Wine

Olivia McFaul

The opera house is on fire. No one runs or screams. No one can see the flames. Except her. She knows it’s on fire. She can see the flames. That's all she sees from their private viewing box. Flames licking their way up the walls, writhing and dancing in the curtains. The muraled roof bubbles and peels, little paint flecks drifting down onto the audience like snow.

The flames reach the stage. The wood snapping and popping as the ballerinas twirl and leap. She gasps as the flames claw up one of the ballerina’s legs. A true fire dancer of glowing brilliance.

Her mother shoots her a look before leaning over and hissing in her ear, “Whatever you see, it’s not there.”

The flames poke over the edge of the railing. They are mere inches in front of them. Her frustration builds, watching her mother stare through the flames. She stands. Her mother doesn’t try to stop her as she walks out of the private viewing box.

The gilded hallway is deserted except for one man leaning against the wall. He nods at her, then reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a flask.

“Did you grow tired of their methodical dancing too?” He takes a swig.

“No,” she says, walking closer. “The fire distracted me, I could no longer enjoy the performance.”

“What fire?”

“The building is on fire.”

He looks around the hall then chuckles. “No it’s not.”

“It is. You just can’t see.”

“Oh right. Of course.” He smiles, taking another drink. He pauses for a moment, looking her up and down with a hungry gaze she’s familiar with receiving. “Sometimes,” he says, eyes latching to the rosy skin peaking above her tight corset, “When I’ve had a lot to drink I think I’ve seen pixies dancing about my room.”

She assumes that this man is always having a lot to drink. He looks different from the gentlemen she’s interacted with before, black hair uncombed, suit wrinkled with buttons askew.

“I’ve seen pixies.” She mumbles, a small smile on her lips, before dropping into a seated position to the floor. Her dress bulges around her. Blades of grass pierce through the silk, spreading from her waist down to the edge. They crawl onto the carpet until the floor matches the green hue of her dress. Little flowers bloom out of the skirt. She smiles, plucking one and twirling it in her hand. The man looks down at her with a bemused expression before he shrugs and settles down onto the floor also.

“You are a strange thing.”

She drops the flower. “I'm not a thing.”

“My apologies.” He twists the cap back on his flask and tucks it back into his jacket. “You are a strange woman.”

“You are a drunken man.”

“Indeed I am.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. She looks at him. He looks at her. The flowers are spreading around them. His hand rests on the floor and the flowers spring up between his fingers.

“How often do you see things other people can’t?” He asks, breaking the silence.

She purses her lips. “Often.”

“What do you see?”

“Many things,” She says, running her hands over the delicate petals of the flowers.

“What are you touching?”

“Flowers.”

“Can I touch them?”

“Of course you can.” She glances at his hand, the grass now growing up his wrist. “You’re touching them right now.”

“Am I?” He hums. “I didn’t notice.” Suddenly he leans forward and grips the edge of her skirt.

She glares at him. “That’s impolite.”

“I’m not a polite person.”

“You’re crushing my flowers.” She frowns as she watches misshapen petals drop to the floor. He releases her skirt. Yellow pollen coats his hand. “They are ruined now.” She says, poking at the cracked stems, their sticky white liquid seeps into the blades of grass.

“I’m sorry,” he says. She looks up. His eyes are bright, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“No you aren’t.” She stands, tearing her grass skirt from the floor. Dirt sprays out into the man's lap but he has no reaction. She turns and heads back in the direction of her private viewing box.

࿓

Her mother is making her wear a bird cage under her skirts. Bright parrots and angry ravens bite and rattle the metal frame. They will do so all night. Their ear piercing squawks and caws will be an irritating addition to the evening. Unaware of the prisoners flapping around her drawers, her mother drapes the blue silk dress over her head. The birds’ wings and beaks push against the fabric, like a dull needle through cotton.

Her mother tugs long gloves up her arms. The velvet squeezes the skin above her elbow. She tries to fidget with it, but her mother slaps her hands away and sits her down in front of the vanity.

Wordlessly her mother does her hair, pinning it into an intricate mess of braids and curls. She sticks beautiful jewelry in her ears and straps some more to her neck. They are all heavy. As she moves through the house the earrings smack against her neck.

In the carriage her mother says one thing to her. One of the only things she says to her since she’d gone missing in the woods so long ago. “Whatever you see, it’s not there.”

She looks out the window as they approach the mansion. It had been raining on the ride. The slick ground reflects the light of the street lamps, a mirror to the starry night sky, shimmering and endless.

The carriage comes to a halt and they walk across the sky and inside the mansion. Her mother is quick to get them into the ballroom. She always did have a tendency to float away if there weren’t people around.

The ballroom is a bright space, with several crystal chandeliers. The roof towers above with those strange naked babies painted in collections. A large fountain stands at the center of the room. The great Fae Queen Rhiannon sits upon her horse, the crowning jewel of the fountain. Stone eyes blink at her.

Her mother pulls her toward her friends. A group of brabbling women, no better than the birds screaming under her skirt. The women acknowledge her mother enthusiastically, and the conversation continues in uproar. Words blend together as their laughter shakes the room. She glances at the chandelier swaying above them.

She doesn’t say a word, so the women continue to talk and chatter and babble. Their words become sounds. Belching sounds. A smile tugs at her lips. Toots and trumpets. She begins to giggle. Squeaks and gurgles. She laughs. The women turn to her, with confused expressions. Her mother narrows her brows so she covers her mouth and steps away from the group.

She continues to giggle to herself as she walks toward the refreshment table. It earns her many strange stares. One set of eyes, all too familiar. The man from the opera hall makes his way toward her.

“What’s got you so entertained?”

“Nothing,” she says, lifting her chin and pouring lemonade into her little glass cup.

He tilts his head at her, before realization streaks across his face. “You aren’t still mad about the flowers are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“I told you I was sorry.”

“But you didn’t mean it,” she says, pointedly.

He sighs and runs a hand through his already tousled hair. He glances around the room before a smile touches his face. “Can I make it up to you?”

“How?” She asks, setting her cup down on the table.

“With a dance?” He holds his hand out to her.

She hesitates for only a moment, then slips her palm into his.

They walk onto the dance floor, and stop close to the fountain. The fountain cracks and she knows the statue of Queen Rhiannon has shifted to watch the pair. He wraps an arm around her, settling his hand into the curve of her lower back. She drags her hand up his chest to rest upon his shoulder. He pulls her close. Close enough she knows someone is probably going to tell her mother. He gives her a wicked grin before he moves them. It only takes her a few steps for her to realize he’s chosen a waltz, but no one else is waltzing.

This close, she can smell the liquor on his breath. It’s so strong she wonders if she’ll become intoxicated just by breathing his air.

“What’s your name?” He asks, spinning them around.

She thinks for a moment, then says a name. “And you, flower crusher, will you give me your name?”

“You can call me anything you like, but my name is Gavin Kiell.” He spins them again.

“Mr. Kiell, don’t mind my birds.”

“Your what?” He laughs.

“My birds. My mother made me wear the bird cage and they are quite rowdy. I do not think they like me spinning.”

“Bird cage...there are birds under your hoop skirt?”

“Yes.” She nods. She expects him to laugh again.

“I see.” He nods. “I shall spin us less then.”

She smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Kiell.”

“Please call me Gavin.”

“That is improper.”

“I’m not much for propriety.” He smirks. “Come on.” He leans down, his sweet smelling breath invading her senses. “Say my name.”

She glances away, toward the fountain. Water begins to flow over the edge. She gasps. 

“What is it? What do you see?” Gavin asks.

“The fountain is overflowing.”

“Are we going to get wet?”

She watches as water pools around other dancers' feet, growing closer to them. “Yes,” she says.

“Would you like to move?”

She looks back at his face and whispers, “No.”

Gavin smirks again, moving them closer to the fountain. Their steps splash the thin layer of water. She looks down at their blurry forms, rippling in the reflection and grins.

“We are walking on water. On the sky.” She says with an awed breath.

Gavin pulls her closer. “I wish I could see the world through your eyes.” His hand slides down from hers to her elbow. His fingers work their way under her glove, slowly working it up her arm and off her hand. “It seems truly magical.” He caresses the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.

She pauses then looks to Queen Rhiannon, who nods. She turns back to search his eyes. The music comes to an end. People begin clapping and move off the dancefloor to find other partners, but she doesn’t move. Gavin doesn’t seem to want to move either.

But then her mother is there, ripping her away from Gavin. She reaches for him but her mother pulls her arms down, caging them to her body. The fountain explodes, water hits the ceiling, blasting away the delicate painted babies.

She whimpers as her mother drags her toward the door.

࿓

The cool air is brisk against her skin. Standing on the balcony in her nightdress she lets the moonlight bathe her in its pale glow. It is a windless night, and yet she hears rustling in the bushes.

Gavin tumbles out of the brush with a ragged grin on his face, clutching the glove he’d taken from her. She blinks, remembering that her family crest is embroidered on the inside. He found her. Just as they had told her he would. She grins.

Gavin saunters up the edge of the balcony and waves his hand to beckon her down. She shakes her head and points to a patch of vines growing up the side of the manor.

He nods and rushes to climb the vines, nearly slipping a few times. He makes it over the balcony rail and prowls toward her. She steps away. He steps closer. They continue their little dance until he’s pinned her back to the bedpost. He reaches for her but she grabs his hand to stop him.

“Why are you in such a rush?” She asks.

“Is there something else you’d like to do?” He tilts his head.

“I think I’d like to have a drink with you.”

“I have no drink.”

“I do.” She smiles. “But it’s not here.”

“How come you made me climb up here then?” He backs away.

“I wanted to see if you would.” She takes a step toward him and the dance begins again. She steps closer. He steps back. They are back on the balcony, his back to the rail.

He tenses. She giggles. Then they descend the vines.

She leads him to the edge of the walled garden, where a thick brush has grown over the stone. She pushes it aside to reveal a large crack. Big enough for a person to easily pass through. Gavin makes a remark about how convenient it would have been to have seen that earlier. She notes the grey streaks on his pants, from where he must have dragged himself over the top of the wall.

She takes his hand and they walk into the dark woods beyond. There is no path, but she is not lost. The trees bend and flex, pointing the way, just as they did many years before.

She steps over a small spring. Gavin clumsily does the same, as if he couldn’t see what she had stepped over.

Leaves begin to curl and unfurl around them. Flowers burst open from their blooms. A humming noise emanates from their pulsing cores. She hums along to the familiar tune.

“You left liquor out here?” Gavin asks, looking around. He slows slightly, but she keeps dragging him along.

“It’s a special wine.”

She spots a set of boulders and stops abruptly. She turns toward him and for the first time since they met, he looks nervous. He flinches at the sound of a nearby stick snapping. She grips his hand tighter and his attention returns to her.

“Do you want to drink my wine?” She asks.

“I—” Water gushes from the nearby boulders. He gapes and she knows he sees it. A waterfall appearing out of nowhere.

She reaches for him and guides his head back to her. She keeps her palm pressed to his face as she slips one strap of her nightgown down her shoulder.

“I said,” she slips the other down. “Do you want to drink my wine?” The dress drops.

“Yes.” He blurts, eyes roving over her.

She smiles and tugs him closer. She pulls him toward the boulders. Towards the sparkling waterfall. Deeper into the circle of mushrooms he unwittingly stepped into.

His eyes widen. She knows what he sees. She’d seen it too, sees it now, everyday. He’s passed through the gate and the world will never be the same for him. Like with her, they shall keep him in their world of brilliant color, nature and violence.

What a horrifyingly wonderful thing.

࿓