castle in the clouds

[llyse]

[1] ri

There is a girl. And, there is a House.

            The girl appears to be a typical girl, if a little undernourished. She is of medium height and slender, a little too slender for a girl her age. She is not unhealthy, although the cold eats through her body each winter and sets her to coughing. She has white-blond hair, fine and long, and eyes of dark blue, the color of the dresses she likes to wear. Her face is triangular, aristocratic cheekbones and expression firmly entrenched on it.

            The House is a typical house, with two floors. It is rather sturdy, the previous owner having been a practical person. It is furnished with cast-off and surplus furniture, but it is old, and the paint is peeling. It is inhabited by some thirty cast-off and surplus children, cared for by a woman they call the Dancer for her grace. The House has some lands attached to it for a garden that the children work on when the weather is not freezing. This garden also supplies some food to take some of the strain off their meager finances.

            The girl is in the House.

            She site on a bed, in the girls' dormitory. The girls' dormitory is a simple rectangular room with ten small mattresses on the floor. There is a fireplace that is not lit now; there is a small sink for washing with an empty ewer that normally holds water, but oft now holds ice. The cold is an unwelcome presence, a boisterous houseguest that ignores propriety and chills all present.

            The wind blows.

            It brings her sounds and smells from where it can reach. Mostly is it from the House--she hears the Dancer arguing with someone, smells the scent of the noon meal simmering in a large pot, listens to the children's laughter--but sometimes (more often now) she hears snatches of music, chants, a harsh voice speaking. It tantalizes her with news of the world outside, a world that she cannot reach, yet. The House is chain, binding her to the earth when she longs to fly. Equally it is rock, holding her to reality when she would be swept away by winds still beyond her control.

            She strives to control it now, little face intent, hands clenched in her lap as she reaches out with her mind to try and reach the winds. She can sense it; she cannot touch. Yet.

            Always it is "yet". You are not yet well, do not go out into the cold; you are not yet old enough, do not ask me who your mother was, or who your father is. You are not yet strong enough; do not try to do it.  She is not yet experienced enough; she cannot reach the wind.

            It dances just out of reach, not deigning to fold to her hand. Yet.