I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
I open my eyes.
The words fade slowly, dissipating like fog before a cold night wind.
Numbness has set into my bones, preventing me from feeling anything. I can no longer sense the freezing spray on my skin, the bitter gale’s bite across my face. The sky has darkened, turning the clouds from ash to slate and the last lines of green have bled from the water, leaving it colorless and violent.
Looking up to a higher hill, I see my destination. Although I feel nothing, I wrap my coat more tightly around me and tilt my head forward, burying my face in the musty wool of my scarf.
I have spent the last months grieving, so naturally I have not been out for much exercise other than to visit her. The effort it takes to climb the hill makes my legs burn and my chest tighten. Only when the pain comes can I feel the cold air press against my throat and restrict my breathing. Puffs of white rush forth from my lips and swirl away quickly.
Panting I stop beside the sepulchre. I gaze sightlessly at the words, tracing the ridges of the engraving with stiff fingers. Naturally I know it by heart.
Annabel Lee Ashford-Dalton
1809-1830
Devoted Daughter
Generous Sister
Loving Wife
I let my fingers drift over the words Annabel Lee, Dalton and loving wife but avoid from touching the others entirely. My name belies my wealth and status. Her family has always hated me passionately. Their aristocratic legacy is far superior to my nondescript background. The highborn daughter of a noble could not possibly fraternize with the impoverished son of a widow. And yet my Annabel had loved me. When I could not give her jewels or silks, carriages or marble fountains, she loved me.
I wager they are more than happy to be rid of me now.
I stare down at the unfeeling black marble. It is cold, rigid and sharp; things Annabel had never been in life. Droplets of water cling to it, making the stone appear as if it weeps. The tears remind me so much of our drip castle and I press my fingers to my eyes and sigh.
Memories rush around me.
After building our castle, it was several weeks before I saw Annabel again. But following our second encounter, we scarcely went a day without seeing each other. I learned that she was staying with a nanny and her eldest sister in the Ashfords’ summer home. Her mother was ailing and the rest of her family had sent her away to protect her from sickness. Apparently she took ill very easily and had an extremely difficult time recovering.
I took to calling her Annalie, just a simple contraction of Annabel Lee. Her nanny, whose name was Matilda, abhorred the nickname. Every time she heard me say it, she cringed and gave me a disdainful look. Matilda would pronounce each syllable, saying, “Ann uh Lee…” then scowl at Annabel and say, “Really miss Ashford, that is far too crude a name for a lady of your station. I must insist you bid him to refrain from calling you that.”
Of course she never did. Annabel loved my little name for her. She said it was friendly and sweeter than Annabel Lee, as every family member used that formal address when speaking to her.
Even though Matilda openly disliked me, not once did she forbid Annabel from seeing me. Her sister, Eleonora, seldom took notice of her youngest sibling and paid no mind to our interactions.
Years went by and our friendship grew, my affections for her waxing all the while. When I was ten and four, Annabel invited me over to her family’s estate for the first time. I remember the hot feeling of excitement and the chill of nervousness when I accepted her invitation.
As I said before, I had no love of God, but thankfully I still owned Sunday clothes. They were a bit small and slightly wrinkled, but presentable and clean nonetheless.
I caught my mother smiling softly to herself as she polished the buttons on my coat and ironed my trousers. She took great care in fixing up my clothes.
I washed my hair and she combed the curls through, neatly pushing them back against my forehead. She put her hands on my shoulders and whispered in my ear, “You’re such a handsome boy… You look so like you father… You have his eyes, and his smile.”
Indeed all who knew Caspian Dalton told me I looked exactly like him. I only inherited one trait from my mother and that was her incredibly tall and slender frame.
Rosaline Dalton was a beautiful woman. Creamy white skin set fire to her bright red hair. Corkscrew curls, the color of glossy cherry wood, cascaded down her back in sprightly ringlets. The faintest spray of freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and under her eyes.
My mother had the loveliest eyes. They were an unusual color, somewhere between warm cinnamon and melting chocolate. There were even hints of gold in them. Sparkling and soft, they always made me feel protective of her.
But since my father’s death, there hung a kind of quiet sadness in their depths. It did not dampen their light, but it somehow changed it. Before, they had glittered like orbs of polished amber. After he died, they were shinier but less glittery; she looked hurt, lost.
My father had loved her more than anything. Perhaps those jealous angels took him too…
Annabel hurried me though the house. In fact, we moved so quickly I cannot even recall the color of the carpet or the size of the foyer. She took me into the garden, only then did she slow and relax.
The garden was enclosed by glass, protecting the inhabitants from weather. Some plants were thin and tall, others were short and thick. I was ashamed that I did not know the name of even one specimen.
Annabel gently touched my hand and led me to the center of the garden, to the flowerbeds. A stone fountain bubbled happily, spurting clear water from a fish’s mouth down into the shallow basin below. I sighed, relieved. I did in fact know the names of the beautiful blossoms.
I spied a red rose, velvety and trembling on its long, thorny stem.
Next to it, a tulip rested sleepily, its waxy pink petals looking heavy and healthy.
Six white daisies with soft yellow centers surrounded a vibrant sunflower.
But one flower stood out from the others. A single star lily grew near the fountain. Fragile and feminine, it smelled fresh and delicate. The petals were mostly deep pink, but the outermost edges were white. A pale green throat barred balls of gold pollen, mounted on slender stalks.
“That one is my favorite,” Annabel whispered.
I turned to look at her.
She was beautiful, standing there in her gossamer mauve dress. Her hair was longer than when we first met, almost reaching her waist. Deep sea green eyes searched my face, gleaming and her skin looked softer and more radiant than ever. But one thing held my gaze, mesmerized, enchanted; I could feel my heart hammering in my throat and blood throbbing behind my eyes.
Her lips looked so lush and satiny, untouched, flawless. I could smell the sweetness of her skin, vanilla and rose water. My mind wandered for a moment. I thought it strange she smelled of roses when she loved lilies so much.
She shifted, and the motion brought my focus back.
“Annalie…” I said, not taking my eyes from her lips.
“What is it?” she asked, frozen.
“Have you ever…” I could not bring myself to finish the question.
“No,” she breathed. Then added almost inaudibly, “But I’d like to.”
I hesitated, taking in the exquisite green of her eyes and the perfection of her face. I had never touched her hair, though I had always wanted to. The silky strands seemed to melt as I slid my fingers though them; her hair was even softer than I had ever imagined.
Closing my eyes, I leaned forward and inhaled her scent one last time before my mouth met hers.
I felt hot and dizzy the moment our lips made touched. Color and shadow spiraled around in my head, taking me to the edge of consciousness and threatening to push me into the abyss. She surrendered her weight to me and I held her, the unbearable sweetness overwhelming me, permeating my every sense.
She tasted of sugar and honeysuckle with just a hint of exotic spice. The warmth of her skin set my own on fire. So there I stood, ablaze, holding a fay in my arms.
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