Post by Moira ap Eiluned on Oct 14, 2010 20:29:57 GMT -8
“Hey, Mom, I’m home!” Helen shouted the words as she threw open the grand front door and all but danced into the spacious marble foyer of her house.
Her words, and the echo of her words, drew no response. The house was still, silent, a museum after hours. Helen felt a tug of disappointment, though she’d expected no less. She walked up the rise to the main foyer, between and past the double spiral stairs and into the great hall. There was no sound, no motion. No dust, of course; the cleaning company was paid well to ensure that all the houses were cleaned and maintained irrespective of whether anyone was in residence at the time. Her so-called graduation had been arranged in a hurry, she knew, so her parents had only had a few weeks’ notice of her arrival. She’d hoped...
An unexpected splash of color caught her eye. On one of the small decorative tables was a vase of fresh yellow roses; as Helen moved closer, she saw that a formal cream and lavender envelope lay beside it. It was of the sort her mother most recently favored, and Helen picked it up with strangely tentative fingers. She broke the purple wax seal, and opened it. The handwriting was the elegant script of her mother’s secretary.
Darling daughter,
Your father and I are heartbroken that we could not be here upon your return. Alas, your father is in the middle of rather delicate negotiations involving the Branden Industries takeover, and simply cannot be pulled away. We will do what we can to be home in a week, two at the most. I’ve had the service open and freshen the Blue Suite for you; feel free to settle in and relax. Use any of the cars if you need to, and we will see you soon.
Love,
Lilly
Helen sighed. Her mother’s signature had, at least, been in her own hand. That was something. And she was sure that her mother had meant well when she offered the Blue Suite; it was housed directly over the carport, and had a direct stairway down to it that bypassed all possible parental oversight. But she didn’t want to stay there, despite the convenience.
She knew her rooms wouldn’t be the same. Her mother had lost no time in redecorating it, and moving Helen’s things into the basement storage. But she loved the tower rooms, with their balconies and air and light, the way they rose above the rest of the house. She and Kiki had played Rapunzel off the top spire more than once, braiding long yarn hair until it could reach down all six stories. Kiki had been the only one brave enough to play the prince and climb up it; it was, thankfully, a secret the adults never knew about or they would have simply lost it.
Helen moved through the kitchen and up the steps nearest the conservatory, the stairs that came out right next to her rooms...no, the “Garden Suite”. Her mother had a name for all the rooms, and each was done in a distinctive style and color set. The Blue Suite was done in the Queen Anne style, for example, in rich blue, cherrywood and ivory. The Garden room...Helen opened the door, prepared for anything.
Gone were the cheery sky-blue walls, decorated by young and unskilled hands with a mural of butterflies, birds and trees, but she’d expected that. Gone was the sturdy brass bed, the dark green carpet that might as well have been made of titanium, for all the abuse it survived intact, but Helen had been ready for that as well. What she’d expected, given the name, was some sort of country-quaint. She should have known better; her mother didn’t pay the best designers in the country for shabby chic.
The room was...Helen searched for the term. Rococo, French rococo, seemed to be the inspiration here...Louis XV, she thought. This first room had been her bedroom, but was now laid out as a sitting room. The furniture was delicate, elaborately carved in slightly asymmetrical floral designs from rare woods that were then all but hidden under gilt, and then upholstered in a brilliant emerald green. The floor was polished oak, inlaid around the edges in an intricate pattern that echoed the carving of the furniture, and covered with a large silk carpet patterned with a dense thicket of green vines over cream. The ceiling had been coved, and it also had an elaborate floral pattern worked into it. The effect was dramatic, a rich fantasy of green and gold, accented with the bronze glow of fine wood.
She crossed the plush carpet to the archway in the far wall. She could see the staircase leading up through it; she remembered a door there, and a more utilitarian set of stairs. Now it was a spiral confection of gilded wood rising upward. The second room was much like the first in theme, but rather than the many small seats and tables that could be rearranged for company, this had a few larger, more comfortable pieces...private, rather than public. The same golden spiral led up to the final room, where the archway opened onto an elegant and sumptuous bedroom in the same style, before continuing up to the terrace level, and again further up to a trapdoor onto the top spire.
Helen climbed up, looked at the door that opened onto the terrace. It was a thick and heavy oak door, out of keeping with the style of everything else. Helen blinked, startled, not because it looked out of place, but because it was the first thing that didn’t. This...looked to be the same door. Sanded, stained, but the same. A strange shiver went down Helen’s back, as she opened the door.
She didn’t see the glorious garden her mother had planted on the terrace; she paid no attention to the elaborate arbors or trailing vines draping over the sides. Her eyes were fixed on the edge of the door, where a series of small marks lovingly marred the wood, a ladder of time and dreams... Helen, age 3. Age 4. Age 5. Age 6. Kiki, age 6. Helen, age 7. Kiki, age 7. Little marks, climbing upward; a stepwise measurement of age and growth for one young girl and her best friend.
So this was home.
Her words, and the echo of her words, drew no response. The house was still, silent, a museum after hours. Helen felt a tug of disappointment, though she’d expected no less. She walked up the rise to the main foyer, between and past the double spiral stairs and into the great hall. There was no sound, no motion. No dust, of course; the cleaning company was paid well to ensure that all the houses were cleaned and maintained irrespective of whether anyone was in residence at the time. Her so-called graduation had been arranged in a hurry, she knew, so her parents had only had a few weeks’ notice of her arrival. She’d hoped...
An unexpected splash of color caught her eye. On one of the small decorative tables was a vase of fresh yellow roses; as Helen moved closer, she saw that a formal cream and lavender envelope lay beside it. It was of the sort her mother most recently favored, and Helen picked it up with strangely tentative fingers. She broke the purple wax seal, and opened it. The handwriting was the elegant script of her mother’s secretary.
Darling daughter,
Your father and I are heartbroken that we could not be here upon your return. Alas, your father is in the middle of rather delicate negotiations involving the Branden Industries takeover, and simply cannot be pulled away. We will do what we can to be home in a week, two at the most. I’ve had the service open and freshen the Blue Suite for you; feel free to settle in and relax. Use any of the cars if you need to, and we will see you soon.
Love,
Lilly
Helen sighed. Her mother’s signature had, at least, been in her own hand. That was something. And she was sure that her mother had meant well when she offered the Blue Suite; it was housed directly over the carport, and had a direct stairway down to it that bypassed all possible parental oversight. But she didn’t want to stay there, despite the convenience.
She knew her rooms wouldn’t be the same. Her mother had lost no time in redecorating it, and moving Helen’s things into the basement storage. But she loved the tower rooms, with their balconies and air and light, the way they rose above the rest of the house. She and Kiki had played Rapunzel off the top spire more than once, braiding long yarn hair until it could reach down all six stories. Kiki had been the only one brave enough to play the prince and climb up it; it was, thankfully, a secret the adults never knew about or they would have simply lost it.
Helen moved through the kitchen and up the steps nearest the conservatory, the stairs that came out right next to her rooms...no, the “Garden Suite”. Her mother had a name for all the rooms, and each was done in a distinctive style and color set. The Blue Suite was done in the Queen Anne style, for example, in rich blue, cherrywood and ivory. The Garden room...Helen opened the door, prepared for anything.
Gone were the cheery sky-blue walls, decorated by young and unskilled hands with a mural of butterflies, birds and trees, but she’d expected that. Gone was the sturdy brass bed, the dark green carpet that might as well have been made of titanium, for all the abuse it survived intact, but Helen had been ready for that as well. What she’d expected, given the name, was some sort of country-quaint. She should have known better; her mother didn’t pay the best designers in the country for shabby chic.
The room was...Helen searched for the term. Rococo, French rococo, seemed to be the inspiration here...Louis XV, she thought. This first room had been her bedroom, but was now laid out as a sitting room. The furniture was delicate, elaborately carved in slightly asymmetrical floral designs from rare woods that were then all but hidden under gilt, and then upholstered in a brilliant emerald green. The floor was polished oak, inlaid around the edges in an intricate pattern that echoed the carving of the furniture, and covered with a large silk carpet patterned with a dense thicket of green vines over cream. The ceiling had been coved, and it also had an elaborate floral pattern worked into it. The effect was dramatic, a rich fantasy of green and gold, accented with the bronze glow of fine wood.
She crossed the plush carpet to the archway in the far wall. She could see the staircase leading up through it; she remembered a door there, and a more utilitarian set of stairs. Now it was a spiral confection of gilded wood rising upward. The second room was much like the first in theme, but rather than the many small seats and tables that could be rearranged for company, this had a few larger, more comfortable pieces...private, rather than public. The same golden spiral led up to the final room, where the archway opened onto an elegant and sumptuous bedroom in the same style, before continuing up to the terrace level, and again further up to a trapdoor onto the top spire.
Helen climbed up, looked at the door that opened onto the terrace. It was a thick and heavy oak door, out of keeping with the style of everything else. Helen blinked, startled, not because it looked out of place, but because it was the first thing that didn’t. This...looked to be the same door. Sanded, stained, but the same. A strange shiver went down Helen’s back, as she opened the door.
She didn’t see the glorious garden her mother had planted on the terrace; she paid no attention to the elaborate arbors or trailing vines draping over the sides. Her eyes were fixed on the edge of the door, where a series of small marks lovingly marred the wood, a ladder of time and dreams... Helen, age 3. Age 4. Age 5. Age 6. Kiki, age 6. Helen, age 7. Kiki, age 7. Little marks, climbing upward; a stepwise measurement of age and growth for one young girl and her best friend.
So this was home.