⚘❁❀----------------GA: Petals and Thorns---------------------❀❁⚘

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
“Open your eyes, my love.”

Wide brown eyes blinked away the early autumnal sun that blinded her temporarily. It took a moment to register what exactly was in front of her now- her husband stood proudly on the porch of a grand manor, one of the largest Noelle had personally seen. It was grand, with at least three stories she could see. It was fashionable too, with a wrap-around porch, and large windows peaking in. Even still there was a stained glass rose window above the front door, a turret facing the east- it was an architectural marvel, especially considering it had been built over a century prior! Of course, the dark painting was a little drab, and it was a little far out of the way, but it still left her amazed. All she could say, mouth agape, was:

“Oh, my”

Evan Richardson could not contain his smug chuckle as his raised arms gripped the white wooden porch pillars on either side. He stood there, sticking out a bit against such a darkly handsome edifice; All blonde hair and skin that emulated a healthy glow from holidays on the coast. The smile stretched across his face, revealing teeth so white and straight, that Noelle’s mother did not believe were real. On the steps, he stood above her, but on even ground, he was a few inches shy of her gawky height.

“Nothing but the best for my darling, lovely wife.” His voice was sing-songy, soliciting a soft smile from his new bride. They had been married for nary a month, and this was a completely new chapter for them both. She was suddenly hoisted into the life of a homemaker and managing a piece of property that was larger than the measly home she was brought up in. He was going to be running a factory that his father was opening near town, manufacturing tools and the like. It was all a whirlwind to the young lady, truthfully- she had heard about this house enough over the past week, not only from her husband, but from the hushed rumors surrounding it. Even her own mother’s face turned from confusion to concern when Noelle explained the supposed history- a scandal, an angry mob, a disastrous fire. While they had stopped in town before their final trek up the hill to the manor, locals had looked at them as if they were off their rocker! And standing here, the house looming over her, she felt a light-headed sensation that made her feel fuzzy and not-entirely there. It was grand and beautiful, yes, but… was this really the best idea?

And yet.

There were the flowers.

It was a fascination of hers, ever since her mother taught her the language. How certain strains, certain colors mean different things- the difference between a red and yellow rose, or a pansy and a peony was integral to the messages she could relay to others in this secret code. The flowers she had received were of a limited variety- her mother’s own garden had hardly supported even something as hearty as a Zinnia. But now, Noelle would never be lacking in sentiment! She wouldn’t need to wait for the grocer to procure anything for her arrangements Like a treasure trove of brilliant ruby, sapphire, and gold, the flowers folded outward to the radiant sunlight, reaching toward the beautiful rays without a trouble. So many flowers that she had seen in the pages of her books that were now so healthy and bright in front of her very own eyes. Even specimen that shouldn’t even grow in such climate, she thought with a tutt, were thriving and growing with such flourish. Imagine what sort of corsage she could have worn with such a wonderful palette of messages! Even the bouquet that her husband had ordered special during their courtship- one made of imported beauties such as English Ivy, and a brilliantly white African Amaryllis (which he later admitted were not his choice, but of the suggestion of the florist)- was incredibly pale compared to this garden. It was truly a marvel- she must ask to keep the gardener who kept up it so. They would need to hire him for his continued services, she would be sure to request this at dinner.

Noelle stroked the vibrating mound of black fur in her arms while stepping closer to the botanical miracle outstretched at her feet. While she was most excited to go inside and see what this incredible home had to offer them, the small cat was a mess of tension and annoyance. The only thing preventing him from leaping in Noelle’s arms were firm strokes from head to tail, and the occasional soft word of calm. Perhaps Glenn was just reading and portraying her own secret anxieties to this whole ordeal? The stories surrounding the property were most terrific and vile. Again, she reminded herself, every local had looked at them alien, as if who would ever want to live in such a beautiful place? They had even heard that most stay away, as grizzly sounds filled the air at night, and the bitter scent of brimstone wafted when you walked by. And most those who venture to the grounds were never seen again. Noelle felt a shiver, her arms tightening around her cat. In that instant, the flowers seemed to pale as doubt wafted in her mind, swirling around her thoughts.

“Not to worry, my sweet.” Evan smiled, stepping down from the porch to meet her, sweeping his arms around her own. He gave the cat an affectionate, but absent-minded, scratch behind the years as he began to walk his wife forward. Truthfully, the little beast was never fond of him, but allowed such comforts in the current situation. Once he released the animal from his hand, he snaked an arm to meet Noelle’s waist, the pale blue fabric of her dress crinkling under his grip. She was pulled to his side, the boldness of his gesture not lost on her. Despite their privacy, she found herself blushing. Ignoring the discomfort,  her husband continued,  “I have taken care of everything. I was sure to have the house prepared for our arrival. Nary a body in sight, or signs of anything malicious. Don’t let those stories fill your head like your silly books- ghost stories are only meant to give flavor to such a property. I am sure the locals only thought it up to keep men off the estate.”

“As someone who has a fascination with stories and local legend, I will admit it does leave me a little nervous.” She confessed with an embarrassed smile, her tension only tightening as he held her close. “Stories often are made to teach us something, to warn us. Lest we forget the tales we are told as children to keep us out of the woods and from the jaws of wolves.”

“Of course, of course.” He nodded, with almost a twinge of humor, the grin on his lips like the cat that had ate all the cream. “And I am indeed grateful for such a story, darling. In this instance, it is surely why this house is so incredibly affordable!”

Although, money had never been in question prior to his purchase. Indeed, Noelle thought with amusement playing on her lips, it was something that he flaunted since they first began their courtship. Nothing was of so much expense to warrant a second look around, and an eventual purchase; from books, to dresses, to mundane things like flatware and wash rags. It astounded her, truly, that she was with a man that could snatch up this house without thinking twice, no troubles whatsoever. Noelle thanked her stars, once again, that she had found such a man to take her with a small dowry and influence from a world that slowly faded with each passing decade. Her mother had been the rose of her season, but that was before the scandal of a broken marriage and one (now) fatherless child. Sure, she had come from an old society family, but the stain on her life carried over to Noelle’s debut, leaving her without much hope to marry above her own station. Imagine her dumbstruck when one of the most handsome men from one of the wealthiest families picked her from the bunch.

“Now, come along, dearest. We have just enough time for tea before exploring this wonderful home together.” Evan gave her a final squeeze before stepping back up on the porch, after which he took the front doorknob and swung it open, crossing over the threshold.

Before following, Noelle turned herself to the mass of trees that filled out the property- the leaves were a brilliant explosion of color, all bright yellows and fiery red. They fell seldom, as the breeze was only a soft caress. Still, she found herself staring into those trees, something tickling at her mind, trying to worm itself between her thoughts. She stood still, her hand pausing the gentle stroking of the small black cat, whose own head perked up in the same direction, lamplit eyes blinking ever so slowly.

“Noelle! Are you coming?”

The sound of her husband’s voice was enough to break her of her trance. What had come over her? She shook her head, shaking whatever had tried to take hold off for the moment, and turned to finally enter her new home.

Their new home.
⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
My dearest mother,

I hope this letter finds you in soaring spirits to match my own. As we round our first fortnight on this new home, I give thanks to God each night. The grounds are impeccable- I could not believe when Evan told me that no one had resided here in over a century! Such lovely trees and flowers that shine with the sun, all in lovely beds. I picked some only this morning, to press like you taught me when I was small enough to peer over your lap. Today, it is Blue Salvia, as I allow my mind to wander back to you and home during my time of excitement.

I do hope you visit soon- Evan said that we will be getting livestock, including horses, once we get the barn open. It is a fickle door, reminds me much of our linen cabinet at home. Only you can not smack the wood to have it bounce to you. No, it firmly stays shut, as if sealed by some hidden lock of some kind. We will be sending a locksmith by the end of the week's time, so I hope to ride again by the month's beginning. Nothing will compare to the swift ride that your mount gave. I do hope that Juniper is still spry, just as springy as your last ride with her. She was a good horse, and I was so heartbroken to hear that she had been sold. Of course, as good of a horse that she was, I am positive that she has been treated well since then.

Speaking of beloved pets, Glenn is well. I was worried the traveling would be too much for him- You know he hates carriage rides, but I swear, he had been a banshee when we crossed the threshold of the property. Screeching, clawing at my gown, nearly shredding it to pieces! it took me minutes to quiet him with firm strokes and soft words, but even then, he still looked like he had a massive fright. I suppose he has settled into the house as well as any of us, except for the most peculiar behavior where he will sit and stare at blank walls, eyes large, position staunch. And, of course, he occasionally runs from a room suddenly. It reminds me very much of when he would play pounce with your kittens when he was young, with as much joy as those times. I sometimes wonder if I should get him a companion- those thoughts are halted, however, as when I write letters to you, I must have one hand on the pen, the other on the cat. If I were only to grow dexterity in my feet, perhaps I could accommodate another!

To answer your last letter, yes. I have continued my writings, although they are mere scribbles when I read the collection around me. How can I expect to write when such greatness is contained in this private library? The story I have to tell grows dull between my ears, and I wonder who would even want to read such things? I try to turn my words to faraway lands, like Carrol and Verne, and I find them pale and limpid in comparison. I know you will say that my work is nothing like these men’s, but it is discouraging when their words are soft as butter, and mine is a curdled cream. Worse so, the headaches worsen as my pen moves in any direction, besides the highly specific scrawl my mind wants to write.  This quirk, that I know you have noticed since youth, seems almost amplified in my new home. It is tiresome, to say the least.

Evan likes to remind me (in jest, may I add), that there is no use to continue my hobby. ‘No use in a woman perfecting her words after marriage- she has already wooed her male!’ and all that nonsense. I remind him that these words have the ability to change minds, change the world around us. Stories are the blankets we have in the dark night of life- they keep us warm and snug, keep us in comfort. Remind us of the truths of love and purpose and danger. He laughed with that cheeky smile that riles me so and told me to go along and write as many words as I wanted- just as long as I ended the night with him in bed and a full belly.

This truly feels like the beginning of a whole new life opening at my feet. I was always afraid that I would be overlooked, I must admit. I know you will deny, as you are my mother, but I had never thought that my plain looks would catch the eye of anyone. And now, I sit in a grand manor with everything looking towards the sun. Even with the headaches, I am very happy with the life that we have carved out here together, and I do hope you will join us soon.

I do hope to hear from you soon.

Your beloved daughter,

Noelle Carole Richardson

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
She placed her fountain pen on the writing desk with a happy sigh. The air smelled of spring, the flowers beneath the window of the illustrious study creating such wonderful perfume that floated to her nostrils so gently. She worried about their upkeep often enough- they were so beautiful, but so varied! How could any of their staff keep up? Mr. Martin was quite convinced that the heartier would thrive and grow over the frail, but it was to all their amazement as the flowers stayed in their diverse pattern with little care from their various staff. All the better for her, she mused as she folded the paper in careful thirds, the wonderful scent undoubtedly made the library her favorite spot in the house.

The room was considerably large for a private library, but of course, the collection was considerably large as well. Noelle marveled at the books when they first came in- the room had been nearly untouched by the supposed fire of ages past. Its contents were covered in every classic Noelle could think of- King Arthur and his Knights, the complete works of William Shakespeare, histories of monarchies across Europe, Epic Poetry, and mythologies from across the globe. There were others, still, in a strange script that she had never seen before, a scrawl that sloped and swam more elegantly than her own penmanship. She would hope, soon, she would find a way to read such strange letters, and fill her head with their contents. And still, there was more- collections of knowledge to plants, animals, lands far away. Personal journals that spanned their own impressive amount of shelves, although Noelle did not dare to touch them.

Even more so, the room had such wonderful light for her favored activity, as well as any painting or needlepoint that she did on occasion. The windows were plenty, and the view was of the westtmost grounds and the wooded area that laid ahead. There were windows wrapping around the turret from west to north, casting such beautiful golden light in the late afternoon. At the top of the window was a stain-glassed visage of a dark raven, set against azure.

Evan had shown her the area with such pride, an arm around her waist as he placed his lips on her hair. Told her that the library was the main reason for his purchase- ‘my little wife would sure like that’ he had told the bank when acquiring the deed. His smile was smug as he leaned against one of the large bookshelves while she tittered around to see the collection in its entirety. Oh, it was surely the most wonderful gesture she had ever seen. Such a space was only in her dreams, and now? She lived in it. Noelle smiled with her own content as she carefully placed her folded letter in an envelope, carefully placing her and her mother’s address in the corresponding spots. Later, she would seal it with wax and their family crest before sending it with Evan to drop off at the post office. She stood to go and place it in his own office, before something peculiar caught her eye.

Purple flowers.

Purple flowers with yellow buds, pulled together by a small knot of twine.  Violets, even more odd as she was nearly certain that they surely were no longer in season! There were a handful of the beauties bunched together, outside the window, placed gently on the sil. How on earth had they made their way up here? This was the second story after all, it would be quite unlikely that anyone would have placed them up thereafter the general roofing inspection...

Her head swiveled across the room. Surely, her husband had placed them there without her knowing, surely she just was so enraptured in a book or in her writing that she simply did not notice. But no- the door remained closed to the hall, and her husband, as fond as she was, would have stayed around to gloat about such a thing. No, someone else must have left them- how long had they been sitting there? Had one of the staff left it out to dry in the autumn sun?

She stood at the window now, looking for activity across the grounds. Men were near the barn, stacking hay, despite the stuck door. One of the workers was chasing the chickens from their coop, trying to catch one for dinner, no doubt. And the trees past them stood still, no sign of movement from there. Sure, there was a ladder to the right of the window, but the men who had so climbed so cautiously to wash the windows and inspect the roof had left that morning! It was truly a mystery, she mused, opening the window very carefully to take the vibrant petals in her hands. Incredible, surely incredible. This house yielded more pleasures with each passing day!


But still.

How very odd. Was someone playing a light-hearted joke? Could she, perhaps, play along? She moved back to her writing desk, gently placing the flowers on the hutch. She would surely press them into one of the thicker books that afternoon, she decided. Or hang them in the windowsill- making them last far longer than they would naturally. Sure, when pressed or hung, they might have lost their color, but in their preserved state, she would be able to treasure them, look at them in times of hardship. Winter was coming, after all, and while the miracle flowers had outlasted longer than any they had expected, she highly doubted they would last frigid ice and snow. She found herself staring at them, fondness wrapping her heart like a warm blanket, squeezing ever so. Something, once again, wriggled in her brain. But it wasn’t as unpleasant as the others… just a little reminder, she supposed. Perhaps she would pen to paper about it later- that had always helped, and sometimes yielded the best stories.

With determination, she found herself raising her pen once again. It was a heavy one, although elegantly designed. The only remnant of her father, and as far as she was concerned, the only thing she was appreciative of. He had left when she was fairly young and left them with not much else. They considered selling the pen at one point when the money had begun to dry up- Noelle was grateful that they had not. With a little flourish, she pulled out a thick piece of paper. And stopped.

What was she supposed to write?

And to whom?

This was all rather silly, she thought to herself, leaning forward in her chair, adjusting herself so the light would catch the paper. Really, why to put any effort in this at all, she chided herself, as she straightened the paper between her fingers so that it was just to her liking. And then. Noelle paused, pen resting at the upper left-hand corner, steady but unsure.

“Well.” She hummed to herself, pushing a fallen strand of hair back behind her ear “There is no use putting it off any longer.”

She drew a breath, pushing the words and that slight pain that jutted sharply behind her eyes, and began to glide her pen across the page.

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘

To whom it may concern,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and favor.

I wanted to write you to thank you for the beautiful flowers you left on my windowsill this morning. The violets really are lovely, and I am so curious as to where you have found such lovely flowers at this time of year. If it turns out that you are the caretaker of the magnificent garden that surrounds the house, first, let me commend you on your incredible work, and second, ask if you would like to continue it under our employ!

I am the new lady of the house, as you might have guessed. It wouldn't be hard to presume my inexperience- I feel like I wander this beautiful manor lost, most days, unsure of myself. Our staff is so incredibly wonderful at what they do, and they look to me for guidance and demands. Just as they look at me curiously as I have helped prepare dinners and launder- apparently, these are things that high society ladies leave to the staff! No, they would much rather I keep to the ledger and my husband. You might have seen the master of the house, my new friend, as he struts around the grounds each morning for a vigorous walk, before heading into town for work. It is strange- I had always considered myself a homebody, but now that I see him leave every morning, I grow slightly envious. That envy is quickly quashed when I further explore the grounds or visit fantastical places in my books. Speaking of, I had just finished re-reading my copy of Notre-Dame de Paris. Such a marvelous story. Have you heard of it? I do adore Hugo’s works, although even I consider them quite lengthy! Perhaps you would like to borrow it?

I do hope to meet you soon! Perhaps I could show you the very lovely gift you gave me preserved and pressed over a warm cup of tea. My mother always said that some chamomile and tea cakes are the best way to ward of the new autumnal chill.

I hope you find this correspondence pleasant!

Warmly,

Noelle Carole Richardson

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
Her eyes scanned the letter before her nose wrinkled from something in between disgust and amusement. Surely, she could not put this on the sill! Far too personal for a letter to a stranger, a stranger that probably was not even a stranger! Placing the cap on the pen, and putting it down gently, brown eyes flicked to the violets with a soft scoff, before folding the letter in neat threes. Each fold was smoothed by her thumb with a slow drag until the parcel fits in her hands with ease.

“Ma’am?”

Noelle jumped, looking to the door in surprise. It was Ruth, the housekeeper, the leader of the staff. She was pleasantly plump, with copper red hair and a spray of freckles, not unlike Noelle’s. However, while the Lady of the house had a long and slightly pointed nose, Ruth was small and upturned. An adorable nose to match her soft voice and kind brown eyes. She was barely older than Noelle, but her hiring was a godsend. She took care of nearly everything, seeing that her Lady was vastly out of her depth. Now, she stood in the doorway of the library, those eyes staring at Noelle, her small hands clutching at the door.

“Yes, Ruth. How may I help you?” Noelle swiftly placed the letter in her lap. Perhaps Ruth knew about the mysterious gift- she certainly would know who had been on the roof to place them. Still, Noelle found herself incredibly embarrassed by her immediate reaction of correspondence, feeling a hot blush climb her neck and onto her pale face.

“Dinner is just about ready, Mrs. Richardson. Your husband should be arriving home shortly- I know that you can become preoccupied with your studies, so I thought it would be best to come and remind you. I hope I do not speak out of turn.”

“No, Ruth. It’s quite alright, you had the right idea.” She smiled at the kindly housekeeper, counting her blessings once again. Evan could become rather cross when she was late, getting lost in whatever story she was reading or writing. It would be best to avoid that altogether. “Also, please. Call me Noelle.”

“But, Mrs. Richardson-” Ruth opened the door more, a sheepish smile spreading across her face “Your husband has asked us to refer to you as such. What with your status above us, it is a sign of respect.”

“And yet, my dear Ruth. my husband has not arrived home yet, has he.” A smile played her own lips, something kindly and warm. She hoped it matched the pink that now adorned her cheeks, as she stood and began to tidy up “If you do not mind, of course, I would prefer for you to call me Noelle. This whole 'my lady’ this and ‘Mrs. Richardson’ that really makes me quite nervous. And if my husband demands you to speak as such when he is present so be it. But, as I had said, he is currently elsewhere.”

She could see Ruth try to conceal a giggle- with any other staff, this would have been a dangerous tightrope to walk. Outwardly defying her husband, even in such a small manner, would have garnered great rumblings from the staff. But Ruth, in their very short time of being together, had proven herself a friend just as much as a housekeeper. And friends deserve to be addressed by their names, not titles.

“Of course, Noelle.”

“Thank you, Ruth. I will be done in just a moment. I have just a few things that I would like to finish before supper. If I do not see them, please tell the rest of the house to have a wonderful dinner.”

The housekeeper gave a curt nod, before closing the door. Noelle had not noticed that her long fingers had curled around the letter in her lap, crinkling it in her giddy behavior. What was wrong with her? She was worried about her staff rumbling about her marriage for calling them by her God-given name, she should be worried if they found out about such a letter! Even if it had been a childish prank by her husband, this letter could be used against her if found! The headache grew as the pain probed deeper in her mind, something pulling her back to the desk, back to the pen. If she could just write it out, write out why this gripped her so, then maybe-

“Oh, dear…” The words left her mouth in a murmur. Perhaps she was being overdramatic, perhaps this was a premature worry. She physically shook her head, trying to rid the needlepoints of pain that now spread to the nape of her neck. She had always heard that the country was a great place to clear one's head, so why was her own seemingly filled with more nonsense! No, what she needed to do now was go down to dinner, not distract herself with some fanciful writing- she scanned the room to be sure everything was returned to its rightful place, before her eyes landed on.

Huh.

With quiet feet, she stepped carefully to the southeast corner, a small flap of the floorboard turned ever so slightly. In lifting it, she found a small space between floor and ceiling- a little hidey-hole of sorts. How Evan had overlooked this in his initial viewing, she was not sure, but…

Well.

Shaky hands placed the crumpled letter in the spot. Something eased inside her as the paper rubbed up against the rough wood beneath it, and she placed the false floorboard back on top of it. Yes. This would be a way for her to write her letters, but keep them private. Until the gift-giver revealed themselves, of course. Then she could explain this whole situation with ease. Yes, she sat back onto her knees, pulling the strand of hair that had fallen once more. Yes. This would do.

This would do just fine.

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘

Winter came only a handful of months after their initial move. They had moved in autumn, those brilliant leaves and, somehow, thriving flower garden. But, the leaves had dulled when they fell, browning and crinkling. The flowers too, once the first frost came. Whatever magic had been used to keep them flourishing deep into October had disappeared. The grounds were quieter now- snow fell softly onto empty branches, that crisscrossed and intertwined like a spider's web. There was a strange sort of peace, but it did not leave Noelle with any sense of calm.

The cold weather had them inside and much closer than they had in the autumn. The staff had been busy preparing feasts for upcoming holidays, while Noelle presided over the bookkeeping and her general duties. But with a little more free time, she continued to find herself in the library. Her husband too had been spending more time around the house- sulking was the word that she would use to describe it really. His attitude soured with the weather and without garden parties or outside of walls socialization, he had grown quite irritable. It started simple enough- stolen glances, soft grumblings. Then, escalating to mutterings of how ‘nothing was getting done around here’ and how ‘she better get her head out of the damn clouds.’ He still went to work, yes, but as the days grew shorter, so did his fuse. And, as she was the one keeping track of the house finances, she began to see the slow dwindle that the season often brought. They never did get the barn open, which meant that the livestock that could have kept them fed during this time never came. Furthermore, grumblings from the new factory had begun from workers, with a potential strike on the horizon. And, as her mother always reminded her, money is the easiest way to bandage a problem, but it can’t do much when the wound bleeds through. Weekends that had once been sacred time set aside for the two newlyweds to walk the grounds together with light hand touching and soft words had quickly become tense- Noelle found herself hiding in the library more and more. If not only to avoid his ire, but also to distract herself.

Her mother had also taught her to always find something positive in their situation. As a child, this meant being grateful for the house, the food that had on the table, for each other. Now, Noelle found herself looking forward to the inevitability of the little gifts left on the window. It continued in the fall, with more flowers, but was soon elevated with little trinkets as well. Little stones and crystals, perhaps a scrap of ribbon. Little treasures that found themselves on her writing desk in neat little rows- when asked, she said something absently about finding them near the edge of the woods, perhaps a little down the path near a creek. She kept the secret of this companion to herself. She even found herself continuing correspondence, even though she did not replace the gifts with her letters on the window. No, while it first was out of embarrassment, she worried even more of her husband’s foul mood. So they stayed tucked away underneath the floorboard. Eventually, she pulled them all out, using the bit of bright purple ribbon that had been left to tie them together.

She still had no idea who the gift giver might be-the increasing irritability of her husband took him down from her suspicions. Perhaps it was Ruth. Or maybe Mr. Martin. Her mother had always said that Butlers had odd ways of showing their sense of humor. Or any of the other members of the household staff. However, whoever it was refused to step into the light on the matter. Noelle sat and observed them, watching for any spark of knowing. She also turned her writing desk, tilting slightly to face the doorway, to be sure to catch the next time a present was left for her delight.

She had caught no one. And the gifts continued.

It was a nice getaway to the ever-increasing tension, a nice thing to count as she heard her husband clamber up the stairs after work to his study. The life that she was supposed to share was quickly growing severed, separate. And, she was afraid that she was beginning to prefer it that way. It kept things from escalating, she reminded herself as she darned his socks in the armchair across the writing desk. It was for the best.

For a time.

Dinner had started as the usual fare: A lovely roast that had been prepared by their lovely cook, Lionel, before most of the staff had retired to their own supper. They sat across from one another, although the table was so long that they might as well have been in different rooms. He had swirled his brandy in his glass, as Noelle took paltry bites of the food, but his eyes bored into hers, before panning down. And back up to her face. These lookovers were glacial, and Noelle felt acutely like a butterfly that was pinned and put behind glass, being studied for whatever reason. The cooked carrots that she nibbled and chewed turned dry as he spoke, in that droll, dulcet voice.

“What is that on your dress?”

She swallowed, following his gaze to her breast, at the offending stain. The pale pink dress, one that he had ordered specially from Europe shortly after their wedding, the one he insisted on gifting after seeing her wardrobe of plain, lifeless gowns. It was lacy around the bust, and clung to her waist, somehow giving her boyish stature a figure. But there was something dotted on the chest, something small, and dark. Something...

“Oh? Oh. ink, my lord. It had split when I was writing in the library, but I found an at-home remedy to get it out when I help with the laundry. It was truly a fascinating read- I never thought I would enjoy such-”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Doe-like eyes widened before blinking slowly at the interruption, before bringing the glass of white wine to her lips. It was bitter to her tongue, somehow the sweetness sucked dry. It was rough down her throat, too, a jagged cut as she tried to understand what he was accusing her of “... The ink spilling? I swear, it was only an accident.”

“Please, quit staring at me like that. And you ruined the gown. Accident or not, you have ruined something that I have gifted you. That I spent on you because I thought you would have the sense to keep it for special occasions.” Evan’s words spilled from gritted teeth, as he raised his own glass to his lips, before emptying it in one swill. Noelle couldn’t help but notice that the pain behind her eyes had begun once more as he finished and met her gaze in a steely fashion  “But it is not that. I wish you would stop writing. It is the biggest waste of time we have in this house- while I work to get us food on the table, you sit up at that desk. And waste. Time. It is truly an insult to me and this-”

“I would have to, erm, disagree respectfully.” The hurt would not stop, and she found herself speaking out of turn. But the words began to pour out before she could stop them- it was like reading one of those Gothic Romances, where the tension in her head grew and grew as she spoke, unable to stop until it all released. “I find it not only soothes me, but with winter upon us, there is not much else I can do outside of my duties. I have kept the books, kept the ledger, kept this house running as tight as a train schedule, my darling. The writing is what I do in between these times, and I think that in itself is valuable. However, I… I wanted to share some news! The gazette is looking for new serials, and, well, I was looking to submit my own work. It does pay, I figured that we could use the little extra pocket money-”

His hand slammed on the table, startling Noelle to a jump. Her hands, which she now realized were clutching the edge of her plate, flew to her lap as her fingers twisted and tugged at one another. Otherwise, she stayed rigidly still, that gaze forcing her eyes to meet his. There was something she had never seen in him before- something twisted. And horrid. She stayed where she was as he stood, never taking his glare off of her, and went to fill his glass from the liquor cabinet on the adjacent wall. He poured out the rest of the brandy, swirling it in his glass, before tossing the glass back and shooting the amber liquid down his gullet.

“Women should not be bringing in funds.” Evan started, his tone dangerously soft. “It might be how your mother survived, but it will not be done in my own house!”

With a slam, the glass landed on the dining table. Noelle was able to contain her wince, as he slowly stepped forward. “The scandal of the town, it would be- do you understand how your paltry writing would signal to my competitors the lie that my riches are in question? Let alone that you are straying and desire independence. It would only take days for such gossip to reach father. Rumors are the poison to a marriage, dearest. While you sit and scribble and etch out some garbled, useless nonsense, the town goes wild. I already have lesser men trying to threaten me with money, you would think that I would find peace in my own HOME!”

He was looming above her now, his hand now outstretched as his palm let out a finger, gesturing for her to stand. In a trance, in hopes of self-preservation, she rose, the chair grinding on the floor beneath her. The shooting agony in her brain had grown to a fever pitch, it was taking every fiber of her being to stay still and not whine and whimper. It only manifested in her trembling lip, which he quickly took care of. His hand gruffly took her chin and roughly pulled her closer, his thumb finally resting on her bottom lip. This close, Noelle smelt the burning beverage on his breath, on his clothes.

“You will obey me.” He said, in nearly a steely whisper “You have been a disgrace, lately. Lingering in the library, speaking directly to the staff, writing those goddamn letters. You fail to perform your duties as a wife to me, separate yourself in my bed, refusing my touch. It is about time you are put in your place, to be punished for abusing my goodwill and-”

“Evan, dearest, please.”
 
“You are my WIFE, you will not try to speak over me, you stupid whore!”

It was so swift. If she had been outside her body when it happened, she was unsure if she would have even seen it. One moment, his hand was with the back of his palm facing her, his body tightening as he wound up his swing. The next, was a CRACK and the harsh sting, that somehow felt far away even in the moment. The shock swirled in her face, in her left cheek as she had to follow through with his slap. In mere seconds, the throbbing ache cleared the initial numb defiance that this was not happening- Evan Richardson had raised a hand and struck his wife.

For the first time in weeks, even her mind was silent.

Noelle heard her husband shuffle back on his feet, backing away from her, mouth agape, eyes on his own hand, as if he had no clue to how that had happened. When she finally turned her own eyes to him, swimming with betrayal and hurt, she saw that his hand was shaking, fingers still outstretched before clenching, tightening to a fist. Fear rose to her throat once more, a flutter of sound escaping her lips, but instead of striking her, it lowered to his side.  “Noelle- Ellie, I swear, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to-”

He broke off, approaching her with an outstretched arm. The hurt on her face was now matching on his own as she flinched at the gesture. His hand sunk, and stuffed itself in his pockets. Silence hung between them as they stared in disbelief at what just happened. After what felt like an eternity, her husband sighed, stepping slowly to her, never meeting her eyes before giving a soft, but gruff grunt.

“Come. Come, let’s… let’s get to bed. Let’s get you to bed.”

And, with the horror and shock still gripping her faculties, she felt herself pulled up the stairs, to the master bedroom. Once inside, she would not let him touch him, just as he would not meet her accusatory eyes. She changed behind the partition, silently, listening for any movement that would signal his attempt toward her. But there was none- he sat, silent, staring at his hands until she was done. Noelle did not know if he got dressed in his dressing gown, for once she put on her nightrail, she laid in their bed, absolutely still. Praying for sleep that would only come many hours later.

She thought that it was a one-time instance- that, as winter madness gripped his mind, he just acted rashly. She had been indignant, she rationalized, perhaps if she just kept her head low and stayed out of trouble. Perhaps if she did everything that she could, be the best of wives, he would go back to the teasing, the gentle smiles, the lovely kisses.

But it continued after; first only in the next month, until it was every other week, until every other night. It usually happened after dinner, but not always. One particular incident, he had stormed into the parlor during broad daylight, accusing her of planning to leave the grounds without his permission. Even as she pleaded and pressed that no such plans had ever been made, he had grabbed her by the neck and demanded the truth, a truth that he would not be satisfied unless it aligned with his own. She had first covered the bruises and bumps- it was easy when he struck her body or grabbed her too tightly. But, soon, he became more fervent with each blow, meeting his fist with her face. She had been so ashamed when Ruth had to take her into the kitchen and address the puffy black eye. Noelle nearly started crying, but not because of the pain, but of the kindness that had been denied to her for weeks, as the kindly housekeeper gave her comforting murmurings of encouragement. After that, the staff took notice too, but not always. The master of the house did not mind the whispers of his mistreatment of his wife, so he did not mind doing it in their eyesight. For who would they tell? He was the richest man in town, and could spread his own rumors to other employers. The best that they could do was share looks during the unfound discipling, and sneak the broken young women some supplies and soft apologies.

Sometimes, her husband would take the beatings to the bedroom, but there was no hiding the sounds of her shame. There was always a clatter that followed as he shoving her against the wall, the dresser, over his knee. Noelle would chew her lip until blood pooled onto her tongue, not daring to make a sound, as he shrieked his grievances. The dwindling of funds, the interest in writing, the fabled headaches, it would all to be blamed upon her. And with each passing day, the bedroom slowly became her personal torture chamber, as he performed deplorable acts. He was both warden and executioner.

It first filled her with hot shame, but she became numb to that too. It was like thrusting her hands in the snow outside- burning hot turnt to nothingness, into a void that grew from her chest outward. Soon enough, whenever he hit her, she could almost separate herself from her body, float away from it all, above the house, above the clouds. The emptiness inside her creaked into every facet of her living now, as she was just as frozen as the flowers she held so dear. In further examination, this new perspective of cruelty not only made her long for the past with him. The memories of his excitement as he showed the house with a hand tight around her waist were tainted, the tears on her wedding day were tinged with something besides joy. It was coming to light that this darkness had always been inside of him. It had to have been, one does not just become so bloodthirsty in a matter of months.

But, just as the pain plagued her head nearly every day now, a nagging thought tugged and burrowed so deep. The thought would repeat itself into thunderous silence as she laid in bed at night, filling the quiet winter nights with the horrid conclusion.

Perhaps the darkness had been inside him all along. But she had been the catalyst of it coming to light.
⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
The library had become a sanctuary. There was no reason that anyone knew, but the husband never stepped foot inside the library. As winter approached its end, he would storm about the house in his moods, but always pass the library in the same stride with no hesitation. It was as if, when Noelle presided in the space, it would simply leave his mind that she was there. Of course, it was always used in arguments against her, but he would never dare walk into the space himself. Whatever invisible force kept him from invading, she praised each time she entered the door.

Of course, this meant she began to stay in the library later and later. Most times, after dinner, she would retire in there and sit at her writing desk, scribbling down her thoughts until the aches and pains would subside. She was near to completing all of the book, a feat that she would have deemed impossible when she first laid eyes on the massive bookshelves. Even the reference books had been leafed through for any morsel of mental stimulation to distract from her depressing current situation. She often returned to her dictionary of flowers, hoping the review would help her in spring if the garden returned. Flower language had an entirely new meaning now that she felt muzzled by her marriage, unable to express anything lest she wanted her face to meet fist once more. Once she had gone through the dictionary until memorization, backward and front, she moved to the histories, some in their original French. Then, it was to the Russian novels, a marvelous and tedious practice in the language. One by one, she made her through the things she could read, and then slowly worked on the ones she could not, until she felt quite proficient. There was soon nothing new, except a tucked-away shelf out of the way. And on one of the last nights of winter, she decided it was time. It was time to open one of those mysterious journals.

They were old, Lord, they were old. It was not so much evident by the dust, as there was minimal, but by the language that danced in her eyes. Neat cursive glided across the parchment, in English that had been out of fashion for over a century. Each journal was leather-bound and hand-stitched, but the covers were soft and warm from the years. Noelle half expected to find mold in the spines, but just as the flowers were when they moved in, there was no sign of decay whatsoever. After settling down at her desk and striking a match to light the three-pronged candelabra, Glenn hopped off of the nearby armchair and stretched, before climbing into her lap and getting comfortable once more. On opening the first page, she found herself tracing the script with her finger, the needle pricks behind her eyes rising to something most uncomfortable and utterly painful. She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and continued. She was surprised it was so incredibly mundane, only notes scribbled and dated from long ago.

Notes about the house- how it was to be built, how it would look. Where the windows would face, where the stained glass would sit. That was how it started, merely about the house and its progress. She turned the pages, recognizing the written-out plans and their translation to the home. Occasionally, little asides were written in the margins in manuscript far from the elegant scrawl that it was referring to. It was a bit blunt and jagged, and words were occasionally misspelled. But overall, she realized that the journals were pretty mundane. That is until the writer became more trusting of the very journal he wrote to. It was suddenly deeply entrenched in fevered emotionality, in fondness for the builder. The margin notes had grown, had included little pictures as well, including some downright delightful doodles of little pouncing cats. Her hand went to her own companion who purred with the soft petting, as she continued to read. The love that was evident in these words was astounding- how the craftsmanship of the house was up to everything that the original owner wanted, how incredibly talented this builder was, how incredibly ingenious he was in nearly every facet of the manufacturing, how the work displayed on his physique, with strong arms and a wide chest that-

Noelle carefully closed the book, a pink blush rising to her face, the warmth splashing on her cheeks. It was none of her business to what the original owner had gotten up to, this was incredibly offensive for her to pluck this journal off the shelf like it was any common book! She should be ashamed of herself. Why, if anyone had came across the letters she wrote to her sneaky gift giver, she would probably expire due to the impropriety! No, she shook her head, no more of this breach of privacy. Taking her small cat in her hands, she found herself rising to her feet to slide the hand-stitched journal back into its slot. No, she placed her little friend onto the ground, making her way back to the desk. She would not risk such bad luck for that-

Noelle stopped as the clatter reached her ears. It was late, much too late for anyone to be up, and judging by the muffle- it had come from downstairs. The sound had startled her enough, but she was ready to ignore it, until it happened once more. Her teeth met her lip- if this woke up Evan, she would certainly pay the price for the interruption of his brandy-soaked sleep. It would be better for her to check on it, she decided, fingers wrapping around the stem of her only light source. Her grip was tight as she made her way to the door on tip-toe, opening it to avoid creaking and exiting to the hall. Her footsteps were quiet as she skipped each and every creaky floorboard, making her way to the top of the stairs. Slowly, one by one, she climbed down, holding her light ahead of her while her eyes rested on her feet. At the bottom, she gave the foyer a glance, trying to notice anything odd. All of the paintings and elaborate artwork were hung, nothing had fallen. There was no sign of glass from broken vases or windows, and the area was just as spick and span as Ruth always left it. Prepared to leave it at an over-active imagination and lack of rest, feet shuffled to go back up the stairs and retire for the night.

Until the sound was heard again.

It wasn’t so much a clatter of something broken, but a knock, a soft bang of a door opening with creaky hinges. Holding her light ahead once more, Noelle’s eyes searched the area for movement once more, to no avail. She stepped slowly around the staircase, past the dining room, past the kitchen to- yes. The cellar door, located in the back corner of the kitchen, was wide open. She shook her head, walking briskly through the kitchen to the door, ready to put this all to bed once and for all. But steps halted as a wave of pain hit her mind, a hot iron probed into the folds of her brain and dug deep. Where it had been whispers before, quelled by her pen, it was now thousands of voices shrieking an alarm of danger and fear, thousands of hands clawing at her to do something, anything besides standing there like a puppet-it took all her might not to crumple to the ground and screech, as she squeezed her eyes shut, begging for the pain to go away.

And it did. With the slam of the door in front of her.

Brown eyes blinked in confusion, blinking away the hurt, as she stared at this door. Her mind had quieted, for now, as she stared at the cellar door, before cocking her head to the left. If it was only a cellar door, why did her skin crawl, even now, with complete horror and revulsion? Why did it suddenly feel as if the floorboards beneath her throbbed to her own heartbeat? She was a juicy fly caught in a web as she continued to stare and wait. For what, she did not know, but she could not move, not even an inch. It was as if she had been at the dinner table when she was struck- ice filled her bones, as she stood still, eyes protruding a bit from her face.

No.

No, she would not be frozen to experience whatever horrors lay to waste down there. Even if this all was a dream, or a creation of her own delusions, she would fight. She had to, she must, what else was there to do? The candelabra in her hand shook as she took a step back, an effort that was far too monumental for the action. Her jaw clenched with a second step, but it felt stronger, more assured. She began to take a third, but she spied something truly inexplicable. The brass doorknob was turning, slowly, before the all-telling click pulled the door open. It was not a violent opening, as before, where it would be heard. She realized now that the noises were meant to gather her attention, now… now this was for her. A gasp escaped her lips, before she set her jaw, staring into the darkness behind the door. And then:

“Noelle…. Noelle! I’ve been stuck! Some lunatic had… had taken me. It’s... It’s dark, Noelle, It’s so very dark. I am afraid… It’s getting hard to breathe. Oh, God, I can’t… I need you, my most precious treasure, I need your help!”

The voice was close to the bottom of the stairs from the volume of sound, but slightly muffled and out of breath,  and, most of all, it was shockingly familiar. A voice that she had not heard since over a decade prior, a stern and masculine voice that struck some deep insecurity within her It couldn’t be, there was no possibility that this could be happening, everything was all wrong! She stood firm as the door, feet glued to the wood beneath them.

“Please! Wouldn’t you help your own father! Noelle! Noelle, come quickly, the air it grows thin, I need... Need…”

Nevermind the logic of anyone being down at the cellar at this time. Nevermind that the memories had burned with his departure, that she hadn’t heard his voice in nearly 15 years. Fear gripped her heart as the pleads became more harried, more desperate, until it finally crescendoed to tortured screams of lungs that burned for air, ending in a death gargle. Tears pinpricked in her vision as she starred in the new silence once again, unsure to what in the world was happening. The prodding pain returned to her head, but it felt far away, as far as the sounds of her dying father. She must have been in a dream, redirecting her effort from movement to waking herself up, trying to pull herself from wherever the hell she had come.

But whatever evil that was looming was not done with her yet, it seemed.

The ground lurched, her grasp on the candelabra tightening as the door swung close once again, only to click and reopen in the same eerie, slow motion. The air stilled once more, somehow colder than before. It was as if the life had been sucked out around her, leaving her in a vacuum. How addled was her mind to do this once again? To try to fool her of some phantom of her past? This isn’t real, she reminded herself, the screaming in her head reminded herself too. This was all but a cruel trick that her mind was playing. The sentiment repeated until the next voice, the one down in the cellar, began to speak. It was a new voice, one that made the young lady’s heartache and her blood run frigid.

“Noelle! Oh, thank goodness! I was worried sick, child, and I wish you had told me sooner of the terrible fortune that has fallen upon you. Chin up, Noelle! Come! I’ve found an escape- we will get you out of this wretched place, away from your terror of a husband. But it must be quick- morning is coming soon. Come on, my dear. Just down the stairs, there are some tunnels that will spit us out in the woods, we will be out by morning, isn’t that what you want, my sweet?”

“Ma... Mama?” Noelle croaked, her mouth suddenly dried as she took a timid step towards the open door. Moonlight on her skin from the window looking out to that very wood, the one that she would be able to escape to that night if she were quick enough. She did not notice the wind that had picked up, the whistling tones as it whipped the air around in a shrill warning, the howling of the wind blending with the more dog-like yowls that filled those woods. Noelle’s focus was now on the door, and the one way she could make this nightmare end once and for all. Another step, three more, and she would be at the foot of the stairs, as her mother continued to coax her, telling her how they must move quickly, how this would all be over soon, to just trust her mother as she had done so her entire life.  Only a couple more steps from freedom of this wretched place- her mother would take her home and hide her away, with warm tea and even warmer blankets, brushing her hair until each knot untangled until this was all just a faraway memory.

“Yes, Noelle! It’s mama, please, hurry! We don’t want to alert the others to this, right? Right? So please, pick up the pace, dear. Quickly. Faster. Move! Noelle, move! Move, goddamnit, move! Do something, don’t just stand there!”

The calming voice was raised to something a little warped- it hurt Noelle’s ears as if there was more than one voice speaking, one on top of the other. It became louder, angrier, demanding, something was very wrong. The pulling inside her mind told her as much, too, as her mother’s voice merged with her father's, her husband’s, her housestaff, and something entirely different altogether. The throbbing beneath her feet was at odds with the unyielding shriek of the wind outside, as it began to swirl around her, making her sick.

“Come, you disgusting worm! Do you wish to be struck again by your husband?! Perhaps you deserve it, you wretched cow, unable to do anything besides stand there like a useless dolt. Unable to end your misery once and for all, you worthless piece of filth, you shriveling wretch! No one is coming for you, no one cares for you, and it is time for you to act! To do something about your cowardice, you disgusting, putrid excuse for a living thing, do SOMETHING! ACT!”

That had been enough.

This was her final thought, one that she was not sure that was her own, before everything went dead silent, as she pitched forward. Noelle’s head landed mere inches from the open door, which suddenly slammed shut in a motion that could only be described as infuriated. The wind died down just as quick, and the moon pierced the darkness, illuminating the poor girl’s crumpled body and distressed face. The candelabra had fallen with her, of course, the candles popping from their place and bouncing dangerously close to the lady. The flames licked her arm, but she was too far gone to notice. The fire was precariously close to spreading to the wood floorboards, to the rest of the house, but they were quickly snuffed out by a soft puff of brilliant blue smoke.  

They were not allowed to burn.
⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
My dearest mother,

I know you shall scold me for apologizing, but I am terribly sorry to write to you a second time this month. My heart yearns for when you are able to travel and see this wonderful new home, with your daughter sitting solace within. It is strange to find such peace in light of confusing and terrifying circumstances, but just as the winter melts away to reveal spring, I too find myself thawing.

I haven’t left home much since my last letter- the whole ordeal had left me quite faint for a number of days, so I took quite a bit of time to rest. Ruth told her that winter plays funny tricks on people, and perhaps I put down the works of Poe and pick up something a little lighter. During this time, I finally had the opportunity to read the novels you sent to me for Christmas. Conan Doyle’s mysteries keep me enraptured as my strength returned within my body and mind. They have been quite stimulating, although, I must admit, I usually solve the case prior to the end. I was looking forward to continuing my reading, to the other book you had so graciously gifted me, but it seems Mr. Wilde will have to wait. Perhaps I may steal a moment in the library with him between mealtimes and indulge.

Work has continued through the house- with the worker's strike at the factory, my husband has had to take a more active hand in his father’s business than he did in the past. He is barely home these days, returning very late and very tired. Even more so, the house is proving too large for the four of us to manage. I know that I had mentioned in my previous letter that we had to let go the majority of our staff, leaving only our lovely housekeeper and impeccable butler. This is now made more unfortunate still that we will need to part with Ruth and Mr. Martin. While my husband would prefer me to keep a stiff upper lip and tightly closed jaw, I must confess that the money dwindles. Not that I mind too much- you were, of course, the reason that I have become so clever and resourceful with such things. In fact, it was just this afternoon that I told Ruth to go down to market with yesterday’s paper to give to the butcher. I then instructed her to give it to the man, and ask for a reduced price for the meat she needed to buy in exchange for wrappings for everyone around- the difference was slim, of course, but with the other endeavors as well, I hope to secure a small rustle of coin.

I will be sad to part with the last members of our staff- Mr. Martin was quiet, but he was kind enough to me in times of trouble. And I do consider Ruth to be the closest thing to a friend I have. I know that my heart will ache as she exits this employ- I do wish you could have met her. You would have been as fond as I was, that I am sure of.

I do miss seeing your letters, but not as much as I miss you. It hurts most days, a hurt that is bittersweet on the tongue as I revisit old memories- just this morning I had found myself drawing tears in remembrance of how, around this time of year, we would usually find ourselves teaming with new kittens. I hope to receive your correspondence soon- I wonder if the weather has kept it from the post. None-the-less, I will continue to write these letters as I await your own.

I love you so much.

With Affection,

Your Daughter, Noelle

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
Curling her fingers and with the quick shake of the hand, Noelle soothed the cramping in her hand. The desk had been used for hours today, as time melted away faster than the icicles hanging from the rake outside the window. Too many hours, her face twisting with a grimace, as there was so much work that she still needed to complete. With the housestaff dismissal, the duties had fallen solely on Noelle to cook and clean and launder and mend. And, while she had the knowledge of such things and truly did not mind the workload (minus the duties in the kitchen, as she always kept an eye on that cellar door), it was just as she wrote to her mother- the house was just far too large to manage all on her own. Sure, it was kept afloat now, but that was with Ruth and Mr. Martin tittering around, fixing and finishing before their final day in a couple of weeks' time. She knew that she must stop writing, stop the scribblings on every scrap of paper that she could find.

Noelle was unsure of the stories' origins, but ever since the incident that night a few weeks prior, it was like the narratives spun tornados across the page, and all she could do was hold tightly to the pen, praying not to be lost in the spiral. It was hypnotic- one moment, the page would be blank, the next, she was scrawling on the margins, unsure what had happened in between. And while the writings were coherent, they were often gruesome- death and fire and betrayal. They often took place in the house, but not at all times, no. Occasionally, it would precursors, of one Lazarus McKay, the name she had seen scrawled in those journals, on the documents of the original ownership of her house. Stories of his upbringing, harsh as it was, with only the youngest sister as his companion. Stuck in a house where he was not only unloved, but willfully ignored by a heartless father. Often, Noelle would blink back from her stupor and read through what she had just penned, trying to convince herself that she was only putting upon her own pain, her own trauma, onto this long-dead man. But, no matter how hard she tried, she could not dispose of them, only hide them with the rest of her writings, under the floorboards.

Furthermore, her stories included other characters, although their histories were far less extensive. A town doctor with a penchant for experiments and cruelty, his words terrified her more than the others. The terms he would use sent chills up the lady’s spine- guts and gore and puss were not uncommon, neither was the detailed account of surgical procedures gone horrifically wrong. Of bones being broken on the operating table, if only to be fastened to an arm or torso, details of sutures piercing skin as flesh was sewn together as if it were fabric. These, Noelle burned, ignoring her headaches, ignoring whatever instincts screamed to her to stop.

Others still- plenty of death, plenty of chase. It gave purpose, she supposed and, even if she might not understand where, it did give her that sliver of control that she had lost. This house had quickly become her muse as, so she thought, her mind tried to give reason to why the things were as she saw. The locked barn, the horrid cellar door, the massive woods, she spun tales to explain them. She never sat long with the resulting stories long after they were written- truthfully, the thought passed that these words did not even feel like her own, but she would brush it aside as she placed the letters in her hiding spot with the letters and little trinkets that had quickly begun to pile up.

It was strange, although not stranger than any other new occurrence. And as she rationalized that her mind was filling in the gaps for the other unknown occurrences across her home, they failed to bring such imaginary context to the contributions that were continually left at her window. She expected the gifts to halt with winter, with the exit of the majority of their staff, with the apparent mental break she had a handful of weeks prior. But no, it was almost as if the gifts had increased. Something she could expect once a week was now occurring nearly once a day, ranging from simply spongy mushrooms, to smooth river rocks, to little bunches of acorns and pine cones. And while most are kept hidden in fear of questions that she could not answer completely, she still displayed her favorites upon her desk. Recently, it was a bunch of evergreen needles tightly wrapped with coarse twine flanking a particularly stunning jagged black stone. In a small glass, one she had coveted from the dish cabinet, was a small array of winter flowers. Drooping snowdrops, who were plucked before their lovely petals spread, closed off as the innocence and timid nature they often symbolized. The other flowers were bright yellow bulbs, sprouting from straight stems, set in contrast to their slumping brethren. Aconite, of the winter variety, of course, stood proud and closed, one again plucked prematurely. They did provide the hope and promise that, yes, spring would come again. Like the gifts left before it, these were left on the opposite side of the windowsill, inexplicably, waiting for her to see and coo. At one time, in clear view of the window, she brought the soft petals to her face to caress, tears threatening to fall. She had no doubt that such gifts were meant for her, and if someone was providing such messages of anticipation and endearment, well, it would be her own secret.

Eyes flicked from the flowers to her lap, hands fluttering around the novel that she had placed there hours prior. It was a gift as well, only sent from her mother at Christmas in accompany with candies and sweets also hidden away for a private snack late in the evenings. Noelle had wanted to start the book since it was received, as she had loved the work of Oscar Wilde before, and was itching to get her hands on his newer publications. But, as she started, the story laying out beneath her like a map, she began to realize that this story had barbed edges, cutting up whatever was left of her heart. It was truly dreadful what it implied, what it said about immorality and a hedonistic lifestyle, of how societal pressures were so shallow and focused on the physical. In light of the past couple of months, she had tried to push through, to read it until the end, but just couldn’t bring herself to it. Although she began to wonder if her husband had a portrait that revealed the true ugly underbelly to his actions- it would certainly account for his alarming and continuing lack of empathy. Sulking around the house, slamming doors, his irritability increasing further. Everyone avoided him now, especially when he came home, smelling of spirits and liquor, sometimes of feminine perfume. The worst of it that Noelle almost felt guilty of this recent development- was her own avoidance allowing him to act out on his beastly behaviors on other women? Had she condemned them to a similar fate? However, when he returned and crossed her path, she was reminded that these women did not have to see him every night before being silenced by a blow to the jaw or squeeze of the throat.

When spring finally broke, she was struck with inspiration while finally able to leave the house and walk the grounds. The air seemed to open up around her, the land that had seemed so tiny, so isolated, stretching as far as she could see. The trees were brilliant green and healthy brown, her mind clearer as soon as her feet touched the earth. While spying the flowers in the garden, just prior to their bloom, she had decided it was time to return the favors she had been so graciously given. Upon her earliest walks, she knelt and carefully picked. After all, the isolation of the winter was a wonderful way to refine and reacquaint her with the language of petal and thorn, it was time to extrapolate on that knowledge! With her findings, she marched back to the library, laying out the beauties across her desk. After a bit of time, a bit of patience, she had finished.

It was quite a simple thing- white clovers and edelweiss dotted the arrangement like the snowflakes that had ceased to fall. They were simple flowers, yes, but they brought pink to her cheeks as she verified the meaning behind it- she wanted the benefactor of her much-loved trinkets to know that she saw their dedication to her happiness, that they were constantly playing upon her mind like a melody she could not quite place. She had only placed one more type of flower, as not to muddle the message or palette; it was all entirely possible that the meaning of all of this would be lost in the gesture, she knew this. But, just as the letters were hidden from any other view, the meaning would be significant to her, and that would be enough. Noelle let a long-forgotten smile play on her lips as she placed a threesome of blue hydrangeas, all cut at different lengths. She had agonized about the decision of the final flower, first in species and now in color. The hydrangeas popped up at different places in the various flower beds, different colors as they decided how to grow. The little flowers created almost a spherical shape, looking so strange so clustered together. Paired with the others, the message would have been clear to her. Instead of the snobbery and haughtiness that the flower often described, with the warmth of devotion and thoughtfulness of the other, the pale blue hoped to convey the knowledge of the deeper understanding, once one-sided and hopefully mutual in the near future.

Noelle had wanted to add a gardenia, but the idea, once again, brought bright pink to her pallor. How could she profess something so scandalous to a person that she never truly met! They only left her gifts- and it could have been anyone! No, no, it was best to play it safely. With the flowers outside the house, the meaning of the current bouquet was harmless enough, there would be no whispers of impropriety from her hand. With a quick loop, she tied the flowers together using a lacy ribbon from her boudoir, a simple patterned lace, but delicate and dainty enough. With another loop and pull, she had made a little bow. Finally, stepping back to look at her work, she felt warmth spreading in her chest, and just as the smile before, it was a long-missed feeling. Carefully, not to disrupt the fragile placement, she carried it to the window, before pushing it open to place on the surface. Sounds of bluebirds and rustling leaves were the most beautiful symphony to her ears. Yes, she would like to keep the window open, leaning against the frame, eyes closing, the long-forgotten feeling of calm washing over her.

“Mrs. Richardson?”

The voice didn’t really startle her anymore- Ruth and Mr. Martin often took time to check in on her when she spent plenty of time in the library. The former would stop and chat in hushed tones, offering a spot of tea, while the latter would say nothing and gently place a tray of food on the desk. Noelle was unsure what would come of her when they would part, as she enjoyed their company more than anything. A sigh escaped her lips, caught in the emotion of it all, before turning and smiling at her housekeeper.

“Ruth, please. You may call me Noelle when my husband is out.” She offered a smile, but the exhaustion was worn behind the eyes. She knew that her maid had seen it- of course she had, anyone would. The young lady was not allowed out of the home, so who else could see it? Ruth gave a small nod and stepped into the room before closing the door behind her softly.

“I was planning to begin dinner but… The master of the house has not arrived home yet.”

“Oh, well, please help yourselves.” There was a nonchalant wave of the hand, as her eyes did a quick once over the new woman in the room “I assure you that he will come home and land in the bedroom, just as every night before. You do not have to wait for us to eat, my friend.”

But Ruth did not move, instead, she took to swaying at her feet, teeth catching her bottom lip. Noelle stepped aside, gesturing to the armchair facing the now open window, silently inviting the young woman for a sit. Uncertainty flashed across the round face, before the lady of the house gave a soft tut, flashing a look of complete sincerity. The steps over were slow, as was the easing into the chair. In her uniform and tight body language, It was clear to see she was uncomfortable in this blatant disregard for status, only to turn to shock as Noelle took a seat at her feet, looking up with those wide, rich earth brown eyes.

“Now.” The lady of the house smoothed her skirt and tilted her head, not bothering to push away the tuft of hair that had fallen to her cheek “What bothers you so?

“Your husband-” Ruth’s eyes grew large as if forgetting who she spoke with, before relaxing into her seat. “Miss, we both know what he does to you, how he treats you, and… oh, my lady, I wish there was something I could do. I worry for you, once I leave. I know Martin does as well.”

“No worries, my dear friend.” Noelle’s stomach felt like lead when she forced a smile like she had been taught since entering her social circles, feeling the light within her core dim ever so with it. “I am sorry to worry you, but this will be my lot in life. There are certain things I can try to… to make it better. And it will get better, you know this. You said it to me during the darkest nights, winter’s madness is not a laughing matter.”

“It is more than winter that is mad, miss!” Ruth said quickly, the ire and frustration toward the man rushing toward the surface “I see the marks he leaves, how broken you have become. And this house- I hesitated to come, I told you, because of the tittle-tattle and hearsay. I hear things at night, horrible things, from outside the house, from within, caught between the walls. And yet, that is not what I am afraid of as I lie in bed each night! Your husband is a… a….”

Propriety came to mind as the woman in the chair crossed her arms, furrowing her brow. Noelle could not hide another sigh from her lips, her shoulders slumping with it, once again looking very tired. “My husband is a man, Ruth. A man who has been embarrassed by his occupation, who is terrified of his father. He does not hold strength in these, so he must squash out the strength in others.”

“I wish your husband was a different man, miss.”

“Noelle.”

“Noelle.” Ruth nodded, suddenly becoming quiet and pensive. Her forehead smoothed, as she took a deep breath, continuing “I wish I could stay. I do, I don’t want to… sentence you to this fate, I don’t want to hear about some turgid tale in a couple of months, knowing I had the power to stop it, I wish I didn’t need to go. It’s only-”

“Completely understandable.” It was her turn to nod now, with knowledge and consideration, placing a long-fingered hand on the woman’s lap “This house is quite the undertaking, and paying beneath your station is unacceptable. If you were to insist to continue with your employment, I would have told you not to. Not only that, but you have other matters to attend to, do you not? How is your father?”

As the housekeeper began to speak, Noelle stayed silent, nodding where appropriate. The hand that was so delicate on the white apron stayed for more time than either anticipated, while the sky darkened to evening, casting a shadow into the room. When she finished, they both had tears on their cheeks, for they knew that the next time they would meet would be far later than either wanted. As Ruth rose to have her much-delayed dinner, Noelle hugged her tight, slender arms wrapping around the woman in a tight embrace.

If only she knew that it would be the last hug she ever gave in life.

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘

My secret companion,

I fear the worst.

As each night passes, with each late arrival steeped in the scent of body odor and whiskey, I worry for when we have no more funds to gamble away. The riches that he had used to entice me into this arrangement are no more, and I have no idea what he thinks he will find in games of cards. I suppose I should be grateful for it, despite our slowly thinning bellies and diminishing supplies. I know that the nights at the gambling hall are the only thing between myself and his raised hand- I know because they close on Sunday, and that is when I feel the sting of his wedding ring across my cheek. Another slap, another grab at my wrist, and pulled into the bedroom. Sundays are a constant, what was the day for the Lord in my youth has turned to when I pray for God to take mercy on me, take me away from this dreaded nightmare.

He blames me for it all- for dwindling money, for the lack of staff. My inability to conceive. But how could he blame me for not wanting a child? He is not only cruel, but our time over the past couple of months has twisted him into something far less than human. Gone is the gentleman that had incurred shy smiles to play my lips. That man had been wiped away in hardship, revealing the rotted core beneath. A child would only redirect his anger- and how could I condemn an innocent to such barbarism?

The only solace I can find is writing these notes to you. I know you shall never see them- I am afraid that you are only a figment of my subconscious, my mind seeking comfort in something during these trying times. Only evidenced by the fact that, as of late, I no longer fear the implications of my imaginary friendship with you- if the things I have been seeing and hearing are any indication to my psyche, I am doomed. I can not tell my mother- Evan would intercept my letter, and beat me all the same. And the staff are privy, but powerless to do anything. In fact, I would not be surprised if they were secretly relieved about their imminent release. Ruth says she will keep in touch, but I urged her to go tend to her own father in New York. I hated myself for telling her that, but I fear that my husband will turn the fist on anyone if I do not take the brunt.

It will be their last day this coming Sunday- I had made her a stunning bouquet, one of gossamer lily of the valley and stunning morning glory, mixed with other’s; zinnia, rosemary, even some of those violets you had originally gifted me so many months ago. I carefully explained to her what they had meant, and you should have seen her face light up with excitement. This was all the evidence I needed to pass her my dictionary of floriography, as I have it memorized cover to cover. She refused, of course, but I insisted, telling her to take whatever she needed from the garden as well before her departure.

Mr. Martin was near showing emotion when I told him I was planning an intimate last dinner before their departure. He did not say much, for that was not his way, but he did sincerely tell me that, in other circumstances, he would give my husband what was coming to him. I was sure to tell my husband about this final dinner, but all he did was grunt and walk away, although this did not surprise me one bit. Why would he start caring now?

When Ruth and Mr. Martin are gone, you will be the only person keeping me from complete and true loneliness. Perhaps I should have asked the other two about you, if they had ever seen you drop off the gifts, but they would truly think me daft if I asked. Not after the ghastly nonsense with that hellish door… No, it seems that this would remain a secret. Perhaps it is a paradox where, if I give the letters, you will reveal yourself, but I will not give the letters until you do reveal. It is a shame… I would like to speak to you. To hear your voice- sometimes, I try my best to imagine it, try to imagine you. It is my mind filling in those gaps, but, well. It would be nice to know who was watching over me.

Thank you for the flowers and acorns, once again. I hope to return the favor soon.

Your friend,

Noelle


⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
Her hands shook as she walked the flower gardens, tending them carefully and steadfast. Yellow flowers shined between thin fingers, as she plucked and placed them into the small herb satchel around her hips. With her husband gone for the day, she knew she must act quickly. She grabbed as much as she could, marveling at how a plant from so far away had made it into her yard. It was no matter- she knew from the book that the little yellow plants would aid in her sin, only if she consumed enough of it. Parsley too, she frowned, identifying it among the other herbs, and pulling it up by its root. Noelle had prayed before exiting the house for forgiveness for what she must do. Punishment in the eternal was a fair price to the alternative.

It was very likely that she wasn’t in a delicate position- after all, they had intimacies prior with the intention to conceive. And nothing had ever caught, it was one of the many things Evan yelled at her about. However, knowing their current string of rotted luck, she needed to air on the side of caution. And, according to the book, that meant brewing these tiny flowers after any shared night that ended in completion. She continued to grab, as the excess would need to survive her past another winter, which was approaching fast.

It had been months since the final departure of their staff, and things had only grown darker. The headaches were non-ceasing, her writings were becoming nonsense, and the house was becoming a minefield. Sure, she was able to elude her husband during the day, but when he came home, there was no distraction now for his heavy hand and dry breath. It was probably for the best that the details burned holes in her memories- she often would find herself in parts of the house, with no idea how she would get there, only with new bruises and swelling to her eyes, her jaw, her wrists...

A knot tightened in her chest as she went back to tending the other plants- watering, fluffing, pulling weeds- how had it fallen apart so fast? They were rounding back a year in the manor, an entire year. A year that had started with so much excitement, so much joy. It was only a couple of feet away where she first saw the garden outstretched before her, a treasure trove of messages and beauty. Her hands clutched the new collection she accrued, looking with such determination and fear.

She knew what she must do.
⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
My dear companion,

I write to you once more because there is no one else with I can share my findings- the staff has gone, and I am afraid that my letters have not been reaching my mother. And while this fictitious relationship might be a symptom of my further addled mind, it is comforting to me to get these thoughts on paper.

My current days are incredibly isolating, and I find myself hearing mutterings in the master bedroom. It was like Ruth said, almost as if the voice is trapped in the walls. I have taken it upon myself to stay in the library as much as I can, sending nearly every other night in here. It feels foolish to admit, but there are few secrets between us, so I will tell you that this room is the only place I find peace inside this domicile. My pains do not disappear, but they lessen as I sit at this desk and put pen to paper. Even frequenting the gardens makes me nervous, as I worry to hear the stumbling footsteps of that wicked man that I married.

But this is beside the point- despite the fear of punishment, I found myself drawn to my husband’s collection of records in his study. In my defense, I was looking at them to see if there was anything we could do about the dwindling funds, as I am quite keen with numbers and bookkeeping, and I was sure there were pennies somewhere to pinch. But, as I continued to look, my suspicions were confirmed. The money that he had so confidently bolstered and paraded like a handsome peacock was dwindling before he purchased the property. His father’s company has fallen on hard times due to the strikes, but Evan’s allowance was greatly diminished since soon after our marriage. This house was bought with my dowry and some change if the records are to be trusted. I am led to believe that my husband was thinking to take over his father’s business, opening a new factory near town, finding cheap labor, and make a large sum. But it turned out a dreadful plan that only led to misery and soon-to-be bankruptcy and ruin.

After the initial shock of it all, I found relief sitting with the bile in my throat. Of course, he had declined to tell me about the trouble we were about to be in, putting his faith in a poor gamble. He is a pathetic excuse for a high-roller, evidenced by how he thinks putting any cash to the games of poker and dice he frequents. His debts will soon rise, and they will take the only thing value- the house.

There was another find as well. Letters from my mother, who I had not heard from since that dreaded winter. They were opened, and rifled through, before shoved into a box underneath his desk. It also seems that she has not received a letter from me in quite some time, wondering what she did to hurt me so that I would not respond to her. My heart aches at this- she and I were once all that we had, very much like how you are all that I have now. But she must think me dreadfully spoilt, leaving home to be with some rich, well-to-do gentleman to never speak to her again. I must find a way to get in contact with her.

Oh, I do wish you could read these letters. A silly notion of keeping them to myself until I found who you were seems foolish now, as these letters will never see the light of day. If he were to find out I was writing, I truly fear that he will break my hands to ensure that I could never write again. And, if he found out I was writing to a benevolent stranger, I am not quite sure what he would do. Something horrid and cruel. I now must lie in the bed I made of keeping you a secret, and with that, my deepest apologies.

As my mother taught me, I shall end this letter with whatever I can find to smile upon today. In such a case I find myself in, I find myself further entrenched in the flowers. They still lay open, despite our continued fall into autumn, and I still make arrangements for around the house, if only for me to admire now. They give me hope- last winter is when things took a turn, but their stubborn life makes me hope that winter may never come. A foolish hope, but hope nonetheless.

Thank you for all that you do for me, my dear friend. I do hope to write soon, with better news. Perhaps the bank will take the house, leaving me a margin for my final escape. My only desire is that, before then, we do meet, face to face.

With warmth,

Noelle

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
Tears dripped from her eyes, landing near the mention of her mother. Through the past year, pain had become second nature, striking nerves to where she is almost numb to every hit she received. But the revelation that her mother thought her cross with her? It was as if a shard of glass cut away at her heart, the last sliver of unconditional love sliding off like fat off the bone.

A soft bump at her ankle had her realize that, no, there was still love to be found. With a gentle motion, she lifted the black cat into her arms and onto her lap. Glenn stretched in the patch of sunlight, legs and paws flexing, before the recoil. Noelle finished wiping away pearly tears before continuing to gently fold the letter into thirds, placing dried herbs between the sections. Sorrel, for affection, and spearmint for the sentiment. Once perfect, she lited the letter to her lips, placed her cat at her feet, and made her way to the loose floorboard. It was near overflowing with these letters, with her writings too, and with the gifts. She needed to find a new hiding space if she wished to continue this. However, she had other matters to attend to. Noelle knelt to the ground and placed them gently with the others, before placing the loose board back on top and making her way to the window.

She stood at the sill, hands shaking as she tied the last of her ribbon to the vase before her. It was crystalline and lovely- a wedding gift that had sat on the dining table since their first night home. But as the evenings passed without such meals together, which she was truthfully thankful for, she had stolen it away to do something besides catch dust. No, she would use it for a message, in the hope someone would understand if they passed the window. Since they were the two residing now, and the gifts continued, she knew there had to be someone who could see, she knew her companion would see and understand. If not, it only confirmed the worst, that she was going mad after all this time. She pushed aside the thought of her very possible lunacy, and inspected her subjects:

The white petals clustered together in a couple of flowers, with five petals per flower and a couple of bouncy filaments. She had found them in the garden, their scent and visage unmistakable. Of course, according to the compendium she had found, this particular brood was much more common among mountains to the south. She had picked them quickly, hurrying inside to arrange them in the case. She had never had the opportunity to use such a flower in her bouquets before. It would have been quite uncouth, according to the poetry the petals conveyed. Especially in a social setting, such as a ball or luncheon. However, she was glad now that she had that knowledge, as the opportunity to use it has finally blossomed at her feet. She took a step back to admire her work, as pitiful it might be with only one type of flower. But she didn’t want to muddle the implication of such a thing

Rhododendron Maximum

As she placed the vase in the window, something clicked in her mind, the rare moment of clarity making everything so much sharper and that much brighter. This plan was a fool's effort, but it was an effort that was made. It was an attempt to have someone understand what she was trying to get at all this time. Only a year prior, she would have called herself a fool for letting a stranger whom she had never truly met had warmed up so firmly into her mind. That this person had become the sole reason for continuing, that this person was her only chance at survival. Satisfied, she sat back in the armchair, her small cat leaping up back on top of her, crawling to her chest to sit once more. The weight was comforting, but the peace was short-lived as thoughts swirled within, as the headaches returned.

This is where she stayed for the next handful of days. Glenn would come and go, she would hear her husband stomp and curse, but she stayed, staring at the flowers in the window, waiting for the sign of that stranger. When the petals on the small flowers began to wilt and fall, she stayed staring, hands gripping at the armchair, fingers piercing the fabric. How had she found herself here? She thought herself smart, once, maybe a bit plain, but overall whole. Complete. Now? Well, it was becoming increasingly evident that there must have been something wrong with her, something that allowed her husband to pick and pry at her until there was nothing left. He stripped her away, removed her of everything that she was, to becoming this- a loon staring at an arrangement of flowers.

Noelle felt strength glow in her belly, realizing that she would not allow this to continue, she would not subject herself to another winter with that monster. She sensed this newfound confidence was her last wind, her last chance to gather her courage and do something, to act on this before it was too late.

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
Mother,

I write to you and pray that this letter finds you quickly. I am leaving Evan. I know this might come as a surprise, as our correspondence has been severed, but I assure you that was not of my own doing. I have withheld so much of this with you, but I know that you will trust that I do not treat this lightly. I have tried, and tried again to make this work, but it is clear to me now what I must do.

So much has happened, so much has come to light. I plan to come home as quickly as possible- it is very likely I will arrive before this letter, as I plan to take it to post on my way out of this wretched place. I have collected a little money, sectioned off a parcel of food for the journey. If you receive this letter, but I am not home within a week, I need you to assume the worst and contact the authorities. The situation I have found myself in is most dire, and he might not let me go easily.

I promise to explain everything once I arrive. I love you with all my heart, mother, and I do hope you forgive me for what I have needed to do for my survival.

Your daughter,

Noelle


⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘
My dear companion,

I am afraid I can not do this anymore.

Each day that passes I know I get closer to my end. I wish you would reveal yourself, I wish I could know that you were truly here, I wish for so many things. But wishing and praying will get me nowhere, I am afraid. I am so very sorry, but I must depart.

I fear the worst, and I worry that if I leave, you will be doomed to the same fate as me. This might be of surprise to you, as our interaction has been through your darling gifts, but I have been writing to you for the past year. If curious, the rest of the letters are hidden away in the library, beneath the corner floorboards. I fear your safety as much as mine, but if you are clever enough to place those gifts upon the second-story window without ever being caught, I know you will find them one day, and read them start to finish.

What a fool I have been- in all this time, while the world was falling apart, my worries have been misplaced. I kept these letters in secret, ashamed of what they meant to my marriage, only to find out my union was a sham. To think of it, if I had placed my letters in exchange for your gifts, perhaps you would have the ability to pull me away from the hellscape I find myself in. I blame myself for it, for carrying embarrassment and worry instead of seeing the fondness you had for me. And now, without even meeting, we must part.

It is surprisingly difficult for me to say goodbye, so I will refrain from doing so. Instead, I wish to thank you for your kindness, your affectionate presents that I have held so dear for so long. You are the best thing to have come from my time here, and even if you are fictitious and a figment of my insanity, I do not care. Thank you for being my constant, my one and only, my true-------

⚘❀❁------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------❀❁⚘

“SHIT! Get that goddamn cat out of here! All accusing eyes, I swear to Christ, I’ll skin you alive, get, you little shit! ”

There was a clatter as something was tossed, a yowl that tore through the quiet night. In her surprise, her hand followed her head as it turned toward the door, leaving a jagged line on the paper, as sharp as any thorn. Without even a second thought, her head snapped to the window. It was dark, the sun had just set and the moon was nowhere, but a small black something was running towards the trees at surprising speed, lit by the glow coming from inside the house. The little figure darted to the trees before she lost sight of him. Noelle stood, heat hitting her gut in a burst of fury as she stuffed the petals on her desk into the folds of her letters, much too angry for the delicate task. Evan was home, why on earth was he home? She had allotted herself nearly another half hour to leave, he hasn’t been home before midnight in weeks! Her thoughts ran as a march hare, as she stood with her own clatter, the rocks lining the shelves of the desk rocking with her. Her hand flurried as she scooped them in her palm, the footsteps pounding up the stairs. Glenn could not have gotten far, perhaps she could exit through the woods, give a quick look around for her little friend. The danger of the trees and what might be lurking there was far less than the evil within these walls, and besides, there was a better chance to meet someone out there for help, than in here. She could exit quietly, secretly, while her husband drank to his death in his study, yes, this could still work, but she would need to act quickly.

Her hands fumbled folding the latter letter, while placing the first into her skirts. She moved to the window, hands shaking as she flubbed with the latch, her heart pounding in her ears. Soon, she heard the heavy footsteps reach the top of the stairs, but instead of marching to the other side of the hall, they approached. Closer, and closer, one thunk after the other, and realization hitting as soon as she opened the window, the cold air paling her face just as much as the fact that Evan Richardson was not marching to his study or room, no, that he was heading straight for the library. Just before she had time to place her final letter to her last friend, the door slammed open, bouncing off the wall, the breach of the threshold causing a string of red hot iron branding her head. This was wrong, he was not allowed to do this, they would not allow this to happen-

“Woman! I expect to come home to less of a mess, to dinner on the table, and I find you, once again, here. Wasting yourself away on frivolous knowledge, on nonsense, while we go hungry!”

With long strides, he made his way to her but stopped halfway, about ten feet away, his shoulders bobbing with his heavy breath. What once was a man out of a storybook had melted away to reveal a rat. Fine gold hair had turned to straw, blue eyes turned bloodshot. There was a shadow of stubble unevenly shaven across his jaw, and a nose the color of a strawberry. He stood there, in a stained shirt that was half tucked in, and pants that had suspenders clipped, but hanging down. But Noelle found herself staring at his lips, which were dry and cracked. There was a time where she willingly kissed those lips, thinking them so attractive. Pathetic, really.

Bloodshot blues stared into brown eyes set in something near determination. He looked away quickly, as if her glare gave him pain. But she continued to stare as he turned his focus on her desk, his fingers trailing on the stacks of parchment, on the ink stains that adorned them. There was a pause, before he struck a fist down upon the writing, desk, before turning back to her, his voice as rough and even as a razor.

“Who are you writing to, hm?”

The glow in her belly allowed her to stand and keep her gaze on him, as she wet her lips to answer “A friend. It does not matter, Mr. Richardson, as I have something you need to-”

“You lying harlot!” Spittle flew from his mouth to the floor, as he pointed a finger at her, using his other hand to support himself on the desk “You have no one! AND YET! I see you write those goddamn fucking letters, day in and day out. BUT, no post is passed through me! Who do you send those languished letters to? Who do you arrange flowers for? It is surely not your fucking husband, you goddamn hussy!”

The hand on the desk went for the parchment, and in one motion, crinkled it in his grasp, before using the other hand to tear it apart. When that wasn’t enough, her unfaltering gaze saw the man throw the desk chair with a clatter, the force splintering off a leg. But Noelle stayed firm, jaw set now.

“You useless bitch!” He was screaming now, a hand pointing to the ground as he continued “Stop that staring at me like that, you know that I am right! I work day and night to provide for you and you waste your days writing goddamn letters- for what? For who?! Who on God’s green earth could you be writing to?!”

“You know it isn’t my mother.”

Silence, but the tension between them was as taut like a violin string. Once again, her eyes held the gaze that he could not hold for longer than a couple of seconds, his face contorting through expressions. First from the anger to confusion, then to guilt, before landing on faux misunderstanding. “Excuse me? Did you have something to say?”

“You are many things, Evan Richardson, including a terrible actor.” Noelle huffed, hands balled up in her plethora of skirts, her words biting with venom. “You know it isn’t my mother. You have been keeping my letters from her for months. Hiding them, like a petulant schoolboy caught with his hands down his pants. What are you so afraid of, Mr. Richardson? That someone finds the activities you partake in your home are horrible and cruel? That your reputation would be ruined, that your father would take away the rest of what you have?”

The silence was stunned, as Noelle loomed over him, still a safe distance away. His lips twitched, but no response came, his eyes moving wildly across the room before he wheezed a weak “Shut up, you simple girl. Stop looking at me like that, you-”

“Simple! He calls me simple! Well, sir, I hate to inform you of this information. We have NOTHING left, we have been wading over this trench for longer than you would like to admit. Your funds have dried up, your father will give you nothing, not a single cent, especially not after my story finally reaches another pair of ears.”

“They won’t believe you” His voice was hoarse as his body bent over, hands on his knees, face trained to the floor. Noelle scoffed, stopping the laughter from escaping her lips, crossing her arms now, the warmth of her confidence spreading to the rest of her body, as the letter in her hand crumpled in her fist.

“Not at first. But when I ask for members of our dear staff to prove it, they will. You will be turned away from our social circles back home, you will be ruined. If not by me, fine, then by your reputation as a failed businessman, a failed husband, a failure of a man. But, mark my words, I will do everything to erase you from the narrative you have penned for far too long. My words, the ones you deem useless, will be savored like the finest of meals, while you rot for the rest of your life in destitution. I am leaving you, so you will no longer pull me down to you and I can rise above you, and all that you made me believe I was. I am leaving you, Evan Richardson, and there isn’t a bloody thing you can do about it.”

It was her chest now that rose and fell quickly. She was unsure what she said, as the words were not loud enough to overpower the sound of rushing blood in her ears. Every single particle of her being was poured into it, leaving her a little shaky and the room a little darker than it was before. There was nothing left to be said.

Just as she took a step forward, to walk past him and finally make her way far from this place, he slowly rose. But there was something odd about his eyes now; not only did they meet her own gaze with ease, but they were a touch paler as if the nearby candlelight did not pierce the cloudy blue right. The warmth from before had turned into a cold lump of lead in her stomach as his face twisted into a ghastly grin

“Not to worry, my sweet. I will take care of everything.”

He ran towards her, those strides long and purposeful, but she acted quick, turning to the window quickly. With a hike of her skirt and two swift steps, she was standing upon the sill, looking beneath her at the grounds. The wind was picking up, once more, her hair becoming undone in the gusts of air. If she were to jump, it would certainly be painful, but she hoped the shock would numb it enough for her to keep running, far and away. She refused the thought of not making the leap, of the impact doing anything more than a broken bone or two, she was getting out of the godforsaken house. With her squeezed her eyes shut, holding in her breath, one foot out the window, she pitched herself forward, waiting for gravity to take. It would be any moment now-

Arms clasped around her middle, grasping tightly, and wringing any air out of her body as they pulled her back into the library. A scream passed her lips as she used the adrenaline saved for the jump to kick and claw from his hold. It was a flurry of arms and legs, trying to get whatever damage she could. When that failed, she began knocking her head around, until she heard the unmistakable crunch as she slammed the back of her head against his nose. He staggered, his grip loosened, and Noelle thrust herself onto the floor, before scuttling behind one of the bookshelves. One hand went to the back of her hand to find it wet and sticky with his blood, before wiping it across her skirts, holding her breath, and quietly crawling to the other side of the alcove. Her ears were keen and she tried to spy him from the gaps between shelves, but to no avail. Only a couple more feet, she reckoned, seeing the wide-open door that spilled light into the room, only a couple more feet before she could make a run for it.

Ice ran in her veins when she heard the unmistakable click of the hammer of a gun as it was flicked back. She stopped suddenly in her tracks, as her eyes widened, focusing on the distance of the sound, before peeking once more through the gaps. She spied him, hands clasped around the gun, holding it with outstretched arms, but standing very still. While firearms were not something she read too much about, she knew it was a revolver, and by staring at it, she counted six holes for the bullets, two obscured, and four seen. Guns were not uncommon out here- they had a rifle for any sort of predator that found itself inching closer to their property. But she had never seen that revolver, not around the house. Where did he get it? How long has he had it? Why-

Her mouth was dry, staring at the frozen man. He seemed to be waiting, waiting for her to make a sound so that he could finish this once and for all. If it was fully loaded, there were six bullets she had to outrun, six shots he could take. It occurred to her, no, she didn’t need to outrun them, she could out-smart them. Make him waste as much ammo before racing away. Noelle held her breath, very carefully, very slowly, pulling out one of the books on one of the lowest shelves, before holding it tightly in her hands. When she was sure that he had not seen, she raised it over her head, before winding back, and tossing it to the shelf on the other side of the alcove, three sections of shelving away.

The result was a cascade of books, as if someone had crashed into them, but she did not have time to think. Rising to her feet, she leaned against the bookshelf she was just hiding behind. Just as the first two cracks of shots fired at the shelf that had just avalanched, Noelle tipped hers over, before dashing to the door. Another shot was made, behind her, as she ran through, and slammed it closed. With remarkable speed, she pulled down one of the paintings next to the door, ducking as she jammed it beneath the doorknob to make it stick. Ducking just in time too, as a bullet lodged itself in the door, the aftershocks springing her back to the hall. Only two bullets left, her harried mind rambled, as she ran serpentine down the hall, towards the stairs. One, as there was another blast before the door banged open, and a loud bellow was heard as he spun and took aim. With another fiddle with the trigger, he sank his last shot in her leg with a sickening squelch. It slowed her for a second, but with only the correct amount of madness did she push on, as the shock began to coarse through her. He was out of bullets, he was just behind her, she was going to make it! The stairs were mere steps away- 5. Then 3.

Then 1.

There had been a push, and while twisting in midair, she saw that it didn’t matter that he was out of bullets. He had slowed her down for only a moment and had caught up to her. That glassy look in his cloudy eyes were unchanged as he watched her tumble down the steps, like a lifeless ragdoll. In the fall, she knew she hit her head, her back, her side, before landing in a heap of bones at the foot of the stairs. Everything ached, but still determined, she reached forward, using her arms to pull herself forward, close to the door. She did not see her husband as he stepped down the stairs in a steady, composed pace, as if he was walking into a cotillion ball. His hand was placed on the railing, his palm sliding downwards with, his stare fixed on the twitching woman, who tried to use her arms to crawl herself to the front door. It did not take long for him to step in front of her bruised and battered body, as she gasped out a breath with much difficulty. He stood there, facing her, back to the door.

“Evan… please…” She croaked out, a trickle of blood dancing on her lips, a bright cherry red. “Please… Just… Let me go….”

A hand with long, spindly fingers clutched his shoe with a death grip, attempting to pull herself to him, raising her head to meet his detached gaze. The grin only grew, as he gave a strong kick to the chin, setting her back a couple of feet on her back. He raised the gun that was still in his hand, aiming it at her. Noelle’s expression was dazed from the pain, but she couldn’t help but mouth her confusion in wordless stammer. This man was pointing an empty gun, she thought with a wheeze, what game was this? Large, doe-like brown eyes blinked up at him, pupils dilated to the size of saucers, but he just continued his grin, pulling back the hammer.

“I told you, my dear, to stop looking at me like that.”

And with that, he pulled the trigger, but instead of an empty click of an empty chamber, a bullet blew forward, with a spectral trail of smoke. It landed in her right eye socket, before sink itself past and burrowing itself into her fleshy brain, killing her almost instantly. The harbored breath was cut from her throat, as the tension was cut like a chord, the pain, and suffering finally gone. Noelle Carole Scott’s grip finally loosened the letter that had been clutched so dearly in her hand. The parchment fell, the pleats of her folding released ever so slowly, as powder blue flowers fell from its concealment, onto the dark wooden floors.

Forget-me-nots had always been one of her favorites.