She wore her red cloak like a mask against the night, her hood drawn lowly over her eyes.
Passersby only continued walking, not paying any attention to the crimson blur of a girl, slithering through the crowds, doing her best to go unnoticed.
Perhaps they thought her an ordinary young man headed off to a bar.
A twenty-something year old coming home from his day of work.
Or, perhaps they thought her a self-conscious young woman dressed as a man, whose nighttime escapades were merely the result of an abusive father and a drunkard mother.
Perhaps they were right.
Nevertheless, Roslyn envisioned herself, a greatly trained assassin, a fearless warrior whose attire was coated in the blood of her enemies, and she slithered through the silent streets of London; the fabric around her a shield, her eyes set only on the shining lights ahead.
“Go straight there and come straight back.” Her maid had warned, after catching Roslyn at the door. “I’m not some pitiful child Estell. I can walk to the bookstore in the nighttime if I wish. Besides, nothing can possibly happen if I am to bring my cloak with me and dress in a man’s ensemble.”
Roslyn’s long brown hair had been pinned back and worn atop her head. It was now covered by a crimson hood. A cloak extending to below her ankles. The hood was a rarity in itself. She should have worn a top hat, as the was the fashion of men’s wear, though to have her face so publicly shown was a bearing she’d not cope easily.
Her maid shot her a disapproving glare, but in seeing Roslyn’s face, sighed a breath of defeat.
It was as if she’d been saying; ‘I dislike it, but cannot stop you from going.’ Still Roslyn knew better, and she knew that Estell could understand Roslyn’s need to escape occasionally.
Rampant voices came booming from the kitchen and both women abruptly ceased talking.
“Perhaps I should come with you?” Estell had asked then, terror written plainly in her face.
Much as she’d have liked to offer such a thing, Roslyn tersely shook her head.
It was one thing for Roslyn to be sneaking off, her parents seldom kept tabs on their daughter’s whereabouts. It was another thing entirely for the maid, who’s work involved the cleaning of broken dishes after her father threw them at the kitchen walls. He’d no doubt call Estell to tidy up after him, and if she were not there to respond… Lord only knew what would happen then.
And so now here Roslyn stood, lingering in front of a bookstore, gazing upward at the enormous sign overhead, the words ‘Fairy Books’ written in bold lettering and engraved in black against a wooden plaque.
Opening the doors, Roslyn stepped inside, momentarily pausing as she heard the clang of it closing behind her. She was instantly overcome by the sure splendor of novels stacked up against one another, rows of shelves, the scent of dust, the refreshing lack of people in the store. Silence. She’d been here a million times over. Be that as it may, the delight of knowing that she was surrounded by books she’d not yet read, stories that were completely unbeknown to her, only made to excite her more.
Someone from behind thrusted Roslyn to the side, and she was thrown from her thoughts.
“The doorway was not made for you to stand in boy.” a man grumbled as he pushed passed her.
‘How impolite!’ she thought a little discontentedly, though said nothing of it. It was best she not spoke unless absolutely necessary.
Roslyn steadily made her way down the aisles, eyes scanning the shelves, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. It occurred to her that browsing through a bookstore was its own form of getting inside one’s own head. She wasn’t paying attention all that much to the people around, distracted by the sheer enormity of words and titles, that she would often forget there was anyone else in the room at all.
Roslyn stopped in her tracks, having spotted a very curious thing.
Most of the novels in this bookshop were tomes; large hardcover novels that were the size of bricks and printed in hues of browns. So to see a smaller novel, a paperback with a red cover, small in size and thin in pages, was to Roslyn, utterly bewildering to say the least; and she picked the thing up off its shelf in a matter of seconds.
Despite its existence being beyond its time, the little red book gave the impression of old age. The cover was awfully filthy, so much so that even the title had been enveloped in a thick blanket of dust. Roslyn sucked in what air she could withhold, and released in a tremendous blow. The words revealed themselves beneath.
“Little red riding hood.” She read.
Dust wafted into her nose, forcing a violent cough to thunder from her.
‘Heavens, it must be ancient!’ She thought with disbelief, all the while peeling the cover away to peek at its contents.
A beautifully illustrated picture of young girl clothed in a red cape graced the page, and it was within that moment that Roslyn knew she would refuse to leave otherwise if not with this book in her hand. Pulling a leather-bound pouch from her pocket, Roslyn made her way toward the counter.
“Just this one thank you.” She uttered with her voice sunken deep, handing the book to an old but kind looking man with a balding head and well grown mustache.
His face twisted into bewilderment, and he took it from her with wide eyes.
“Lad, I’ve not seen this book in my life.” He said, before muttering, “I would have remembered such a cover as this, believe you me. This book ‘ere has no place in my bookstore. Take it, it’s yours.”
He returned the book and she examined it in all new curiosity.
“Thank you, sir. You’re too kind-”
Too late Roslyn realized that she’d spoken normally. Too late she saw the recognition in the man’s eye, and too late she felt his hand grasp her wrist, his body leaning over the counter and eyes squinting beneath her lowly drawn hood.
The room suddenly felt a great deal chillier.
A hazy mist coated her eyes and Roslyn couldn’t breathe, frozen in place. Her eyes were locked on the bookstore owner's darkening face, a face no longer his own. Fangs seemed to be protruding from his mouth like a demon’s, his eyes sunken and growing larger by the minute. The ends of his mouth curved upward into a devilish smile. Roslyn opened her mouth to scream but found she could not. She shut her eyes tightly, wishing herself away, only to open them and find a stranger in its place, gazing at her uneasily.
“Are you alright?” it asked.
Remembering where she was, Roslyn pulled herself together and nodded fervently. The man leaned further over the counter, his breathe grazing the skin of her ear and sending chills down her spine.
“Best you not speak lad.” He whispered warningly, “The other men’ll poke fun at your squeaking voice. But don't be too ashamed, they probably went through same thing at your age.”
“Squeaking?... OH.”
Realization dawned on her then, and Roslyn was quickly overcome with relief. This man must have mistaken her for a pubescent boy!
She forced her features into a look of indifference.
“...thank you, sir, for both the book and advice...”
A loud snort came from a man lined behind her. She turned meet his gaze, pursing her lips in irritation.
“Pardon me SIR.” Roslyn muttered rather loudly.
“Certainly,” he replied, stepping studiously out of the way so that she might pass. Yet, as she moved to do just that, he murmured softly to her, "Monsters exist beyond the realm of books. Do not dismiss it as a trick of the mind."
She ceased walking for moment, stricken by his words. Momentarily, the bookseller's face returned in her mind, his eyes hollow and menacing.
She left in haste, without a word said.
The clang of the door behind her silenced her hammering heart. It put her at ease to know a wall of wood stood between herself and all that had happened moments prior.
However, Roslyn immediately begun to feel a prickling in her neck. Gazing through the corner of her eye, she soon traced it to it’s source. The dark silhouette of a man from not far behind, among the crowds of drunken men.
She walked away, slowly at first, willing herself invisible, but felt the hardness of his gaze trailing her, his heels clicking above the insistent chatter and vulgar language. She tried to stay calm, she truly did, still her feet betrayed her and Roslyn begun to sprint through the throng of people, desperate to leave the dark eyed man in her midst. Her heart was beating rapidly in her skull, a drum to the pounding sound of her feet against the stone-cold pavement. She ran. Past the public library, (circling the block at times to baffle her pursuer) through Hyde park and over the brick wall wedged between the corner of her house and Mrs. Geraldine’s villa. She entered through the curtain of trees, into a small alcove where a hidden garden had taken its residence.
It was the place she would come when she needed the sort of quiet not known anywhere else in this damned city. A small wedge in the in-between of two large factories that had been left forsaken, or rather, had gone unnoticed by all but Roslyn. She had taken heed of the place by way of the vines growing along the walls, one of which had crept into her view on one of her morning walks. She’d followed it over the wall that had hidden it away, suitably reveling in its beauty when she’d reached the other side. Roslyn had cut that vine.
It was hers and hers alone.
She stared at it now, a green expanse of trees and flowers adorning a blanket of golden moonlight.
All that had happened minutes before had cleared from her mind in the presence of her green haven. She even dared to smile as she strode through with heavy limbs, weary as they were from the exertion, and plonked herself down upon a cushion of flowers. Their petals were a violet hue tinged with specks of grey, and Roslyn plucked one, studying it earnestly. With great delight, she recalled Estell saying how much she admired the prettiness of a violet flower, and how very much she’d like a man to offer her one. Roslyn chuckled as she envisioned herself being the one to gift it.
“How charming I will be, in my man-ish attire. To offer her a beautiful flower, she will find it most amusing.” Laughing once more, Roslyn made her mind to fetch a basket and pick as many flowers as she could to bring back to her dear friend and house maid.
However, just as she’d begun filling it, a pair of large boots appeared in her vicinity. She needed not even a glance upward to know to whose feet they belonged.
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