Read Online The Key (Sanguinem Emere) by Carmen Taxer - Free Book Online
Authors: Carmen Taxer
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another man to affect her decisions crosses my mind as I fasten the delicate silver buckles on the shoes, but it quickly evaporates as more important things barter for my attention, like make-up. I choose the darker motif to match the burgundy of the dress. A delicate cream contrasts nicely with the deep brown of my eyes and a sandy brown with a slight copper shimmer balances the effect, allowing my eyes to seem naturally dark and not bruised as is their usual appearance. Eyeliner to accentuate the roundness and blush to remove the waxen puppet mask. No lipstick. I would hate to have to touch up.
For the second time in recent history I stand in front of the mirror appraisingly, trying to find a fault and seeing nothing but. My make-up never seems as perfect as Delilah’s and the dress seems to hang oddly on my figure. I bet if Cecily were wearing it, it would look perfect. I look down at my calves, bare and exposed; at least the slight elevation from the Mary-Jane’s makes them seem firmer than they would normally, but they still appear overly large.
And then of course, there is my hair. Although Levi – I stifle a slight adverse reaction to what occurred during that time – did manage to tame the mass with just a few small fluffs. He did far better than I would have achieved with hours of styling.
I can feel exasperation flooding my senses as I stare annoyed at the mirror. The wrapping is superb, why the hell can’t the gift be just as perfect?
Nothing for it.
I leave the room. If I overthink this (which is exactly what I am doing anyway) I’ll run. I don’t deserve him, of that I’m certain. But if I allow him to see it, I will lose him. And the story. And all the possibilities that I am trying very hard not to imagine. Of him, and I, and Saturday night. My fingers curl inwards as acid seems to stifle my heart in a painful burning wave. I must be what he expects; I can’t afford to be cast away from him.
I traverse the hallway once more; however, to my relief, the lamps along the sideboards are lit again, casting a gentle glow on the path forwards. And now the flowers seem less like haunting figments, but rather like luscious sweet-breads, lilting me onwards, sweeping me towards my destiny. Even the landing is well-lit by a drunkenly hanging chandelier. The light simply accentuates the swirl of dizzying colours that decorate what seems to be the entirety of the house. In my still semi-substance-strained state, I can hardly imagine ever seeing the depth of these colours, and certainly not placed alongside one another like this; the richness of each flows over and oozes into the other and they seem to feed off of one another, creating a chaotic carnival affair encompassed in a sturdy shade of wealth, privilege, and earthiness.
The heels, luckily, do not hinder my path down the staircase as I reach the first floor landing and stop, unsure of where to go from here. To my right there is a closed set of double doors which I assume lead to some sort of study or library. Voices emanate quietly from the room, but I can’t make out what is being said. I can only assume that this is where I am supposed to be. To my left lies the open dining room and, further in, the kitchen where I met with my companions, and behind me is the staircase, crowned over a long, dark hallway, this one unlit by familiar tiffanies and their calming glow. A shudder trembles down my spine at the thought of trudging through that darkness on my own. A shudder not unlike the one that wracked my body when the snake-ish, blonde man touched my nakedness.
The door to my right is certainly my destination. But it’s closed.
Do I knock?
I lift my knuckles to its varnished surface, but an anxiety I am no longer accustomed to grips me in its cold embrace. What if I am intruding? I don’t want to seem forward.
I clasp my hands together to keep myself from trying to fiddle with my near perfect hair or straighten the dress, or fold my arms, or wipe at
For the second time in recent history I stand in front of the mirror appraisingly, trying to find a fault and seeing nothing but. My make-up never seems as perfect as Delilah’s and the dress seems to hang oddly on my figure. I bet if Cecily were wearing it, it would look perfect. I look down at my calves, bare and exposed; at least the slight elevation from the Mary-Jane’s makes them seem firmer than they would normally, but they still appear overly large.
And then of course, there is my hair. Although Levi – I stifle a slight adverse reaction to what occurred during that time – did manage to tame the mass with just a few small fluffs. He did far better than I would have achieved with hours of styling.
I can feel exasperation flooding my senses as I stare annoyed at the mirror. The wrapping is superb, why the hell can’t the gift be just as perfect?
Nothing for it.
I leave the room. If I overthink this (which is exactly what I am doing anyway) I’ll run. I don’t deserve him, of that I’m certain. But if I allow him to see it, I will lose him. And the story. And all the possibilities that I am trying very hard not to imagine. Of him, and I, and Saturday night. My fingers curl inwards as acid seems to stifle my heart in a painful burning wave. I must be what he expects; I can’t afford to be cast away from him.
I traverse the hallway once more; however, to my relief, the lamps along the sideboards are lit again, casting a gentle glow on the path forwards. And now the flowers seem less like haunting figments, but rather like luscious sweet-breads, lilting me onwards, sweeping me towards my destiny. Even the landing is well-lit by a drunkenly hanging chandelier. The light simply accentuates the swirl of dizzying colours that decorate what seems to be the entirety of the house. In my still semi-substance-strained state, I can hardly imagine ever seeing the depth of these colours, and certainly not placed alongside one another like this; the richness of each flows over and oozes into the other and they seem to feed off of one another, creating a chaotic carnival affair encompassed in a sturdy shade of wealth, privilege, and earthiness.
The heels, luckily, do not hinder my path down the staircase as I reach the first floor landing and stop, unsure of where to go from here. To my right there is a closed set of double doors which I assume lead to some sort of study or library. Voices emanate quietly from the room, but I can’t make out what is being said. I can only assume that this is where I am supposed to be. To my left lies the open dining room and, further in, the kitchen where I met with my companions, and behind me is the staircase, crowned over a long, dark hallway, this one unlit by familiar tiffanies and their calming glow. A shudder trembles down my spine at the thought of trudging through that darkness on my own. A shudder not unlike the one that wracked my body when the snake-ish, blonde man touched my nakedness.
The door to my right is certainly my destination. But it’s closed.
Do I knock?
I lift my knuckles to its varnished surface, but an anxiety I am no longer accustomed to grips me in its cold embrace. What if I am intruding? I don’t want to seem forward.
I clasp my hands together to keep myself from trying to fiddle with my near perfect hair or straighten the dress, or fold my arms, or wipe at
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