The Lady in the Tower
Light trickled back and forth across my eyelids. I kept them shut, not wishing to wake. My dreams had been disturbing, dark and unsettled. I tried to remember what was causing my unease but it skittered across my mind leaving a distressing blank. Outside I could hear the tit-tit-tit-tswee-tswee of a chiffchaff warbler saluting the morn and then far in the distance, the kee-kee-kee of a kestrel.
Something soft drifted across my face, tickling my nose and cheeks.
I opened one eye and then the other. Above me, rose-colored bed-curtains wisped across my face. High above that, twenty feet or more, a curved ceiling spanned the room, dividing it into eight sections by hand-carved joists till it looked almost like a bramble rose.
I turned my head toward the light, pushing down a greasy film of fear that threatened to spill over into my mind. A small linen-covered table and a single chair was placed before two many-paned doors straddled by brocade curtains. My eyes caught the wingtip of a swallow as it dashed past the opening to sit for half an eye’s blink on the wrought iron balcony. Steam trailed out from a silver teapot marrying with the intoxicating scent of cinnamon pastry.
I raised myself upon my elbows trying to slow the rapid intake of my breath. Outside the doors, the land fell away. A few tall pines stretched up to the sky before the land rolled out into a shrubby valley that moved into woodland. Beyond that, purple mountain tops ascended to meet the horizon. It was lovely, if you liked that kind of thing.
Did I like that kind of thing? I scanned my memory.
Then tried again. I gasped as if gut-punched. Nothing.
My mind was bare, stripped like a bed to its ticking.
My favorite color. My favorite person. My life before waking today—nothing. I couldn’t even recall my name. I hastily rolled to the edge of the bed. A tinned mirror, twice my height and as wide as a wardrobe, flanked the far wall facing the bed.
I walked toward it slowly, terrified of what I would see.
A visage confronted me outfitted in pink and buttercup silk; a girl, still a youth, her hair brushed and plaited into two braids of burnished sable, coiled neatly at the nape of her, er, my neck. My hands pressed to my mouth and then self-consciously I moved them down my body watching as the mirror reflected my motions. I stood there, staring at this stranger’s face, her delicately arched brows over startled blue eyes, a full mouth and strong chin. I tried to get my bearings, tried to remember if I had ever looked like this, worn something like this before.
And my name. What is my name?
Something soft drifted across my face, tickling my nose and cheeks.
I opened one eye and then the other. Above me, rose-colored bed-curtains wisped across my face. High above that, twenty feet or more, a curved ceiling spanned the room, dividing it into eight sections by hand-carved joists till it looked almost like a bramble rose.
I turned my head toward the light, pushing down a greasy film of fear that threatened to spill over into my mind. A small linen-covered table and a single chair was placed before two many-paned doors straddled by brocade curtains. My eyes caught the wingtip of a swallow as it dashed past the opening to sit for half an eye’s blink on the wrought iron balcony. Steam trailed out from a silver teapot marrying with the intoxicating scent of cinnamon pastry.
I raised myself upon my elbows trying to slow the rapid intake of my breath. Outside the doors, the land fell away. A few tall pines stretched up to the sky before the land rolled out into a shrubby valley that moved into woodland. Beyond that, purple mountain tops ascended to meet the horizon. It was lovely, if you liked that kind of thing.
Did I like that kind of thing? I scanned my memory.
Then tried again. I gasped as if gut-punched. Nothing.
My mind was bare, stripped like a bed to its ticking.
My favorite color. My favorite person. My life before waking today—nothing. I couldn’t even recall my name. I hastily rolled to the edge of the bed. A tinned mirror, twice my height and as wide as a wardrobe, flanked the far wall facing the bed.
I walked toward it slowly, terrified of what I would see.
A visage confronted me outfitted in pink and buttercup silk; a girl, still a youth, her hair brushed and plaited into two braids of burnished sable, coiled neatly at the nape of her, er, my neck. My hands pressed to my mouth and then self-consciously I moved them down my body watching as the mirror reflected my motions. I stood there, staring at this stranger’s face, her delicately arched brows over startled blue eyes, a full mouth and strong chin. I tried to get my bearings, tried to remember if I had ever looked like this, worn something like this before.
And my name. What is my name?
