Chapter Text
All told, it had been quite the tidy affair. No paperwork or contract, no fuss when your parents walked you beyond the threshold and into the snow. You didn't know at the time that it would likely be the last you ever saw daylight, more immediate to the sting of December and an early morning brightness that screwed your eyes shut. Wind snaked through your collar and sleeves with sinister dexterity and your lungs began to feel too small in frustratingly short order. You had dressed as presentably as possible given the occasion, and ‘presentable’ was seasonably objectionable. Shivers set course through your spine and shoulders. It did not occur to you to question what would or could happen beyond the promise of warmth inside the car. Well, you couldn't see the car, but you could hear the engine and smell of exhaust drifting in the breeze.
When the vessels in your eyes finally throbbed into sight, burnt and oversaturated against the snow but functional, the spectacle ahead struck you. An enormous contraption that appeared more sinew than metal, elegant and dark as a wound against the bluffs. Snowflakes winked against long, mountainous curves that practically lounged above rims freckled by the terrain. You were aware that you were the last person on Earth to be considered an authority on car appraisal (you had seen maybe ten in your life), however it was obvious even to you that it was a machine of absurd design and price. But given the hour and chill, your thoughts extended only a short way beyond initial awe before your legs began to move with the urgency the cold demanded. Feet broke through the frozen shelf with a series of crunches accompanied by shards scratching against your (thinly) socked ankles. The car, of course, was only a short distance away, but the trudge was unmistakably unpleasant. Imposing vibrations from the engine could be felt through your shoes as you walked.
Still, as you approached the halfway point between the house and vehicle, you broke stride to peek over your shoulder. The curl of your breath faded to reveal your parents' faces in the doorway, haggard countenances barely visible above thick woolen shawls. Your father’s sun-worn skin blended into the fabric with peculiar continuity and his nose poked out just far enough to give the impression of some large, strange bird. In his hands he clutched a wad of bills that canoed beneath knuckles white as the morning itself. And your mother’s eyes, normally inscrutable in their darkness, caught the early light and shone with a richness that almost made her beautiful. But they said nothing and did not move, so you took a second to preserve the scene before turning away, continuing to leave pale dimples in your wake.
All told, quite the tidy affair.
-
The interior of the automobile was just as, if not more, luxurious than the exterior. A flush of embarrassment touched your ears thinking how starkly out of place you must look tucked beside one of the windows, dead certain you were dirtying the leather beneath you. It was plush and warm but you had quickly begun to shift. Unfamiliar with excess of any kind, riding in something this exquisite made you nervous. Never before had you felt more capable of accidentally breaking something, failing to turn your attention away from fermenting anxiety in your gut and keep yourself from squirming.
The air inside smelled curiously antiseptic, you thought, and your chauffeur was silent as a tomb. It was difficult to discern what kind of face he had other than it was thin and had watery blue eyes that occasionally flickered to meet your's from the rear-view. They bulged slightly and you had yet to see them blink.
The road fell away from the village and immediately surrendered to thick columns of conifers that steadily grew denser with distance. It didn’t take long before they had begun to encroach inward, narrowing the road and becoming increasingly feral until their boughs began to lick the roof and side mirrors as you passed. Listening to the branches scraping metal seemed like a superior use of your time compared to making anxious eye contact with the driver as the car burgeoned through the wilderness, so you set to occupy yourself with that. Some of the places initially were familiar, having been acquainted with the exterior parts of the hinterland. Shallow areas you had cut wood in or explored as a child, but it was surprising how quickly the forest grew alien. Oppressive, even. Until the chaffing of the trees eventually succeeded to lull you a bit, and you settled into the accommodating leather.
The sudden sound of the chauffeur clearing his throat caused you to jump, snapping your head toward the noise.
"Can you read?" He asked, voice strangled and gravelly. Like he hadn't spoken in days. You blinked, perhaps because he would not.
"Ah, yes."
He made an indeterminate grunt in response.
Literacy wasn't especially necessary to survival in a region so removed from greater society, so it wasn't always a given. Or rather, you thought, your village's reading comprehension was basic but rendered more or less vestigial by adulthood.
His eyes flitted to your's from the rear-view, unblinking but more discerning now. Creases had appeared below his lids.
"How's your handwriting." It didn't sound like a question.
You offered a nervous, conciliatory shrug. "It's... It's okay," You rubbed your palms together, noting a collection of sweat developing in the deeper lines, "It's not particularly pretty, but it's legible."
He held you paralyzed in the reflected gaze, brows knitting as if trying to confirm something in your face.
You then watched his hand disappear into the lavishly stitched center console, fumbling around for a moment before producing a small, dog-eared block of stationary. He hooked his arm into the backseat and tossed it at you with an unsteady jerk, returning to retrieve a pen and repeat the process.
"Write something."
You could feel your expression bending with the request. "Oh, um, alright." You collected the items before they were jostled out of your hands by a sudden pitch in the road. Scrambling to recover them you hesitantly ventured, "What should I write?"
He spat an impatient noise not unlike a bark.
"I don't know-- something." It was difficult to say for certain underneath the thickness of his coat, but you thought he may have been shaking. He twitched his shoulders to signal some kind of impromptu musing. "Her name, write her name. You can spell, can’t you."
"Oh, okay." Now weathering under the impression that this was an odd sort of test, you carefully scrawled your employer's name onto the pad and leaned to return it.
He snapped the stationary back with the same peculiar, shakey motion and his stare left the mirror to inspect your work. A hush fell that lasted only a second, but it was heavy enough to leech the air from your throat.
After it passed, he flicked the pad into the passenger seat.
"That'll do."
He did not speak or meet your eyes again for the rest of the ride. The conversation was left to trees against a car frame, tires murmuring over packed earth and snow.
-
If the vehicle had been imposing, you realized with sinking awe that it was a mere dilution of the severe majesty Castle Dimitrescu encompassed. On the horizon, turrets and spires had revealed themselves long before you passed a cemetery in various stages of dereliction, longer still before the iron gates. They looked like spearheads raised towards the sun and left you with the impression that it was an emulation of something. Of what you didn’t know, but it was violent.
Rolling to a crawl at the mouth of the stone courtyard your chauffeur broke suddenly and hard, lurching you forward in the seat. After you resuscitated the seatbelt from a deathgrip against your chest, yanking as delicately as you could for fear of damaging it, it occurred to you that beyond the hum of the car it was impossible to make out any sound from outside. It was snowing, but the atmosphere was absent of the insulated sort of hush that you were familiar. You tried to catch the driver’s eyes in the rearview as if to question this, but it seemed he was deliberately turning his head away. An enduring quiet settled that was almost as apparent as the one outside, and you resigned yourself to reach for the door. It was lined and felt so soft in your hand.
“The lady likes letters.”
That was all he said before you lifted the handle, and when you had barely stepped out of the car both he and it evaporated. The only scent and sound in the air was of burnt rubber and the fading peal of tires before you were alone with the silence. The flakes beginning to nest in your hair seemed to hold a strange weight.
It was moments, maybe minutes; you were unaware of how long you stood in the courtyard allowing snow to colonize the folds of your clothing. It fell in wide, fat discs on your shoulders. But your awareness of the stillness never ceased and was almost painful in your brain, as if every other function not devoted to comprehending it had receded into a deeper part of your body. Your fingers began to cherry and your ears burnt; the snow and breath before your lips were the only things that moved.
But the pain of the cold eventually drew you from where you had gone and your eyes, slow as a procession, slid to the door some six yards away. It was massive, fashioned of a thick and ancient wood. On one slab, a giant lion’s head knocker studied you with what you could only assume was silvery contempt. Or was it pewter..? You had never held either in your hands and didn’t actually know the difference. But, and the thought came with a distant spark of excitement, you would now. Swinging limbs stiff with freeze, you made your way to the door. The crunch of your shoes felt both like it echoed miles and swallowed whole by the hush.
Approaching it, you noticed the knocker was positioned much higher than your initial estimate, hitched slightly above eye level. It struck you as peculiar, but this was a timeless structure whose history and construction you were not qualified to speculate on, so your fingers reached to curl around the plated ring. Upon contact however, your hand reflexively twitched away. It was so impossibly cold, temperature (or like thereof) practically biting your already rigid and red pads. The lion’s stare held a vacant kind of reproach that when you looked at it felt unnerving. As though it wished to turn you away. But you regained enough composure to reattempt, and you also discovered it to be very cumbersome to lift. In a remote, black corner of your brain, something began to whisper. It was too heavy, it said, something was wrong. Breath threaded from behind your teeth, and with the respiration you also expelled the thought. Wrist straining, you proceeded to knock three times.
…You waited, hands shoved beneath your armpits in a losing battle against shivering.
…And waited, teeth setting and beginning to chatter. Your nose and ears burned.
Several minutes followed and finally in exasperation you went to grab the knocker for another series of bangs, though as soon as your hand closed around the ring the door swung open with a monstrous, echoing groan. With you attached. Vaulting forward in a struggle to remain upright, the first thing you noticed was warm light bouncing off marble tile. And then a heat so dramatic it caused you to wince.
Blinking several times before looking up to acknowledge the countenance of a short, frail looking woman drowning in her black dress and smock. Her expression was grave, stare pointed. The small lines that framed the corners of her mouth appeared like deep, sharp apostrophes and the sensation of unwelcome you experienced outside doubled in your stomach. But, you thought ruefully, the likelihood of another opportunity of similar caliber being offered to you was decidedly unfavorable, so you hastily righted yourself and dusted snow off your person in the most competent way you thought possible.
The smaller woman remained silent, continuing to look at you expectantly.
“Goodness, I’m so sorry for my clumsiness, how embarrassing.” It left your mouth a hair too saccharine, and you attempted to adjust accordingly. “I was um, I was brought here for the live-in position?”
You eyed her uncertainly, now considering the possibility of a mistake, how she may not have been expecting you at all. That you were simply an intruder banging on the door of an enormous estate, tracking snow water and dirt on their perfectly polished tile. You fidgeted with the left sleeve of your coat while she observed you, scanning you for something impossible to ascertain.
Finally, she spoke in a dry, sandpaper voice.
“Can you write?” She asked.
You paused. That was the second time your literacy had been called into question today. But no matter.
“Yes, I can write. My um, my handwriting isn’t especially good, but I can write.”
She sniffed, brows narrowing slightly. Her mouth then worked a queer, short jig before gesturing for you to close the door and enter the foyer. Relief swam over you nearly as intense as the warmth inside, and made quick (if pained) work to guide the gate without swinging hard behind you. When you turned around, nerves easing and expression reflecting this, changed when you discovered that the woman had made an impressive amount of distance away from you and was obviously intending to be followed.
Riding briskly as possible on your cold-clumsy legs to catch up, she immediately broke into a litany of rules and expectations regarding your tenure at Castle Dimitrescu. It was mechanical and practiced, absent of consideration for comprehension or questions. Her delivery conveyed an unmistakable expectation that you were to memorize the things she was telling you verbatim, and whenever you found yourself in eyeshot of her, even peripherally, her eyes stayed trained on you and did not blink. You had no time to absorb your surroundings as you fought to memorize the deluge, and your initial impression of the castle’s interior reduced itself to a decadent blur as you hurried beside her.
When the woman finally finished the syllabus, she stopped you (or she stopped and you jerked to a halt) in a dark hallway. Brain attempting to review, you concluded that you had internalized several items of note.
-The Countess who owned the estate was a fiercely private, strict woman with patience and standards befitting her status.
-The Countess was also an internationally recognized exporter and creator of fine wine, and her business was both highly profitable and time consuming.
-Due to increased demand this season, she had elected to employ a full time secretary to organize meetings, take business calls, and in general attend to both her work and personal needs. You were now being assigned to that position.
-Windows were to be closed at all times without exception, and the cellar only accessed by the Countess, her three daughters, head maid and chef.
-The Countess’ daughters were excitable and best avoided unless specifically addressed.
-You had absolutely no God damn idea where you were in the castle right now because you were too preoccupied retaining all of this information.
“Do I make myself clear?” She asked, still having yet to tear her eyes away from you or move her lids. You hesitantly repeated her words hoping to confirm your understanding without misremembering or skipping key details.
She provided a noncommittal tut, and waved to a door just as heavy and austere looking as the lion gate. Then she spun on her heels and disappeared into the hallway without another word.
When you were confident that you were truly alone again, the oppressive silence returned en force and coated your senses like paint. Fingers found the sleeve of your coat while your shoes fidgeted against a floor that you realized for the first time was no longer marble, but dark, rich wood. There was a curious scent in the air that took a second to register as tobacco, but much sweeter and complex than the acrid leaves your father smoked. You began toward the door and its intensity increased, indicating a source. You swallowed hard, but your throat was surprisingly dry.
With shaking knuckles you wrapped once, twice against the door. No confirmation was met by this, but you swore you could hear a soft sigh from beyond the threshold. You waited for several moments and nothing happened. But motivated to escape the quiet, you gathered a reserve of courage previously hidden and carefully turned the knob.
Once inside you were confronted with a room of dizzying opulence bathed in gold, maroon, and white. Regal installments populated every corner that a veil of smoke hung above. A fantastically large armchair was placed back to you near a smoldering fireplace and enormous four poster bed. The smell of tobacco inside was overwhelming but not altogether unpleasant. Expensive perfume mingled somewhere within it, but you couldn’t place any of the notes.
The assault on your nose must have dumbed you slightly, because you think you may have forgotten to announce yourself or close the door behind you. A fresh thread of smoke jetted from the front of the armchair in a purposeful, impatient line.
“It appears that the greater region is just as ill-mannered as the locals.” The voice low as a grave, dulcet as down. “I rue my optimism.”
A long, elegant limb emerged from the chair’s arm with a cigarette holder perched between gloved fingers. The leather shone with dull radiance against the firelight and it occurred in your admiration of the quality that you had never been told what the Countess looked like. Instinctively, you shifted and inclined your head to maybe glean more information about the appendage’s owner.
“I- I’m sorry, Ma’am. I must still be out of sorts from the journey. My name is–”
She cut you off, a current of irritation beneath her words. “Spare yourself, I’m quite aware.”
With a sigh so heavy and resigned you could practically feel it in your chest, your new employer lifted herself from the chair.
… And continued to lift herself. You consulted what little arithmetic at your disposal to estimate the height of the ceiling, and you were very certain that this was not a low room. She must have been slouching before she stood because at her proper height, her head nearly brushed the copper paneling. And she was the most breathtaking person you had ever seen. Your eyes raked over the lines of her silhouette, all slopes and cinches, ivory and silver until you reached her eyes which were a pale gold. Dark curls caressed her face, which was at once composed of severe angles and a certain softness in perfect harmony. All below a long, fashionably tilted hat that cast most of her left side in intriguing gloom.
While you drank her in her expression had begun to shift from annoyance to a mockish kind of amusement. Her red lips twitched. “Ill-mannered, perhaps, but easy to impress.” Her voice was warm with unkindness, taking her holder and drawing long and slow. She took only one step but it was sufficient to cross the room where she bent to meet your eyes, a stare impossible to hold. You were acutely aware of how large her breasts were in this moment and felt a hot streak crawling across your face. Words shriveled on your tongue before they could begin to form against your brain’s insistence to speak, to correct yourself. You alternated for a second blinking to and from her assets and the floor, pulse sprinting.
A deep, throaty chuckle erupted from the Countess, and quicker than you could react she had snatched your chin in her free hand, forcing you to meet her gaze. A flash of white split her red smile, and she suddenly exhaled through her teeth, pushing smoke into your face. You tried to retreat, eyes watering and pained, but her grip was stone.
“You don’t look nearly as terrible in tears as the last.” She purred, eyes curling with a syrupy cruelness. Something in your chest began to hammer, breath hitching. “Let’s hope you’re as sturdy as I was told.”
And it was suddenly clear to you what the colors of your employer, of the room reminded you of: it was the colors of blood, bone, and marrow. It became astonishingly difficult to suppress the urge to scream.