Page 1 of My Carmilla
Chapter 1:
A sea of wildflowers swayed in the breeze, shades of lavender, gold, and pinks. I knelt to pick a handful of daisies, Bertha's favorite flowers. Today, my bounty wasn't for the usual vase. The air thrummed with cicadas, a low, rhythmic hum matching my anticipation. Tomorrow, General Spielsdorf and his niece would arrive for a month-long stay, and I wanted to create a welcoming haven for Bertha.
Marking off the days felt like counting down to a long-desired feast. The halls of the schloss, despite its inhabitants – my father and governesses – were vast and isolating. The prospect of a girl my age, a companion, was a rare treat.
Mademoiselle De Lafontainee, my governess, had suggested writing letters to Bertha. A written introduction, she'd said, would make the girl feel more welcome during her stay. So began a rapt exchange of letters, and somewhere along the pages, a friendship had quickly blossomed.
A splash of vibrant blue caught my eye. Forget-me-nots, flowers conveying affection. They joined the growing bouquet, followed by a cluster of pink carnations, their ruffled edges mirroring the playful spirit that danced in Bertha’s letters. I nestled a blushing peony in the bouquet, a whisper of the shyness I harbored about meeting the girl. The basket overflowed with flowers now. With each bloom, I had poured my affections, a serenade sung in the language of flowers.
Barefoot on the mossy ground, I walked back to the schloss when a flower hidden among the tall grasses caught my attention. A solitary bloom, defiant in its isolation. Lycoris radiata or spider lily some called it. The flower stood tall and proud, its spindly stamens pulsing with crimson hues. Its petals, the color of freshly spilled blood.
The flower’s unsettling beauty ensnared me. Tentatively, I plucked the lycoris, its stamen brushing my palm like a spider’s legs, and placed it in the center of the bouquet. The other flowers paled in comparison, their gentle pastels muted against the sharp red.
“Laura,” said Madame Perrodon. “How many times must I remind you that it is not proper for a young lady to traipse around barefoot?”
Perhaps, Madame, fresh air and sunshine are more proper than restricting one’s spirit. In lieu of that, I simply smiled. “Don't worry about me. The earth agrees with my toes.”
“Let the girl be,” Mademoiselle De Lafontaine said to a glaring Madame Perrodon. “Didn’t the Greeks believe that feeling the earth with bare feet connected one with the divine?” Her smile, crinkling the corners of her eyes, held a warmth that felt vaguely maternal, a welcome comfort in the absence of my own mother.
“Have any letters come for me?” I asked my governesses.
Madame Perrodon shook her head. “They're all for your father, child. Restorations, all of them."
It wasn't a secret that my father's financial woes were as vast as the drafty halls themselves. The schloss, inherited through my mother, loomed above us, a crumbling testament to past glory. Its once grandeur felt like a mocking echo, a constant reminder of the wealth that had seeped away like rainwater through cracked roofs. The funds to restore the schloss, to chase away the creeping shadows and mend the gaping wounds of time, simply weren't there.
“I see,” I said. “Do tell me when Bertha’s letter comes.”
“She is no doubt busy packing,” said Mademoiselle De Lafontaine.
“You must be right. Excuse me.” I tried to not let the disappointment show. This week was the first in many in which Bertha’s letter had not arrived yet.
I scuttled to my room and re-read the latest letter from Bertha.
My dearest Laura,
Tonight, I shall find myself amidst a glittering throng at Lady Carmine’s soiree, a garden of perfumed silks and meticulously sculpted mustaches. The so-called gentlemen will be there in droves, sporting their most fetching waistcoats and attempting to charm young ladies with tales of their latest foxhunt or horse races–whichever they deem more intellectually stimulating. Their eyes, however, will be drawn to bodices far more readily than any brains. I admit a part of me enjoys observing the guests at these parties. It reminds me of a flock of pigeons vying for the plumpest breadcrumb, only far less graceful and infinitely more pretentious.
The thought of enduring this spectacle without your discerning commentary fills me with dread. You are the antidote to the social poison that permeates these gatherings. Nonetheless, I shall do my best to conquer the evening in your honor and promise to tell you everything. From the delectable pastries to the exquisite gowns to the music they play for the waltzes. Yet, every detail will be tinged with the ache of your absence. You, dear Laura, are the missing note that completes the melody.
If you were only here, I might steal away with you at a secluded balcony and waltz with you under the silvery moon. I close my eyes and imagine the warmth of your hand in mine. Until we meet, my thoughts and dreams will be filled with your presence.
Yours,
Bertha
My fingers traced the worn creases of the page. It was hardly necessary to re-read it again for I had memorized the letter by heart. Bertha’s ink-stained page contained more than mere words. It showed glimpses of her spirit, her laughter echoing in the witty turns of phrase, and her playful teasing in our banter. And there was something else, something that shimmered just out of reach, like a firefly in the twilight.
Though Bertha might not see it in time before her departure, I penned another missive to her, imagining the many things we’d do upon her arrival. Like sneaking down to the lake, under a cloak of stars, resting my head in her lap as she recited her favorite poem under the apple tree. My spirit ached, a hollow yearning for her companionship.
I tucked the new letter beside the first, the candle flickering on the nightstand mirroring the restless dance in my mind, and crawled into bed. My dreams became a continuation of my daydreams, blurring the lines between reality and the world we had painted with our words. In that hazy space between waking and slumber, I dreamt of her stepping off the page, her voice finally a melody sung in the real world, no longer a phantom song in my imagination.
***
The next day after my lessons with the governesses, I made my escape. I ventured to the woods, birdsongs replacing Madame Perrodon’s monotone of Latin prayers. Sunlight dappled through a canopy of emerald leaves, painting the path in a mosaic of light and shadow. My basket, a woven willow with a worn handle, hung comfortably at my hip.
Plump blueberries nestled like sapphires; glistening raspberries like scattered rubies. Bertha’s favorites. Each step felt like a treasure hunt, a quest to fill my basket with the sweetest jewels of summer. I imagined the flush of pleasure on Bertha's face as she bit into the ripe fruit. Her lovely berry-kissed mouth.
“Laura,” came a tensed voice behind me.