Undone.
Friday January 2, 2009
The maid stood in the hallway and wept, her hair come loose from its flowered wrap, pasted in hanks by sweat to her bare back. She clutched at the stiff shell of her gown peeling loose from her breasts and belly, the white satin frothing in waves about her hips. Majesty! she cried. Ma’am, where are you?
In here, said the young queen.
She stood at one end of the empty ballroom at the end of a trail of cloth: her skirts, her crinolines, her chemise and petticoat strewn in the dust. She was left with only her white corset and the wobbling lattice of her hoops, the skeleton of her glorious gown. Ma’am! cried the maid, her hands to her mouth.
But it’s so hot, said the young queen. At her feet sat the witch, naked but for her chains and bells. They chimed as she lifted her hand to her mouth and licked her fingers with a long red tongue. No! cried the maid as the witch raised those shining fingers, reached through the gaps of the young queen’s hoops, clutched at the young queen’s bare thigh. No! The maid’s tumbled skirts tangled about her ankles and she fell to her hands and knees.
The young queen stepped away from the witch and hurried down the trail of her discarded gown. She knelt by the maid in the dust and stroked the girl’s soaking hair. It’s all right, she said. Don’t you see? She’s cast her spell. She’s undone us all.