This Thorn Has Found Her Rose

Prologue: The First Morning

When Erika awoke that night, she knew she was dying. That wasn’t a shock to her – the empty teacup at her bedside still held the white residue she’d chosen to bring about her demise. What was a shock, however, was how painful it was. Cyanide was meant to act quickly, and sleeping tonic was meant to make it painless. Instead, her limbs and lips here numb, and her thoughts swam around in her skull as if underwater hours after drinking the lethal concoction. She might have been able to fall back into a peacefully permanent sleep, if not for the horrific pain. She only had the strength to utter an open-jawed whimper as her body contorted and strained as if possessed.

Every heartbeat brought a stab of agony. Erika used what she thought were her final breaths to silently plead to a god she did not believe in – begging to let it all end. How fitting, she thought, for her life of misery to end in such a pathetic way – like a dog left shot in an alley. She tried to will herself up from the bed, to find some quicker – if bloodier – method to end her deathbed agony, but her body would not comply.  

The night seemed darker in that attic apartment than any night below the theater had been. The moon was hiding in the shadow of the Earth, and clouds choked the starlight from the sky. The curtains were sealed shut, so not even the streetlights five stories down could reach her small bedroom. She blindly reached for the framed portrait on the bedside table, only for her shaking fingers to knock it to the floor.

Erika searched the darkness for something else, anything else, that she could choose as a meaningful last sight…but found nothing.  

And then she felt her waters break.

~~~~~~~~~

Charlotte deemed herself finished, sat back again with a sigh. Something wet dropped on her face, puzzled, her expression twisted as she tried to find the source. It was her Mama. “Maman? Why do you cry?” Her little hands reached up to her mothers face to wipe one away from her cheek. “I’m all done music. Maman all done music?”

“Alright, then,” she said, holding onto Charlotte’s hips so she wouldn’t tumble from her lap. “All by yourself.”

She watched in amazement as Charlotte replayed what she’d shown her, even correcting herself when her small fingers slipped from the keys. Charlotte seemed to have a pinpoint focus to her as she tapped out the nursery song, growing faster each repetition until the tempo was much faster than they had played together.

A few tears leaked from her eyes, dripping from her smiling lips and into her daughter’s curls. An overwhelming halo of pride glowed from her heart, but buried beneath it was a crushing sense of guilt. Deciding to keep her baby was the best decision she’d ever made. Yet, she had been so close to destroying her. She had been willing to abandon this brilliant little girl on the steps of a church, where no future would await her. It didn’t matter what she had chosen to do instead…she had still been so close to doing it.

Charlotte turned her bright face up towards Erika’s face, just in time for a tear to drip onto her forehead. She couldn’t answer Charlotte for a moment, her throat closed to keep the sobs at bay.

“Maman is fine, Lotte,” she said, taking a handkerchief from her breast pocket before her gaping nasal cavity could start leaking. “I…I love you so much.”

She patted Charlotte’s cheek, staring into her patchwork eyes. “You will never know how much I love you.”

When her little body was back by her toys on the floor she hugged her bear close. “Love you too Bear.” Giggles erupted in little hiccups as Charlotte was very pleased with herself as well. She played the piano and told her little imaginary friends all about it quietly to herself still humming the nursery rhyme. 

Away from the piano she may have been, but there was music deep in her soul. Why would there not be. Charlotte played until she could play no more and cuddled Bear close, barely able to keep her eyes open her head lulled against the bottom of the low sofa.

Erika carried Charlotte back to the chaise lounge and sat her back next to her toys. “Remember to call if you need me,” she said, patting Charlotte’s hair. “I’ll be right over here.”

She pulled up her seat to the writing desk on the opposite side of the parlor room. She re-read the draft of her letter, frowned, and ripped it in half. Retrieving a fresh sheet from her drawer, Erika began a fresh letter to her confidant, Madame Antionette Giry:

Lotte didn’t fuss at naptime, in fact fussing was something she rarely did. She was just happy to be with her Mama living her life, not knowing they did not live how society would consider normal. 

If she were to be honest, Erika was usually unsure what to do with the brief time alone she had while Charlotte was asleep or otherwise occupied. There had been a time, in her youth, when inspiration would possess her with such ferocity that she would spend entire days at her organ or her violin. By the time she fell asleep, she would be surrounded by hundreds of pages of the symphonies that played in her head.

Erika steeped herself a small pot of tea, listlessly staring at the rooftops outside her kitchen window. She often missed those spells of blissful creation. Although the ghosts of that passion still lingered, her hands would not play with the same intensity as they once did. Her soul was filled with a deep-seeded weariness when she recalled her fits of musical passion, as if she were a broken old woman recalling her days as a dancer.

Erika was startled from her depressive spell when she heard Charlotte calling for her. She left her tea to steep a while longer. It was time to return to the present, where she was needed.

Prologue: The First Morning

When Erika awoke that night, she knew she was dying. That wasn’t a shock to her – the empty teacup at her bedside still held the white residue she’d chosen to bring about her demise. What was a shock, however, was how painful it was. Cyanide was meant to act quickly, and sleeping tonic was meant to make it painless. Instead, her limbs and lips here numb, and her thoughts swam around in her skull as if underwater hours after drinking the lethal concoction. She might have been able to fall back into a peacefully permanent sleep, if not for the horrific pain. She only had the strength to utter an open-jawed whimper as her body contorted and strained as if possessed.

Every heartbeat brought a stab of agony. Erika used what she thought were her final breaths to silently plead to a god she did not believe in – begging to let it all end. How fitting, she thought, for her life of misery to end in such a pathetic way – like a dog left shot in an alley. She tried to will herself up from the bed, to find some quicker – if bloodier – method to end her deathbed agony, but her body would not comply.  

The night seemed darker in that attic apartment than any night below the theater had been. The moon was hiding in the shadow of the Earth, and clouds choked the starlight from the sky. The curtains were sealed shut, so not even the streetlights five stories down could reach her small bedroom. She blindly reached for the framed portrait on the bedside table, only for her shaking fingers to knock it to the floor.

Erika searched the darkness for something else, anything else, that she could choose as a meaningful last sight…but found nothing.  

And then she felt her waters break.

~~~~~~~~~

Charlotte deemed herself finished, sat back again with a sigh. Something wet dropped on her face, puzzled, her expression twisted as she tried to find the source. It was her Mama. “Maman? Why do you cry?” Her little hands reached up to her mothers face to wipe one away from her cheek. “I’m all done music. Maman all done music?”

“Alright, then,” she said, holding onto Charlotte’s hips so she wouldn’t tumble from her lap. “All by yourself.”

She watched in amazement as Charlotte replayed what she’d shown her, even correcting herself when her small fingers slipped from the keys. Charlotte seemed to have a pinpoint focus to her as she tapped out the nursery song, growing faster each repetition until the tempo was much faster than they had played together.

A few tears leaked from her eyes, dripping from her smiling lips and into her daughter’s curls. An overwhelming halo of pride glowed from her heart, but buried beneath it was a crushing sense of guilt. Deciding to keep her baby was the best decision she’d ever made. Yet, she had been so close to destroying her. She had been willing to abandon this brilliant little girl on the steps of a church, where no future would await her. It didn’t matter what she had chosen to do instead…she had still been so close to doing it.

Charlotte turned her bright face up towards Erika’s face, just in time for a tear to drip onto her forehead. She couldn’t answer Charlotte for a moment, her throat closed to keep the sobs at bay.

“Maman is fine, Lotte,” she said, taking a handkerchief from her breast pocket before her gaping nasal cavity could start leaking. “I…I love you so much.”

She patted Charlotte’s cheek, staring into her patchwork eyes. “You will never know how much I love you.”

When her little body was back by her toys on the floor she hugged her bear close. “Love you too Bear.” Giggles erupted in little hiccups as Charlotte was very pleased with herself as well. She played the piano and told her little imaginary friends all about it quietly to herself still humming the nursery rhyme. 

Away from the piano she may have been, but there was music deep in her soul. Why would there not be. Charlotte played until she could play no more and cuddled Bear close, barely able to keep her eyes open her head lulled against the bottom of the low sofa.

Erika carried Charlotte back to the chaise lounge and sat her back next to her toys. "Remember to call if you need me," she said, patting Charlotte's hair. "I'll be right over here."

She pulled up her seat to the writing desk on the opposite side of the parlor room. She re-read the draft of her letter, frowned, and ripped it in half. Retrieving a fresh sheet from her drawer, Erika began a fresh letter to her confidant, Madame Antionette Giry:

Prologue: The First Morning

When Erika awoke that night, she knew she was dying. That wasn’t a shock to her – the empty teacup at her bedside still held the white residue she’d chosen to bring about her demise. What was a shock, however, was how painful it was. Cyanide was meant to act quickly, and sleeping tonic was meant to make it painless. Instead, her limbs and lips here numb, and her thoughts swam around in her skull as if underwater hours after drinking the lethal concoction. She might have been able to fall back into a peacefully permanent sleep, if not for the horrific pain. She only had the strength to utter an open-jawed whimper as her body contorted and strained as if possessed.

Every heartbeat brought a stab of agony. Erika used what she thought were her final breaths to silently plead to a god she did not believe in – begging to let it all end. How fitting, she thought, for her life of misery to end in such a pathetic way – like a dog left shot in an alley. She tried to will herself up from the bed, to find some quicker – if bloodier – method to end her deathbed agony, but her body would not comply.  

The night seemed darker in that attic apartment than any night below the theater had been. The moon was hiding in the shadow of the Earth, and clouds choked the starlight from the sky. The curtains were sealed shut, so not even the streetlights five stories down could reach her small bedroom. She blindly reached for the framed portrait on the bedside table, only for her shaking fingers to knock it to the floor.

Erika searched the darkness for something else, anything else, that she could choose as a meaningful last sight…but found nothing.  

And then she felt her waters break.

~~~~~~~~~

Charlotte deemed herself finished, sat back again with a sigh. Something wet dropped on her face, puzzled, her expression twisted as she tried to find the source. It was her Mama. “Maman? Why do you cry?” Her little hands reached up to her mothers face to wipe one away from her cheek. “I’m all done music. Maman all done music?”

"Alright, then," she said, holding onto Charlotte's hips so she wouldn't tumble from her lap. "All by yourself."

She watched in amazement as Charlotte replayed what she'd shown her, even correcting herself when her small fingers slipped from the keys. Charlotte seemed to have a pinpoint focus to her as she tapped out the nursery song, growing faster each repetition until the tempo was much faster than they had played together.

A few tears leaked from her eyes, dripping from her smiling lips and into her daughter's curls. An overwhelming halo of pride glowed from her heart, but buried beneath it was a crushing sense of guilt. Deciding to keep her baby was the best decision she'd ever made. Yet, she had been so close to destroying her. She had been willing to abandon this brilliant little girl on the steps of a church, where no future would await her. It didn't matter what she had chosen to do instead...she had still been so close to doing it.

Charlotte turned her bright face up towards Erika's face, just in time for a tear to drip onto her forehead. She couldn't answer Charlotte for a moment, her throat closed to keep the sobs at bay.

"Maman is fine, Lotte," she said, taking a handkerchief from her breast pocket before her gaping nasal cavity could start leaking. "I...I love you so much."

She patted Charlotte's cheek, staring into her patchwork eyes. "You will never know how much I love you."

Prologue: The First Morning

When Erika awoke that night, she knew she was dying. That wasn’t a shock to her – the empty teacup at her bedside still held the white residue she’d chosen to bring about her demise. What was a shock, however, was how painful it was. Cyanide was meant to act quickly, and sleeping tonic was meant to make it painless. Instead, her limbs and lips here numb, and her thoughts swam around in her skull as if underwater hours after drinking the lethal concoction. She might have been able to fall back into a peacefully permanent sleep, if not for the horrific pain. She only had the strength to utter an open-jawed whimper as her body contorted and strained as if possessed.

Every heartbeat brought a stab of agony. Erika used what she thought were her final breaths to silently plead to a god she did not believe in – begging to let it all end. How fitting, she thought, for her life of misery to end in such a pathetic way – like a dog left shot in an alley. She tried to will herself up from the bed, to find some quicker – if bloodier – method to end her deathbed agony, but her body would not comply.  

The night seemed darker in that attic apartment than any night below the theater had been. The moon was hiding in the shadow of the Earth, and clouds choked the starlight from the sky. The curtains were sealed shut, so not even the streetlights five stories down could reach her small bedroom. She blindly reached for the framed portrait on the bedside table, only for her shaking fingers to knock it to the floor.

Erika searched the darkness for something else, anything else, that she could choose as a meaningful last sight…but found nothing.  

And then she felt her waters break.

~~~~~~~~~

Four years passed and Charlotte had grown into quite the young little lady, bright red ringlet curls bounced around her face. Her eyes were striking, one blue and one almost a golden amber, standing out against her pale almost translucent skin. Erika had been glad her face was beautiful enough to distract from the twisted mess that was her legs. Though she was still the size of the average two year old, she rode in the pram or her mother would carry her. Even at the age of four Charlotte still could not walk unassisted. It hadn’t been until recently that Erika had even put her down on the ground due to the deformity of her little legs.

“You want to play music?” she asked, a smile beaming on what there was of her face.

She had decided from the beginning to not wear any facial covering when alone with Charlotte. There was one lesson, more than anything else, she wanted to teach her daughter: there was no need to hide their deformities from each other. By no means was Charlotte going to hide herself while safe at home.

She grinned, realizing she shouldn't be so surprised. Charlotte had been showing signs of being a savant since infancy. At a few months old, Erika had given her a silver rattle as her first toy. It wasn't long before her little girl was shaking the rattle in very clear rhythms. Erika often thought Charlotte learned to speak so easily because she followed the vocal patterns of language even as a baby.

"Yes, Duckling, you play very pretty music," Erika said, leaning down to kiss Charlotte's forehead. She had started using the nickname almost immediatly, as soon as Charlotte's downy curis became dry.

She took Charlotte's hands and gently moved them to press keys one at a time, note-by-note playing the tune of "Friar Jacques".

Prologue: The First Morning

When Erika awoke that night, she knew she was dying. That wasn’t a shock to her – the empty teacup at her bedside still held the white residue she’d chosen to bring about her demise. What was a shock, however, was how painful it was. Cyanide was meant to act quickly, and sleeping tonic was meant to make it painless. Instead, her limbs and lips here numb, and her thoughts swam around in her skull as if underwater hours after drinking the lethal concoction. She might have been able to fall back into a peacefully permanent sleep, if not for the horrific pain. She only had the strength to utter an open-jawed whimper as her body contorted and strained as if possessed.

Every heartbeat brought a stab of agony. Erika used what she thought were her final breaths to silently plead to a god she did not believe in – begging to let it all end. How fitting, she thought, for her life of misery to end in such a pathetic way – like a dog left shot in an alley. She tried to will herself up from the bed, to find some quicker – if bloodier – method to end her deathbed agony, but her body would not comply.  

The night seemed darker in that attic apartment than any night below the theater had been. The moon was hiding in the shadow of the Earth, and clouds choked the starlight from the sky. The curtains were sealed shut, so not even the streetlights five stories down could reach her small bedroom. She blindly reached for the framed portrait on the bedside table, only for her shaking fingers to knock it to the floor.

Erika searched the darkness for something else, anything else, that she could choose as a meaningful last sight…but found nothing.  

And then she felt her waters break.

~~~~~~~~~

Four years passed and Charlotte had grown into quite the young little lady, bright red ringlet curls bounced around her face. Her eyes were striking, one blue and one almost a golden amber, standing out against her pale almost translucent skin. Erika had been glad her face was beautiful enough to distract from the twisted mess that was her legs. Though she was still the size of the average two year old, she rode in the pram or her mother would carry her. Even at the age of four Charlotte still could not walk unassisted. It hadn’t been until recently that Erika had even put her down on the ground due to the deformity of her little legs.

"You want to play music?" she asked, a smile beaming on what there was of her face.

She had decided from the beginning to not wear any facial covering when alone with Charlotte. There was one lesson, more than anything else, she wanted to teach her daughter: there was no need to hide their deformities from each other. By no means was Charlotte going to hide herself while safe at home.

I saw this beautiful dollmaker and realized I could re-create exactly how I see Erika’s mother, Charlotte.

So, I decided to make a picture that was very likely hanging in Erika’s childhood home: Charlotte’s wedding portrait.

She was roused from her daydreams by a raindrop hitting her scalp. “I agree. It’s a shame we couldn’t stay longer.”

She retrieved the picnic basket and threw the quilt over her shoulder. “I’ll set these on the veranda until the coach arrives. It’s supposed to rain this evening, so bring your goulashes just in case.”

She reached across her lap and took Charlotte’s hand. “Have you seen Papa lately? I wish I could see him as you do.”

She thought for a while, looking at the passing world through the black lace of her sunhat. Her mind wandered to the many mental hospitals in France where women were admitted for the most inane reasons.

“It may be best to keep that a secret, darling. Even if Douglass understands….his family may not.”

Her guts tightened, and the smallest hint of unease ran through her like a wave. No. This was going to be pleasant. She was here to have a lovely family picnic with her daughter.

However, the grey stone cross that marked her lover’s resting place had lost its luster entirely. Moss clung to the base, and brown-green fungus spotted the gravestone like water stains on wallpaper.

Erika removed her sunhat and let it hang limp in her hand. She knelt and caressed the gravestone, now close enough to read the engraved name.

“Hello, my dear,” she said with a sorrowful smile. “It’s been quite some time.”

She turned to Charlotte. “Yes, let’s place the blanket here next to his headstone.”

After setting out their sitting place, Erika settled herself on her knees and rummaged through their picnic basket. The first thing she retrieved was her wine bottle and glass.

Once the picnic was set, Erika rested against the cold side of Christian’s stone, content – albeit melancholy.

After a while, she sat her wine on the ground and chose a sandwich to eat. She looked up at the sky, and saw the beginnings of storm clouds overhead. They weren’t dark enough to blot out the sun, but she was aware of them. She was quiet for some time, her mind wandering to several things.

She retrieved the picnic basket and threw the quilt over her shoulder. “I’ll set these on the veranda until the coach arrives. It’s supposed to rain this evening, so bring your goulashes just in case.”

She reached across her lap and took Charlotte’s hand. “Have you seen Papa lately? I wish I could see him as you do.”

She thought for a while, looking at the passing world through the black lace of her sunhat. Her mind wandered to the many mental hospitals in France where women were admitted for the most inane reasons.

“It may be best to keep that a secret, darling. Even if Douglass understands….his family may not.”

Her guts tightened, and the smallest hint of unease ran through her like a wave. No. This was going to be pleasant. She was here to have a lovely family picnic with her daughter.

However, the grey stone cross that marked her lover’s resting place had lost its luster entirely. Moss clung to the base, and brown-green fungus spotted the gravestone like water stains on wallpaper.

Erika removed her sunhat and let it hang limp in her hand. She knelt and caressed the gravestone, now close enough to read the engraved name.

“Hello, my dear,” she said with a sorrowful smile. “It’s been quite some time.”

She turned to Charlotte. “Yes, let’s place the blanket here next to his headstone.”

After setting out their sitting place, Erika settled herself on her knees and rummaged through their picnic basket. The first thing she retrieved was her wine bottle and glass.

Once the picnic was set, Erika rested against the cold side of Christian’s stone, content – albeit melancholy.

After a while, she sat her wine on the ground and chose a sandwich to eat. She looked up at the sky, and saw the beginnings of storm clouds overhead. They weren’t dark enough to blot out the sun, but she was aware of them. She was quiet for some time, her mind wandering to several things.

She retrieved the picnic basket and threw the quilt over her shoulder. “I’ll set these on the veranda until the coach arrives. It’s supposed to rain this evening, so bring your goulashes just in case.”

She reached across her lap and took Charlotte’s hand. “Have you seen Papa lately? I wish I could see him as you do.”

She thought for a while, looking at the passing world through the black lace of her sunhat. Her mind wandered to the many mental hospitals in France where women were admitted for the most inane reasons.

“It may be best to keep that a secret, darling. Even if Douglass understands….his family may not.”

Her guts tightened, and the smallest hint of unease ran through her like a wave. No. This was going to be pleasant. She was here to have a lovely family picnic with her daughter.

However, the grey stone cross that marked her lover’s resting place had lost its luster entirely. Moss clung to the base, and brown-green fungus spotted the gravestone like water stains on wallpaper.

Erika removed her sunhat and let it hang limp in her hand. She knelt and caressed the gravestone, now close enough to read the engraved name.

“Hello, my dear,” she said with a sorrowful smile. “It’s been quite some time.”

She turned to Charlotte. “Yes, let’s place the blanket here next to his headstone.”

After setting out their sitting place, Erika settled herself on her knees and rummaged through their picnic basket. The first thing she retrieved was her wine bottle and glass.

Once the picnic was set, Erika rested against the cold side of Christian’s stone, content -- albeit melancholy.