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AliNovel > The Villa Delacroix > INTERLUDE ELEVEN - in which the woman in white signals to the next house

INTERLUDE ELEVEN - in which the woman in white signals to the next house

    It was a clear night between the houses. The lake was still, as ever, draped in its habitual shroud of mist, but the foggy tendrils had receded from the land. Perhaps, if she were lucky tonight, Emilie would catch the flame of red hair through the windows of the neighbouring house. If she could just get Virginie''s attention, then Emilie would know there was a way out of this.


    Never mind how many years may had passed. Surely it couldn''t have been too long.


    In between the walls, she found her lantern. It was not strictly hers per se, but it was familiar, and from her place in time. It was one of the things she could affect, as opposed to the haunting things brought in by strangers, objects which slipped through her fingers, ignoring her presence. Perhaps the lantern was a ghost of a lantern. Either way, when she picked it up, always it sprang to life with an eerie, cold white flame.


    Yes, a ghost lantern. There was no other way to explain it. It remembered its purpose. If only she could say the same for herself. But on reflection, perhaps her purpose was a complex one, harder to understand than the simple act of bearing light.


    She made her way to the window which afforded her the best view of Virginie''s house. Pushing the curtains aside took a great strength of will; they were out of her time, but so too were they light and malleable. With the way cleared, she sat the lantern on the windowsill, and raised and lowered her hand between it and the glass, as she had many nights before.


    In times gone by, the signal would be answered by Virginie''s hand at her lantern. Then they would meet in the garden, Emilie slipping through the break between wall and hedge which divided their grounds. There, to sink into Virginie''s arms; strong arms, because the widow kept no staff of her own, cutting her own firewood and doing for herself in so many wonderful, independent ways. Emilie could only dream of living that way.


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    And if there were rumours around town that Virginie had lifted that wood axe before she was a widow, well. Emilie didn''t care. In fact, Emilie would have understood, if that were the case.


    Thank the heavens Emilie''s husband had not killed Virginie too. He was jealous, he was so sure she had taken a lover. But no matter how correct he was in that; to his mind, it was inconceivable that Emilie''s lover could be a woman. And so Virginie had escaped Emilie''s fate. Though perhaps if he had tried, Virginie may have come off better in the fight than Emilie had.


    This was not one of those nights long ago, and no answer came from the neighbour''s window. Instead, the plod of heavy footsteps echoed down the corridors.


    Emilie slipped back into the walls before her husband could discover her.


    She placed the lantern back in its nook, and picked her way through the darkness out into the garden. There, she tried plucking roses from the bush nearest the corner of the house.


    Instead of coming away with her hand, the colour of the bloom drained away with her touch, and the flower died on the branch.


    She tried again, only to kill yet another rose.


    With a sigh, she compromised, picking up the wilted fallen blossoms below the bush. Wandering through the garden, she picked more fallen flowers for her lover. Once, she''d constructed whole bouquets of secret meaning for Virginie, a language only the two of them understood. But now, she would have to put up with whatever entropy had provided.


    She made her way to where the gap in the fence should be, where so many nights, she''d met Virginie.


    There was, of course, no gap. Now a fence stood to the height of her neck, stately in white brick.


    Her husband''s wolf-breath sounded around the corner of the house, his boots crunching on the leaves. She looked at Virginie''s house one last time, then threw her jumbled assortment of dead flowers over the fence.


    Hoping for the mercy of insubstantiality, she threw herself at the walls of her house. The embrace of this place which had trapped her was also the only safe shelter available.
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