Tresses & Erubescence

Tresses & Erubescence Part 2

Though I'd been left with half a dozen afghans up here alone in the attic, which I'd taken from the other empty beds up against the back wall, a bitter chill bit through the gaps in the plywood along with the slits of sunlight struggling to make their way inside. The cold rushing up from my numb toes all the way to my nose shook me to the bone, but I lay there, shivering, not moving. The knock on the door signaled breakfast and a bathroom break. There was the chamber pot in the corner, but unlike Minnie, I was from an era where things like running water and flushing toilets were taken for granted—even in the cramped apartment where I'd spent my childhood. True, there were probably farmhouses that had yet to get with the times, but in my apartment complex, there'd been a private toilet closet for the family and a shower behind a curtain in the kitchen.

This mansion had three full bathrooms, and not a single resident other than me had need for them.

The second knock on the door was softer.

"Come in," I said, my voice catching in my throat. For a second, my breath left a trail of steam in the air and I pulled my hand out from beneath the blankets to try to catch it.

The bolt, chain, and lock scraped and clicked as they came undone.

I sat up, smoothing my nightgown and leaving several of the blankets wrapped around my shoulders like a lumpy, overstuffed stole.

"It's freezing in here. Why isn't your heater on?"

Still groggy and expecting to find Minnie—with one of the others perhaps in tow—I blinked hard to let the figures entering the attic come into focus.

Dean, Minnie's prized "nephew," as she called him. And Leopold.

My Leopold.

Formerly my Leopold.

And Minnie was nowhere in sight.

A jingling key ring slipping into his pocket, Dean crossed the open room to my copper space heater and plugged it in as Leopold, balancing my breakfast tray, turned around and shut the door behind him.

"I'm surprised you noticed the temperature," said Leopold. He balanced the tray on one hand and flexed the other in front of him as he stepped closer, his attention drawn to his appendage, as if he'd never seen it before. "I don't feel a thing. Nothing uncomfortable. Other than thirst." He put his hand back under the tray and stared at me.

It was nothing like how he used to stare at me, love and hope and adventure in his wide brown eyes. They were bright blue now, a sign of his transformation, along with the pallid tone to his skin. And if anything, they were full of... hunger.

I turned away, not wanting to see him stare at me like a wolf before its prey.

"I didn't feel it," snapped Dean. He moved closer and kneeled before me, laying a careful hand on my upper arm. "I could see her breath turn to mist when we walked in."

His eyes were bright blue as well, and there was hunger there, longing, but it was more muted, more lost in the background. "Are you okay, Zelda? You look unwell."

"I'm fine," I lied. I grabbed hold of my long braid—still stuck under my blanket shawl—and nervously wound my fingers through it. Its length was getting out of control—some of it coiled around the other side of the bed, and it still hung off—but I didn't want it cut. Not yet.

"When your hair is just a bit longer," said Mom as she brushed a wooden comb through the thick strands, "we can sell it. Even in trying times, people are still paying good money."

I twirled a strand around my finger and Mom tapped the back of my hand gently with the comb. "Leave it be. You'll just get it tangled. We need to keep it soft and supple." She parted the hair into three sections and began to braid it.