I walk towards the door to the conservatory, and she follows, hurrying along beside me. She takes three steps for my one, and I'm uncertain how to handle this, so I let her rush along beside me.
When we reach the door, I pause. She looks up at me. Nervous. Eyes filled with restrained hope.
"I am going to show you Moldavia," I tell her.
"Okay,” she whispers.
"Do not try to run from me, Bella," I warn. "I should not have to remind you of the consequences of such an attempt."
She nods.
I don't know what she is thinking. If she plans to attempt escape.
I am uncertain. But I unlock the door anyway and leave her to follow me. She is quiet while we walk, her eyes soaking up everything around us. Her fingers reach out to brush the ornate details of each table and piece of art that we pass.
I show her the rooms without telling her what they are. Without speaking at all. I allow her to look through them, one by one. To become familiar.
I want her to feel at home here. I want her to experience these comforts and believe that she is safe. Secure. The way she feels right now.
It is exactly what I intended to do. But I did not expect it to be so easy on my part. Or that I would enjoy watching her luxuriate in the comfort. Watching each day pass as she reads and settles into her prison and her life here with me. Enjoying the food I bring her that she doesn’t have to earn. Enjoying the clothing and gifts I bestow her.
It should not feel good to give her these things. It should not affect me at all. But it has. And now, I know that it is time. I must stop this from going any further. I must remind her who she is. And more importantly, who I am.
She is pleased with the house. She enjoys each room that I show her.Until I lead her to the one that she knows best.
It is well lit now. The bucket is long gone, and the floor clean. But it still possesses the same lingering effect. She stares at it, and her fingers tremble.
For a moment, I find myself wishing she would be stronger. That she would not be afraid, and she would simply sing a song for me. I miss hearing her voice.
"Play for me," I demand.
She blinks, startled, and then turns to me slowly.
“You can’t be serious.”
She tries to edge backward, but I take hold of her arm.
"This is what you do," I tell her. "You sing, and you play."
She turns up her chin and tries to look tougher than she feels right now.
"No."
This is exactly the response I wanted. The one I anticipated. And yet, I feel disappointed.
I know what I should say next. What I need to do next. But it does not happen the way it should.
"Why do you let it bother you?"
"What?" she asks.
"What they say about you?"
Her face is sharp now, all her softness gone. I do not like this.
"Why do you lock yourself up here and speak to nobody?" she challenges.
I don't reply, so she takes it upon herself to answer for me.