To Cut Me 
Your Tongue Must Be Sharper Than the Thick Skin You Made

The skies had grown angry and the wind hoarse from screaming its disdain through the wrought iron of the gates. Inside, it was quiet, unmercifully so. All save for the soft padding of her barren feet through the hallway. Her heels were held in one hand, fingers looped through the dainty leather straps as soon as she had eluded the careful eye of her instructor. Then, there came another sound, much akin to the booming thunder that had earlier rattled the window panes of the manor.

"Lady Arabella!"

There was a slight hint of desperation to Mrs. Babington's voice, and for a brief moment, guilt assailed the fleeing party as her steps hastened slightly. Though the quicker she moved, the louder her steps became, forcing her to exude a low, quick huff of annoyance. The marble was also cold against her skin, sending a shiver down the length of her spine as she cast a quick glance over the curve of her shoulder. She could not yet see her instructor, but she was beginning to hear the hasty shuffle of the woman's shifting skirts bustling along the stairs. She wanted only a brief moment to collect herself, her thoughts, but the Madame was merciless in drilling as much meaningless, frivolous knowledge into her head as possible to make her look more presentable to the public. Exasperation parted her lips as she searched for her escape, leading her to the closest door as the furious marching halted its ascent, announcing she had arrived on her current floor. She twisted the handle quickly, whirling into the room before quietly pressing the portal closed. Her fingers rested against the warmth of the wooden paneling, where an ear would join to listen with baited breath until the lady would march by.

[set before east of eden]

A melody of storms.  Darkened skies churned a prelude to the inevitable tempest brewing beyond the leaded windowpanes.  Ashen clouds presented their threat with winds that cavorted gleefully with stinging shards of whipping rain.  They mocked the delicate pluck of the music box quietly singing out the Toreador Song; they attempted to drown the subtle shift of steaming water and groaning wood.  They could not, however, tear dissimilar eyes away from the poetic story of a couple's forced betrothal and their mournful separation no matter how the little droplets thrashed against the window, how their efforts left little streams streaking down the pane.   A fitting story given the current affairs surrounding the Beleveron home.  Home leave had left me plenty of time to catch up on reading the vast collection I'd gathered before this chore of babysitting was mercilessly thrust into my lap.  There were better things to do than sit in the shadow of a gold-digging wretch until someone dared brandish a knife to her throat.  If it wasn't for the simple fact that she was under the scrutiny of Mrs Babington, I wouldn't get to enjoy the heat of the water chasing the chill from my bones.  I wouldn't relish the way it cradled my sore body, easing away the budding tensions beneath my skin akin to the seasoned fingers of a masseuse.  I drew in a deep breath.  The robust aroma of cedar and sage invaded my senses to further lure me into the encompassing embrace of placidity.  A serenity suddenly shattered with the unwelcome whisper of bothered hinges and closing latches.  Suddenly I wasn't alone and there was only one person in this house that would barge in without so much as knocking.  A wickedness seized hold of me.  Perhaps a modest man would have given her ample time to realize what she'd intruded on and let her leave with some dignity, but I wasn't a modest man.  I was far, far from it.  The water shifted all around as I dropped the book beside the tub and hoisted myself up upon its edges until I was standing in full before her.  Naked glory.  Undaunted stature.  A malicious half-grin glistened behind my piercing iris as I fully removed myself from the bath and sought out the towel on the counter to dry the dampness from my skin. "Perhaps knocking should be added to your lesson plan."  My calloused voice jabbed at her.  "Or maybe you did it on purpose, I wonder.  How lewd of you."

To Cut Me 
Your Tongue Must Be Sharper Than the Thick Skin You Made

She listened in quiet desperation for the footfalls of the instructor to pass by, her ears pressed tauntly to the warm wood that veiled her from sight. As if the woman could hear her very breaths from beyond the egress, she would hush herself, breathing deeply, but steadily. It wasn't the same aroma that wafted through the relative chill ofthe winter clad hallway. No, this was a pleasant scent that begged vague familiarity. It was also warmer here, the feeling of steam dancing like svelte fingers up the curve of her spine. In short, for someone painfully unprepared for the cold that gripped the air outside, she had unknowingly stumbled upon a gold mine!

Until she heard the disturbance of water.

She was grateful that she haddn't dared turn around yet. Her eyes shut tightly together as if that alone would spare her the animosity of her embarasment. Still, she remained frozen against the door, her hammering pulse blocking out the approach of the pointed toed shoes marching down the corridor. As the sound of something falling with a sharp smack! upon the floor, the entirety of her frame would jerk, lids squeezing harder together as if that alone could block out the sin of her folly. Words escaped her, her mouth opening and closing but her tongue refused to allow a single sylabel to pass beyond it, no matter the apology she so desperately yearned to make.

It wasn't until the horror of his voice broke the verbal silence that she would move, more out of the disbelief that it was his bath she had intruded on. Just another thing he would doubtless mock her for. Without thought, an argument was fresh to the forefront, that was until she witnessed his state of dress - or rather lack there of. Her lips parted, jaw slack as she immediately ceased her wandering stare just above his navel. Doubly, she would clap a hand over her once again closed eyes as if that alone was enough to erase the imagery of his carved sinew from mind. For all the irritation his quip had roused in her mere momets ago, she was naught but a deer caught in a snare and desperate to escape it.

The music box would continue its minstrel ballad as she unceremoniously turned, her body colliding heavily with the shut portal in her mad dash for escape. A curse would escape her, a word spoken in the tongue native to her just as shrilly as the hand acting as a blindfold would instead perch itself upon her busteed nose instead. "M-m-m-me?! Y-y-y-you could have put on a t-t-t-towel or just s-st-stayed in the water! You! You!" Betwixt watering eyes and the severity of her embarassment fueled stammering, she could get out no word, an inability which only fueled her self frustration. She would stomp her foot, jerking the door open before mindlessly spinning to face him in just beyond the treshold, grateful to see hehad indeed wrapped himself in the linen garment. "Pervert!" Her vision only then drifted to find the blinking countenancee of her instructor. Her lips were pressed into a hard line as she stared over the tops of her seeing lenses and down the lengthy, crooked bridge of her nose. Arabella's shoulders slumped, her brows raising as her eyes almost prickled with the heat of tears before finally starting to overflow.

And she was no longer sure if it was from the blood rushing her countnnance or the stinging nettles of sharp pain that rushed her own nose after its abuse.

[set before east of eden]

There was a thought, a curious pondering, towards my newly found character.  Was I becoming a sadist?  A man whose desire for vicious misfortune overwhelmed the whispering voice of niceties.  I ask simply because I found myself enjoying how her body stiffened in response to my presence.  Lo', the joy in my heart when her eyes raked down my naked torso, her face burned red with shame.  Could gold-hungry leeches feel such complex emotions?  'I d-do not wish for gold.'  Her voice reminded me that I was not a cruel man - I was simply one caught in between this masquerade farce and a sickly sister.  The real Arabella who was just a few rooms away in a comatose state.  'Why?  W-why would I-I want that?'  My smirk faltered, withered and wilted into the faint crest of a frown before the impostor turned and slammed into the closed door.  I could only shake my head.  Babington would need a raise at this rate... and probably an aide.  Tawny brows furrowed along their ridge as my gaze adverted towards the pile of linens and clothes folded and sat nicely on the chest of drawers.  I listened to her fervent stammering, a piqued brow regarding her through the standing mirror in response until the last of her accusations echoed through the fading steam and the melodic chime of the music box.  It could barely drown my bark of laughter as I turned to face her. "Pervert?  I'm not the one who invites herself to a man's bath without so much as a knock, dear sister.  Nor did I ogle him so openly.  Have you no shame?"  I teased.  I goaded her further with a widespread grin brimming with haughty arrogance. A familiar cadence came from beyond the sturdy barrier.  Women's heels making impressive strides against polished marble.  A seeking tutor feverishly searching for her missing charge.  If one listened closely, they could even hear a hurried, concerned whisper of Miss Arabella! coming from the hall.  I understood then why my solitude was so abruptly shattered and I couldn't help but sigh in revelation.  Of course, she was shirking her studies.  She was fleeing from the wisdom imparted by the older Babington sister - the spinster.  There were women in this country who would do anything for an opportunity at an education like this, yet... I found myself even more perplexed and, dare say, intrigued.  What did this woman really want, what did she gain by pretending to be Arabella? One finger pointed at another door - slightly ajar - to the side of the bathing room.  "You'll be safe in there while I dress."  It would be familiar to her perhaps, my bedroom, the sacred space that I had begun to lock myself in when not guarding this bumbling impostor or serving in his majesty's army.  A house for my serenity.  An escape.

To Cut Me 
Your Tongue Must Be Sharper Than the Thick Skin You Made

"Pervert?" The word being repeated back to her stung as if she'd been struck across the cheek, a feeling she had began to grow accustomed to in this house hold. Her teeth didn't rattle, but they clenched as if to prepare against the sensation. The entirety of her frame stiffened as he only continued. I'm not the one who invites herself to a man's bath without so much as a knock, dear sister." She swallowed thickly at his returned accusation. Humiliation wound deeply into the entirety of her bodice, winding its venomous, serpentine form through her ribs and making the structure its home. Ignorance, Babington's sharp lecture would wander through her cerebrum, is not a suitable line of defense.

Her stare remained fixated upon the tiles at her barren feet, on the edge of her dress that shifted softly about her toes as her hands dug into the fabric deeply, her nails still nearly biting through the skin of her palms. "Nor did I ogle him so openly.  Have you no shame?" She could hear the smile in his tone, as easily as she'd have witnessed it could she look at him. Her shoulders slumped faintly and her lashes met in an effort to clear away the threat of tears, but they didn't heed her demand spilling saline over the dam of her lids. Her bottom lip curled inward, meeting the harsh bite of her teeth. Still the spindles of the music box spun, the tune filling the silence that she did not dare to break.

She wanted to be mad. To be angry and raise her chin in defiance at his accusation. She wanted to rebuke that, that she wasn't ogling him. It had merely been a knee jerk reaction, she promised, but only to herself. It certainly hadn't been on purpose. She wanted to tell him what a cold, wretched person he was. She wanted to be the one to sneer, to look down on him, but in the same breath, she couldn't muster that kind of cruelty. A jagged edge that would eventually only cut herself. So she kept her head down, her lips pressed into a hard, thin line of indifference. If she could not be just as horrid, she would not give the satisfaction of suffering her stumbling over any other words either.

"You'll be safe in there while I dress." Her peripherals cut to the door he gestured towards and she would turn towards it without pause, passing through the threshold. Only to find herself in a different prison. The room was lighter, the curtains parted faintly by the breeze to allow the shafts of sunlight to filter through the glass pane. She wondered there, standing before it and looking down into the street below where folk went about their days. This was a portal without bars, one she could still slip through in comparison to her own window. It was warmer now, and she could make her escape in good faith that she wouldn't freeze to death - at least not immediately.

The thought died almost as quickly as it had come to mind as her fingers traced the soft, polished surface of the table's face. She wasn't prepared, not at the moment for that. Though this promised possibility for an escape should she find herself back here. She heaved a deep breath, taking the time to reel herself in, to loosen the painful knot ensnaring her throat and making it almost impossible to breathe. Her footsteps instead whispered across the floor to the door that would undoubtedly lead back into the hall. She didn't want to be here when he was finished dressing or whatever else he had to do. She never should have been here to begin with. The pressing threat of tears once again made themselves known and she would omit an irritated huff, swiping her sleeve harshly over her cheeks. Again, she couldn't believe the miserable person he was. She also couldn't believe that she didn't recall what had made him become so bitter in comparison to the paintings she had made easy friends with. She couldn't help but feel betrayed of the imagery that she had fabricated after staring at the various portraits in her hours of loneliness while she had waited for him to return home.

Now she only wanted him to leave again.

She released a deep breath as she heard the spinster's sharp foot falls pace past the threshold only to return shortly afterwards. Why would the insufferable woman not just leave!? Raising her crown, her attention would once again drift to the window, steps quickly, but quietly carrying her towards her escape she indeed seemed destined to take.