It was the brush of the wind that caused her to stir. Not the sound of the dripping faucet, not the sound of light knuckles rapping on the oak door that stood between her and the outside world. It was the cool air of the wind, its touch against a bare shoulder, it’s whisper over a cheek.
When the sun had set she wasn’t sure, the memory of lighting the candles on the stools beside the tub filled her head. The sun was out, the window had been opened to allow the natural light inside. Was this hours ago? The water that engulfed her had cooled adding to the goosebumps that ran over flesh. The once little flickers of flames had been put out, some, it seemed, by errant water, while others had met their ends in a rush of melted wax and broken wick.
And there was that rapping again, the sound of knuckles meeting wood, louder than before. The one behind the door seemed more frantic, more outspoken about their attempts to enter.
Then there was the drip, drip, dropping of water from the faucet at her feet.
Hands rose, fingers pruned, pressed into eyes that felt more like thick pieces of wool shoved into holes upon her head then actual eyes. The world was blurry, matching the pace of the spinning of her head. The little movement of her body set off ripples of the water, sounds that were once muffled cleared through ears, pushing into her brain.
“Nika,” knuckles rapped again.
“Nika, open the door.” The words came in like the timing of an old cartoon, faded, made of gravel, clearing with each syllable. The ending harsh, a command made from a voice which was equal parts annoyed and concerned.
Had she latched the door? Head turned so eyes could settle there, the wood of the door was older, a bit rough in some spots. At one point the once light oak had been stained dark, a stark contrast to the white washed walls. Crumbled stone, worn patches from age, from hands. The latch was there, thick black iron clasped in place, hook and needle.
It won’t move. The words were thought but not spoken, eyes followed the trail of red wax that decorated the edges of the door. It run down onto the pale floor, mixing in front, crossing like two daggers made of wax.
“Nika, open. Now.” Rough. Gravel. Words that were strong sliced through the door, fell on her ears.
“Rozalia.” A whisper, like the wind coming from the open window. It was hard to move from the water, it stuck like tar, pulling her down like quicksand. The willing of the body to move was not strong, in the cold water it oddly felt safe, her mind still clouded with the sleep it had just awoken from. But it started slow.
An arm, the skin hadn’t been fully submerged in the bath, was moved from the cold ledge of the tub. Fingers reached out brushing tips against the soft fabric of a towel that lay strewn across a basket made of wicker. The movement, however small it may have been, warranted some small success. A nail caught on a loop of wool, dragging the thing down with a swing of her arm.
“Are you dead in there?” A silly question followed by the jiggling of the door’s handle. Another silly little thing.
The towel, a white thing twice as big as the small girl in tub, was clutched in one arm, other other was now working on pulling her body free from the water. Like learning to walk again, the motions were there somewhere in the back of her mind yet her physical body stumbled over the steps.
“Nika!” The word was met with fists to the door, flecks of ed wax crumbled away from it’s edges, drifted hard to the floor where they collected like old blood. The girl behind the door was getting angry, while it seemed like decades had passed between the first call and now the clock would tell no lies.
“Rozalia. I’m coming.” A frog could speak better words. Her voice was raw and rang in her head. Her legs wobbled over the edge of the tub, finding little safety in the cool wood of the floor, that towel, that small victory, was tucked around her body. “I’m okay.” A few steps to the door, the room in which she laid to bathe was large, a round thing tucked up in a spire, just a few steps away, windows lined the curve of the wall, overlooking the claw foot tub, just a few steps, she had lit the candles, dozens of them, so she could collect her thoughts in a cloud of their scents, the stood in clusters around the room, wax melting, dripping, to the floor, pooling around their thick white bases, just a few more steps, the towel she wrapped around herself stained red at the edges, furling out like ink, a few more steps and hands were rummaging along the edges of that oak door.
Nails dug red wax away, breaking seals that held the wood in place. The latch was pulled up as the girl on the other side push in. “Rozalia.”
