Scent of Meadow and Brace of Bloom

Camellia retrieved a circlet of keys from her apron pocket and turned the twists of metal until locating the one which would admit our entry through the door. 

An emphatic click emitted from the lock beneath the brass doorknob as the maid turned the key within the mechanism. I made a mental note that I had not seen such a secure lock on a chamber door and scorned myself for not paying attention to the doors we had passed.

Leaving me to wonder aloud if all the rooms were sealed with such security. “That is quite a lock for a bedroom chamber.” 

I held the concern in my tone.

“Yes, Mistress, Magareen. The locks guarantee security.” Camellia did not clarify whose safekeeping concerned a household which barred guests in such quarters. 

I was denied further elaboration as Camellia pressed the door ajar with her slight physique. I appraised the door as not as difficult to move as Camellia made it appear. If so, I feared we might never be able to leave once enclosed. 

“Maybe that is the point.” I whispered as I entered the suite.

An awkward stillness took Camellia as she awaited in the main alcove. I felt her eyes upon me as I inventoried the spaciousness.  

She woke after a breath as if from a trance. “Mistress - Magareen, would you care for a proper tour?”

Scanning the array of doors I offered a brief nod of consent. “I think I may get lost on my own.”

My emotion remained uncertain in what would be my accommodation while in the custody of Yarrow Hart. Considerations of captivity eased as Camellia enumerated the compartments of the lodging.

“All of this is to be mine alone?” I followed the maid on her circuitous tour.

“No Mistress, not to disappoint, but it is in my duties that I should share the apartment with you. I do not take up all that much space though, I assure you.” For the first time since meeting Camellia’s expression seemed wan with something I place akin to hope.

“To the contrary, Miss Camellia, you are most welcome. I am in awe at the ample accommodation.. If I may be quite frank, I will be glad for a companion.”

This time I did not miss the moment of change in Camellia’s expression.

“I am equally glad the arrangements please you, Mistress. Magareen.” Her smile was genuine. 

In a sweep of hands and turn of heel my luggage was in her charge laid upon a modest lounge adjacent the dressing rooms. Though the exchange appeared dutiful, the maid’s deportment seemed relaxed as we were enclosed in the enclave of the apartment. Perhaps this was a place of comfort, at least for those who understood the purpose of the locks.

As I sighed free of the burden of the unknown and the concern that weighed my shoulders I frowned at the design papering the walls. 

More roses.

At least these blooms were not the flaming vexations that threatened the hallways. My fingers found the delicate pale and cream petals and trailed to the white washed iron which twisted and curved to shape the enormous frame of the bed. Though of silk rather than living, more petals blossomed to form the pillows. The faint gold and alabaster that honored the theme of the apartment extended to every corner, settee, and coverlet. I settled upon the soft achromatic toile which covered the bed in ribbon and rose. It was as if all color had been stolen from these designs to supply the cruor to more vital portions of the Hart.  

This thought stole the warmth from my being as much as the chambers leaving a curious chill to my touch. 

To mitigate my renewed apprehension I instead confessed to Camellia. “I have never seen such craftsmanship.” 

In my moments lost to the roses the maid had moved from the sleeping quarters however. I followed the progression of her footsteps into the dressing room. Here again I was struck with a discord of florals. Tatted screens meant to provide concealment and modesty instead evoked an exposition of gaucherie.

 A dawning appreciation of Joram’s convictions weighed upon me. Yarrow Hart’s ability to drive one to madness stood all but expected under the dizzying mesmer of roses. As I sought Camellia through the space I raised a hand to my eyes to clear the rush of vertigo. 

Her footfalls echoed with prolixity equal to the pattern of roses. A headiness of perfume consumed what remained of my faculties. The aura of the rose fields thundered against the walls and burbled through slender gaps in the parquet.

“I apologise for the stuffiness of the apartment.” Camellia’s voice wandered through the din of roses. “No one has stayed in this wing in quite some time.”

The maid’s words felt meaningless upon my ears. 

“I opened a few windows.” 

“Windows.” I watched the word dance through the field of flowers. 

“Mistress are you well?” Camellia’s concerned visage hovered as apparition in a fog of roses and words.

“The traveling. Finally caught up with me.” I dared deceive myself that roses were not indeed the disturbance to my senses.

Camellia’s guiding hands found my arm and waist and the world metamorphosed with each footfall. 

“Roses.”  The room tipped before realization could develop fully.

“You have been away too long.” An insidiousness licked at the words.

My eyes sought the maid, the room, some furnishing to orient my perception as I floated in the flowering miasma.

The room bedimed when my eyes became my own again. I lay tucked beneath covers upon the oversized bed. Twisting awake I discovered my raiment traded for unfamiliar bedclothes. Though embraced by the luxuriousness of the delicate fabric, a sense of concern discomforted me. The linens, a splendid mantle against weary limbs, became a prison as their pattern grew evident against the twilight of the room. 

Roses. Their woven silhouettes loomed as twisted devices. As moonlight sipped through the flutter of curtains a vague horror disturbed my thoughts as I failed to discern if I lay beneath the impressions or upon them.

A shift beside me gave rise to draw away the covers. There, still in uniform, lay Camellia. Powder and starch mingled the redolence of roses.  

My eyes alighted to the window and the slit of moonlight dancing beyond it’s open panes.  

Enveloped by the crisp summer night, thoughts slipped past the low sill. Yarrow Hart was home. I turned to the sleeping maid and reconciled to discover all about my companions thus far met and of Yarrow Hart. Awake and aware, lingering dizziness and unwelcome hunger impacted my mind. I drifted into the arms of roses, carriages, and endless hallways.