Page 4 of My Carmilla
My father murmured his assent.
Deeper we ventured into the heart of the forest, and I felt drawn by an unseen force, the pull growing stronger with every step. The rising moon made its appearance, full and bright as a pearl. The chattering of the cicadas began to fade, replaced by a quietness that had fallen upon us.
None of us spoke; the grass muffled our steps; the air was still, pregnant with the anticipation of a coming beat. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath. It was a precipice, the hush before a storm; time teetering on the brink of something that would shatter the stillness.
The first note of a thunderstorm, a woman’s scream in the distance.
My father jerked his head. “What in the devil—”
From the trees, midnight black horses erupted into sight, wildly galloping as though possessed by a demonic frenzy. A carriage swayed behind them, like a ship thrown about in a storm. The roots of the trees reached for the carriage’s wheels, gnarled wooden fingers, snaring the vehicle in its grasp.
The carriage crashed in the woods, and one of my governesses cried out. Horses lay sprawled on the ground, entangled in a mess of reins and leather. The horsemen staggered to their feet and scrambled around the wreckage. Gently, they eased a young lady onto the grassy slope, her form draped against the earth like a fallen bloom.
Moonlight filtered through trees, casting an otherworldly glow upon the girl’s porcelain face. Her features, pale yet striking, held an otherworldly quality, and her hair was darker than a moonless night.
A stately woman, who looked to be the girl’s mother, extricated herself from the carriage. Her attire, though worn and travel-stained, held a hint of a bygone elegance. Her face was without a blemish, save for a small mole near her eye.
My father approached the woman, and the rest of us trailed from a distance. The woman’s face came into full view. She was beautiful in a sharp way, like the edges of a glinting blade.
"May I be of assistance, madam?" asked my father.
"I am most grateful, sir, but I fear I must press on.” Her gaze swept over the horsemen uprighting the carriage. "It is a matter of life and death. Every delay chips away at the fragile thread of hope. I cannot, dare not, linger.” Her voice intensified. "How far is the nearest village? I must find refuge for my daughter, even if it means leaving her behind for a time."
“She could stay with us.” The words spilled from my lips like a reflex.
A sharp glance from my father landed on me, a silent reprimand for speaking out of turn, for daring to make such a weighty decision without his consent. He cleared his throat, the silence stretching before he finally spoke.
“If that is agreeable to madam,” he said, his voice tight, but measured.
“Oh, I cannot impose on your hospitality. At least, let me compensate you for the time being.” The woman reached into her bag and pulled out several notes.
“You are generous, madam,” my father said, eyeing the money. “Truth be told, my daughter has suffered a great disappointment recently. Allowing the young lady to stay here would be a small comfort to her. Besides, the next village is miles ahead, and their accommodations…” he paused, searching for the right words, “wouldn't be suitable for a young lady. It wouldn't be safe for her to travel further tonight.”
The woman flicked a glance from me to my father. "You are most kind, sir. Carmilla is fortunate to have encountered such good souls during this unexpected turn of events.”
Carmilla. Each syllable of the girl’s name flowed like pearls strung on a silk thread.
The horses whinnied impatiently. Carmilla’s mother took my father aside, exchanging brief words of when she’d return, and stuffed the handful of notes into his eager hand. She flicked a harried glance at her daughter and kissed the girl’s cheek quickly before climbing back into the carriage. Its wheels churned up dust as it disappeared down the road, leaving behind Carmilla and a trail of unanswered questions in its wake.
***
Sunlight bled through the lace curtains, painting stripes across the antique rug. I stirred, the warmth a welcome contrast to the previous night's chill.
The gaslight coughed, casting grotesque shapes on the cobblestone walls. Straining my ears, I caught snippets of hushed conversation that trickled through the hallway.
"Amnesia," the doctor declared. "Temporary, in all likelihood. Physically, there seems to be no lasting damage."
"Thank heavens,” said my father, the relief in his voice evident.
Down the hallway, my governesses spotted me lurking by the doorway. Their starched lips pursed in unison.
"Laura," Madame Perrodon said, her voice laced with disapproval, "Miss Carmilla needs rest."
“I just wanted to see her for a moment.”
“Your father was quite clear, Laura.” Mademoiselle De Lafontaine nudged my elbow. “You must stay in your rooms for the time being. There is enough to deal with on such short notice as it is.”
Their words were like iron bars clanging shut, more invisible boundaries they sought to impose. But the thought of Carmilla, adrift in a sea of forgetfulness by herself, made something inside me ache.