The Criswell's Curse

The sweet fragrance of roses melted into my being, causing my senses to awaken and my eyes to blink gently. Warm sunlight reflected from the closed windows, straight into my skin. Slightly muffled, the chirping of the birds and the conversations of the leaves traveled with the faint Seedling breeze.

Out of the bed, my hands pushed the windows open, allowing the intense smell of dew drops, muddy ground and wet grass to fill my lungs. Was this land ever this pure? This peaceful?

Someone knocked on the tall door. “Milady, are you awake?”

“Come in.”

A young girl, around my age, popped in with her long voluptuous carrot-colored hair; all strands tied themselves in a bun, hidden beneath a pearly white cap which glimmered against the shimmering light of the sun rays. Her light green eyes contrasted with the dots embracing her snowy complexion, slightly flushed from the arduous tasks. Anne.

Her hands opened the closet, revealing a long line of luxurious dresses in all shapes and colors. As if taking care of pieces of art, her fingers passed through each piece of fabric carefully, feeling their silkiness sink into her beautiful, soft skin. “Do you have any preference for today’s attire?”

“Anything will do.” I stated as my fingers touched the petals of a freshly picked rose who grew inside a beautiful glass container.

“What do you think about this dress, milady?”

In her hands, a light pink dress with a voluptuous skirt had its corset covered with small pearls and silver pieces. White layers peaked through its base, making it seem alive, compelled by joy and purity.

“That one will do.”

“Shall I prepare a bath?” She questioned, her arms packed with used bedsheets.

“Maybe later.”

Anne bobbed her head, quickly removing herself from the room. Moments later she returned, and I gazed, observing her eagerness, her innocence. She was always so calm, so composed that one could easily mistake her for an angel’s apprentice, just casually strolling through this plane of existence with no hatred nor sorrows. Attentively, she placed fresh sheets on the bed before dipping a faint rose fragrance on them.

My body rested on a beautifully sculpted oak chair, matching with the dressing table at its front. Noticing this, Anne grabbed a small object, round and fluffy, surrounded by a warm golden color. In meticulous - almost mechanical - movements, her hands flew as the brush combed my long hair.

“I heard Her Grace baked a cake today. She woke up especially early for it.” She smiled happily, but then her body froze. Something pained her soul.

“What troubles you, Anne?”

She bit her bottom lip, insecure. “You know her ladyship saved me, and I am extremely grateful for that, but… I never met my mother.” Her kind eyes glimmered, threatening to free their emotions. “I wonder if she regrets it… leaving me.”

“I see…” I didn’t know what to reply. “You may never know why your mother left, but I am certain she is thinking of you. Anne, we might not be the type of family you would like…”

Before I completed my sentence, Anne intervened, interrupting me. “That’s not it, milady! I care for you and your mother dearly! I am truly thankful for everything you have done for me.”

“I know, calm down.” My body turned, grabbing her hands. They were slightly cold. “We are not your family, but you must not forget where you came from. You must remember them, even if it is painful.”

Some runaway tears found their way out of her beautiful green eyes. “I know milady…”

Reactively, I rose and hugged her tightly, not being able to withstand her pained expression. My hand softly patted her head as she sobbed on my shoulder. “You know, Mother usually says music heals the soul; that’s why you always hear her, no matter where you go.”

A calm humming echoed through the room as our bodies slowly swayed in unison. Anne merely cried, her hands gripping strongly onto my nightgown, tears flowing like an overflowing river, her feelings being fully delivered to God. The chains that held onto her ankles were still heavy, but her ghosts had become lighter, purer, less daunting.

When her emotions regained their senses, she placed some distance between us. Her gentle eyes were tainted in red, matching her heavily blushed cheeks and nose. Several hair strands had escaped the cap, having become glued to her skin through the wetness of her nostalgic tears.

“Thank you, Ophelia.” A chuckle escaped her lips, displaying her relief, her acceptance of God’s fate. But all I could do was deliver her a faint smile in response.