Page 13 of My Carmilla
"Some heirlooms from the House of Karnstein. Your mother's people wanted to clear out some space, and I thought they might fit nicely in the restored parlor."
Carmilla's posture stiffened slightly as the men unwrapped golden framed portraits, filigreed books, and intricately carved boxes. Nestled amongst a stack of leather-bound volumes, lay a small, worn journal. Its cover was intricate with swirling vines and a tarnished silver clasp that gleamed faintly.
One of the men wiped his brow, muttering to my father. "Another poor girl down at the mill, same strange symptoms. Fevered dreams, lethargy, and…"
My father cleared his throat, eyeing me before returning his gaze to the worker. "Dreadful business, of course,” he said, as if not wanting to allow this conversation to continue in my presence. “If I may show you where to place that mirror.”
The men left the room, and I slipped the antique journal into my pocket. My gaze drifted back to the portraits, each face staring out from its gilded frame. One stood out in particular. A portrait of a young woman with striking remarkable beauty. Her dark hair was piled high in an intricate style of a bygone era. I read the date scrawled in the corner. 1724.
"Carmilla, look at this. It’s like looking into a mirror.”
The woman in the painting bore a striking resemblance to Carmilla. The same high cheekbones, onyx eyes, that full, sensual mouth. The only difference was the portrait’s hairstyle and unblemished neck. No hint of a scar.
“How curious…” Carmilla glided closer and studied the canvas. She traced the painted face with a slender finger. "The resemblance is uncanny."
"Isn't she lovely? Like a goddess trapped in time." My gaze darted towards my father, ensuring he was still distracted, before adding in a hushed voice, "Perhaps I could hang it in my room."
Carmilla leaned in close. "How intimate," she whispered, her lips grazing my earlobe. "To share your sleeping quarters with a ghost from the past. I would object to the idea if she didn’t look so much like me."
The possessive tone of her voice sent shivers down my spine. I took a hesitant step back, the air between us thick. “I shall return upstairs after I find a nail to affix the painting. Excuse me.”
A frown twisting her beautiful face as I brushed past her. As much as I craved Carmilla’s presence, a whispered warning from the deepest part of myself urged me to flee. To avoid these unspeakable feelings she was stirring in me. Like a moth to flame, I was drawn to Carmilla, but the danger of fire held me at bay.
I entered my father’s study, and the scent of pipe tobacco hung heavy in the air. My search for the nail evaporated with the sight of a single, crisp sheet of paper resting on his ornately carved desk.
The general's elegant script danced before my eyes. Was there more news about Bertha?
With a swift glance around the room, I unfolded the letter. The words swam before my eyes. The truth was laid bare. The true nature of the general’s original visit. It was never to introduce a friend for his niece, Bertha. It was to foster a courting plan–between the much older general and myself. My stomach churned. Bertha's passing had merely delayed his visit, not deterred it. He would be arriving in a month.
My blood burned, fury coursing through my veins. I tore through the desk drawers and unearthed a stack of correspondences between my father and general. Letters spanning for over a year about a betrothal I had never consented to.
I tore the letter in my hand and ran to his quarters. I did not knock.
“Laura,” my father said with a frown, “what’s the meaning of this?”
“This.” I threw the pieces of the torn letter. “When were you going to tell me?”
He held himself calmly. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. I had fully planned to tell you.”
“You didn’t even ask me.” My voice shook.
“Laura, you are a woman of marriageable age,” he said, as though he was explaining something to a small child. “I was merely acting in your own interest. It is my duty to find you a suitable husband.”
Bile rose in my throat, the taste metallic on my tongue. "Suitable for whom? You or me?"
He laughed, a humorless sound. “This is about your future. A marriage to him would grant you the security and position you deserve. The general is a distinguished gentleman, a war hero–"
"With a predatory eye for young women,” I finished, my voice laced with disgust. “He's old enough to be my father."
My father rose from his desk. “That,” he said coldly, “will be quite enough.” A steely glint hardened his gaze. “You will not speak about the general with such disrespect. The general is a man of means. He offers a generous dowry. A marriage to him would secure your future, and by extension, our family's.”
“And if I do not wish to marry the general?”
A flicker of anger sparked in my father's eyes. "This is about duty. The war has left us in financial ruin, Laura. This marriage is our chance to restore the schloss. To salvage what's left of our legacy.”
His words rang hollow. This wasn't about duty. This was about my father’s interests. I was meant to be a sacrifice on the altar of his own pride, and the ugly truth gnawed at me. The betrayal of a parent left the most treacherous of wounds.
“You will not sully his generous offer,” he said steadily. “You have an obligation to your family."