It was the longest hour on the bleakest day when Florence Hughes came screaming into the world on November 19th, 1931. Just a mere babe, without memory, without thought, and certainly without comprehension of the weight of names or the cruel bite in a mother\u2019s voice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet, when her mother first called her a girl with no fortune<\/em>, the words buried themselves deep. As if her fragile bones somehow heard the resentment whispered against her skin\u2014 an epithet which fed off her hope and, indeed, the young girl she might\u2019ve become. <\/p>\n\n\n\n For eighteen long years, the shadow of what she was promised never fled. It did not vanish beneath the night sky when naturally all shadows took their leave. The invisible burden did not vanish when she curled her knees to her chest and lay in bed, holding herself with such fierceness, she should\u2019ve snapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In another life, one might say it was as inescapable a fate as the forty thousand witches strung by the devastating noose. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It seemed all that malice, every man and his hunt for valor, continued to haunt the Scottish forests and whisper in the northern winds. The horrors were still there, still palpable. But six feet under came the witches’ cries\u2014 untamed and unrelenting\u2014 shaking the ancient stars themselves. And when the physician’s hand fisted up Florence\u2019s dress, trembling as it touched her warm and wet skin, Florence swore she could hear them now. Those witches. Crying out for vengeance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Something inside of her bellowed with that endless rage too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n But she continued to stare at the ceiling, her breath caught between her ribs, her gaze tracing the spider webs strung across the diamond underbelly of the chandelier above her. The ring on her finger\u2014 her mother\u2019s ring\u2014 glinted dully in the dim light. Seven carats of yellow diamond spun loosely around her sweat-slicked finger. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It was beautiful, the ring. A vow that her marriage would be righteous, her body sacred and ripe like the bursting red berries which popped from bushes. But in the thick quiet of the physician’s home, it did nothing but spark with a light that mocked her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Had she decided to take it off, there would be no indications of a tan line on her finger. No such proof that it had seen her through her days beneath the sun. Perhaps the woman noticed how oddly\u2014 how alien it sat on her finger. The way she had to curl the joint to keep her shield from slipping off. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Her pulse was hammering so loudly in her ears she thought they might break. Up, and up, and up, the woman\u2019s reach stretched on without mercy. Fingers curled inside her like the stirring wings of moths. Knuckles grazed her innermost sanctum. She forced herself to focus on the cadence of her inhalations, and timed them with the drops of rain atop the tin roof. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The sound was a tether. Alongside the familiar purr of her grandfather\u2019s Duesenberg parked just outside. Both, she used to restrain her anger from sounding out like thunder. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Her bare feet continued to shake upon the steel pedals that kept them aloft and wide. They were all too far apart for the possibility of comfort. And there was a twitch in her adductor that screamed to her. Each bolt of demand warned her to close her legs, to put up a wall between herself and the physician. Out. Out. Out<\/em>, they bellowed through the vaginal exam. As if the elderly woman was a foe and Florence was unguarded. Defenseless. <\/p>\n\n\n\n A hand wrapped around her thigh, coaxing her legs to spread even further. The woman looked at her as if reading a book\u2014 narrowing, focusing, brows creasing in deliberate study and then scanning. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The wooden paneled walls pressed in on all sides. Either from the sparks of her own emotions or the small cabin\u2019s lack of airflow, heat smothered her. So, so heavy upon her chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, pet, no more hands or eyes up your bits now,\u201d the woman said and slapped the metal table. Florence\u2019s body jerked. A wet squelched filled the room and she fought the ever-present coiling in her gut, the undulation of her core. Then, with all the grace of a large mammal, the women rose, knocking aside a cart of rattling tools. \u201cIt\u2019s best you close those legs of yours before they invite the mice in. Those pesky things are like my shadow these days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Before the words had a chance to leave the woman\u2019s mouth, Florence\u2019s legs snapped shut. The unaccounted for force rattled her own bones and shook the wheels bolstering the table. With the grace of a large mammal<\/em>, she thought with resignation and wiggled her stiff joints. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMice?\u201d she asked too thinly, flaming with humiliation. Muggy air found her inner legs and she fought the waves of nausea that rolled through her. \u201cWould you say I\u2019m healthy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHealthy?\u201d The physician clicked her tongue. \u201cYou\u2019re an eighteen-year-old girl. So unless you\u2019re with such a malady that remains to be seen up here\u2014\u201d She tapped on Florence\u2019s temple with her clean hand. A small mercy. \u201cI think you\u2019ll live another fifty years. Give or take a reckless decision or two.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence managed a weak smile. Five years from now and the Presbyterian Ministry might finally resort to hanging women who indulged in sexual pleasures. Detaining, questioning, abolishing them for their immoral agendas.Witches, wenches, whores, <\/em>they called innocent women. And fifty years\u2026 fifty years sounded more like a death sentence than it did a blessing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBold of you to assume that I\u2019d choose<\/em> to live another fifty years.\u201d She moved to sit up and ran a hand through her hair. If only that would make her appear more collected. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, you chose to come here did you not?\u201d the woman insisted. She whirled her head just in time to catch Florence with her hips raised to the heavens. Undergarments twisted around her legs. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Using her heels and shoulders for a meek sense of balance, Florence pinned her eyes on the woman. She snapped the elastic waistband against her flesh in petty dramatics. It cracked like the sound of a whip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf I chose to come here, I would have knowingly left my dignity at the doorstep. Far from your reach and far out of my sight, so I wouldn\u2019t have to relive watching it crumple,\u201d she spat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The physician’s eyebrows rose. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence dragged herself to the edge of the table, her legs dangling half-off, and took in the small living space. Oh, how it was a modicum of only such meek necessities! The green velvet curtains were tattered at their bottoms. Threads so errant it was as though they had caught on the teeth of mice, as if they too desired to escape. There was a sofa no bigger than a prisoner\u2019s cot. Paper-thin, colorful fabric covered it. Perhaps the only thing that wasn\u2019t decaying inside the living space.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence returned her attention back to the woman. \u201cDo you sleep there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSleep?\u201d The physician scoffed over the sound of running water where she bent at the copper wash basin. \u201cIf I\u2019m crumpling so many dignities, I can\u2019t turn a blind eye, can I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re in the heart of the wood. The only being you\u2019d call to attention is a wolf and I doubt the beast would come eager.\u201d Florence shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The physician shut off the water and turned to face Florence, a towel in her withered hands. \u201cBut who better to sink their claws into than women?\u201d Because women were scapegoats. Because men tied their blame to who they thought weakest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She opened her mouth to say something and found it had gone bone dry. Words soured on her tongue; they tasted rotten<\/em> as though the thought had gone bad. <\/em>There\u2014 there, beneath the watery light, seeing now from a distance, she finally witnessed what lay across the woman’s apron: a series of stains blossoming like mold. Some fresher than the others, but still\u2026 How many girls had come here because the church demanded it? <\/p>\n\n\n\n How many girls carried lies between their legs and feared that the truth might kill them?<\/p>\n\n\n\n In a heartbeat, the seams of Florence\u2019s composure split down the center and agony whipped through her. Her stomach echoed with a ripple, a stone that fell, plummeting down, down, down. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Then, so faintly she questioned if she had even said it, she replied, \u201cOne might not sink their claws into anything, if only there was no need to grow them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat pretty poetry for a young girl.\u201d The physician clucked her tongue. It wasn\u2019t poetry. It was simply a matter of fact. She might not be so vicious if school girls and cruel boys didn\u2019t shame her for sex. If the ministry didn\u2019t look to abolish her for it. \u201cHave you found the need to defend yourself? Or is your sharp tongue a gift from your mother?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n What a ridiculous question. \u201cHave I any choice in the matter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMore than you\u2019d think.\u201d The woman untied her apron and slung it over an iron nail like a grappling hook. \u201cThough you\u2019ve chosen to raise a shield rather than a sword.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI do not raise<\/em> anything,\u201d she snapped, lifting her chin. But hadn\u2019t she? Suddenly, the physician was beside her, her hand around Florence\u2019s wrist. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd yet it\u2019s so odd\u2026\u201d The woman had plucked the wedding ring from her finger and held it up to the light. \u201cThat your husband wouldn\u2019t fit the band precisely to your finger. I couldn\u2019t imagine something so expensive, so dazzling slipping right off.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence sneered. \u201cIf you\u2019re trying to steal my ring, you\u2019d do better than call it outright.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think my dead husband would crawl from his grave if I were so child-ish\u201d she answered, spinning the ring in her hand. \u201cEither way, I was merely suggesting that what you boast on that finger tells me you\u2019ve surrendered yourself to fear, girl. It is nothing but a white flag. And we both know it\u2019s one big, foolish lie.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA lie?\u201d Florence leaned back on the table and dredged up all her conviction. \u201cI\u2019m surprised that God hasn\u2019t granted you the same fate as your husband for how brazen you are.\u201d And then she snagged her mother\u2019s wedding band back and returned it to her finger. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPoint that rage at the people who deserve it,\u201d the woman said softly. With so much calm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So Florence looked down at herself. At the ring. At the rise and fall of her chest. At the missing pieces of the strong- headed-self she\u2019d given away to males\u2014 to all those she kissed and done other things with. And then those males she had feared. Like the sect of half-mad and misguided zealots. They had only grown more mad when Tuberculosis swept through Scotland and lingered. Lingered for centuries. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And the physician was right. Who better to sink their claws into than women. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust because the church looks for an outlet to blame,\u201d she said and swallowed the rising surge of indignation, \u201cDoes not mean that I require one as well.\u201d The purest form of medicine was being greater than. Stronger than. And then she said, \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was a pause in the rain storm, as though the ears of the forest had perked up and the stars blinked to see clearly. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBe sorry you wear a wedding band out of fear rather than a powerful promise.\u201d The words seemed to part the stale air, and seize her chest. And whether the physician noticed the physical blow or the shame that curled in Florence\u2019s gut, she added mercifully anyway: \u201cI don\u2019t have half the mind to judge you. If you think that\u2019s my objective. I\u2019ve dallied with and without a marriage vow, and it\u2019s made no difference to me. Whether I\u2019m found a whore or sick with Tuberculosis or taken by desire, I\u2019ve lived with my choices and think them honorable.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Up close, Florence could actually see<\/em> her. Her sullied clothes, and strands of loose hair from her chiffon like a dark rose at the back of her neck. And she questioned whether there were different ways to fight a war. If the physician had all along held the front lines of a rebellion from her own home. Perhaps she took in girls who had been fighting and gave them a sanctuary for their truths. Florence\u2019s eyes met with the woman who\u2019s name she did not know. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Nameless, she assumed, for neither glory, nor the law would be capable of finding her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The physician released a sigh, filling the space that Florence found herself unable to. She had turned to pull the velvet curtain aside as though she could see all the way to the church. Florence wondered if the woman dreamt of it burning too. If she dreamt of its fall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And only once she had made it to the door, her hand poised on the knob, did she say, \u201cS\u00ecth maille ribh,\u201d in Scot-Gaelic. May peace be with you<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She walked out into the rain, and there, even the heavens cried silently for peace too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n ~<\/p>\n\n\n\n She cursed beautifully when she settled into the passenger seat of her grandfather\u2019s Duesenbuerg. It had felt as though an ice beast had run its cold tongue along her spine, coating her skin with a frozen layer in the same way frost forms upon the surface of a pale lake. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She curled her knees to her chest, blessing her bare skin with the heat vents, and released a long, long sigh. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDying of disease yet? Was it smallpox? Cholera? Perhaps the devil\u2019s bloody cough finally got ya, did it?\u201d her grandfather, Thomas, mocked as he shifted the black vehicle into first gear. The engine toiled beneath them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs society so perished that we\u2019ve now resorted to jokes of Tuberculosis?\u201d she said and rested her cheek atop her knee. She could feel the pulsing pressure of the water pump at her feet, and smell the remnants of the last cigarette Thomas had smoked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u2019ve resorted to nastier things.\u201d He veered onto a gravel path. The stones crunched beneath the wheels, and stretching into the distance were two shafts of golden light. \u201cLike making a mockery of your mother\u2019s wedding band.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou don\u2019t say?\u201d she said dryly, tired of the ridiculous remarks. Sure, she had taken the wedding band from the bin that held her mother\u2019s belongings in her grandfather\u2019s cottage, but was it a mockery? Or simply she had found a tool against judgement? Save for the pestering of her grandfather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe wore it like a crown you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t recall you being so talkative.\u201d Other than his rare droll remarks that often served to make her laugh. \u201cMy mother wore nothing but a scowl on her face. And if she wore her marriage to my father with any vein of elegance it was because he loved her so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour mother wore marriage with bravery, is what I meant. Sure, she was never any less pleasant.\u201d Florence caught him smiling to himself in the moonlight. As though he were caught recalling just how unpleasant her mother was to be around. \u201cBut she had the power of love behind her actions. Even if you believe she didn\u2019t have the heart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere are many civil monsters,\u201d was all she said\u2014 as coldly as she could. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause oftentimes an act of love can be just as consuming as cannibalism.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n To what end? She felt like she had been eaten alive all her life. Remarks on how to be proper, how to be kind, and lady-like, and even how to close her legs when she sat down. The girls at school chewed on her with their judgements. Her tongue was too sharp. Her mind was too wild, unpredictable in a world that savored control. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The evening was etched in so many shades of black and shadow when her grandfather pulled a cigarette to his lips and lit it. From where she sat, her vision blurry with exhaustion, Florence imagined it as a pyre. A flame so bright and savage and fierce at the peak of the Grampian Mountains. Though she hated the smell of cigarettes, she said nothing as he released a plume of smoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Well into midnight her cheek had found a resting place on the doorside, her stomach quieted after all those dizzying turns, and she strained her gaze on the blue-ish, silvery light that collected on the water. It turned the hours frozen as they drove. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It wasn\u2019t until later that Thomas lit his second cigarette, and Florence cranked down her window, letting the smoke pass her by. She welcomed the wind of her face. Watched it catch on the blonde strands of her hair and twirl on a sea-scented wind. Now that they were so far north, she couldn\u2019t help but notice the air had grown several shades cooler, too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Thomas had driven them into the misty morning and over colonies of dew on a wide lawn. He\u2019d parked beside another black vehicle right at the bottom of a knoll leading to the Hughes estate. It had been many, so many years since she had returned. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Today marked the day of Geraldine and her husband\u2019s funeral. A day in which she thought, like the largest wooden brained ninny, would never come. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Indeed, her parents\u2019 death, from what she remembered, had carved out a hollow ache within her. But now her sisters\u2026 Florence didn\u2019t let herself get that far.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It didn\u2019t help that Thomas hadn\u2019t said anything after their first conversation either. Nor did he find it worthy of a comment when she suddenly asked him to pull over as they passed through Elgrin. When she had hurled herself from the car and sank onto her knees in the wooden chips, and hurled. Violently. Again and again. And even when she returned, wiping the lingering vomit from her lips, he did not so much as look at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Until, that is, he stepped out of the car and stood at the boot, pulling out her clothing carriage. \u201cWhat did Magda say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence paused with her hand on the door, holding it open. \u201cMagda?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe physician,\u201d he replied without further explanation. How did he know her name? When Florence had asked her, she had pulled her lips back, so gingerly, and settled into her seat as if she hadn\u2019t heard her. \u201cYou’re clean as a whistle, yeah?\u201d Thomas pressed on through the mist. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She puffed air into her hands, shivering, and said, \u201cIn the ways which matter, yes. Though I doubt any whistle you\u2019ve\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh.<\/em>\u201d He dropped her leather carrier on the wet grass. \u201c For fucksake, Florence.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She laughed quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf I had a remaining death wish, now is the time I\u2019d use it,\u201d he barked, and then his stare found her face. \u201cOn you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She gave him her most winning smile and hopped out of the car.\u201cIf only God could hear you now, surely he\u2019d give you another.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause it\u2019d be a mercy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause I\u2019m certain talk of death wishes and dirty whistles on a funeral sight is a sin.\u201d She unfastened her bag at a crouch, dumping all of her belongings into the grass. She felt briefly delighted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFuckers,\u201d he said. Florence looked up and watched as he tucked a ridiculously large bouquet of roses into his side. She then followed his line of sight to the mist veiled gardens and stifled a laugh. \u201cHow is it that your sister\u2019s flower bushes still bloom in winter? I spent a better-off nine sterling on these damn daisies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRoses. Those are definitely roses, pop.\u201d He rolled his eyes and mumbled something characteristically miserable and uncouth before walking away. However fleeting, she was grateful she managed to laugh on such a dark day. Everything looked the same as it had eight years ago, since she\u2019d last visited. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Pocketed with gold shafts, her family\u2019s charming home was perched atop a knoll. It overlooked green lawns and gardens that undulated beneath it. The grounds stretched far and wide towards the northern shores of Inversgreen. But of course, the only difference was that what awaited her, was not the sister who had again, and again welcomed her. She used to hate sleeping next to Geraldine, sharing the same bedroom. But now\u2026 now\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n She could hear the faint hum of music, the lightness of chatter and laugh, and unconsciously, hearing such warm and lovely things, Florence found herself tracing the second floor with her eyes. She counted each of the windows until she reached the fourth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Years ago, she might have been witness to two young girls writing music without understanding its notes. Playing songs without understanding their capabilities to move someone and wrap around their heart. But now, the room was dark, empty. <\/p>\n\n\n\n A frozen breath rushed her lungs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cold flames of wind and prickles of mist touched her skin as she hastily stripped down into her undergarments. She bent awkwardly behind the car and pulled her head through the neck of a black dress\u2014 one she had haphazardly stuffed into her carrier\u2014 and cursed herself for being so lazy. Her hands attempted to smooth out each wrinkle, her fingers tugging on the lace and floral appliques. <\/p>\n\n\n\n But the way the gown fit\u2014just five years ago at her own parent\u2019s funeral, she had been swimming in it. Now, it hugged her curves, the neckline resting at her collarbones and the hem hanging loosely at her ankles. Step by step, the fabric sighing around her legs, she walked where death beckoned, her chin high. <\/p>\n\n\n\n ~ <\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence took all of one tentative step into the foyer and she froze at the sight of so many people. Suddenly the waves crashing amongst the shore seemed to grow in volume, in ferocity. From behind the windows came a snarling gust of wind and she felt the walls shake. Or was it her? Were her<\/em> legs trembling?<\/p>\n\n\n\n She tried to concentrate on the faces. All of them blurred together; people in suits and dresses. She caught the gleam of jewels bathed in the rich light, swashes of skirts, and flutes of champagne. She snagged one from the nearest server. Placed it at her lips. Over the music and the chatter and the effervescence of laugh, she swore she could hear the champagne\u2019s bubbles pop.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n There was not a single darkened face, or a pair of shoulders that drooped inward with grief. Every corner and hallway was crammed with friends, family, whoever was resilient enough to face grief and\u2026 and celebrate it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Somewhere\u2014 in some room beyond what her eyes could reach, a quartet plucked strings and played with an enchanting grace. Not enough to draw the crowds attention, but sway them with a lovely, wondrous melody. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Alas, Florence had found her grandfather. He was swarmed by a group of his old friends, a couple whom she could not, despite her hardest efforts, remember. But she named Elliot Sinclair, and Owen Finlay, and the Moss husband, to which she offered a meek smile. Then, she met her grandfather\u2019s eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n His brown gaze glimmered, like molten bronze; his eyes creasing at the corners as he smiled and dipped his chin. Such warmth for such a cold man, and it told her that he had found a pocket of peace on a day so bleak, dark with storm clouds and death, but not enough to rattle him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Even her brooding grandfather, who she managed to resent for the rest of the day, kept that casual composure about him when the guests had gathered by the beach grass. She could still recall the clink of pails she and Geraldine had once filled with sand, the warm sun on her back, and the gulls crying out tunelessly. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It was an unmarked grave for the most exquisite woman. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The stone hadn\u2019t even been inscribed with a year, a name. And she thought, should a decade pass and a stranger come across this piece of land, there would be no remembrance. <\/p>\n\n\n\n So Florence continued to kneel even though the guests parted and returned to her home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was never a chance to introduce herself to her sister\u2019s husband. She had childishly believed that time would carry them on forever. They were promised more of it, both her and Geraldine, together. Their bones hadn\u2019t even begun aching yet. Another thirty years, she had expected. Then, and only then, when the time was right, did she plan on giving up her youth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They had died of Tuberculosis and any sane person might have said it was a natural, honorable death. Yet, as Florence sat there, her forehead pressed to the cold sand, she couldn\u2019t help but feel as though her sister\u2019s death was a reckoning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The physician\u2019s words echoed, You\u2019ve chosen to raise a shield rather than a sword. <\/em>Her heart stirred with the din of battle. And Florence angled her hand, pointing it down and towards that unmarked grave. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She watched as the ring slipped off. As soundless as the break of a heart, her shield fell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ~<\/p>\n\n\n\n Later, she lay in bed, her feet hanging half off the edge\u2014 despite its wideness\u2014 and swirled her finger over the cotton sheets. For what must have been several hours, she tossed and turned, the emptiness of her home seeming to seep inside her very bones. She pressed her face into the pillow and groaned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A part of her still remained fixed on that metal table just last night. The other half of herself was elsewhere, lost in time, long before her first bleed and the death of her parents. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Much, much later, when she did manage to fall fast asleep, it was to a vision that redefined dreams and everything within them that made one want to wish, and to hope on the stars. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The church had crumbled. Saints were in a rounded bed, their breasts full and milky white and peeking out from beneath tangled sheets. Men were there too. They lay on their savagely, broad backs. Their eyes closed in harmony, and breath coming from their chests with an even and hearty display. The strangers all appeared living, still with sleep. <\/p>\n\n\n\n And yet, pictured was the death of innocence. A smell of tangy copper hung in the stale air. It was so rare. It was as sweet as cherry wine. It was blood that puddled on the sheets as if those strangers laid in harmony over a bed of fallen rose petals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ~<\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence was both exhausted and restless. The vision had come crashing with a current of images. Adjusting her eyes to the gray light from the window, she crawled out of bed and slid her arms through her dressing robe. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Once she had put on her velvet slippers, she became a pin drop in a mausoleum of party goers. She stalked through the hallways like a wraith on the hunt for something to busy her mind. Everything she had dragged out from her memories was left looking for an outlet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n When she first came upstairs, she\u2019d been too tired to notice the family portraits, but she took notice of them now. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Both of the blonde daughters\u2014 Geraldine and she\u2014 smiled at her. Radiance flared from her sister’s pink cheeks and round nose tipped with color. Beside her was their family\u2019s hound, cradled in her sturdy father\u2019s arms and appearing just as hungry as she. Had it been a day since she last truly ate? <\/p>\n\n\n\n Now, she had a destination in mind and it made for a quick walk down the stairs, and past the foyer that smelled of roses and toasted nuts. She stopped just before the walkway off to the side. To her surprise, the french doors to the garden had been left wide open, a breeze flowing through them. Without allowing herself time to think, she cupped several nuts in her palm and tossed them into her mouth. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She licked the salt at her fingertips as she faced the garden. She stood at the top of the stairs, pausing to take in the lawns. Evergreen and endless. Resilient against the snow storms, the hollow winds, the torrential rain. Above, the stars glimmered. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Out of habit, she took the path that snaked through the garden. She clutched at the opening of her robe and prayed to the thin layer of silk to keep her warm. She was grateful the hedges made for a fortress from the wind. Still, she moved faster. Her steps brisk as she neared the end of the gravel pathway, navigating the misty horizon. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She rubbed at her nose where water collected and stood before the greenhouse. Had it been summer, the sun\u2019s nourishment would have bathed the room. Now, the glass ceiling was studded with felled branches and shattered in several panes. The walls were covered in an uneven layer of dust.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was the place where she had been gifted her first piano. A birthday present from her grandfather where he had said, May the sun nourish you as you give sunlight to your soul. It\u2019s up to you whether you let it burn or give it warmth.<\/em> No matter her want, she could not have taken it with her to Aberdeen. And when her mother asked what she planned to do\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n She had moved in with her grandfather. Her mother didn\u2019t put up an argument and Florence never had the chance to thank her. She opened the doors to a swell of browning plants and broken leaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the center, stood a black, glossy pianoforte. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence could almost see<\/em> her fingertips upon the keys. Surprising even herself, Florence spoke quietly and into the bleak night, \u201cYou\u2019re still here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She pulled out the seat, the sound of it echoing loudly through the glass house, and sat herself atop it with a deep breath. There, she faced the birthplace of music and her love for it. It took her all but a moment to master herself. To open the door within her mind where people, places, and voices resided. She willed them to be heard now. Then, she tested the pedals. A finger tentatively rested on a key, and with such little force, the note rang out. In her ears. Her heart. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Although she felt like a baby fawn learning to walk, Florence began to play.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They keys became an extension of her hand, and the girl with no fortune played, and she played, and played. She continued to unleash herself until her lungs ran out of air to fuel the fire of her pain, of all the unfairness stacked upon her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is that?\u201d came a male voice behind her. Florence\u2019s pointer finger seized the low end E, the chord resounding like a thunderous boom in a cavern. <\/p>\n\n\n\n When the echo of sound tapered off, she replied, almost as if uninterested: \u201cA pianoforte.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet me rephrase, then. What was<\/em> that?\u201d She heard his footsteps, slow and cautious, and resembling the delicacy of the E5 key. \u201cThe music you play\u2026 I\u2019ve never heard anything like it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence\u2019s heart tightened. She slid her touch from the instrument as though it now had the power to burn her. \u201cWas I suffering beautifully?\u201d she asked. Her fingers were limp in her lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlay it again and I might tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t do requests. And I certainly don\u2019t entertain audiences without a fee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll not watch then,\u201d he said after a pregnant pause. There was a hint of playfulness in his tone; though she couldn\u2019t quite grasp, or begin to untangle, his cleverness from what felt like ridicule. \u201cI\u2019ll turn my back so you might forget I\u2019m here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Now she could make out what kind of shoes he was wearing: Gray oxfords. They appeared at the edges of her vision\u2014beside the bench where his legs stood a hand’s breadth away. Still, she hadn\u2019t seen his face. A face she wondered in her mind’s eye, if it fit his confident and eloquent voice. Or if his name was just as mysterious. Was he one of the musicians who couldn\u2019t sleep? Had he come with the intention of rewriting his thoughts\u2014 just like her?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her chin lifted on its own accord. Slowly, Florence took in his tall, lean legs that led her gaze to his suit jacket. There, a lily in his breast pocket, matching his bone-colored bowtie. A white tie which grazed his chin as he pointed it towards her\u2014 at her. It was like looking down the barrel of a gun, so pointed, so dangerous and close.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence\u2019s heart thrummed wildly when she beheld his many colored eyes. Golden threads mixed with pools of chocolate and green vines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ll not watch?\u201d She bit her lip, considering, weighing. \u201cIf it worked like that, we all might just turn our backs on society.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo we can relish in the carnal comforts that keep us warm all night?\u201d he posed while staring at her intently. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence couldn\u2019t help it, she had looked away, her eyes seeking the comfort of the piano. Because sex had never made her feel warm<\/em> exactly. Not before, or during. It hardly<\/em> made her warm when she awoke to a cold mattress in the morning\u2014 her hand still reaching for an unlovable hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once, she had imagined the experience might be freeing. But both times she was to be a wilting flower. Laying in the garden bed where the soil of her world was overturned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She hadn\u2019t realized the door to her mind had been opened again. Quickly, she scrambled to shut it, to snuff out the embers of pain. However, she felt them linger in her next words: \u201cOnly someone inferior in mind and experience would believe sex is the only thing they\u2019ve taken from us.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIndulge me then,\u201d he asked, and placed a finger beneath her chin. He held it there with a gentleness and nothing more. \u201cWhy do you play? If it is not to express the anger of being denied intimacy.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPerhaps I play because it is the only time a woman can sound beautiful whilst she lets go Or because it is the only exception to when a man will permit her voice and desire to be heard. Find them beautiful even.\u201d His silence was answer enough, so she added with a hint of insecurity. \u201cYou must think I\u2019m mad in the head.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe.\u201d The nameless male shrugged. \u201cThough that would make me<\/em> mad in the head as well. As I agree with you\u2014 I think you suffer beautifully.\u201d Much to her wonder, he smiled down upon her, and then gestured with his hand in the air. \u201cMay I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot frightened of the bloody cough?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI would consider myself fortunate if I so much as caught it.\u201d She shifted over, feeling like a buzzing wire, electrified. If he sat too close, too near, she might catch fire. \u201cJust so that I may listen to you all evening,\u201d he added.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEveryone and their death wishes today.\u201d She bit her lip, unsure of what she should have said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd yet we\u2019re fortunate enough to have them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Something inside her fluttered, the barest essence of hope gathering. \u201cWhat is your name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWilliam Beaumont,\u201d he replied. She could feel the warmth of his through her robe. \u201cAnd may I ask a question in return?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Florence weighed her thoughts. What harm was there in a question? She could always choose not to answer. But she said, \u201cI could fill a jar\u2014 a very large and considerable jar\u2014 with all your curiosities. But yes. Because it is not such a bad thing, is it? To look upon a cup that overflows.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWould you tell me a story then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her hands found the pianoforte, and of course, it was due to the air so swollen with winter that she felt herself being pulled towards him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She was edging closer to a cliff, and still, longing to curl into his warmth. In that same heartbeat, the most enchanting heartbeat she had ever felt, his parted lips found hers, and his warm mouth melded against her own, and Florence had no time to pray for a net at the bottom<\/p>\n\n\n\n Though, if she dared to admit it, she might have silently prayed for her sister, and the physician, and then herself, as she fell into the arms of another male\u2014 tumbling down into darkness and dead devotion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ~<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the garden, stood a woman in a white dress who looked upon the eddying shadows within her greenhouse, watching as they moved. She listened intently as the sounds of haunting, yet beautiful music escaped from the cracks of the glass. The moonlight gathered among two crowns of blonde hair, lost in their desires and the moment. But she knew her friend\u2019s thoughts of her had dissolved. She understood even if it pained her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She had lost track of time, for it could have been ten minutes or several hours, when her blonde friend exited the greenhouse. Florence Hughes stopped and looked up. The boy in whom the woman did not know, halted several feet behind Florence. Even from a distance, her sister appeared so young, her cheeks flushed, her chest visibly rising with the gallop of her hopeful heart. It caused the woman\u2019s own chest to ache. She still had a heart. She had loved too fiercely to let death take that from her as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And then, the woman turned her back and began to walk away\u2014 the boy and Florence heading opposite to her, fleeing into the gardens, and then to the warm bed. But Geraldine Hughes, ghostly in skin and soul, floated on a lonesome wind to the shore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But first, she had one more thing to do before she rest. She bent before the poor excuse of her own grave. There, she picked up the ring. Held it in her hands and felt its meek weight in her palm. A couple minutes was all she needed with it. That was all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She now lay, in her grave beside her husband, folding herself into his loving arms. She laid in peace there. Six feet beneath the sand Geraldine Hughes could still feel that invisible burden. She could hear the witches’ cries. But even if her bones rotted beneath the earth, there was still fight left in their marrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She closed her eyes, listening to the sound that her mother\u2019s ring had made when it hit the ocean. She could still hear the echoes of satisfaction now. Then came her voice, nothing but the whisper of wind on a still night, \u201cS\u00ecth maille ribh.\u201d May peace be with you.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" It was the longest hour on the bleakest day when Florence Hughes came screaming into the world on November 19th,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3611,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_mi_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[119],"tags":[302,244,300,130,120,301,299],"class_list":["post-3908","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story-telling","tag-dark-gothic","tag-romance","tag-scottland","tag-sex","tag-winter","tag-witches","tag-ya-fantasy"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3908","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3908"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3908\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3913,"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3908\/revisions\/3913"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3611"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3908"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3908"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/intheskye.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3908"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}