A Fruitful Encounter

The corridor was drafty, and the shaking winds sneaking their way through whatever fissures and fractures crawled through the walls. The gas lamps guttered low, as if the manor itself breathed slow and harsh in the cloudy, dark day. Cecilia walked down the middle of the hall, brushing the edges of candle-birthed shadows. Holding the tray in one hand, she absentmindedly tapped the it against her free palm over and over.

“Dmitri?” Cecilia called, voice soft in case of any sudden passerby. “Are you still there? I have a question.”

Oh my! What are you doing, Cecilia, calling out to your narrator? His voice was a balance of amusement and curiosity, carried on one of the barest breezes Cecilia felt sneak its way through a gap in the near windowsill. Are we directly breaking the fourth wall now?

“I’d like to ask the same,” she groused. Her face twisted in question. “You said you didn’t want to affect the ‘story’ too much. But you directly caused that woman to notice me.”

It was an affirmation, he said passively, as if it were no big deal. You actually interacted with an interesting character, and what do you know, it was actually interesting. Congrats, by the way. Not to mention— The air seemed to shrug as he continued. —With your not-so-impenetrable stone face, you did a fine enough job of keeping Lady Calliope’s attention.

She rolled her eyes with a tsk. “Whatever. What’s actually important is that she noticed…you.” She paused, feet coming to a halt, hands fingers gripping the handles of her tray. “Are ‘characters’ able to do that?” Her mind’s gears turned, faster and faster the longer Dmitri stayed silent. “The characters with faces…Are they real, too—”

The tray nearly fell right out of her hands, suddenly a healthy few pounds heavier than it was a second ago. Her panicked grip clutched and steadied it quickly, breaking her concentration as she stared, bewildered, at the tray suddenly filled with an artisan’s array of gleaming wine and sugared fruit. “What on God’s green—”

I believe someone hungrily awaits you, Cecilia—You’d better get to him.

She didn’t know whether to pale, flush, or vomit at the claim. Before she could do anything, though, a tall chamber door creaked open just down the hallway’s length.

The master’s chamber door.

She could already feel the scene building—The thick, invisible weight pressing in around her. The words of the page before they were written. The cloying scent of roses from nowhere.

Romantic tension.

Yep, okay, there was the shiver crawling down her spine—And not in a sexy way!

Reluctantly, almost cautiously, she approached Lord Olrin’s chamber door, pausing just outside its opening. The silver tray trembled faintly in her hands, but Cecilia kept it in a tight strain in her white-knuckled grip. Uh-uh, no trembling—She would not give this story the satisfaction. She steadied it, muttering to herself under her breath at the cheap atmospheric trick.

She had read enough cheesy romance novels to understand how the script was supposed to run—If anyone was present, Olrin would dismiss them upon the maid’s apprehensive arrival; he would turn toward her in that heavy velvet chair—so many velvet chairs—and say something both cruel and tender. The candlelight would lick his cheekbones; she would blush despite herself, hating herself for the conflicting feelings of fear and attraction. The fruit on the tray, of course, would symbolize divine temptation—and bodily consumption, but that would not be until later. By the scene’s climax, she would be lost in his eyes. By the falling action, she’d be trapped.

But that was not in the cards today, tonight, or ever. Not in this house, at least.

With a deep inhale, Cecilia rapped her knuckles against the door’s oak surface before entering immediately after. She strode inside with all the confidence she could muster before throwing the tray down with a clatter loud enough to make the crystal rattle.

He glanced up from his book—some ominous-looking tome with a cracked spine—and raised a brow. “Careful, little dove,” he warned, voice rolling like smoke on water. “That could have shattered.”

She bit her tongue at the petname, purposely ignoring it, before leaning one arm on the top of his desk and offering a wide, toothy grin. “Ah, well, no harm, no foul, yeah?” Her voice was obscenely casual and irreverent, dousing any heated atmosphere with cold water. “Hell,” she continued, slapping the desk’s surface, “Even if it did all tumble over, I’m sure you could count your coppers and scrounge up enough for replacements, right? You’ve certainly got more than two to rub together, don’t you?”

Those dark eyes only blinked at me, any smolder that may have remained replaced with surprise. One sculpted eyebrow raised in question, but before any narrative strategizing could be done, Cecilia continued.

“Fruit’s sour today,” she lied, stabbing one of the grapes with a dainty fork atop the serving tray. Popping it into her mouth. She chewed loudly, winced extravagantly. “Ugh, see? Terrible,” she slurred through the juice. “I don’t know what mega-wealth vineyard you imported these buggers from, but the crop sure isn’t rich, I can tell you that much.”

He just continued to stare at her—stared as if the lines so intrinsically expected had been ripped from his mouth before he even had the opportunity speak them. It was a dangerous gaze, but not similar to what he had the previous day, one that might have bent me to the narrative if she allowed him to take the lead. If Cecilia dared to put a word to it, it almost felt offended, as if he had been robbed.

He did not have the opportunity to gain the upper hand again. She did not permit him the chance.

Now to get the hell out of there.

So, she wrinkled her nose and twisted her lips. Her shoulders heaved lightly once, then higher the second time, then obviously on the third as her head reared back.

Then, she sneezed. Not delicately, not daintily—Violently. Once, twice, three times, before she wiped her nose with her sleeve.

The candle flickered; the roses wilted into mildew on the air. And the atmosphere finally died with it.

“Are you—” he began.

“Ugh!” Cecilia grimaced through a snotty groan. “There must be something in the air, something just real gross and obnoxious. I have very sensitive allergies, and it could really be anything nasty and unsavory. Funny, though, that they didn’t start acting up ’til I got up here.” She punctuated each sentence with a hard sniffle. “Ah, don’t take it personally, of course. Some people give me the hives. You probably can’t help it.”

For a heartbeat, she swore she saw a smile almost cross his face. Almost. Then he leaned back, studying her like a novelty or a circus act.

“You,” he said at last, “are a peculiar girl.” There were still traces of intrigue in the words, for better or worse. But, where there may have been a flicker of lustful attraction in another timeline, in this moment there was a determining, almost concerned observation.

“Yes, well, ” I replied brightly, “Keeps things interesting. Anyway—enjoy your terrible fruit and foreboding books. I’ll be fetching a mop and cleaning out any gross muck sludging its way around the place, sending me into another mucus attack.” She walked backward toward the door, shooting finger guns at Olrin as she shuffled out. “Smell you later, my lord.”

And before the scene could rearrange itself, before candlelight could soften or violins rise to salvage aby remnants of a mood, she was out the door. As soon as she was out of sight, she took off like a shot, power walking down the hall.

The first seduction attempt was thoroughly thwarted, and surprisingly, Cecilia found it more enjoyable than cringe-inducing.

Success!