The floorboards protested my weight with a symphony of shudders and creaks—but they held. I sneaked inside the house through the dormer, a glint of moonlight prowling along.
Should I bother Rosalia with my presence? The thought flicked across my mind as I stared at the interior of the garret. It was even more furniture-less than the room below; wooden trusses hung above but that proved to be the only thing of interest unless dust and grime were of my fancy, which thankfully, it was not.
I flumped on the floor, splintered wood greeting my bottom like a rotund landlord would his overdue tenant: repellant and exhorting. I muttered a string of curses as I removed the pinpricks of oak that had pierced my garb. Rosalia may have fresh clothes, I thought as the last of the splinters left my body.
I stood back up when a line of rope caught my leg, almost tripping me immediately back down in the murk of the garret. For a second I had mistaken it for the twopenny rope my father used when he had drunk considerably the night before, sleeping on the rope until five in the morning when the valet would call it. I believe they called it a hangover. However, I was not inebriated enough to find sleeping on a rope particularly pleasing nor had I found the activity of drinking remotely fun so I was curious where this curio might lead to. The craggy rope seemed to be attached to the oak walls and led to…a room! It was not however the room I had used during my two-week seesawing with hunting and resting at Rosalia's home. A spruce white hatch introduced itself, a musty wooden ladder attached to it as the door to my room had been.
What could possible be down here? I asked myself. It would have been ridiculing Rosalia's kindness if I entered it without permission but the voices in my head whispered for me to continue. It wasn't a question of will I discover something; the question was what I would discover. The room was silent but my thoughts were muddled, conscience and instinct asserting each other as the dominant voice. The floorboard groaned as I shifted my weight and wiped the dust off the ladder, leaving dust spiraling into my nose. My throat became so itchy and raw I had to tighten up in order not to rip the dust out of my lungs. I steeled myself. I needed to know what Rosalia was hiding.
I stepped into the room and had just closed the hatch when I heard Rosalia's footsteps behind the door. Shit. I dove for the nearest cover—the bed—and stayed hidden until she entered the room and closed the doors. Then I noticed a hatbox tucked underneath the bed. It was tied up with string, and in pencil were scribbled something that was illegible.
Striving my best not to move, my other senses could not help but function. The bed was a mahogany where silk was thankfully draped to hide me though it made breathing a struggle. It smelled of an understated and feminine fragrance, marjoram with a hint of cloves perhaps which gave it a tinge of carnation. Rosalia hummed sweetly, low and soothing as a nursery song. Her voice was beautiful though she never opened her mouth. I remembered Alice and her voice. Would she have sounded this good if she hummed?
Cold sweat trickled down my back as my mind raced of situations if Rosalia discovered I was hiding here in her bedroom. Perhaps I might think of a plea or an excuse that I came upon the room accidentally. So I pondered on what reason might be acceptable, each's sensibility frailer and frailer as each second ticked by. I steeled myself to leave the cover of the bed and confess of my accidental encounter with the garret door. But it was not needed.
The sound of the door creaking as it opened roused me from my musings. She left, I ejaculated to myself. I removed myself from the haven of my cover and emerged into the serene light I had not been able to appreciate a few moments ago. A pair of boots lay at the front of a double-arched bed.
Along its left was a chest of mirrors and drawers, on the other was a ebony writing table with a chair tucked underneath. It seemed to be the room of a neat girl who had nothing to hide but that was not true. I took the hatbox underneath the bed.
It was like waving flesh at an Esher. I promised I would apologize to Rosalia if she discovers that it was I who had taken it. I untied the string. It was packed with a hundred or more papers, some letters, some lists, the rest I do not know. Where will I read them if not in Rosalia's house? I grit my teeth. I am not so shameless as to reside in the house of the person I had stolen from. I do now know what to do but I know I must read these. These are the answers to my pressing questions still about Yarim. About the plague. About the Hunter. The voices tell me so.
Footsteps again. Stairs creak as she ascends. I cannot hesitate anymore. To bloody hell with being called a thief or a pervert, I needed to leave the room. I clambered up and reached the attic handle, the ladder pitching down. I climbed.
I reached the garret and counted five before Rosalia entered the room. By the time she finds out the hatbox is missing, I will be gone. As I waded my way through the darkness of the attic room, I tripped on the rope stretched taut once more, the letters skidding out from the hatbox. I scrambled to gather the letters, my heart picking up speed, realizing something was amiss. I realized. I had left the string on the floor of the bedroom. Rosalia would know it was me. Shit.