FIC: There is No Key
Title: There is no key.
Summary: She was the only person he saw that night. Turns out, he was the only person blessed enough to see her.
Rating: T
Notes: Written for iu_fanfiction Breakout! Fanfiction Contest. I edited it though and elaborated on two scenes to make the POV boy-girl-boy-girl. Don’t really know if the edits were for the better or for worse. //bazooka’ed.
I don’t know. Somehow I felt like I overdid editing and butchered it.
Either way. Enjoy~
The first time he met her was in his mother’s newly bought house. The room was full of people - chattering, laughing -but he saw only her. The girl with the dark hair neatly brushed up to her mid back, the same hue of eyes, fair skin, and a white dress, its skirt had frills too long for his taste. But he hardly cared; at this point he was just mesmerized by her very face, gaily going through the crowd, smiling at every person lucky enough to come her way.
He just wished she lived nearby. She’d be the first neighbor he’d befriend.
***
She stared at the green eyes that reflected her pale face then at the cake she was about to smear to his face, and then back to her blurry image in his eyes.
She grew wide-eyed.
“Y-you can see me?” she muttered, still in her stance - her feet hovering two inches from the ground and her hand still halfway in midair holding the cake - his mother’s birthday cake, she presumed.
She got over her shock after the boy gave her a hesitant nod. He was as wide-eyed and speechless as she was.
She didn’t stay long in her trance though and as a nice-to-meet-you-gift, the cake was splattered on his face.
The next thing she knew she was laughing like a poltergeist.
***
His wish came true - actually better. She didn’t live nearby. In fact, she lived in their very house.
“I’m the mistress of this house,” she told him, her chin up and with a voice full of childish authority.
“And what does that make me and my family?” he joked around; he was only starting to get used to talking to a ghost.
“Invitѐ. [1] ” he heard her say as she walked-or rather floated back and forth her, supposed to be, parlor. “My father put you in my care since a revolution is a stir in France.”
***
She smiled at the boy that stood before her. Albeit the good looks, he was American, she realized with dismay. But she knew better than to displease any of her father’s guests.
“You shall stay here.” She told him, pointing to his room. It was her duty, and her duty she will not abandon. “If you ever need my services I will be in the room at the end of the hall.”
“All you’ll do is knock, and I will come for you.” She smiled at him and curtsied before gliding to the room she pointed a while back. Her opaque form went through the wall.
Once, she was in her room. Her eyebrows met. Her room was not like this. She tried to push the furniture and frames back to their places in agitation. ‘The maids had tinkered with the ornaments yet again’ she’d complain.
“When will they ever learn?” she tossed her hands up in hopelessness.
***
He realized she was a moody spirit. During their first days of their stay she was a happy naiad, and nothing in the house seemed to change much. Except for the front door which was always, to their astonishment, unlocked.
The next few days were a different story- that night they first talked, he almost sworn she was a poltergeist. Things were always moving from one place to the other to her mother’s horror, book pages were always shuffling about, and him - hasn’t he told you? He got a cake mask the first time she noticed him.
***
She was happy to have guests - guests to accompany her, and guests to play a few tricks on. The most senior of the family was her favorite. She could feel the old woman’s back stiffen every time she passed. And her eyelashes shivered like fluttering bird wings when she whispered a few words to her ear.
But the only boy of the family was the best of all. He didn’t even hold a grudge against the cake mayhem she caused - and to top it, he could see her and talk to her.
Besides, she decided she had no choice but to like him. He was the only one from the family who was always present in the house that she was beginning to think he was a service boy. After all, no proper gentlemen always stayed at home; even the dauphin [2] did errands outside the Versailles. [3 ]
But then again, she’d have no one to keep her company if he had been an ordinary gentleman and was therefore happy about this arrangement.
***
Weeks pass, and he’d decide- he was in love with a ghost, actually, a lost soul - a French noble stuck in her hideout in America, still running away from the chaos of the French Revolution.
“The Bastille [4] has fallen.” She related to him one afternoon, her eyes downcast and her face mourning. She stared at the calendar as if it was ominous. Ever since that day she was out of spirits and didn’t play so many tricks on them anymore.
***
It wouldn’t be long before she realized: she was fond of him more than how she originally planned.
She followed him around the house all day and loved how his hair moved whenever she glided past him. She played a lot of tricks on him at first. But he never got mad that she had no choice but stop and start a conversation instead.
It delighted her that even when she stopped following him around. He came looking for her.
She liked to watch him during his sleep, listening to his breathing. She couldn’t sleep like that. It was funny, she remembered being able to do that - breathing, her chest going up and down in a natural rhythm. But somehow, she slumped her shoulders and frowned, she forgot how to do it.
***
It was something he noticed. She never opened the door to that room, opting to pass through the wall instead.
He was curious about a lot of things: How she died. How many loved ones she left in Paris. Did she have a boyfriend- though he doubted if boyfriend was already a word back then. But that door was the greatest question of all.
Every night since the start of July, it shakes urgently, as if someone was pounding on the other side. There was no cry but there were hurried footsteps. He figured it was from a man’s heavy boots - two pairs though.
He tried to go in. He tried only to realize he couldn’t. He couldn’t and didn’t want to know what killed her, what could possibly give her peace, what could possibly lead her to eternal rest.
***
It was her most hated time of that year. The population around her was celebrating its 15th independence from Britain, while her country was in shambles; the monarchy falling against its own people.
And all she could do was stay in the house and wait for news of the revolution.
***
“The royal family has been caught in flee of Versailles [5] .” He heard her mutter as she crossed the current date on the calendar with her fingers - July 21, her expression filed with worry and disdain.
She seemed to have grown older the past few days, he noticed. Her face gave a more stressful façade, her worries emanated from her very presence. Even the house seemed to mirror its mistress’ mood.
“They have already been considered traitors.” She sighed and muttered, as she shook her head. “..such a futile attempt,” she continued to mutter as he watched her retreat to her room.
He didn’t see any more of her that day.
***
It was during those nights - she rapped on the door as violently as she could. Most of the nights, she wouldn’t scream; she realized there was no one in the house to hear her anyway. No help would come anyway, but nevertheless she always ran for the door. She ran to that exit every time she heard them coming, rubbing their sharpened knives together. She was going to die… again.
But tonight was unlike most nights. The royal family had just performed a failed escape - one so famous it will ruin them forever.
She screamed.
***
He couldn’t take it. It wasn’t just the door this time, nor the thought of whatever - whether just a replay of the past - was happening inside. This time, it was her scream; her cry of help. It vibrated through his ears like a bee’s buzzing and no matter what flailing he does, it won’t go away.
He walked past the hallway to her room and grabbed the knob - jammed, as he suspected. He groaned and ran for a knife or anything he could use.
***
Tonight, was indeed, unlike most nights. Because the door opened.
She took a step back and stared at the scene before her - the door stood ajar. And there was only one obstruction between her and the hallway. Him.
She looked over her shoulder and found the people she’d been running from - her nightmares - gone.
She faced him right after. And as if he understood he took a step back, to give way, with an expression she couldn’t read on his face.
***
“Merci, l’amour. [6] “ It was the last thing she told him. And he didn’t mind if she never got to hear his reply. It didn’t matter now.
He stopped wishing he was born during the 18th century, when he found her gravestone a few days ago. That would be selfish yet again. He sighed and placed the bunch of cornflowers [7] on the old stone grave.
The first time he met her was in his mother’s newly bought house. The room was full of people - chattering, laughing -but he saw only her. The girl with the dark hair neatly brushed up to her mid back, the same hue of eyes, fair skin, and a white dress, its skirt had frills too long for his taste. But he hardly cared; at this point he was just mesmerized by her very face, gaily going through the crowd, smiling at every person lucky enough to come her way.
She was the only person he saw that night. Turns out, he was the only person blessed enough to see her.
-30-
[1] Guest.
[2] Heir to the French throne
[3] The Palace of Versailles in modern-day Paris used to be the center of political power in France until the overturn of the French monarchy.
[4] The Fall of Bastille on July 14, 1789 - marked the beginning of the French revolution when the citizens stormed the fortress of Bastille, known as a symbol of royal tyranny in France, to steal weapons.
[5] July 21, 1791. The royal family was caught in an attempt to leave France, only to be caught at Varennes. The escape was seen as an act of treason.
[6] Thank you, love.
[7] Cornflowers were one of the most favorite flowers of the last Queen of France, Marie Antoinette.