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“Well, yes! They are a man’s trousers. But today, they areourtrousers.”
Mircalla tilted her head to the side as Valerie spoke. “I’ve been wanting to show you around the grounds of Vertigo Peaks and I thought a short walk can benefit us both. We have been confined within these walls for a while.”
Mircalla looked out the window, sighing. “Don’t you think it’s too… bright outside?”
Valerie hummed. “The walk is quite short, my dear. We should be fine.” She held Mircalla’s hand. “Now, we must make haste before it gets dark and gloomy again! The trousers are quite odorous, if I may, but they should still fit us perfectly fine. My husband is not… quite colossal, you know.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting you find me fragile as a lily, Valerie. You’re not a poet and I don’t want to be a muse. That’s a fickle, fleeting quality to possess, my dear.” Mircalla wrapped her arms around her waist, her face close enough to see the purple veins on her nose. Valerie ached with the distant pain of Mircalla’s sickness, shades of malady still lingering on those endearing features. Mircalla lay her head on her shoulder, a finger on her pulse, and they swayed in the room.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Mircalla. I don’t know what to think about you. I fear my heart might burst in its cage and I would still stand on my feet and look at you.”
At this time of the year, the greenhouse was not as luscious and green. Nevertheless, Valerie wanted to show it to Mircalla. They did not talk much on their way. The chilling wind bit Valerie’s cheeks while Mircalla walked glided past her with ease, as though the breeze made her float above the frozen ground. The trousers had proved to be practical and much to Valerie’s surprise, liberating. Blood rushed to her head as she thought about the layers of her dress. Apparently, those were not made for mobility as Valerie felt her muscles tensing, her calves burning with vigor for the first time.
“Who are they?” Mircalla asked, pointing the way down the hills where a small group of people was watching them gingerly behind the high arched gate. Valerie winced at the sight of them. Mouths agape with wonder, they were pushing each other to press their heads between the rusted rods, pulling their horses closer to catch a better glimpse of her silhouette.
“I don’t know them,” Valerie responded. “Probably some folks from the town.”
“Do they always watch you?”
Valerie followed her guest’s widened eyes across the hills where people stood to survey their journey to the greenhouse, then stared off into space and pursed her lips. Yes, she wanted to admit, they were always watching her. Sneaking in from the forest or stalling by the gate, their looks were almost aimed at her, conjuring new ways to threaten and judge her serenity.
The steam from the greenhouse was visible even from the hills; it hung over the evening sky like a veil. Valerie desperately tried to fan the smoke out of her eyes as Mircalla pulled her in. Icicles hung like glittering fangs from the iron-wrought frame of the greenhouse. The door was unlocked and yielded with one push, swinging on its rusted hinges. It was brighter than she remembered. There were some old tools lying about, the dead leaves were caught in the eddies of the freezing wind. The plants the gardener had chosen for the season were thriving; their long leaves drooped like a cloak over the roof, luscious and warm, and every shade of green greeted them with lingering leisure.
She had always thought the greenhouse looked like her uncle’s small cottage, uneven and left untended, but now as the lady drew her deeper, she realized how adorned and large the place was. They trailed along the cracked lines of various flowers and vegetables in silence, some plump, but most emptied.
“Do you like it?” Valerie asked. She let Mircalla wander around the place, amazed and filled with giddy excitement, and found a secluded corner for herself, shaded enough to rest, with a clear view of her guest who was pacing the rows of plants, and unlike Valerie, already oblivious to the people outside the gate.
She took off her shawl and rubbed her temples. The greenhouse was very warm and damp, the slant of winter sun so bright that steam billowed up. Valerie loosened her collar and unbuttoned the first two buttons of her chemise, her throat was throbbing with thirst. She raised a hand, slick with sweat, and pushed the loose strands of her hair away from her face. She closed her eyes to rest but all she saw was the people behind the gate, peering in with their long heads, twisting their wobbly necks like reptiles.
“This is a heavenly place.” Mircalla’s voice was distant yet Valerie heard the ringing laughter in her voice; she chimed like a bell that finally found its rhythm and sang its own song. Valerie replied wearily. “Indeed.”
“What’s wrong?”
Valerie heard the ruffle of her skirt first, then cracked an eye open and saw Mircalla’s troubled face hovering above her. Sunlight was cascading behind her, among the orchids, and made a halo over her head, making her look like one of those heavenly creatures from old paintings. Wings spread for flight, silk draped around her figure. She sat next to her, sliding a finger over a strand of stray hair and tucking it behind her ear. “Why are you sulking?”
Valerie was parched and voiceless. All flustered and in the clasp of tremors and unease. She regretted leaving the house. She did not like being exposed like a cut on the cheek, anticipating a sea of faces following her with vile words in their mouths.
“Will you not speak?”
“Let’s go back,” Valerie said with a high voice. “I’m rather tired.”
“It’s about the people, is it not?” Mircalla let out an exasperated sigh. “The more you give, the more they take. You know they will. Why do you torment yourself with these fading things? For they shall wilt.” She crushed a leaf with the sole of her boot and fixed her gaze on Valerie. In this tempestuous humor of hers, she did not like her guest. She had a contemptuous look about her that made Valerie agitated, mingled with a sense of aberration and fear. Her face well-lit under the sun, the whites of her eyes almost invisible, Mircalla looked like a vast and terrifying scene, like standing at the end of a precipice.
“This is not some sort of a fancy party or a private ladies’ club that I can walk out of. This is…what they expect of me. The town, my husband…I vowed to be here. I cannot turn my back to them.”
“And what do you expect of yourself? Are you going to spend the rest of your days here, living with what-ifs? Will it matter then?”
“Yes!” Valerie jumped to her feet, tears welling in her eyes. “Maybe. It matters now and that’s all I can allow myself to think about. What is left of me if I reject the love of duty, that devotion to clarity, that makes affairs bearable, makes inevitable comforting? All I have, I owe it to him, his house, and his name. It’s not easy, Mircalla. It’s not easy. Please do not confuse me when it’s clear that you have not been in a similar position.”
Mircalla’s upper lip trembled, and a stifled cry broke from her throat.
“I have endured hardships and sorrow the likes of which you’ve yet to witness, Mrs. Vertigo.”
“How could I know? This discreet, stilted attitude leaves much to imagination.” Valerie breathed heavily in the still. “I don’t know you.”
“There’s no need for a quarrel, my dear. If what I relinquished to you amounts to nothing, I’ll leave. I asked for your discretion. I’ll dare and ask for more—I want you to wait. I shall reveal everything when it’s time but I beg you, please do not attack me on the matter.”
Mircalla stood as if she were on the verge of tears as her face transformed once. She shook her head, admitting defeat, and knelt before her and said in a muffled voice, “Will you not accept me? Will you not take me as your own?”
