1.5

Her heartbeat was thunderously loud with each breath harsh and erratic against the silk pillow muffling her face. A skein of silver hair had slipped from the loose ponytail hold and now curtained half her face, blocking the view of the door as it opened. 

If someone stepped in, the creature did not know. 

Blood tunnelled in her ears loud enough to blot out the person’s heartbeat and movements. 

The curtain still fluttered from her stirrings, falling back in place as silently as a bird alighting.

She waited with bated breath for the voice, the possible punishment–

“Who you foolin’ child? Even my blind mama woulda known you been up since morn’.”

The creature lifted her head, wild eyes searching from between skeins of hair that partialed her vision. Relief shattered her mask of incertitude at the sight of the stout dark woman standing with hands akimbo at the foot of her blood. 

“Yarrow?”

“Parisa.”

“You scared me.”

Yarrow’s grey speckled brow rose in sardonic curiosity, “Did I now?”

Sensing the trap too late, Parisa began to backtrack, “I mean– I didn’t– I wasn’t–”

“Din’t, wasn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t…tsk tsk,” the old lady began to amble towards the window. Her movements had lost their virility with arthritis, disease and the inevitable rush of age. Parisa watched as she reached for the curtains and drew them back letting in light, she squinted at the grounds below in disapproval, “now let’s see which fool you been wasting sleep over.”

I wasn’t looking at anyone, was what she wanted to say but the lie could not rise. So she sat abashed while nervously fiddling with her fingers beneath the blanket.

“That boy yonder? Him?” 

“Which boy?” Parisa questioned with as much innocence as she could muster, demurely peering at her caregiver from beneath long lashes.

Yarrow’s thin chops wobbled as she spoke, “I ain’t no fool child… forget i was once youngin’ and hormonal like you.”

“Hormonal?” She echoed, unsure of the word and how it related to her.

Yarrow shook her head, “Ne’er mind.”

“No…” she was clambering off the bed now, crawling across the vast expanse of mattress towards the woman with the eagerness of a pup, “tell me, what is that?”

Yarrow’s face twisted in a grimace, regret clear as crystals on her heavily-wrinkled face. “Parisa-”

“Please…” Parisa knelt at the foot, hands clutching at the bunched material around her knees as she gazed up at her like some ancient goddess in a temple. “Please–”

“Fine fine, hush now, first we gotta measure you.”

Hastily rising from the bed, she reached for the hem of her nightgown and lifted it off her body revealing a torso so narrow and pure with white skin that seemed to glow with a light of its own from within. Stark ribs shifted like the ivory keys of a piano with each movement she made, abdomen stiff and fragile in its fine musculature.

Yarrow removed a measuring tape, notebook and pen from the front of her apron, “Did you eat supper?”

Parisa shook her head then stilled as the tape went around her neck. “They arrived early… she told them I was not to eat.”

Her caretaker’s head was bowed low and out of view but the futile anger rose dully in her voice as the tape lowered to the smallest part of her waist. “You hungry?”

“Not really.” 

“You lost sum’,” jotting down the numbers in her notebook with a shaky hand, “one inch off the waist… twenty one inches now.”

“Is that… will he be pleased?”

Yarrow nodded with a solemn frown. She said nothing for a moment, simply staring at the numbers on the paper as Parisa reached for the measuring tape, already knowing that she could no longer bend to measure her thighs and calves.

It was not so much the excitement of being underweight that pleased her, for she did not understand the concept of weight, but rather the idea that he would be pleased by her.

She was, afterall, created for the sole purpose of pleasing the man that chose her. That gave her life.

Sorrowful eyes gazed upon the sharp bones sticking out of the creature’s back like the delicate wings of a bird as she wrapped the tape around each thigh, speaking aloud new numbers. Parisa straightened and opened her mouth reflexively as Yarrow leaned in to inspect each tooth, thumbing the faintly sharpening edges. Eighteen years of the same routine had left them moving with mechanical flow.

“Them teeths be comin’ in,” Parisa made a noise of reluctance at her caretaker’s words, “I know you don’ like it but we gotta get ‘em filed down.” 

She shut her mouth and ran a tongue over each tooth, already nursing the phantom aches that would result from the grating file against her teeth, blood spilling from her sensitive gums watery and bright red against her chin as the dentist cooed and hummed about the importance of not using any anaesthesia lest it poison her pure blood.

Yarrow gestured at the gown on the floor and began walking towards the bathroom. “I’ll see what I can get you after… heard some sunflower seeds will be comin’ this week.”

“Sunflower seeds?” With the gown held loosely against her chest, she followed close by her heels into the bathroom and hovered by the door watching as the old lady tried to reach across the  bath’s breadth, grunting and wearily trembling at the arms, her spine bent cruelly from the weight of exhaustion.

“Mmh, heard them others sayin’ ‘bout the woman… tryin find ways to keep that youth of hers.”

“Is that wrong?”

“Guess not,” Yarrow leaned back with a huff as Parisa intercepted and turned on the bath. The old lady lowered herself onto the toilet lid wiping at the beaded sweat crowding her forehead with the hem of her apron. “Hell I’d eat shit if it’d take my growing pains away.”

“Yarrow.”

“Jus’ saying’.”

“Even the commander’s?”

“Now I ain’t that desperate.”

Their eyes met. Peals of giggles and laughter escaping them both muffled by the spray of water and hissing steam as it rose up her bare body. An assortment of scented oils and perfumes brought in from merchant ships decorated the walls; Parisa took her time consuming each bottle, popping open the caps and lifting them to her nostrils. 

Warm, woody, oriental, fresh, flowery; each scent that pleased him carefully chosen for special occasions or daily use.

Some bottles still smelled of the sea from which they had crossed during shipments; water and salt and cold suns. Such a simple smell of the sea elicited a yearning she could not quite place… a dull feeling that the world was much more than her room and the mansion.

Parisa shut her eyes to the caustic sting of the soap as she worked it into her hair and body with methodical strokes, the effort leaving her slightly breathless and dizzy.

Yarrow sat humming a folk song while squinting over the labels on the lotions with a frown, “Lord I need me glasses… caint see shit.” She set the bottle down and leaned back with a grunt, watching as Parisa tilted her face to the shower.

“Hormones are them feelings you get as a youngin’,” her voice penetrated the rush of water, “they make you feel all sorts of feels… I been chasin’ boys like a bitch on heat back then,” a rough chuckle, her heavy bosom swaying like pendulums as she leaned forward to reach for another bottle, “now i ain’t even bothered by them handsome folk, guess i got my fill.”

Parisa considered her words while silently reminiscing over the male that stood outside her window, his face upturned to her window. Speak to me. 

Was that hormonal? The need to have a human conversation with another? Or was it simply the desire for a connection of sorts, a friendship. “Can I get hormonal?” Wrapping a towel about herself, she stepped out of the bath with steam rising in tufts of pale clouds from her flushed dewy skin.

“No it’s different for yous… something else happen, i ain’t sure what though… guess you’ll just know when the mating time comes.”

As Yarrow spoke of raging hormones and the new aches in her knees, the creature adorned the sundress laid out on her bed then sat patiently waiting for her hair to dry as her caretaker ran a brush through until a quantity of fair curls formed, dressed without powder, and threaded by a blue riband at the back of her head. Silver hair fell over her shoulders in several ordered locks as she stepped out of the room, walking a few steps behind Yarrow.

“Did they leave yet?” She questioned as they descended a short flight of stairs that led to the second floor where his children and wife slept. 

“Heard ‘em leave while you was washing up.”

All was silent as they walked down the hallway. 

Her steps slowed imperceptibly as they passed each room, leaning back in the slightest to prolong the sight of servants moving about the rooms in quiet apathy as they aided each other in making the queen-sized beds, dusting dressers, arranging toys and colourful books left astray on the floors.

They spoke to one another with a carelessness she could only covet.

“Parisa.” Yarrow stood at the hallway’s end, a look of disapproval plain as day. 

Parisa hastened her steps, careful not to stop and stare for too long as they descended the final flight onto the main ground. The mansion could only be described as opulent and decadent. Her mistress had chosen most of the heavy oaked furniture, tapestries, carpets and decors. 

Without much knowledge of the outside world, Parisa could only assume that the costs were high during purchase and maintenance. 

Stepping into the dining room, Parisa halted at the sight before her.

Bread. 

So much bread– a variety of grains, plaits and cobs, buns and cakes, soda breads and flatbreads… the heady scent of baked pastries still hot and steaming from the ovens pervading the air, finding her with wants.

Three crystal jugs brimming with juices of different flavours so cold condescension had beaded along their walls, rivulets of cold forming as it dripped and pooled in a circle beneath.

A look of annoyance crossed Yarrow’s face at the sight.

She cursed beneath her breath, already calling for the maids on-duty but Parisa did not hear her voice over the display before her.

Parisa began to reach for a plate, rules forgotten, in a blundering moment of wanting to help clear the table, when Yarrow’s calm hand alighted on her elbow with a firm squeeze. 

She stilled with one hand on the rim of a plate, fine china cold beneath her fingertips, still holding a half-eaten blueberry muffin, and half-turned to face Yarrow’s solemn stare. 

Parisa blinked in mild confusion. When it hit her, she began to stammer abashedly. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to eat it.”

Yarrow smiled grimly, “I know, child–”

“Honest, Yarrow… I only want to help.”

“I know.” She repeated, “there’s people for that, why don’t you go and get sit as I bring your food around.” The hand did not lift. 

Slowly, Parisa released the plate with a flush and soft apology then stepped back, hands clasped before while averting her gaze to the floor as maids streamed in without so much of a glance in her direction. They left with armfuls of pastries and spreads, drinks and fruits, plates and cups until all was bare. 

“Your food should be ready.”

Nodding vaguely, Parisa made her way to the corner of the large dining where a velvet red cushion had been placed. Carefully adjusting her dress above her knees, she knelt onto the softness and waited patiently for her meal.

“It ain’t much,” Yarrow handed her a silver tray with an aluminium cloche atop it shielding her breakfast from sight, “but I couldn’t get more without that damn chef noticing.”

“Your thieving will get you caught one day,” she scolded lightly, unable to hide the deceptive joy in her voice as she lifted the cloche to reveal a small bowl of yoghurt and half a banana sliced over it. A saucer with daily vitamins beside it.

And at the very centre lay the forbidden gift.

Parisa tried and failed to contain her smile at the sight of the bright red fruit. 

Swollen and fleshy and brimming with a unique sweetness she could already taste at the back of her tongue. 

“Thank you for the meal,” she said, looking up at her caretaker with gratitude, “and the strawberry!”

“Hush now, eat it first–”

“I’ll eat it last.”

Yarrow arched a brow, “what if one of ‘em walk in on you? Want us both to be whipped?”

Reluctant but eager to savour the fruit, Parisa ate it slowly, her jaw working delicately over the fruit as it turned to mush, a burst of sweet savoriness clouding her mouth. She swallowed and sucked her tongue for remnants of it.

“I almost forgot,” Yarrow walked out of the room, leaving her to eat.

Parisa ate the plain yoghurt unhurriedly, her mind trailing off to the memory of her teeth biting into the strawberry. Raw sugar slipping down her throat, slow as dripping molasses. She ate silently, sitting back on her heels when the ache on her knees made it uncomfortable to continue. By the time Yarrow returned her bowl was cleared, vitamins swallowed dry and the cloche returned back to its previous state.

She eyed her caretaker curiously, noting both hands held something behind her back. “What is that?” Her eyes widened at the taunting grin, “Yarrow… you didn’t steal–”

The old woman waved a dismissive hand, “I ain’t stealing nun but food, you should know that by now.” 

“What is it–” Parisa stilled as the parcel was presented. A narrow box wrapped in golden lace with a blue bow atop. 

“I ain’t gotta clue.” 

Reaching for the parcel, the creature lifted it to eye-level and turned it about as if she could somehow see through the wrap. 

“Well?” Her eyes lifted to Yarrow who gestured at the parcel, clearly curious to see what lay within. “Go on and open it.”

Prolonging the moment, Parisa lifted it to her ear and gave it a shake as the corners of her mouth tilted into a sly, taunting smile. 

Yarrow’s eyes narrowed.

“Okay, okay.” Setting the box down, she carefully undid the bow then the wrap, cautious not to tear the piece of paper though it would be disposed of immediately after.

“I’ll be six feet under by the time you’re–”

The box opened as both heads leaned over, peering down at the content.