The Garden

Kelantha

It was not that Mihail began to dislike his governess so much as he sensed that I was not terribly fond of her. I knew it wounded him, his boyish heart, to turn from idol worship of her to purposefully seek ways in which to intentionally hurt her. They were never overt, and there were times when I saw such anguish in his eyes that I wondered why he did not let the mental torments lapse, but my son was profoundly loyal to his parents. Dracula took no steps to correct this behavior and I was disinclined, intrigued by what end it would reach. Mirielle was not strong enough with him, her nature inclined to tears. She reminded me a good deal of a girl I�d known at the girls� school my mother had forced me into attending, something of a loner who spent most of her time weeping.

Some spark of compassion did dwell within my breast, though it was reluctant to show itself. There was a charming little alcove in the courtyard that Mirielle frequented whenever she wished to be alone. I knew of its existence well, and each evening would pass by on the upper turret, catching sight of her gown of white amidst the vines that grew rampant there, affixed with tiny violet flowers. One night I was drawn to her, approaching from the shadows so quietly that she did not know of my presence. Moonlight was slanting through the trees and fell just short of my skirts as I paused there in the shadows, my eyes reflecting the heavenly demeanor of the courtyard.

Mirielle had a flower in her fingertips, and was turning it gently in her small hands. She had not dared to look at me since my violent recourse against my son being educated in Catholicism. The ground surrounding her skirts were scattered with blossoms, plucked by the nimble fingers of Mihail. He was purposefully cruel to flowers, perhaps because I held no affection for them. My memories of those fated roses being flung out the window remained fresh in my mind, for I know knew the reasons why the count had been so adverse to them. She was sitting there, dark hair unbound over shoulders bent with fatigue, and I knew she felt terribly alone.

�You will grow accustomed to it, in time,� I offered, emerging from the shadows. Mirielle half-rose in alarm but I indicated for her to remain seated. It was strange to have her so near, to feel the presence of the crucifix that hung beneath her bodice, to sense the blood rushing through her veins. I had almost forgotten what human contact was like, for I had used them only for nourishment for so long.

A tear slipped between long eyelashes and she hastily wiped it away with the back of her hand. �I don�t understand, Madame,� she whispered.

I walked the courtyard surrounding her, reaching for the vines that grew up the stone wall, digging into the crevices within the ancient architecture. The fragrance of this garden was nearly overwhelming. �Feeling as though you are alone,� I replied, �misunderstood, underappreciated. I felt that way in London, when I went away to study. I came here, and for the first time in my life, began to know myself. Suddenly nothing else mattered. It is magic with this place, and it frightens you. Do not fight it, Mirielle. Embrace it; let it speak to your soul. Transylvania has many secrets to impart.�

She took the handkerchief I offered her gratefully and wiped her eyes as she rose to her feet. I knew what I looked like in the moonlight, a domineering, ethereal creature from another world. There was a small amount of fear in her countenance as she beheld me, but then a hand reached out trembling and rested on my arm. �Merci, Madame,� she said, and left me there. I found the absence of her from this place to be perplexing, and turned to find my husband lingering in the shadows. The count said nothing and we parted ways that night, returning at different hours to watch over our son while his governess slept.

Months went by without incident, until one morning when I was abnormally restless. It was nearing the end of summer and the days were warm and sunlit. Not since my pregnancy had I been so listless. Leaving my husband asleep in the coffin behind me, I passed through the darkened corridors of the house listening for my son�s laughter. It came rebounding along the passage ahead of him; for an instant when he beheld me standing there, he halted. Then joy leapt into his eyes and he came running to me, taking my hand and pulling me after him.

�Mirielle and I have been making a garden, Mama,� he said, �and you must see it!�

It was only when we reached the doorway and the expanse of sunlight beyond that I grasped the concept of his ambition. He went darting out into the hellish light that would have incinerated me from within, and my hand was tugged after him. I came to a grinding halt, nearly jerking him off his feet in his headlong dash; my wrist was displayed but an instant in the agonizing pain before I drew it to me. Mihail was staring at me in confusion. �I cannot go into the garden, darling,� I said softly. �The sunlight gives Mama a headache. I will stand here and watch.�

He did not entirely understand, and disappointment was in every fluid movement as he nodded and retreated to his little garden, his steps considerably slowed. Mirielle had been behind us and now approached, looking at me curiously as she passed. I had never missed the light so much as in that instant, as I watched her work with him in the damp earth, whispering to make him laugh as they tended their little plants. Tears were an unknown luxury to me, and yet I felt them gathering. I had finally begun to realize that I was not truly a part of my son�s life, only a mirage that came to him in darkness.

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