Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,79
fell in the darkness—I don’t know how many times.”
“And you’ve cut yourself.” Camilla lifted the other girl’s black hair away from her neck. “Here on your shoulders and throat. But I don’t believe it’s anything to worry about.” Her fingers carefully touched the livid scrapes. “Are you certain there isn’t someone whom we should let know of your safe whereabouts?”
“There is no one who would care. I am alone.”
“Poor Cassilda.”
“All I want is to sleep,” she murmured. The warm bath was easing the ache from her flesh, leaving her deliciously sleepy.
Camilla left her, to return with large towels. The maid helped her from the tub, wrapping her in one towel as she dried her with another. She felt faint with drowsiness, allowed herself to relax against the blonde girl. Camilla was very strong, supporting her easily as she towelled her small breasts. Camilla’s fingers found the parting of her thighs, lingered, then returned again in a less than casual touch.
Her dark eyes were wide as she stared into Camilla’s luminous blue gaze, but she felt too pleasurably relaxed to object when the maid’s touch became more intimate. Her breath caught, and held.
“You’re very warm, Cassilda.”
“Hurry, Camilla.” Mrs Castaigne spoke from the doorway. “The poor child is about to drop. Help her into her nightdress.”
Past wondering, she lifted her arms to let Camilla drape the beribboned lawn nightdress over her head and to her ankles. In another moment she was being ushered into a bedroom, furnished in the fashion of the rest of the house, and to an ornate brass bed whose mattress swallowed her up like a wave of foam. She felt the quilts drawn over her, sensed their presence hovering over her, and then she slipped into a deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
“Is there no one?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Of course. How else could she be here? She is ours.”
Her dreams were troubled by formless fears— deeply disturbing as experienced, yet their substance was already forgotten when she awoke at length on the echo of her outcry. She stared about her anxiously, uncertain where she was. Her disorientation was the same as when she awakened after receiving shock, only this place wasn’t a ward, and the woman who entered the room wasn’t one of her wardens.
“Good morning, Cassilda.” The maid drew back the curtains to let long shadows streak across the room. “I should say, good evening, as it’s almost that time. You’ve slept throughout the day, poor dear.”
Cassilda? Yes, that was she. Memory came tumbling back in a confused jumble, She raised herself from her pillows and looked about the bedchamber she had been too tired to examine before. It was distinctly a woman’s room—a young woman’s—and she remembered that it had been Mrs Castaigne’s daughter’s room. It scarcely seemed to have been unused for very long: the brass bed was brightly polished, the walnut of the wardrobe, the chests of drawers and the dressing table made a rich glow, and the gay pastels of the curtains and wallpaper offset the gravity of the high tinned ceiling and parquetry floor. Small oriental rugs and pillows upon the chairs and chaise longue made bright points of color. Again she thought of a movie set, for the room was altogether lacking in anything modern. She knew very little about antiques, but she guessed that the style of furnishings must go back before the First World War.
Camilla was arranging a single red rose in a crystal bud vase upon the dressing table. She caught her gaze in the mirror. “Did you sleep well, Cassilda? I thought I heard you cry out, just as I knocked.”
“A bad dream, I suppose. But I slept well. I don’t, usually.” They had made her take pills to sleep.
“Are you awake, Cassilda? I thought I heard your voices.” Mrs Castaigne smiled from the doorway and crossed to her bed. She was dressed much the same as the night before.
“I didn’t mean to sleep so long,” she apologized.
“Poor child! I shouldn’t wonder that you slept so, after your dreadful ordeal. Do you feel strong enough to take a little soup?”
“I really must be going. I can’t impose any further.”
“I won’t hear anymore of that, my dear. Of course you’ll stay with us until you’re feeling stronger.” Mrs Castaigne sat beside her on the bed, placed a cold hand against her brow. “Why, Cassilda, your face is simply aglow. I do hope you haven’t taken a fever. Look, your hands are positively trembling!”