32nd Summer 514AV
Twelfth Bell
Twelfth Bell
Adelaide didn't open her eyes as she heard a bell go off somewhere in the house indicating that yet another bell had passed and that she still had not left her bed. How many was it now? Three, four, five? It would almost be lunchtime and then the day was wasted. In fact, there was no 'would' about it for Adelaide already perceived it to be very much a wasted day. Although she had felt ready to throw in the towel at any point during the last ten days, she had still continued going to work, earning the money she needed. Now she wondered what the point was?
"It's been four years." she murmured.
That was exactly four years: one thousand four hundred and sixty one days since Naolom asked her to marry him and one thousand four hundred and sixty two days since she found out that she was pregnant. It felt like a lifetime ago, a lifetime that had somehow gone dreadfully, dreadfully wrong - a lifetime played around with by Tanroa, the goddess of time herself. It could have been days, or hours or years or centuries. Somehow, it all didn't matter, except for the times when Adelaide reminded herself: 'I should be a wife and mother. Our daughter, for the foetus had indeed been female, would be three. We could have had another two children at least since then and he would have had the time to teach me to play the Lyre.' Through eyes heavy with sleep, still wet and blurred with tears, Adelaide was presented with visions of a past that never was, a past that could have been.
"In any other world, it would have happened." she said, standing up from the bed and moving to the chair where she had left her black linen dressing gown the night before, after being bathed. She slipped it on (not as comfortable as she ought to have been, wandering around the room completely nude) lest a slave see her, before sitting down.
Earlier that morning, a house slave had come in to wake Adelaide up and open the curtains, receiving as a reward a stray shoe which only narrowly missed his head. Now, Adelaide felt quite happy to sit in the dark, feeling she had at least taken the initiative to leave her bed. She dragged the chair closer to the mirror next to the fireplace which was, thankfully, not lit and stared at herself. With the windows half open and the light jutting in at an angle, she looked almost dead-like, her light skin completely contrasted with the short, black dressing gown and hair, unusually dark for the time of the year, streaming down her back, like the mane of a drowning victim. Her legs, slimmer than they had been when she had been with Naolom, looked like the roots of some strange underground or water-based plant. It was all a little depressing.
"I'm not moving." she told her reflection, "You can't make me."
At that moment, there was a knock at the door.
"Adelaide? I heard from Marzia that you've not started working yet today. Are you ill?"
Adelaide did not answer but instead kept looking at her reflection, unblinkingly. Then, as the knocking continued, "No, Father. I'm not ill." - I look it, but I'm not.
"Then you ought to go... I know you need a day off every now and then but today is not the day. You should occupy your thoughts. You should ascertain whether the stocks of liquor need replenishing."
Easier said than done, thought Adelaide, the tears already rising to her eyes. She snapped, "How would you know?" and, as soon as she said it, she realised she had made a mistake. The other side of the door had gone quiet.
"Indeed Adelaide. How would I know? I can't really relate." Roland Sitai said finally, the sarcasm in his voice so light that Adelaide would not have recognised had she not known exactly what her Father had suffered. He started moving away from the door, "You should go on a walk. Clear your head. Then you'd stop saying silly things and sitting around feeling sorry for yourself."
Adelaide listened morosely as the steps faded away and returned to trying to out-stare her reflection.
"Well," she said finally, addressing it directly, "It isn't the same. He has Zuleikha and me: something to remember Mother by. I don't have anything to remember Naolom by and I must have done something terribly wrong so that our baby died before it had even been born. They were married while Naolom and I were never able to. And, finally, it's been twenty-three years since Mother died. Naolom died less than four years ago. Today would have been the fourth anniversary of our engagement." she paused before concluding, facing the reflection with a certain level of uncertainty, "I'm allowed to grieve."
The reflection did not seem to sympathise with the feelings expressed and Adelaide felt a surge of pity for the pathetic vision in front of her. Maybe she would take a walk.
"It's been four years." she murmured.
That was exactly four years: one thousand four hundred and sixty one days since Naolom asked her to marry him and one thousand four hundred and sixty two days since she found out that she was pregnant. It felt like a lifetime ago, a lifetime that had somehow gone dreadfully, dreadfully wrong - a lifetime played around with by Tanroa, the goddess of time herself. It could have been days, or hours or years or centuries. Somehow, it all didn't matter, except for the times when Adelaide reminded herself: 'I should be a wife and mother. Our daughter, for the foetus had indeed been female, would be three. We could have had another two children at least since then and he would have had the time to teach me to play the Lyre.' Through eyes heavy with sleep, still wet and blurred with tears, Adelaide was presented with visions of a past that never was, a past that could have been.
"In any other world, it would have happened." she said, standing up from the bed and moving to the chair where she had left her black linen dressing gown the night before, after being bathed. She slipped it on (not as comfortable as she ought to have been, wandering around the room completely nude) lest a slave see her, before sitting down.
Earlier that morning, a house slave had come in to wake Adelaide up and open the curtains, receiving as a reward a stray shoe which only narrowly missed his head. Now, Adelaide felt quite happy to sit in the dark, feeling she had at least taken the initiative to leave her bed. She dragged the chair closer to the mirror next to the fireplace which was, thankfully, not lit and stared at herself. With the windows half open and the light jutting in at an angle, she looked almost dead-like, her light skin completely contrasted with the short, black dressing gown and hair, unusually dark for the time of the year, streaming down her back, like the mane of a drowning victim. Her legs, slimmer than they had been when she had been with Naolom, looked like the roots of some strange underground or water-based plant. It was all a little depressing.
"I'm not moving." she told her reflection, "You can't make me."
At that moment, there was a knock at the door.
"Adelaide? I heard from Marzia that you've not started working yet today. Are you ill?"
Adelaide did not answer but instead kept looking at her reflection, unblinkingly. Then, as the knocking continued, "No, Father. I'm not ill." - I look it, but I'm not.
"Then you ought to go... I know you need a day off every now and then but today is not the day. You should occupy your thoughts. You should ascertain whether the stocks of liquor need replenishing."
Easier said than done, thought Adelaide, the tears already rising to her eyes. She snapped, "How would you know?" and, as soon as she said it, she realised she had made a mistake. The other side of the door had gone quiet.
"Indeed Adelaide. How would I know? I can't really relate." Roland Sitai said finally, the sarcasm in his voice so light that Adelaide would not have recognised had she not known exactly what her Father had suffered. He started moving away from the door, "You should go on a walk. Clear your head. Then you'd stop saying silly things and sitting around feeling sorry for yourself."
Adelaide listened morosely as the steps faded away and returned to trying to out-stare her reflection.
"Well," she said finally, addressing it directly, "It isn't the same. He has Zuleikha and me: something to remember Mother by. I don't have anything to remember Naolom by and I must have done something terribly wrong so that our baby died before it had even been born. They were married while Naolom and I were never able to. And, finally, it's been twenty-three years since Mother died. Naolom died less than four years ago. Today would have been the fourth anniversary of our engagement." she paused before concluding, facing the reflection with a certain level of uncertainty, "I'm allowed to grieve."
The reflection did not seem to sympathise with the feelings expressed and Adelaide felt a surge of pity for the pathetic vision in front of her. Maybe she would take a walk.