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The first time she dies slowly, blood coloring the earth beneath her a rich auburn and soaking into Mircalla’s skirt. It stains the carefully embroidered flowers a sickly purple- the color of royalty perverted with the blood of the girl who’d spent hours embroidering it. Strange that, in her final moments, she focuses on the hem of a dress and not the woman she loves screaming her name.
Her lady’s hands are always so cold, often uncomfortably so. Styria never really warm, even in summer, and whenever pale hands touch dark skin Esmeralda breaks out into goose flesh. Her lady laughs at how Esmeralda’s instinct is to shy away even as their lips touch, and mourns how she must leave Esmeralda in the blankets shivering after she drinks.
There’s a book in Mircalla’s possession filled with Esmeralda. Locks of her hair are pressed next to charcoal drawings and 19th century photographs. Watercolor portraits and polaroids two centuries apart show the same girl with the same smile and roses in her cheeks.
