Fairydale a dark gothic.., p.25
Fairydale: A Dark Gothic Fantasy Romance, page 25
He's such a passionate man, a fire burning deep inside of him that he attempts to stifle at every turn. I cannot comprehend how or why he limits himself.
As he embarks on a history lesson, my interest is piqued as I draw closer to him, almost as if by being glued to his side I could absorb all his knowledge and everything that he is—awe striking and inspiring.
Damn, but he doesn't even need his looks to seduce me. He can do it by merely speaking so articulately and by transposing me to another time with his mere words.
"Tell me more," I say dreamily as I place a pillow on his lap before laying my head down.
He gazes indulgently at me, his hand on my head as he softly strokes my hair.
"What do you want to know exactly?"
"Hmm," I think for a moment. "What do you know about 18th century England?"
He raises his brows at me.
"How come?"
"I've read books set during Regency. I'm interested in what happened before," I turn to lay on my back so I can watch him.
"Depending on what decade of the eighteen hundreds you're talking about. A lot of things have changed. The end of the century was very similar to what you know as the Regency."
He goes on to give me a quick political and societal guide to the seventeen hundreds.
I merely listen, my lips tipped up in a perpetual smile as I let his deep rumble wash through me, every vibration making me feel unnaturally alive and yearning for...something.
"Caleb?" I interrupt after what seems like an eternity.
He's on the subject of George the Third, making parallels between England and the colonies, and how people had fared under his rule.
"Huh?" he suddenly stops, tilting his head and turning those captivating eyes to me.
Rising from my—very—comfortable spot, I bring myself into a sitting position, sliding next to him as I cup both his cheeks with my hands. A sliver of fear blooms inside of me, but for the first time I squash it down, choosing to take matters in my own hands.
He blinks, and for the first time I note he is flustered—a fact that only makes him more endearing.
This handsome man who's been trying to seduce me at every turn is now being the one seduced. And instead of the expected resolute assertiveness, I'm met with tentative uncertainty.
His skin is soft where my fingers touch him and I caress him gently before I lean in.
My heart is thundering in my chest, but as I close the distance between us, my lips meeting his, I find that nothing else matters.
Nothing but that brief connection as I inhale the very essence he breathes.
I give him a quick kiss on the lips before I draw back, my eyes wide, my cheeks red.
To my surprise, his cheeks have a similar hue.
Unable to face him, I swing my legs off the sofa and I dash out of the library.
"See you later," I squeak.
I giggle to myself as I run up the stairs, ready to close myself in my room and replay everything in my head.
But just as I'm about to turn to our wing, I come face to face with Rhiannon.
"There you are, Darcy," she smiles at me. "My son told me about your misfortune, and I must offer you my deepest apologies."
I frown.
"You shouldn't encounter any more such..." she purses her lips, "creatures."
"That is reassuring," I give her a tight smile.
"Of course, you must have questions. I'd like to extend an invitation to dine with the family at the end of the week. We've all been rather absent and we've unfortunately neglected you as our guest."
"Oh, no, don't worry about it. I don't want to impose. You've already received me into your home for which I am incredibly grateful."
"It is your home, too, Darcy," she comes forward, taking my hands in hers.
For a moment, I could swear her eyes glow just as a smile slowly spreads on her lips.
"Oh, my. You are, indeed, everything I expected you to be," she tells me, giving me a warm look. "We will talk more soon, and I will give you answers to some questions you may have."
And with that, she's gone.
Heading to my room, I note how late it is and I get ready for bed, taking a shower and washing my hair.
All the while, I can't stop smiling while thinking of Caleb.
While thinking of...the kiss.
Already, my cheeks heat up as I remember the feel of his lips on mine. It had only been for a second, but it had been glorious.
So much so that I can't wait to repeat it.
Brushing my hair and braiding it, I put on my nightgown before I go to bed.
As I lay in bed, doing my best to fall asleep, I can't help but compare the sweet kiss I'd shared with Caleb with the one I am almost certain Amon gave me.
I shake myself. I shouldn't even try to compare. One man is dead, the other is alive.
Yet why does it hurt so much thinking of Amon dead?
I have Caleb and that should be enough. So why can't I stop my heart from yearning for Amon?
If my intuition is right, the dreams aren't just dreams—not after Amon spoke to me. They are a window to the past. One where I was his Lizzie. One where we were...in love.
But what happened? Why is he here, in Fairydale? Why is he a ghost?
The questions are endless, and I feel more conflicted than ever.
I like Caleb. I am attracted to him. And I know I'm well on my way to falling for him if I haven't already done so. But then there's Amon and the echo of feelings I had for him as Lizzie—feelings that still plague me, a gaping hole in my heart whenever I think about him.
He's the only person whose presence has ever reminded me of home.
"God," I groan as I twist and turn.
I'm falling for Caleb. But I'm also in love with a...ghost?
What in God's name is wrong with me?
Before, I'd never looked twice at a man, and now I'm having this infuriating conundrum.
Anywhere other than Fairydale and I'm sure I would be shipped to a mental institution. After all, who develops feelings for a ghost?
It takes me a while to fall asleep, but at some point, a loud banging noise startles me awake.
My first inclination is to get out of bed and turn on the light, already feeling myself develop goosebumps over the surface of my entire body.
Please not another ghost...
Maybe I've let myself be spoiled in the last week, but the quiet had been invaluable.
Another bang, and I jump, looking right and left.
The issue with ghosts is that you cannot just punch them and run for your life. They're not exactly...punchable.
The noise becomes increasingly louder, and just as I am about to go find Caleb, I hear the voice—his voice.
Lizzie...
It's faint, but I can hear it.
"Amon?" I ask, hating the hopeful tone of my voice.
Lizzie...
The air shimmers in front of me, and somehow I know it's him.
"Amon," I whisper softly, his name on my lips almost making me cry since I know he's...dead.
The shimmery mist moves, going towards the door.
I frown for a second until I realize he's trying to tell me something—lead me somewhere.
Before I can think anything through, I light a candle, taking it with me and following Amon's ghost—or essence, or whatever it is. At this point, the last thing I need is to argue semantics over a ghost's form. Not when the only thing that matters to me is to be able to communicate with him. I have so many questions I want to ask him—so many things I want to tell him.
Lizzie...
The voice becomes louder as I move down the corridor, taking the stairs to the ground floor before being lead to an area I hadn't to been before—but one Caleb had told me had been the servants quarters in the past.
The moment I enter it, the mist directs me to a door at the far end of the room. As I open it, shining light inside, I'm surprised to see a set of stairs that lead to an even lower level.
For a second I balk at going into such a dark place, but as the mist intensifies, I take the plunge, putting one foot in front of the other and hoping I'm not going to encounter God knows what down there.
I go down two flights of stairs before I reach another door. This one locked. I'm about to tell him that when I hear a light snapping sound before the door creaks open.
As I cross the threshold, I use the candle to see what's around me, somehow not surprised to see it's a tunnel. The ground is rocky and uneven, and I think I can hear the sound of the ocean, which suggests this is close to sea-level.
I take a few steps, but I can't feel him around me anymore.
"Amon?"
"Come to me," the voice is fully audible now, raspy, full and thick. There's almost like an echo as it fills the length of the tunnel.
"Amon, is that you?"
"Come to me, Lizzie mine," he drawls, the voice unmistakably his. I would recognize it anywhere.
Tears gather at the corners of my eyes as I hurry forward.
"It's really you," I whisper, true joy overtaking me. "It's really you, my Amon."
I don't know how far I've walked, but suddenly I hit something like a wall, the impact making me reel.
Swinging the candle in front of me, I note there's no barrier—nothing.
"What..."
"Come, Lizzie," Amon repeats, his voice deeply anguished.
So much so, it pulls at my soul, a melody that calls to something deep within me.
Getting up, I try to move forward again. Only to be thrust backward once more.
But I don't give up.
Moving back a few paces, I gather momentum before I run at full speed towards the invisible barrier, only to be thrown back in the air with the same force.
I hit the ground instantaneously. My head connects with a sharp rock, the pain immediate, as is the blurring of my vision and the loss of my consciousness.
But it's not before I hear a mighty roar. One that makes the entire structure around me quake.
"Lizzie!"
Chapter Thirteen
"She hasn't been herself in months, My Lady. You have to do something about it."
I vaguely hear Mary's voice outside my bedroom door.
"She'll get over it, just as she'll get over that...thing," my mother spits the words, once more making her stance regarding Amon clear.
"But she won't! It's been months, My Lady, and all she does is sit in her room and stare out the window. She doesn't eat, unless we force it down her throat. She doesn't do anything but wither away one day at a time," Mary adds, exasperated.
I feel bad for her. It's not her fault. But even the affection I hold her won't be able to move me.
"It's just puppy love. She'll get over it soon. We're leaving for London at the end of the month, whether she likes it or not," my mother declares before her steps become a thudding noise on the floor, slowly fading away.
A knock at my door and Mary slips inside, slowly coming towards me.
"My Lady," she says tentatively as she reaches my side. "You need to pull yourself together. Please," her voice breaks, and a flicker of emotion takes shape in my chest.
But I don't answer.
It's been exactly three months since I last spoke. Three months of the same recurring nightmare—of waking up and seeing the blood on my hands.
Three months of living while being dead on the inside.
At first, I'd been so inconsolable my mother had forced me into a laudanum induced slumber that had lasted almost a week.
I don't have much recollection of what happened during that time. But from the crumbs I'd gathered from Mary, I'd been in and out of it, but every time I'd regain consciousness I would go crazy with grief and I would devolve into hysterics.
That had stopped when I'd simply become numb with pain.
I'd gone from seeing my beloved bleeding out in my arms, to waking up alone and inconsolable. To make matters worse, even Mr. Meow had left me. I don't know what had happened to him, but I don't discount that my mother could have thrown him out while I was not able to defend him.
Amon is dead.
And Fiona Montford had killed him with her own two hands.
From the moment I'd heard the admission from her lips, I'd tuned her out, almost as if I stepped away from the present by closing myself somewhere deep within.
I can only recall her telling me it was for my own good—that she was saving my life. But can she not see that instead she all but damned me?
"Do you need anything?" Mary probes, laying a hand on my shoulder and trying to get me to react.
I don't. I simply continue to gaze out the window, moonlight shining over the well-groomed shrubs, the perfect outside image hiding the rot within.
With a resigned sigh, she places a tray of food on a table, telling me to help myself if I get hungry even though she knows come morning, everything will be intact.
The seconds tick before I hear the door close behind her.
I mentally acknowledge it, my body sagging as some tension leaves me.
Still, I don't move.
My limbs are stiff and numb from sitting in the same positions for hours at a time, yet, I relish the discomfort. It's the only thing I deserve for getting him killed—because if it hadn't been for me...
A sigh escapes me as I intently regard the garden that housed our first meeting, almost as if by staring at it I could undo the past—or go back to the past.
Back to that one first meeting.
That time when I could still hear his voice in my ear, feel his breath on my cheek or the touch of his ungloved hand against mine. The little things that made me fall for him.
The little things that are the only memories I have of him.
A tear makes its way down my cheek as I recall his sweet words.
Lizzie mine.
For a brief moment in time, I was his—truly his. And he was mine.
It doesn't matter what my mother says. That he was a bad man. That he was a debaucher of innocents and the epitome of evil.
He could have been that and more. But for that moment in the maze, when he'd looked at me as if I were his entire world, I know he was mine—so irrevocably mine.
If only she wouldn't have found us...
A whimper escapes me as the images of that night flood me. I can recall his smile perfectly. Yet, as soon as the shots ring out, I can barely make out blurry movements and red.
So much red.
On my hands. On my gown. Spattered all over my face.
One moment I loved him, ready to give myself to him in spite of the impropriety of it—in spite of the entire world.
The next, he was dead.
And I was dead, too.
Hours pass and the house becomes eerily quiet, everyone having gone to sleep. I stay a few moments longer before I release a weary sigh, slowly untangling my limbs as I get up from my seat by the window.
My stomach rumbles with hunger as I pass by the food Mary had left for me, yet I can't muster the appetite, nor the need for self-preservation.
Starvation is both an act of rebellion and one of pure disinterest when it comes to my wellbeing, especially as I know what will happen next.
My mother will find me a husband to keep things quiet, and I'll be locked in another form of terror. At least like this I'm still master of my own fate.
The mere thought of someone other than Amon touching me has disgust rolling deep inside of me, goosebumps of revulsion covering my entire skin.
People might think I'm ridiculous for doing this, for hanging on to something that was barely real—for what they call puppy love. But they can judge me all they want. I know what's in my heart, and what was between us. I am the one who has to live with this heartbreak, with the memory of what he made me feel both at the height of happiness, and at the lowest of the low—when his blood stained my body.
Slipping the gown over my head, I stand in front of the full-sized mirror, letting my eyes roam over my figure—or what's left of it.
My stomach has sunk in, my ribs poking through the skin. My hip bone, too, is protruding, as seemingly are all the bones in my body.
In just a few months, I've become a shell of myself.
The only question is...how long will I be able to go on like this?
For fear that I would do something stupid, my mother has ordered the servants to ransack my room for any sharp objects or anything I could use to harm myself. She'd noticed the dullness in my eyes from the moment I woke up, and she realized that with one pull of a trigger, she hadn't just killed Amon.
She'd killed me, too.
Releasing a tired breath, I drag myself to my bed, that one small movement taking all the energy out of me. My lungs are as tired as my limbs and as soon as my back hits the mattress, my eyes flutter closed.
The only light in the room is coming from the fireplace, the embers flickering with the life I wish I had—with the fire I wish still burned within me.
Yet it's that warmth that reminds me of him—of the heat of his body.
It's only in times like this that I can still hold on to him—with my eyes closed, my mind drifting to the past. Or, maybe, the potential future. The one I know I'll never have but the one I yearn for, nevertheless.
In my dreams, Amon is with me—as my friend, lover, husband and father of my children. And as I turn in bed, keeping to one half of it, I imagine it's him on the other side.
"I miss you," I whisper, the void swallowing my words and never delivering anything back.
As a tear falls down my cheek, I picture the alternative.
I see us running in the garden, smiling at one another while playing with our children.
We're...happy.
God, but we're happy.
One tear eventually becomes a hundred, until I curl inwards, hugging my legs to my chest and sobbing my heart out for the future that will never be.
Yet just as I find myself lost in my grief, a strong gust of wind blows the windows open, cold seeping into the room.
Immediately, I stand up, though it's not the easiest thing to do. It's even harder to get out of bed and trudge my way to the window to close it.
