Chapter Text
You bustle into the candlelit reading room with a tray of sticky red sweets. It is long past time to turn in for the night, but your mistress is awake, and she’s hungry. And who better to bring a midnight snack than the help? You stride over to your mistress, who doesn’t acknowledge you as you enter.
What is in the lustrous little gems of red you don’t care to know. You have long learned not to wonder at the feeding habits of the denizens of this castle, whatever else you might wonder about in this place. Though you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been here now, when it comes to this place, there is more you don't know than you do know. What you do know, however, gnaws at the pit of your stomach in the middle of the night.
She is draped, somehow elegantly, given her enormous stature, over the arm of a brocade daybed. Wisps of cigarette smoke curl languidly from her lit cigarette. As you set the tray down on a mahogany table next to her, all her attention absorbed in a book open on her lap. She hasn’t seemed to register you at all.
You’ve always loved books, and you wonder despite yourself what she’s reading.
It would be an innocuous enough question, anywhere but here. Here, in the cold and cavernous halls of this castle, the very act of questioning feels dangerous. And so, the questions build on your tongue, but increasingly you struggle to swallow them. Your fear keeps them in – you know what goes on here – but fear can be, as they say, intoxicating.
Her gaze is impassive, relaxed even. Uncharacteristically, a lock of her elegantly pinned hair is loose, and hangs over her eye, behind which her brow is knitted with the slightest furrow of concentration. She is hauntingly tall, and the tiny, human-sized book looks almost comical in her hands. You wonder how she is able to read the print. It almost makes you smile.
It’s rare to see her in this kind of mood. Something like vulnerable - if a person like her was capable of being vulnerable. If an exquisite predator was capable of vulnerability. Her high heels have been kicked off, and she has curled her long, alabaster legs up next to her. It’s almost an unguarded moment. She’s stunningly beautiful, you think. Silk pyjamas drape over her curves. There’s a button open under her collarbone, and magnetically, you become aware of the deep furrow of her cleavage.
She is fascinating.
Caught in the apparent cosiness of it all, your sense of danger has ebbed away. The only sound that can be perceived is the smearing of her thumb against the page of her book as she leafs through it. It’s strangely sensual, strangely intimate. You feel transfixed by her long fingers.
That question again licks up inside of you. You wonder what she is reading. Maybe you could then share with her what you liked to read. Maybe you could curl up on the lounge with her and talk long into the night. You’ve gone careening off into fantasy, and somewhere more normal, you might just ask her. But where you are is not normal. And you realise you have tested the limits of this temporary peace enough.
You turn to leave the room, the slightest tattoo of adrenalin beating in your veins. Adrenalin, yes, and something else. Something that begs you to turn back around and gaze at her, because you’re smitten with those long fingers. And yes, too, her powerful shoulders. Her strong jaw. The kohl coating her thick eyelashes. Something to take back to your quarters with you, you think. You’ll lie knotted in your sheets tonight, uncomfortable with whatever feeling this is. You gulp, and there’s a little kick in the bottom of your stomach. Anyway, you are alright. No danger has befallen you.
You pad gently back to the door, putting your hands in the pockets of your dress, and allowing yourself to exhale for the first time in moments.
As you pass the threshold, you feel the hairs on your neck stand up. Suddenly, you grow anxious at the idea of having turned your back to her. You hear the sound of a book being snapped shut.
‘You know dear, it’s very rude to read over someone’s shoulder.’
You freeze. Your mind empty, aware the fate awaiting you for impoliteness may be worse than whatever awaits you if you stay locked in place, you swivel around to apologise, eyes down.
‘I’m terribly sorry, my Lady -’
Your gaze lifts and your breath chokes in your throat as you see she is now right in front of you. Like a panther, she has somehow closed the gap between you in complete silence, and now, at her full height, she towers over you. She is at least twice your size. She is smirking, her golden eyes tinged with a mad gleam.
Is she pleased? you can’t help but think, although your sense of panic is rising. You know what happens to those who disobey.
She starts to approach you.
The power of her, running you down –
You think this involuntarily. Your breath catches. You’re aware of those huge hands of hers and their power.
‘I wasn’t aware that my staff were in need of entertaining,’ she lilts, a bass note of danger lodged in her tone.
‘No, mistress,’ you stammer, ‘I wasn’t looking -’
‘I suppose I thought you were all quite taken care of. If you need things to do, my dear, you only need ask,’ she says, her smile growing broader. More beautiful, you think, perversely.
‘There is always plenty of work here. I’d hate to think you were growing bored.’
Her golden eyes are trained squarely on you. A silence falls between you as you run through excuses, anything, to explain away your carelessness. You are terrified that you won’t speak, but you are also terrified that you will.
You take a breath, composing yourself. Your mistress doesn’t tolerate fools. Maybe honesty is the best policy. Carefully, you meet her waiting eyes.
‘I apologise, my Lady. I was interested to know what you were reading.’
You think you detect the slightest ripple of pride over her, but if this pleases her, she suppresses it quickly. Her eyes narrow.
‘Oh?’
‘I used to like to read,’ you find the words are tumbling out now, despite yourself, ‘Before.’
‘Before what?’
Her eyes continue to narrow, drinking you in, assessing whether or not what you’ve said constitutes an insult. She inches closer to you.
You realise you have absolutely said too much. The way she’s assessing you right now is making you deeply uneasy; her eyes are roving over you, sizing you up. You proceed carefully.
‘I just mean that – before I entered into your service – I tried to keep abreast of the latest novels, my Lady. Whatever was in fashion.’
She looks at you with teasing interest, as though the thought that you had a life before you came to work at her castle is a particularly unexpected and appetising morsel for her mind’s eye to chew on. Her condescension should bring bile to your throat, but it doesn’t. Under your need to escape, you become aware of the suicidal wish that you might impress her.
You bow deeply, averting her eyes, hoping to smooth everything over with your deference. ‘I let my own fancies get the better of me. It won’t happen again, my Lady.’
Before you manage to stand back up, you feel a large hand grip your shoulder. Her fingers dig into your clavicle. Long, savage fingers that make small wells in your flesh. Steadily, you look up. Her thumb wanders up to your throat and you swear that you feel something sharp and deadly pressing into your trachea. Your breath is shallow and your heart just won’t stop hammering.
You realise you have made a fatal mistake.
‘I didn’t realise my maids were so erudite,’ she purrs, lingering on that final word. ‘Who do you like, my dear?’
Realising you’ve now backed yourself into a corner, you continue to play along.
‘I like the new modernists, my lady,’ you say, watching for any spark of approval. ‘Wharton, Woolf…’
‘Woolf, did you say?’ she says, her eyebrows raising.
‘Yes, I did, my Lady.’
A curious smile plays over her lips.
‘Orlando is a very clever thing.’
Feeling a burgeoning confidence, you say, ‘Yes, it’s a wonderful book.’
Her eyes are softer, but there’s a mental calculus going on that you can’t make out. Your inability to read her makes you feel utterly blind, utterly exposed. With her free hand, she pulls that stray lock of dark hair back behind her ear, relaxed and composed.
That knife-like feeling against your throat recedes and you feel her start to stroke your collarbone with her thumb. Ranging, deliberate strokes, her long thumb holding pressure against your delicate skin as it strokes, strokes, strokes – all the while her gaze never leaving yours. Those eyes raking over your face, as she seems to calm herself while she figures out what to do with you. With every stroke of her thumb against your skin, you struggle against the urge to swallow. Somewhere between fear and something else, your mouth is absolutely watering. Over every inch of your skin, you are covered in gooseflesh.
‘You’re shaking like a leaf, little one,’ she croons indulgently. She seems to be revelling in your body’s reactions.
Unable to fight the urge anymore, you swallow your saliva, and in the silence of the room it is deafeningly loud. Something about this seems to break the spell, and she leans in against your ear. She is so tall she needs to bend at the waist to be at your level.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ she murmurs. A delightful, involuntary shudder runs through your limbs and all the way up to the crown of your head. Your thighs clench themselves together.
Then she continues, in a theatrical stage whisper, ‘I just have a little favour to ask you.’
Before you know it, you are being lifted through the air. Horrifyingly, all it takes are two quick strides of hers to cross the room with you. She deposits you on the couch abruptly and sits across from you. This display of strength has banished all the ill-advised confidence in your body. You are worried again.
She finds the book she was reading earlier. Ostentatiously, she opens it, huffing and sighing while she skims over the words, trying to find the place she’d lost.
‘No, that wasn’t it…’
Leafing, leafing, an amused smile playing at her carmine lips. She licks them in faux concentration.
You just try to stay as small as you can, all the while a heat building in your ribs that feels vaguely like panic. You try not to wonder how long this is going to last.
‘Ah.’
She stops, pivoting around the open book and handing it to you, your shaking hands accepting it from her like a hard-won gift. You feel your sweat gathering on the pages.
‘Now, read to me.’
And when your eyes filter down over the page to see exactly what you’ll be reading to her, well – you can feel the molten heat of your skin as you redden. Your eyes dart; you can’t look at her. She must be able to register every last tendril of shame creeping up from your core. Lady Dimitrescu looks absolutely delighted.
She clearly doesn’t appreciate hesitation.
‘Read to me.’