Of

        After he excused himself from breakfast, she politely told Hans that she was done, and excused herself to take up the opportunity to explore the house.

        Last night had seemed to pass by in a mind-aching blur, and it was only now that she could perceive just how vast and enormous the house was. She crossed back through the foyer with its tall crowned ceilings, the blue walls and pale yellow highlights reminding her of an endless sky above the sand of distant deserts. She cautiously walked through a delicately carved doorway into a spacious room with one lounging couch and a gramophone resting next to it. The rest of the room was empty with large paintings that adorned every bit of the walls. After a moment, it occurred to her that this must be some type of ballroom, though she had never been taught how to dance. Only happy people danced- in stories and fairy tales. She would have explored more, but as she walked further into the room gazing at all the paintings, she felt her heart catch in her throat and that constriction tighten further in her chest.

        Her nails biting into the skin above her hair, she briskly returned to her room and paced until her feet ached. After awhile, she moved her chair beside her window and closed her eyes, taking slow deep breaths. Though her heart returned to its normal pace, she gazed out the window as the tightly held walls of her psyche shook violently. Was it more painful to forget, or was it more painful to remember?

        "Miss?" Nimbe's soft knock startled her from her thoughts as she stood and met Nimbe at the door. 

        "Supper is ready." She made no movement or gesture in response, yet nevertheless followed Nimbe back down the hall and down the stairs before taking the same seat at the table of the dining room, Sir. sitting in his seat.

        "Evening," She hummed, setting her napkin on her lap and taking a sip of water, the glass cool and distracting. Her actions felt as controlled and mechanic as always, but now she began to wonder if it would serve any purpose now. He had bought her expecting a beast- a freak or strange creature- but he treated her like none of those things. She had never been of any other use but to fill those allotted spaces, and now she felt out of place. It almost felt like she was a horse turned out to pasture- those blood spattered days gone. To her there came a thought of grief and pain; she had only ever known those things, and a future without them was completely unknown and obscure. Perhaps change was more daunting than anything of her past had ever been, she thought.

        "Good evening," He responded. "I heard you declined lunch today. You should eat more."

        "Yes Sir." The automated response slipped out as her eyes dulled slightly, her hands freezing their actions as her shoulders tensed. Black-suited emotions flooded between her ears at herself, at how easily she caved into everything that she hated about herself. In the same instant she forced herself to relax and blink for a moment, coming back into her own reigns. Hate- it was a violent beast that made her eyes harden as she looked down at her hands, embittered.

        "How do you like your steak cooked?" It was a simple attempt to change the subject, his tone calming slightly in assurance. As much as she wished he had not noticed, the fact of knowing he had made her feel profoundly weak. 

        She blinked as her eyes stung slightly and her cheeks became heavy. With a silent breath she tightened her face into her stone cast, her heart stilling and her insides calming.

        "Cooked?" She echoed. It was considered a gift to him that he was so observant, but hearing the hollowness of her words he couldn't help but be tired, maybe more so for her.  

        "Rare, medium rare, well-done. Rare being less cooked, well-done being most cooked." 

        "Rare then." She hummed, her shoulders rolling back as she took another sip of water- the window that once was all she could look at was now abused by her lack of admiration. He told Hans her preference as he set down her appetizer before everything fell back into silence.

        "Can I ask you a question?" He asked, attempting to distract her from earlier.

        "Only if I get to ask one in return." She agreed, pecking at her food. He nodded before putting his chin in his palm, seeming to be constructing his question.

        "What is your favorite book?" He decided, his head tilting slightly. She hummed before taking another bite, finding this food more enjoyable than oatmeal and fruit. For a moment she bit her tongue, tired. Remembering anything made her feel heavy, but in this instant, a little pebble chipped and fell from her mind. "What use was a weapon if you couldn't hide it in plain sight?"

        "I don't have a favorite book." She replied. "But I can read, which I'm sure was what you were really asking." 

        He sat silently for a moment- a theory kindling in his mind. He had the faint notion that for all he thought he was understanding of her was suddenly under-minded, his throat drying slightly as that distant murmur crawled up his spine. 

        "What is your least favorite book then?" He countered, attempting to not let his mind over-analyze more than it was already prone to doing. Her chewing slowed for a moment before she leaned one of her elbows on the table and twirled her fork.

        "Well, I don't even remember what it was called, but it was this book filled with pictures and sketches of the complete account of the world's mammals. It was an encyclopedia of sorts." 

        A brief pause- a tightening of her throat as she cast him a shielded glance. The same weakness she had felt became, for a moment, a place of strength- the prospect of controlling his image of her even if it was a bad one, even if it was a weak, disgusting one. A slickness in her throat made her crave it; rejection, hate- but the bitterness of it upon her tongue made her mentally gag. Yearning, pain- the wanting to finally break after years of being beaten and deformed. The same action could result in either, she realized. It was easier not to choose.

         "If you think it is impossible to hate a book, I assure you it is not." Her eyes winced slightly as she reached for her glass of water, her cheek flexing slightly.  

        "May I ask why?"

        A quick exhale through her nose and almost unnoticeable twitch of her fingers gave him his answer.

        "It's my turn remember? I thought we agreed on only one question." 

        "Shoot then- I am unarmed." 

        She smiled at that and mimicked his earlier display of contemplation, her eyes boldly assessing him. She hadn't really had a chance to- her mind too distant from the present to observe him. He was rather tall and structured, not skinny or obtuse- maybe he was proportioned exceptionally well, she thought. His hands held a sort of delicacy to them, most unlike those of all the men she had known. The mask and gloves prevented much insight to be gathered from his skin or face, but to her it seemed less strange and more like a bit of a challenge.

        "Do you play an instrument?" 

        "I do actually," He hummed. "Care to guess what it is?" 

        At that moment Hans returned with the steak and placed it in front of her, a faint 'thank you' sounding. He watched as she proceeded to cut all the more cooked bits off her steak, a 'hmm' from her telling him she was contemplating. The few people she had ever seen playing instruments all had a type of air to them, and she tried to match those traits to him. Perfection- it was a word etched into the walls of his house and his furniture. Perfection, yet, contrast- she decided. 

        "Your fingers seem like that of a pianist," She started slowly, "But the grandeur of your home makes me believe that you are a man of many talents who can never settle for specialty in only one thing." She took a bite of her almost uncooked steak and chewed delicately, gazing at him once more.

        "Perhaps then you also play violin- two instruments noted for their ability to convey said 'specialty'."

        "But it's a taste you never quench," She finished to herself.

        It was his turn to be silent, though she couldn't see his wide smile behind his mask. He was surprised at the width of her conversation and quickness of mind. Perhaps he would have been intimidated that she had guessed right, but something in him swelled as though it was a challenge. Who would pin down the other first? Lay out their speech in conquest to each other's rich, mysterious past. The girl with charcoal hair and silver eyes, words like 'beast', 'demon', and 'freak' preceding her; or him- a blank slate, masked and gloved. 

        "I'm quite impressed." He admitted. "You are completely correct."

        She made no outward show of pride at her victory, an emotionless nod the only sign that she had heard him. Unlike breakfast, she completely finished her meal, the plate containing nothing but the pale red juices left by the steak. Hans gladly removed her dishes, offering her dessert which she kindly declined. 

        Despite having ignored it in a way that would make you believe it never existed, her eyes once again returned to the window; the once grey sky now a soft purple as the sun sank slowly beyond the forest and meadows of his estate. Little black birds fluttered from tree to tree to settle into a calm rest, the outside world muting itself into a soundless night.

        "Is there anything you would like to do?" He asked after awhile, cutting off the long, but not stiff, silence.

        "I think I'd like to read for a bit." She blinked, as if she had ventured deep into her mind and was suddenly back in the room. "Perhaps I'll find a favorite book."

        "Right this way then." Rising from his chair, he offered her a helping hand out of her seat before guiding the way to his study, the leather smooth in her hand. He pealed back the dark mahogany doors revealing a cozy room with a large book case and fireplace. Across from the fireplace was a long leather couch, and closer to the fireplace was a small chair and end table. He walked inside and pulled a book off the shelf before sitting down on the couch, Nimbe silently entering to start up the fireplace. Once Nimbe left, she slowly traced the books of the case, her fingers hovering over their worn spines.

        "Organized alphabetically by author?"

        He hummed in response, though she would have assumed he wasn't really reading his book, but she decided to pretend she didn't care. She sighed slightly as she slowly began to worm her way towards the 'W's laggardly, her head taking in more of the room- of the rich red walls and dark furniture that contrasted dramatically with the rest of the house. In the corner was a tall portrait, its frame stretching from the ceiling to the floor. Instead of the usual landscape, it was a faded image of a woman in a plain grey dress with a white collar, her hair brushed back modestly. 

        She paused her search as she found the book she was looking for- she had almost skipped past it; the spine was worn down almost past recognition. Her fingers gently began to pull it out of the case before his cold steel voice cut through the room.

        "Not that one." It was a familiar type of demand to her, her stomach dropping as her hand fell to her side and her head violently flinched downward. He cleared his throat roughly.

        "I apologize, I didn't mean to sound so..." He rushed, the sentence hanging in the air before he cut through it.

        "What Wordsworth poem did you want to read?" His voice much more gentle and slow.

        She took a moment to respond, her hands twitching back to life as she sucked in a deep breath as though she was waking up.

        "Ode to Imitations of Immortality." She spoke, her voice dry. She slowly turned and sat down in the chair next to the fireplace, the bright amber flames illuminating her face. He closed his book and put it back on the bookshelf before returning to the couch and leaning his head on his hand. 

        "May I recite it to you?" It was a timid attempt of redemption, and though in her chest her heart was trying to relearn its delicate waltz, she gave a slow nod before placing her hands in her lap and gazing into the fire. The disjointed rhythm of her heart dimmed as phantom-limbed memories gathered in her throat and scratched against her skull to get out. Scratching, scratching, scratching.

        "There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream; the earth and every common sight to me did seem appareled in celestial light: the glory and the freshness of a dream..."

        The heat of the fireplace slowly took on the sensation of the sun as she closed her eyes, her fingers winding the fabric of her dress in her clenched hands. His words became the backdrop to the orchestrated flow of her thoughts, her mind attempting to undo everything that had been drilled into it since before she could remember.

        Moments of the past burned against her eyes as she fought to bury the past into parallel graves, but she knew it was like attempting to...

        Her feet crossed themselves tightly as turned her face into the fire; the flames drowned in the lens of her tears. God, how she wished to throw herself into the hot inferno, but it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't do anything. 

        The first tear burned against her skin, the second carved rivers into her cheeks, the third dripped off her chin like acid.

        Weak, She spat at herself. What kind of beast was she to be so weak?

        She looked into the shadows of the room, to their delicate and pulsing dances against the light of the fire. A thought wandered briefly across her brow; the idea that no matter where she went or what she did, she was but a product of someone else. 

        Out in the world, Sir M was traversing the sea, and The Doctor was cutting yet more flesh. Was she anything without them? Could her mind be anything but ravaged cords and her body be anything but hideous creation?

        Could a piece of clay be anything than what it was molded into? Could it be something without the fingerprints of its maker?

        A ragged inhale tore through her throat and fell from her mouth as an exhausted sigh. Did any of it even matter anyway? She couldn't even be nothing, she realized. What a cruel sort of curse it was. 

        As the fire choked itself slowly, she decided she never wanted to be anything but nothing. 

        She looked back to the masked man, wondering if he had such internal conflict, such confusion.

        "The sunshine is a glorious birth, yet I know, where'er I go, that there hath passed away a glory from the earth..."

        Something told her that he did. A feeling, that although it couldn't be articulated, was important and had meaning nonetheless.