Dresses in the Wardrobe

Rosamund's thoughts were racing with confusion on the night of her wedding. She felt so alive and aware that she couldn't understand it. She hadn't slept since waking up from her death-like sleep twenty-four hours earlier, yet she didn't feel the need to yawn or let her eyes drop. A tiny gleam of dawn appeared on the horizon. She drew the heavy curtains reluctantly to keep the light out, a painful chore, yet she was still as alert as ever. Yes, she was bursting with energy after her recent feast in the forest.

Were vampires ever able to sleep? She considered this strange idea for a moment. She shuddered as she realized her husband was the only person who could respond.

That brought her to the second thing that was bothering her: Count Ivar had disappeared, leaving her alone again. Why? She had been brought here to marry him. She looked around the opulent master bedroom uneasily. Even for an undead creature like him, the big bed, furnished with plush pillows and an opulent eiderdown, appeared to have a single function. As any husband would on his wedding night, even in an arranged match, it was reasonable to assume he would complete his union.

So would he be coming for her soon? Maybe he was waiting for her to gather her thoughts.

Her pulse was pounding, even though her zombie heart was no longer beating—probably from the quick, shallow breaths she breathed. Her hands became cold. Never again would she allow him to touch her. Rosamund was determined but neither hostile or combative. No one could change her thoughts once she made up her mind.

With her teeth clenched in rage, she thought, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. She felt queasy just knowing that he was her spouse. In an attempt to calm herself, she frantically walked the room, but her attempts were unsuccessful when she noticed her image in the mirror.

To her dismay, she realized she was a mess. The corner of her mouth was stained with a trickle of blood. She quickly washed it off with water from the vanity sink. She couldn't fix her nightgown. She cautiously opened the closet doors and discovered a white silk dress—the only item of clothing there.

Her heart fell. It was a dress for a wedding. Was Count Ivar's sense of humor twisted and sick? Even though wearing the gown seemed like giving in to him, she had no choice but to do so. She wouldn't let him enjoy whatever nasty joke he was planning. She shivered as she took the dress off the rack and took off her frayed nightgown.

The white gown looked beautiful once it was on. Its enormous, wide skirt flared with scalloped lace at the hem and ruffled petticoats. Off-the-shoulder sleeves framed the boldly low neckline, while the tight waistline highlighted her hourglass form. It was horrifying, though, because she resembled the bride in every way.

Even worse, while being aware that she was only a peasant girl, she appeared to be the epitome of a real Lady, an aristocrat.

She started to smooth her opulent curls into place almost automatically. What was she doing? Despite his painfully obvious yearning for her, she had no desire to make herself desirable to him. She just wanted him to stop bothering her.

Count Ivar did not arrive.

Through the night she paced restlessly, but Count Ivar was nowhere to be seen. The huge luxurious master suite started to feel heavy as daylight drew near. Pulling herself together, she pushed open a pair of double doors on the opposite side of the room. She quickly closed them as sunlight streamed inside. She concluded that the doors probably went to a balcony on the tower and decided to investigate it at night.

She dreaded seeing Count Ivar again and didn't want to leave the room, but the more she walked, the more the room appeared to enclose her.

Finally, after an eternity of pacing, her fingers twitching, her breath escaping in small sighs, her heels tapping frantically against the floor, she threw open the hallway door with force. Someone was standing just over the doorway, and she paused, taking a deep breath in surprise. It wasn't Count Ivar, though.

The figure squeaked, "Pardon me, My Lady, I did not know if anyone was inside."

A woman in her middle years stood in front of the door, now pressing herself against the wall across from it as though she were attempting to disappear. She was as skinny as a birch tree, with pale, parched skin and eyes that darted from side to side like a hunted animal, always on the lookout for danger. Under a stiffly starched apron, she wore a clean but worn dress.

Rosamund was so shocked by what she saw. She had thought that Count Ivar had no servants, but here she was, a living, breathing human woman, shivering under Rosamund's stare like a trapped mouse.

"Who—who are you?" Rosamund inquired.

The woman gave a shaky curtsy. She answered, "Hilda, My Lady, the housekeeper." "I haven't had the opportunity to meet Your Ladyship yet."

She was so terrified that it seemed like a blow to Rosamund, causing a pain in her chest. In Castle Dravenstone, the only other person who could provide company was too afraid to do so.

The housekeeper went on, "I will attend to you if you need anything."

"Are you by yourself?" Rosamund asked, a knot in her throat growing.

Hilda appeared to comprehend. "It's just me and the gardener, who's my husband, Gregor."

Before her desire was satisfied, Rosamund took a deep breath and understood why Count Ivar had shut her door. Her senses were bombarded by the enticing aroma of human blood—not so much as a fine perfume, but more like the tempting aroma of a rich feast boiling in the adjacent room. She could just see Hilda's blood pumping in the vein at her neck, beckoning and luring her in.

Rosamund's face was buried in her hands. No, no, no! Such thoughts would not cross her mind. Desperate for a diversion, she pushed her thoughts to other topics. She reminded herself that she wasn't even thirsty. Rosamund would be guilty of murder if he hurt Hilda since she was a person, a live being.

Hilda's voice was cautious as she spoke again. If you want me to leave, I'm sorry, My Lady. I was warned by the Master.

She was aware already.

Rosamund instantly reassured her, trying to maintain her composure, "No, I'm fine." She found it easier to control her desires by staring at the terrified features of the housekeeper. "I swear, I won't harm you."

Hilda said, "Well, if there is nothing you need, Madam, I must be going," bowing submissively before practically running down the hall.

Rosamund fought back tears as she bit her lip. Here, she remained alone.