Rosalind - Amby Awards 2023 TOP PICK

28- Breath

Rosalind refused to leave her chamber that evening. When Agnes knocked on the locked door requesting her presence for dinner, Rosalind simply told her to tell the lord she would not be joining him.

She did not care about angering or upsetting anyone. Let him come, she thought. Let him slaughter me as I stand here. I will beg for no mercy from the Devil. She did not care if the lord were to storm up like a whirlwind and tear the door from the hinges. Rosalind wanted to be alone with her thoughts and the insanity that she found both within her head and in the forest.

When Agnes returned later on the same evening, she informed the young guest there would be a tray of food waiting for her outside her room were she to choose to eat.

"It is raisin buns, my lady, along with some fruit, honey, and a goblet of sweet wine. I told the lord they were the things you usually preferred and he insisted I bring you a tray up."

Sitting on the floor by the fire, Rosalind raised her brows towards the door. "Did the lord-" she bit her tongue to stop herself but her mind blurred with the words, ask for me? "I do not wish to either eat or speak to anyone tonight, Agnes. Please leave." Rosalind knew she was not being polite, but that was a ship that she would not be on tonight.

From the other side of the door, the maid curtsied and walked away. "She is already changing," the maid muttered. When Agnes realized she had spoken out loud, she gasped. Her hand flew to her wooden cross. Her eyes darted around the empty hall. With hurried steps, Agnes returned to her kitchen to clean up.

The crackling of the logs was a lullaby. Rosalind reached towards the warmth. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat, the tiny buttons on her nightdress had pulled in the fire and she felt them like tiny embers on her chest.

The flames swayed and in them, she saw the wolf's face. Its silver-white fur was amber now, dripping no longer with snow but blood. When she blinked and rubbed her eyes, the image of the animal disappeared.

Fatigue tugged at her, told her to go to bed and forget about the thoughts plaguing her. But she knew she could not sleep.

Rosalind rose off the stone floor and walked to her window. The difference in temperature sent goosebumps down her skin. Pushing the curtains aside, she pressed her nose against the glass. Her breath fogged the pane and stole the sight of the forest from her eyes. Rosalind pulled back and looked at the patch of condensation. Her fingertip found the hazy area, her eyes weighted heavy and in her momentary daze, her finger glided along the window. Letters appeared in cursive. A word. A name. When Rosalind had finished she drew in a sharp breath and dropped her hand.

"Caspian," she whispered in astonishment.

The lord's name stood before her, etched in the breath left on the glass. Rosalind shook her head, her raven hair swaying across her back. "Why are you doing this to me?" she cried as she reached for the glass and rubbed and rubbed until the name was no more.

On the other side of the window, the white wolf watched her. His eyes followed Rosalind's every move. Before the young woman caught sight of him, the wolf dashed towards the house and slipped inside.

Midnight's darkness veiled the horizon, yet inside the manor fragments of candlelight led the wolf up the stairs. As his paws touched the steps a change occurred. The wolf's hide began to slip away, fall onto the floor and disintegrate into dust. His body stretched forth with the sound of joints cracking, the soft pads of his paws turned into fingers and toes, the pointy ears smoothed into smaller ones, and his muzzle became human and delicate. Hair as rich as copper stood on his head as the now young man crawled up the last step before standing up to his full height. Troy placed his hand on the banister and felt the last of his bones crack painfully into that of a person's. He winced, his jaws clenched as the familiar ache ebbed through him. He knew he was holding his breath. Troy felt the tight grip he had on the banister cause his knuckles to hurt. The candelabras on the wall cast little light on him, the shadows concealed most of his nakedness. Troy's head spun as it often did after he had shifted. He drew in a deep breath and cried out softly as he exhaled. With steps as wobbly as a newborn fawn's, Caspian's son made his way down the vast hall of the top floor and into his bedroom.

Troy found the warmth in his room mocking him. The logs may have been lit hours ago but he felt them dying out. "You brought in the cold. It is no wonder you find no warmth whenever you enter this place."

Long legs led him to his bed, to the white wolf's hide upon it. From the fatigue and ache in his bones, Troy did not notice the covers being unsettled. It was not until he slid underneath them that he realized the familiar scent of his room was different.

He closed his eyes at half-mast and tilted his nose to the ceiling. Troy drew in a deep breath, smelt roses, and a hint of sweet red wine lingering in the air. The flowery aroma spoke of summer, of the walks through their garden with his mother when he was but a boy of five or six.

"They say the world was once covered in flowers, my son. Every inch and every land bore bright wildflowers with honey scents, brighter than anything, even the sun. There were tiny daisies and posies with pudding faces, smiling up at everyone and whispering of pleasant days to come. But the sweetest flower was the rose for it was a flower of love, one given to a soul that calls for your own. Nothing smells as beautiful as a rose." Troy remembered the proud looking red roses dotting the garden of the manor and how he had spent hours with his mother looking at them. "Never pick flowers, my boy, unless it is for the one you love. Allow the roses to flourish under the pale blue of the sky with their petals and buds arched heavenward."

Troy's fingers curled through the wolf's hide. He brought it up to his chin and thought of the woman, not much older than him, laying a few bedrooms away. His father's prisoner for a month. The dark-haired beauty standing stark against the white snow.

Troy thought of her, of the way she had spoken, of the despair in her green eyes. When he closed his eyes and fell asleep, Troy dreamed of Rosalind.