corner. I can sense it; I can almost grasp it within my hands, with how thick the air has become.
I want to see it; I want to understand what this feeling is.
But before me, at the opposite end of the hall, is the door to the west tower—and I’m forbidden from entering after nightfall.
I find myself standing here for a long time. Watching, waiting, listening. But for what, I do not know.
Only as I hear the clock tower strike 2 a.m. am I awoken from this dream-like trance as I turn and run quickly back to my bedroom.
I pull the covers over my shoulders, and I find that I can breathe a little easier. But as I close my eyes, all I can see is that black door and wonder at what might lie behind it.