Chapter 50 – Vale
WHAT MAKES A WOMAN?
VALE
The sun went down while I was in the shower, sadly alone.
When I return to the bedroom it’s dark, barely lit by a single Tiffany-style lamp.
I flick a switch near the bathroom door so I can see better, but the room is cavernous, so the lamps do little to light it.
Maybe Oliver can see just as well in the darkness.
I look at the bed, but he isn’t in it. In fact, it’s stripped of everything but sheets. The pillows are missing and so are the blankets. Where did he go? He should have been back by now. I thought he just needed to make a phone call.
Searching for him, I open a door and find a small office.
It has a rare overhead light that’s bright, and there’s a solitary drafting table and a few cabinets.
The walls are covered with blueprints, some yellow with age, under glass.
I’m drawn to the pages on his desk. His house is drawn neatly in pencil, detailed notes for trim colors off to the side.
I lift the page to see the next one. It’s Gramps’s house with me sitting on my stool on the platform, looking into the telescope, face mostly hidden by my long hair.
I lift the next page, and the breath leaves my lungs.
It’s me. I’m standing on the platform at the top of the steps, my hand held up, hair wet, the rain coming down.
It’s from his perspective, his hand on the window, his thumb covering a part of my hand as if we were touching.
My cheeks get hot when I see how my clothes are clinging to me, showing my nipples and the outline of the lips of my sex. It’s so detailed it shocks me.
He’s captured a look in this sketch, a sadness in my eyes that I feel deep in my chest. I was heartbroken, and he saw it, he knew it. Oliver sees everything I try to hide. I drop the pages, not wanting to get caught up in those feelings. I turn the light out and speed back into the sitting room.
Folded neatly, and spread across the sofa, I notice three sets of lingerie. I hadn’t put any of it on last night. A note sits on top of a creamy lace piece: Choose and meet me at the top of the tower.
That’s all it says, so I grab the satin nightgown the color of blood and its matching thong.
It’s not the sexiest thing he bought me; in fact, it's probably the most modest. I chose it because I’d liked the color and the shiny gold embroidery over each breast. It’ll probably not last long enough for it to matter—he’d promised to tear them all off anyway.
I run my hand over the satin, liking the way the fabric slips over my skin. When I finish dressing, I step into Oliver’s closet to see my reflection, questioning my choice.
I look so different right now. My normally pale skin is flushed—Oliver has that effect on me—and my hair shines against the scarlet lingerie.
I swear it shines more than it did yesterday.
Even the color has changed. I used to say it was just red, but now there are highlights of gold and lowlights of auburn.
There’s copper in the strands that seem so unfamiliar.
And not even a bit of frizz sits at my temples the way it normally did.
I stand there trying to figure out why I look so different.
Does losing your virginity actually change how you look?
Even the way I stand seems odd, as if I’m taller, or my spine is straighter.
I don’t know exactly what it is. I lean closer to the mirror, looking at my eyes.
The whites are unmarked by blood vessels, and they’re so bright my normally watery-blue eyes look more like aquamarine gemstones.
Everything about me seems in higher contrast, more colorful. Is this what I normally look like?
My lips are darker red, closer to the scarlet of my lingerie, but I’m not wearing lipstick, and my eyelashes look longer and thicker, even after I washed the mascara away. I shake my head and step back from the mirror.
I focus instead on what I’m wearing, making sure it looks alright. It lifts my breasts up high, so they look like round globes right below my collar bone. The skirt flairs out around my hips, giving me an hourglass shape that I like. I look pretty and feminine.
I look like a woman. Is that the difference I see in the mirror? Had I become a woman overnight?
I hope he’ll like what I’m wearing. I hope he isn’t disappointed in my choice. I want him to think I’m beautiful. He says it, but I don’t normally feel it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt pretty until this moment. I smile up at myself, then wink.
I’m having to hold back tears as I see myself in his full-length mirror. Did Oliver do this? Did he somehow make me believe? We don’t have a lifetime of him assuring me that I’m beautiful, so maybe I’m finally ready to see it.
I leave the closet and search for the door to the tower.
I find it on the eastern wall, in the center of some dark wood paneling.
I hadn’t noticed it last night. How different it looked from the rest of this room?
It seems somehow out of time, out of place.
I admire the beautiful masonry, where a tall, arched door sits in the center between carved columns.
It looks like something out of an old, gothic cathedral.
This house is so strange. The door looks older than it should.
It’s made of dark wood that gleams in the lamp light as if it’s been treated with penetrating oils to bring out the shine.
A carving takes up most of the door. It’s of the world tree, Yggdrasil from Norse mythology.
The design tops out right below the gothic arch, its roots ending about six inches from the base.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a door like it.
It looks like it’s made from a single piece of wood instead of multiple pieces joined together.
You can see the growth rings that would have been inside the tree spreading out from the center in ever expanding circles.
The effect of the rings on the carving makes it look like the tree is glowing with life.
I get lost for a moment studying the light in the rings and the shadows of each dark, carved groove.
The door is tall and intimidating, like an entrance into another world.
I wonder if Odin himself awaits beyond it.
It’s stunning in its complexity, a work of art.
I can’t imagine how long it’d take to make something like that.
Where does he find this stuff?
When I grab the black iron knob that’s shaped like knotted roots from the tree, it’s warm, like Oliver had just been there and stepped through the portal before me. The warmth surprises me, and I jerk back quickly. I look at Yggdrasil’s canopy and swear it sways as if the limbs dance in a breeze.
I’m creeped out by the door. It’s just like seeing Oz move in the painting. Something strange is happening in this house. Oliver had said it was spelled by a coven, so maybe the magic affects the inside as well. I hope Oz isn’t back to fuck with my head.
I take a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves, then reach for the knob again. I turn it, trying not to focus on the carved image. I linger at the threshold, heart pounding away. There’s a round staircase leading up, disappearing behind a huge stone column in the center of the round room.
The wide, cylindrical tower is lit by old-fashioned hurricane lanterns sat in built-in nooks along the stone walls. Flames dance behind delicate, tulip-shaped glass shades, causing shadows to sway and linger in the stairwell. It’s possible Oliver hadn’t connected the electricity to the tower.
I search for Oliver in those writhing shadows. Is he hiding in here, ready to jump out and scare me? I hope not because I’m on edge already. The anxiety ramps up inside me. Should I call into the shadows to make sure he isn’t there? Something is. I can feel it, a dark energy that sways unnaturally.
“I mean you no harm,” I whisper before stepping over the stone threshold.
I force myself to go up the stairs as my scalp tingles with apprehension. The tower is so creepy. I get the feeling I’m being watched from the very walls that surround me. The stone itself feels alive with energy. I’m curious if those kids were right, that a ghost lives in this house.
Every step I take echoes. It’s surprisingly loud for bare feet as the sound seems to travel up and back down as I climb. At some point it sounds like someone’s stalking me in the dark.
I speed up the stairs unable to stay in the shadows.
I have to get out. I have to escape. My heart races with fear even though my brain tries to rationalize that it’s the sound bouncing around the circular staircase.
I never liked being in enclosed spaces, much less creepy stone towers without windows.
When I get to the top of the stairs, I open the door to the outside, fleeing into the night air. The humidity hits me right in the face like a slap. I shut the door quickly, then breathe deeply, the fear dissipating just as quickly as it came.
There’s a wall that wraps around the top of the tower blocking my view of the pine forest across the street. I could see over it if I was on my tiptoes, but I decide not to chance it. The adrenaline is slowly dissipating, but my legs are still trembling.
“Oliver, where are you?”
He slides behind me, one hand coming up to cover my eyes. “There you are,” he says against my neck, his lips hot as I lean back against him. His presence makes any lingering fear disappear.
“Not fast enough for you?” I ask, and he slides his teeth over the sensitive skin of my neck, teasing me. It feels so good. I ache for his bite. I tremble at the thought of it. He slides one hand to my waist. His fingers glide across the slippery satin that clings to my curves.
“Any time away from you is too long. This is beautiful, by the way. You look absolutely edible.”
“I thought it’d be too modest, that it might cover too much for your taste.”