Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
The searing sun sinks below the horizon, and ragged clouds are pierced with with the last, desperate rays of the day. The sky is raw with scarlet, which bleeds away to violet and indigo. As the dutiful servants light the house's lamps, the windows shine like the golden eyes of a snake opening one by one.
Suddenly, a ragged roar echoes along the serpentine corridors: a terrifying sound that sends shivers along the servants' spines - the master of the house was a notoriously quiet man. When furious, they would know because he would speak in a soft tone that felt like slow-dripping acid.
The long silence that follows hangs in the air like cobwebs - and then is broken by the delicate chime of a bell. An unlucky servant was being summoned to the master's chamber. Poor
Sarah, it was only her second day at Highgate.
The girl was well-aware of the old man's harmless (even charming) "eccentricities," but had never actually seen him. She had heard the whispers - how so-called "Earl Grey" had been a history professor; in his dotage, he insisted on living out his remaining years according to the fashion of his area of specialty. In short, she and the other servants were required to live like Downton Abbey cosplayers -- and handsomely compensated for the inconvenience. Having a roof over her head and regular meals were well-worth having to wear a bonnet and call some piece of Eurotrash "Sir Knight." Within a year, she'd have more than enough to head out west. Would this count as acting experience?
Summoned by the bell, she knocks softly, and a cold voice beckons:
"Enter."The girl takes a deep breath.
SARAH enters, stage right, she thinks, imagining herself on a PBS period drama. Stepping into the surprisingly Spartan chamber, she curtsies meekly, eyes fastened to the floor and awaiting instruction.
"Earl Bennett-Grey," she says, her sunshine-yellow voice mingling with the soft
music that spills out of a crackling gramophone. She attempts a vaguely English accent, trying desperately to play into the part, and fails miserably. She has no idea, but the corpse in the room takes note of the effort.
Her master sits by the fire, and scarlet light plays against his sharp features. She sees how he has drenched his linen shirt with something black -- ink? Malcolm had expected a valet to be dispatched to respond to his bell, not some simpering
maid. She would do for now, but he resolves to
discuss the matter with the butler.
He rises from his wingback chair, and strides toward her. His icy eyes fix upon her, and she can feel them pinning her like picks. She glances up, and his voice rumbles,
"Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost. And like a ghost she glimmers on to me." She has no idea who he's quoting, or why, but his voice somehow stirs her blood, thrilling her with -- awe. The charm crashes against her in waves, and the Englishman traces a strand of soft hair that has fallen loose and now curls against her cheek.
"Thank you for your service," he says with a cold smile. There is no affection there - if anything, only loathing. But his blood compels her to find his contempt alluring.
"I appreciate that your work can be quite draining." Like so many of his advanced age, he found obvious puns to be the very height of civilized humor.
"Mm," he growls.
"You have a spot of red..." he breathes as he leans forward to brush it away. He sinks in his teeth, and heat erupts into his mouth like lava spraying from a volcano.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
