The Witch & the Widow - Chapter 8
Inside the buzz of the bees is muted by the mortar, replaced by grandfather and cuckoo clock ticks, the birds’ songs dampened by the stained glass dyeing the morning sun as though it has entered a cathedral, the heat on the mahogany panels and detailing diffusing its own earthy incense in place of the shrubbery.Â
Easy and only natural to recall the events of the last time Imogen entered the manor with such company; even if on that occasion it was night and the windows could only reflect the amber glow of the lamp light as though through a honey veil draped over separating them from the void outside-
She is determined not to walk soil and mess through the Lady’s lodgings a second time.
That time she was understandably at least a little bit out of it, that time they headed straight for the grand staircase.
That time. Not this time.
This time they pass the staircase (passable but impossible to ignore in all of its grandeur), following a shorter corridor that leads forward - the walls just as decorated with paintings of idyllic landscapes and prosperous portraits, stained and inlayed dressers mounted with both freshly picked and almost potpourri’d bouquets and spiders borrowing the architecture of their vases to provide structure for their own dwellings, wood carved friezes relieving green men and gargoyles and sirens from their surfaces - before joining another long corridor that spans the width of the building, mirroring the one at the front and the upper floors by the bedrooms - though absent of windows, dimly lit as doors line along both lengths in their stead.
The bun that holds the majority of Ms Laudna’s hair has loosened from the gardening, flyaway strands trailing behind her skull as though wisps of ghost tails haunting the hallways-
Imogen counts the doors, notes how her footsteps - like the bees in the garden - are muted by the carpet and the swathes of décor.
“It is a lot to look at, is it not? I often feel as though I live in a museum.”
“Would take just as long t’look round and really see it all, for sure.” At least Imogen can assume.
“Yes, I suppose in some ways familiarity is a shame – you stop seeing.”
Yet Ms Laudna has taken the route around the lake many a time and yet still seems enthused by the mundane landmarks that milestone its perimeter, pointing out rotting moss covered tree stumps as if they must be imps’ homes.
Seems a contradiction; how Ms Laudna lives alone (traditionally speaking…) but shares her hallways and bedrooms with a blood-clot-thick line of ancestry, their raised chin and make-up blushed cheek gazes regarding her from perfectly posed arrangements, brandishing symbols of status communicating in another language; scrolls in hands, tiered ruffles around their necks, hounds dancing around their feet.
People now part of the furniture.
“Must be alotta history - it’s an old buildin’, right?”
“Quite a few centuries, yes - even more impressively it had never left the family.”
“Well, that changes with me...” a statement of the explicit that shouldn’t feel so exposing, as though the Lady had rolled over to show her soft underbelly. Imogen wonders if Laudna could ever consider herself as the prey; with the manner in which she submits this, concedes.
Ms Laudna halts, her hand burying between one of the many pleats of her outer skirt; reappearing with a heavily tarnished key between her forefinger and thumb. “I must admit; I often feel torn between utilising all of the space for something of better function, or just letting the spiders take over - they are such delicate little things their legs can’t handle pushing antiques off of the mantelpieces, unlike Prosciutto-” she says with both softness and gravelled exhaustion, the key turned and the lock clicking as she speaks, visibly struggling a little bit with the weight of the door.
“That why ya keep the door locked?”
