Feb 4th - Anya

Am I happy here? I wonder, as I look up from the bed at the strange watercolored mural on the ceiling. Is this truly what I want?

The remnants of the dream I just awoke from trigger a strange loneliness in me. Now however, I couldn’t remember the faces of the people I had dreamt of. There had been people, a mother and father, and a girl with dark hair, who had loved me. The dream was warm and bright, but now, I just felt cold and blurred out. Merewald told me my memories would return soon, but I’m still struggling… 

I sit upright in the bed, body aching, and lean against the headboard, still looking at the gossamer winged figures painted above me. The plush cream velvet of the headboard feels warm, but when I run my hand over the other side of the bed, I notice the sheets are cold. Merewald must already be awake. He’s likely downstairs. He rarely leaves the basement these days. Feeling more and more alone, I draw up my knees and rest my head on them. I close my eyes and try to remember the dream. 

I feel myself beginning to drift off again but a sound outside of the room disturbs me. A clattering noise is making its way up the corridor to the bedroom. After a few more moments, there is a quiet knock at the door. 

“Enter.” My barely audible voice was a rasp as I spoke. I still haven’t fully recovered from the attack, I suppose. 

The wide white door swung open and a squat bow-legged fae walks into the room, pushing a rattling metal trolley. One of the wheels, I notice, spins wildly, clacking against the marble floor. There are covered plates on the trolley and a large pot of what I hope is tea, from the scent in the air. The bitter taste of coffee still lingers on my tongue from the dream.

“Sorry for the noise, mistress Anya.” The fae creature saying in a croaking voice. “I didn’t expect the master to be visiting so soon, and with guests…”

“It’s fine.” I say, turning to the edge of the bed and putting my cold feet down on the rug. My bare toes sink into the fur and I don’t resist the urge to stretch them out, digging for warmth. I am uninterested in the fae’s excuses. If Merewald sees fit to punish him, then that’s what would happen. I have little to do with the servants here. 

This manor, Lord Merewald had explained to me, was where he and his family stayed when the long spring of the northern lands of Arcadia got too boring. On the carriage ride here, he’d spoken about his various manors as if it were something impressive to me. Not that there is any family to speak of anymore... But I barely remember his words now. I knew this manor was in the south, where it stayed autumn all year round. But something inside me tugs at that feeling, telling me it should be winter now. It should be cold and bright and snowing. It had snowed in my dream…

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The fae, Whittleweb, I recall with some difficulty, stretches out his long hand and leads me to the en suite. I could walk on my own, but my legs shake somewhat these days, and I am grateful for the reassurance of the fae’s hand. With a click of his fingers, the tub fills with steaming water. 

I lift my long white nightgown over my head and let it drop to the floor before I step into the water. Sitting down, I sigh into the warmth. It was hotter than I’d expected but the heat was welcome against my cold body. I close my eyes and breathe deeply as Whittleweb pours patchouli-scented liquid into the water, swirling it with spindly fingers. I imagine the heat of the water melting away the strange dream, and the uncomfortable feeling it had left me with — the strange sensation of being slightly to the right of myself. Of not quite fitting in. 

Whittleweb gently pours hot water over me and I tip my head back. He washes my black hair and massages my tight scalp with scented oils before rinsing it all out with hot water again. The fae is gentle and thorough, well practiced in personal care. I am grateful for the help. These days, it seems as though I’m as weak as a kitten. 

The fae runs its long fingers through my hair, easing out any tangles with a bone white comb. It has grown past my shoulders now. With a low two-note whistle from Whittleweb, my hair is dry. I try to think back to when my hair had last been this long but the memories were blurred, muddled. I sigh, frustrated. 

“Did I hurt you, my lady? My apologies…”

“No, just…” I sigh again. “Has Merewald indicated how long we’ll be staying here?” I ask. I watch the oils swirl in faint rainbows in the water as Whittleweb braids my hair into a coronet around my head. 

“He has not, my lady. He has told us that we should be prepared.” The fae’s gravelly voice is quiet. 

“Prepared for what?” I ask.

Inserting a last pin into my hair, Whittleweb purses his lips. “He did not say, mistress.”

I frown. Merewald always said that there were no secrets between us, that he would tell me everything. But I know this is not the case. He grew quiet, evasive, at times. When I got too close to talking about certain things. A significant part of me was too weary of the world to be interested in his secrets…  

“Do you require my assistance further, my lady?” Whittleweb’s voice startles me out of my thoughts. I shake my head and the fae bows, excusing himself from the small bathroom. The trolley begins to rattle again as it is moved to the breakfast table. Dread coils in my gut. The feeling is my constant companion these days. I wish I knew why. 

I already know I’ll not be eating much, if anything, today. The food here… It is strange. It makes me feel strange. If I keep it down at all, I find myself losing time. Hours, days, sometimes even whole weeks passed in a blur. All that remained would be the pounding headache and an exhaustion that permeated my very being. 

I lay my head against the cool bath-pillow at the back of the tub and rest my aching neck. I cross my arms over my chest as goosebumps rise along my arms. The water has cooled significantly. With some effort, I push myself up onto my knees and then stand, stepping gingerly onto the mat on the marble floor. Water runs in rivulets down my thin body and pools on the mat, my dark toned skin glistens in the candlelight. The girl in my dream was pale, like a ghost. As washed out and see-through as I feel.