Ana (Part 1)

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It was early evening, and a thin band of tawny brightness stretched across the sky. For some time already a powdery snow had begun to fall. Ana, a porcelain-skinned girl, sat idly on her bed and gazed out of the French doors, which gave boastfully onto the soft ivory of a winter garden. At the far end of the property there stood an iron gate, and, in the dim light of the moon, the snow looked like a wavy quilt of fine silk. She cast a glance at the swanlike elegance of the wintry trees, and with a sudden turn of her head noticed a strange agitation near the cedar arbor where, out of the shadowy depths and into a rectangle of pale light, stepped a tall, sinewy figure. He disappeared again into the shadows, and to satisfy her curiosity, Ana, somehow believing she had seen a ghost, warily opened the door.

“If you stand there with the door open you’ll catch your death of cold,” said a voice that resonated in the chill air. It belonged to a young man in a black duster coat and an ivy cap.

“Then you must come in,” said Ana “but be very quiet. My father is a reasonable man, but would probably kill you if he found you here. And there’s no telling what my mother would do.” With great clarity Ana went on to explain how her mother had enthusiastically developed a hierarchy of punishment, where death by a poorly aimed pistol, for instance, was of lower standing than, say, the slow loss of vigor by secretive means. “But these methods are more or less dated and mother seems obliged to find new ones.”

She spoke in hushed tones, yet the boy was mesmerized by the animated girl who stood before him in a flowing white nightgown, like a sylph, and with the dry squeak of snow under his feet, he took a step forward.

“I don’t normally let strangers into my room,” she said hesitantly.

“But I’m not a stranger. I know your sister. Well, I’ve seen her here and there,” said the boy in a cheerful tone.

His voice had the freshness of a windswept field of buttercups, yet it seemed caught somewhere between the plush of boyhood and the diamond hardness of adulthood, and the first thing she noticed, as he stepped through the door, was a dusting of snow covering the felt of his mid-calf boots.

“Well, here we are, “ said Ana with a smile.

While he closed the door she fetched a leather jacket from her wardrobe and draped it across her shoulders, gently tossing back her voluminous hair. A thin wisp of perfume circled the room and Ana stood stock-still, several loose strands of her bible black hair crossing her lips.

“Do you have any other sisters?” he asked narrowing his eyes.

Ana paused for a moment and began with a melancholy voice, “No. There was a time when I did, and I had wished for my mother’s fairykin to die, and one soulless night it did.”

“You’re a strange girl,” he said knitting his eyebrows.

“What were you doing in the garden, standing so still? Are you a runaway?” She paused and bit her lower lip. “I’d like to run away, but my parents wouldn’t allow it.”

“But that’s the whole point of running away—no one is supposed to know,” he said, suddenly remembering to remove his cap.

She gave him a crooked look. “I know what a runaway is. I just meant I couldn’t do it. I’m afraid of the dark, for one thing.”

“I’m from the darkness. Are you afraid of me?” asked the boy, secreting his black cap into an empty pocket.

“No,” she said, clearing her throat and then placing an indolent finger on her cheek, where he had but a moment ago seen a dimple.

Looking around the room he saw pictures of ballet dancers and bookshelves filled with exotic looking books, and on a small writing desk were a music box, an apple peel on a rose-colored napkin, a notebook , and a box of sharpened pencils.

“I have something for you,” he began. “You may remember me by it.” He thrust his hand deep into the other pocket, made a tight fist, raised into the light his hand and, unfurling his long, pinkish fingers, produced a delicate white feather. A broad smile extended athwart Ana’s face, but alas his impressive sleight of hand was soon brought to an end by a resonant clang.

He crouched down and picked up a dull piece of metal and returned it to his pocket.

“What was that?” she asked with the heedless curiosity of a bear cub exploring a newly minted world.

“Nothing,” said the boy sharply.

“Let me see it.” He hesitated and then showed her the noisy offender.

“That’s something of my father’s. You’re not a runaway. You’re a thief!“ exclaimed the girl.

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4 Comments

  1. What a timeless, delightful story. Wonderfully descriptive with some gorgeous imagery. I suspect you rather like this genre – it shows…

    Like

  2. Gorgeous, and utterly mesmerizing.

    Like

  3. Oh my this was such a great read Prospero! I felt like I was standing in the room, a by-stander not knowing what to expect of and between these two characters, but a fabulous surprise at the end. I look forward to Part 2 ~

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  4. First, this sounds like a place I’d like to be. Second, I had forgotten about “the dry squeak of snow.” And third, captivated, I shall return soon to read on…

    Like


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