Seafoam Illusions

Tea pools at Cassandra’s feet, glittering ivory shards dancing on the marble floor. It had been one of her favorite teacups. But her hands cannot stop shaking. Despite her disappointment about the broken china, a sharp, white-hot fear spears her heart like a harpoon, the atoms of her body threatening to dissolve at any second.

"You foolish girl," her aunt’s throaty craw echoes in the dining hall. Hawkish eyes shine in absolute loathing beneath arched brows, features stretched taut by the coil at the crown of her head.

Lips trembling, Cassandra’s voice arises from her feeble throat like a wisp of smoke from an extinguished candle. "But..but...marriage? It's just...so soon.” The lilt of her voice barely carries enough tenor to echo.

"Are we doing this again? I swear, if you act this unhinged in front of the suitor coming tonight, you will regret it. Matilda!"

A maid scurries forward, head bowed demurely. Two other maids are already mopping up the spilled black tea and broken cup.

"Take her and dress her into something presentable," she snaps, looking down her sharp nose at Cassandra's regular day gown, a floaty, gauzy black robe that ripples like a lake at night. "When Mr. Reginald comes, I do not want him to leave without finalizing our decision. And a mad girl in mourning clothes does not a bride make."

Lady Antoine sneers at the expression of utter worry on Cassandra’s face as she drifts away at Matilda’s prompting, her seafoam eyes glassy and unseeing. She cannot stand her niece, left under her reluctant care after surviving a sea voyage on which her brother died. As the only living relative, she’d had no choice but to inherit the naval general's expansive estate and abundant assets. Unfortunately, the package came with its liability: a mess of a daughter left hollow by her father’s absence.

Sometimes Lady Antoine would hear the girl whisper, "The ship....on the horizon....he's coming, he's coming." That alone made her want to fist her hand into the vapid girl’s caramel locks and yank. But violence is a last resort, intended only for disciplinary purposes. Heedless actions would take the Lady out of the good favors of the well-paid staff of the estate. Instead, she keeps her niece under close watch in her room to avoid further disgrace to the noble family name.

Now, Lady Antoine has found a solution, in the form of a wealthy suitor, eager to lay eyes upon the mad beauty of the Leavitt Estate. With a sumptuous dowry, and the prospect of freedom from an unwanted responsibility, Cassandra’s aunt is quite gleeful, to say the least.

The stairs waver under Cassandra's gaze, rocking like waves sloshing languidly against the side of a boat's belly. Her hand grips the stairs banister tightly, knuckles white. Matilda impatiently nudges Cassandra up, but she is trying her best to maintain her balance on the bobbing waters.

"There's a storm coming, Mattie," Cassandra whispers whimsically, “But so is the ship. Oh, it’s so close.”

Because between the creaking floorboards of a boat and the hidden rickety stairway up to her room, a ways away from the magnificent twisting stairway in the front hall, she experiences glimpses of lucidity. And her delusions do not keep her from recognizing her aunt's malicious intent and the real storm to come… a marriage arranged to dispel her from the Leavitt residence, putting her, a pitiful dependent, under the care of a powerful man, no doubt eager to project his fabricated fantasies on the not-all-there young woman.

Although her mental faculties are as stable as an ocean's surface, ebbing and flowing at random, stupid she is not. Nor is she blind. Although she couldn't always trust her vision, or her ability to distinguish illusion from reality, today is different. The ship that had been on the far off horizon for years was closer today, close enough to dock by the end of the day. Her daily gaze out her window this morning revealed a magnificent beauty, a naval fleet such as that one that has haunted her dreams since her father's death.

Cassandra trips on the stairs, the waves crashing and wetting the hem of her dress. The maid pulls her along in impatienec, a bruising grip around her forearm.

At the announcement of the suitor’s arrival, Cassandra is led to the main tearoom on the first landing. The seas are peculiarly still on the way there. Awaiting entrance, she picks at her bracelet of fake pearls, rolling each bead in her fingers.

Across the set of double doors of the tearoom, a portrait of General Alexander stares down at his daughter. Enamored, Cassandra leans up toward him, seeking comfort, solace. He is an image of nobility, shoulders back in resolute pride and head high in quiet confidence. His ever-present hint of a grin cracks through his stone features, the painting only a pale shadow of the real thing.

Suddenly, the portrait flickers and Cassandra sees his face, pale, waterlogged, bruised, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. A cold shudder runs through her, heart racing, but then Matilda drags her away before the memories can float to the surface.

The tearoom feels like entering another universe. The tall windows are open, the gauzy white curtains gently billowing in the light spring breeze. The descending sun is warm, the calm before the storm. The heady smell of chrysanthemum and roses from the outside gardens intermingles with that of the edible arrangements on the table. Upon it lays a teapot of chamomile and lemongrass tea, a three-tiered platter of delicacies: macarons and strawberry cakes, tea biscuits, shortbread, and a breadbasket alongside butter and jam.

The smells all assault Cassandra’s nose at once, but none so pungent as that of the man sprawling across from her straight-backed aunt, legs akimbo and arm stretching across the back of the couch.

A wide, fox-like smile slithers across her aunt’s face. “My darling, you’re here. Come greet our exalted guest, Mr. Reginald.” Simultaneously, she raises her brows in a warning.

(“Don’t mess this up.”)

Mr. Reginald stands, bowing lightly. Cassandra’s hand is suddenly in his meaty fingers, reluctantly accepting a wet kiss. “The lovely lady of the Leavitt household. I’ve heard much about you. Unfortunately, your beauty has been kept hidden from our modest town for so long.”

Without a word, Cassandra sits, shrinking into herself. Her current guardian and future warden chatter, finding no need to pull the woman in question into the conversation. This is just as well for Cassandra, who for the first time feels a bout of seasickness. The waves rock beneath her.

A polite rap on the doors precedes a maid peeping her head in. “Madam, your attention is needed in the foyer.”

To Reginald, her aunt apologizes. “Please excuse me, I’ll just be a moment. I’ll leave you two to talk.”

A sinister glow alights her aunt’s eyes. Leaving her niece alone with a non-related male was one of the best ways to secure a marriage, if not by agreement than by force. Lady Antoine’s heels tap away on the floor, the door lightly shutting soon after.

Mr. Reginald smiles at her from across the table. It is predatory, like that of a shark circling its prey.

“Well, Cassandra. We may as well get to know each other better,” he says jovially, putting his teacup down. “As we’ll soon be husband and wife.”

Cassandra's insides clench. She eyes the basket of lush loaves, the platter of butter, anything but him.

“I-I wouldn’t be a good wife,” she stammers, voice rusty, like sodden iron.

Mr. Reginald smiles condescendingly. “Don’t fret, I do not judge a person by their ailments. A girl as beautiful as you, what’s a little madness?” He joins her on her couch. “Besides..” He plays with a curl of her hair. “The mad ones tend to be the most fun.” His murmur does not seem for her ears. Or maybe he thinks her too dimwitted to understand him, a common misconception regarding human neuroses.

He is too close, a looming shadow expanding every millisecond, his presence suffocating….then he is encircling her, his limbs like a slimy, stinging jellyfish on her skin. On her back, Mr. Reginald’s large body eclipses her view of the chandelier.

Somehow, the butter knife feels like an extension of her hand, as if it was there all along and her arm moves on its own accord. It is smooth and tough at once as the blade penetrates skin and tissue and organ. With a jerk, a deep grunt reverberating in the man’s throat, strangled. A heaviness soon followed, pinning Cassandra down like a foul blanket, a suffocating pillow. Breathing heavily, Cassandra stares up at the chandelier casting iridescent light in the setting sun’s rays. For the first time in a while, she feels her mind is her own. The floor is stable, she is not on a ship, and her fate is as sealed as the soul of the dead man lying upon her.

Perhaps she is truly not all sane. For when she drags herself out from beneath the still body and checks for his pulse to find nothing, not an ounce of remorse nor guilt nor horror strikes her. Feeling wetness on her front, she peers down. Blood blooms across her lavender gown. The butterknife clatters on the floor, blade dipped in scarlet.

The evening breeze wafts in, hooking Cassandra’s attention on the clear exit. Pushing the body aside, she gets up, stumbling across the floor to the window ledges. She can fit through, and she fears not the one-story jump nor the brambles of the manicured bushes beneath.

Before she can, the doors swing behind her. A pause. Then, a scream ricochets throughout the chamber.

The ship looms at the dock, at once foreboding and welcome. Cassandra’s heart fills with elation. Finally, the day has come, the ship is here awaiting her to board. Despite the thick knot around her wrists, and steep grips on both shoulders from the guards flanking her, she is at peace. For once in the past decade, the ground beneath her does not rock like tumultuous waves. Soon, she will be on the real waters, her home away from home. She feels like herself.

The guards nudge her towards the ramp, upon which there is a line of others like her. Prisoners, criminals, the mad; those for whom the land is not suitable.

At the mouth of the ship, a sentinel stands, scratching away on parchment. “Identification?”

“Cassandra Leavitt, twenty, on charges for murder and insanity.”

The previously uninterested sentinel perks a brow, regarding the delicate, harmless looking young woman before him. “Destination?”

“This one’s going to the Rockford Asylum,” one of the guards chuckles darkly.

The sentinel gives directions, but Cassandra is not listening. As she is led up the ramp, the familiar floating feeling of being on a lightly bobbing ship encompasses her, and she breathes out a soft sigh. Finally, she has made it on her ship.