Chapter 30
Wild Rose
The Dark Choreography of Fate
After last night’s… illicit affairs , I was woken with the soreness that lusciously panged between my legs, and when memories of our profaned rendezvous played behind my lids, I ached to relive every sinful moment of our time. However, with the truth of the day awaiting us and the confessional wantonness Sebastian kept underneath the estate, I pulled myself together and joined him for breakfast.
“She has risen from the reins of sleep.” His hand moves with design, as the inked pen cursively made marks his journal.
“You make me sound like a God.” I take my seat across from him.
“Surely why not, when I did nothing short of worshipping you.” Humor holds his tone, “Eat. Our journey is a bit of a ride.”
I did not probe him, nor was I rattled by the intrusion he was clearly weaving, but I did not quite share the same forbearance with others. We were traveling a town away in pursuit of Lady Ann and Miro was resting snugly in the back of the seven-seater with his headphones quieting the world around him. Naseria was not as taken to Sebastian joining us.
“I would rather you loathe me, because my heart will never rest knowing he is not worthy of you, not a dime nor a nickel. And if he were ever on fire, and I had a glass of water, I would gladly drink it.”
I understood her hostility as much as I abhorred it. Sebastian was not society’s picture-perfect man, his norms could probably make him a convict. And even in his sheep’s clothing, he was nothing less a wolf with blood-stained teeth and direful eyes. Yet as I rest my head across from him, I know Mama would have been accepting of him.
He is not a martyr, but a mercenary.
“Nova was in love and look at where that got her,” Naseria’s voice cracks with anguish.
But I’m not Nova. And as banal as it sounds, Sebastian is not Kimberly. It’s galling when you sing the same false words like a war cry, just to ease the truth that is trying to creep its way out. I may not be Nova, but our stories may just be another tragedy fallen in Sybactus. A history that will enshroud itself in this town. She worries gravely, so how can I fault her for loving me beyond words.
The journey was a medley of lost thoughts, stolen glances and silent peeks over the vast greenery that broke through the wilderness. Although the clouds above us threatened to tear a cryful evening, the weather felt balmy. Along the way, I succumb to the warmth of sleep that I am later awoken from by the soft feel of Sebastian’s lips on mine. He thrusts his tongue into my fervently sucking mouth, taking my breath and sanity away. And when I regrettably push away from him with swollen lips, I’m made aware of the Chateau everyone has entered and one we were to spend our night in.
With bare land around us, the Chateau adorned itself like a crown, high and mighty, with a river that peered from behind. The decrepit structure looked like something from the medieval ages, with the sheer size of a catholic academy. And the inside was a maze of corridors and rooms. The craftsmanship that was poured into every stone must have told of a monumental time.
Most of the floor was garnished in a rich carpet, while walls were etched with marveling wall tapestries. And while there was so much to wander about, and denude, the day was soon to get away from us if we did not put first what was most important. Oscar offered us a ride, but when Miro saw the bicycles that were collecting dust at the back, we chose an airy long journey instead. Lady Ann’s cottage was not too far off, either.
The rush of wind crashing against my skin, my hair caught in the air, and the scent of wood, rain, and pine lingered around us, flooding me with nostalgia. It carried me back to a time when life was carefree and vibrant. But I wasn’t the only one lost in the moment. Miro rode wildly, while Naseria’s laughter danced with the breeze, and I joined them. It was liberating, the most fun we’d felt in months.
“Goodness gracious, isn’t this fun Odessa?”
“I feel like a kid,” I shout at the top of my lungs, garnering the attention of the people that strolled around us, but I could have cared less. As we pass through shops and ride along pathways following the trail Miro is leading by, I almost forget why we stop when we come to Lady Anne’s cottage—trees blanket around a melancholically decaying home. It’s small with weather-worn walls, a rustic timber door and a porch, yet somehow its ambiance is appealing.
I set my bike gently on the ground, the weight of apprehension pulling at my feet, but I take one step at a time, closing the short distance to her door. Just before I can raise my hand to knock, the door swings open. A young woman with coral zealous red curls and whisky eyes opens it.
“Can I help you?” She shifts her gaze effortlessly from me to Naseria and Miro, now standing beside me, though I catch the fleeting shock that dances in her eyes.
“Does Lady Anne stay here?” Naseria asks.
“You mean Bonnie, then.” Her eyes linger on Miro before snapping back to me.
“Perhaps.”
“She’s in the garden, tending to her dead flowers, but follow me.”
She closes the door behind her and leads us further into the woods and towards a cemetery. But I notice the way she steals a few glances at Miro, and I do not miss the playful smirks he sends her way. From behind, Naseria and I share our own silent laughter.
Interesting
“ Avo , she’s here.”
We round a corner past a towering tree, and when my eyes land on the woman seated on a blanket, sorting dried begonias, I instinctively take a step back, my nails digging into my palm. My heart stops. Silver hair and eyes that match my own stare back at me. She seems rather unreal. Like a nonpareil, an angel so befitting with death. She is an elderly yet her eyes are the scintilla of a soul so youthful unlike mine. Goodness .
“Sebastian did indeed say you look every bit of me.” She chuckles with delight, a feeling I’m finding trouble associating with. “Oh you pale thing, why don’t you and your friends take a seat and I promise to answer your questions.” She pats the blanket underneath her.
I’m hesitant, but when I feel Miro squeezing my hand with guidance, I swallow a lungful amount of air and perch myself on the ground. The world around me muffles as a heftiness tanks down my spirits, lodging in my throat and suffocating the lights out of me.
I have so many questions, yet my heart doesn’t want to ask them all. I’m afraid, the feeling strips me bare, leaving me wallowing in my own misery. Tearing my pluck to shreds.
How did we get here?
Lost in a sea of grievances and mystery, stranded on an unknown land with nothing but the clothes on my back. I hear the white noises like waves crashing on the shore and when I look up I see the storm lurking on the walls. The thunder roars, a curse of trepidation making a home in my bones.
I detest this feeling.
“It feels like a gale doesn’t it, rippling just underneath the tips of your fingers,” she smiles a warm and soft smile. “Fear less, the news I’m yet to say is not as daunting.”
“Lady Anne,” Naseria says.
“Yes dear, but call me Bonnie, I was last called Anne Boleyn many years ago.”
Words fail me, like I’ve never uttered a sentence in my life before. My tongue turns dry, my throat burns with a fiery sensation, and my eyes grow heavy with maddening hopelessness. I want to believe it shall all pass, but the weight of it is unbearable. I thought in my desire for death I had found strength, and how utterly wrong I was. Because as I look at Bonnie, I’m left nothing but a breathing mess.
“You mentioned Sebastian, how do you know of him?”
Indeed, the man who keeps his cards close to his heart. One moment I think I’m holding the key to the reckless limb, yet in the next I feel locked away from it. Trapped under his unrelenting hold, unable to escape his brewing typhoon.
“I met him a few weeks back when a man named Oscar came searching for a past I thought was long buried. One look at me, and he showed me a picture of you, and I knew. I’d know my sister’s eyes anywhere.”
Sister
Bonnie places a bundle of dried flowers down and pulls out a small crumpled picture from her skirt pocket. “Your grandmother was as devil-may-care as they came and as sensible as, well, you understand don’t you?” A chuckle slips past her mouth.
I nod, and she hands me a picture of them when they were much younger. They looked every bit like my mother. Grand-mère died when I was young, I barely knew her and Mama never shared much about the rest of her family’s side. She kept a lock on her box of pasts and I took to the understanding that it might have been a sore wound that would never heal. This would feel less like crossing a river on bare feet if she were here. She might not have had all the answers, but her soothing voice would have made me feel so much better.
“She fell pregnant with your mother, and despite what a joyous time that was, our lives could not have drifted apart further. While she took on motherhood, I met Annbeth.”
The wind slowly picks up, rustling the leaves around us, and gusting the flowers potted on the tombstones. There is always something about a graveyard that is serene, and like I’ve sung aloud, the dead are a much better audience. Resting or restless souls settle under us and it’s rather calming to know that death is the only promise that will never change. The sky is ashen with clouds of amherst grey hues, and the frigid blows make the rustic building up ahead creak, as if it’s hollow.
“Beth was a troubled soul and Laura Jane only knew how much I simply could not keep my hands away from them. I thought I could help her, and in more ways than one she silently asked for it. I just never opened my eyes to see in time.”
Her Irish accent reminds me of a cave hidden behind a waterfall lit with glow worms, like a night sky. I do not know why. Quite witless of me to not heed anything else she says, but to turn my attention to the way she speaks. Am I losing my sanity even more?
“The Oracles Of Gryclusm weren’t a clan of any sort, but rather a craft. Annbeth was different, and what a forlorn matter that the abuse she endured at her husband and son’s cruelty to protect her daughters was in vain.”
“The articles do speak of her as a witch.” Naseria winces out the last word. seemingly wiser to speak her mind out than I am. And despite Miro’s gentle rubs on my back, I cannot shake the stiffness in my bones.
“Because she was one. Or so she said. She practiced occultism among other things, but above all, she was a mother that adored her children. However, the world laughed and gave her a bastard son who took his father’s ways and three daughters that failed her.”
“The Ace Of Spade,” I whisper out the sentence like a secret. I came upon the name some time back, but I had never associated it with Annbeth. It did not make sense then, but now it’s as clear as heaven’s uncrowded brow.
“Right on the nail dear, when she killed her son and husband, she thought she was protecting them, but to her end, they turned into the very thing she detested.”
She had three daughters, who are rumored as the Ace Of Spade. Their father was an organ trafficker and, in turn, they continued to hold the throne to his acrimony. Or so I thought.
“But why Sybactus?” I understood that you do not probe where the source rains when your crops grow. But it seemed as if there was more to the sisters stepping on our town’s soil.
“Isn’t it salient, their mother was stoned in your town, until she was flailing limbs and dried up blood.”
The sky tears a loud roar above us, a telltale of the rain soon to wash down on us. I want rain, I want thunder, and I want it all to wash away the reality of what is. This is a lot to hold. I look up and blink a couple of times, forcing back everything that wants to pour out of me.
The killings are to avenge their mother. It doesn’t quite make sense yet.
“Thank you Bonnie, this is quite a lot to grasp in one night, and with the rain nearing, we better get back.” Naseria stands, clasping the book she had been taking notes in and throws it in her bag.
“No need dear. Sybil will walk you back, but can I have a moment of your time, Odessa?”
I nod again .
“I’ll be right behind you.” Miro hesitates a little before standing and following Sybil and Naseria down the path we had come with.
Once alone, I see her mask fall, the smile she wore drops to a frown and those eyes that sparkled with humor collect tears. Her hands grasp my own, holding them tightly as a tear makes it past her round cheeks to the ground.
“I know it is not quite the news you were expecting, little one, however when there is rain, something will surely bloom.”
“You have an accent, are you not French?” she chuckles lightly.
“I am, but I was so young when I made a home in Scotland. How about this, my home is here and when your heart is ready, come by and I will clear those questions laying on the tip of your tongue.”
“I just need a little time to wrap my h?—”
“Take this,” she hands the wreath of dried flowers and they are sorted rather lovely, “and when you come again, we shall make another for you to take with you.”
“Thank you.”
What an outré thing my life has become. To desire the truth, yet fail to take it. Denial is bliss , and how I long to know what that felt like. Because indeed, be careful what you ask of, lest it come true.