Expectations (wlw)

Chapter 9

The flight back was a blur, mostly because I spent the majority of it trying to sleep. Fairul surprised me with an almost affectionate hug goodbye before I left, and I was riding on whatever’s left of that high. I had to face the music, though, when the valet picked me up from the airport.

“Young Miss, where are your bags?” Henry, my valet, said. I never did know if he was nice to me because he was a nice person or because he worked for me.

“It’s all right, Mister Henry. I didn’t bring any.” He nodded and opened the door for me.

The ride to my estate was quiet. Henry didn’t talk, which is why he’s my favorite. Don't get me wrong, he loves the sound of his own voice. But he knew me well, and he knew I wasn't up for conversation.

Soon enough, we arrived home. As we rolled through the arch bearing the title of the estate, I took a moment to sweep my eyes over the sprawling grounds. I missed you.

Henry stopped the car parallel to the front entrance. I basked in the sight of it. Certainly not as ostentatious as the Gracián estate, but it was the house I grew up in. The air smelled like salt as the sea breeze blew in from beyond the cliff.  He pushed the doors open for me, breaking my trance.

No one was waiting for me inside. I liked it better that way, these days. My footsteps echoed across the great, empty hall. This house was still too big for one person. I stood stock still in the middle of the black and white check tiles, looking straight up at the vaulted ceiling, relishing the feeling of being home.

“Samantha, dear,” trilled a voice from the distant edge. I pretended not to hear. Another set of footsteps came to join mine.

Before I was ready, the overbearing scent of perfumed talcum powder enveloped my senses. I let myself be hugged.

“Hello, Aunt.”

“Darling!” She tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Your Uncle is looking forward to seeing you.”

Aunt and Uncle. They taught me to call them that, once upon a time. I’m not quite sure I still know their names.

It certainly wasn’t with enthusiasm that I gravitated toward them. They just made the house feel a little less empty.

“I’m going to rest until dinner. Good to see you.” Aunt tried to keep the conversation going, of course. If I walked away far enough, she would give up.

She didn’t even follow me past the first arch out of the hall, and so I was left in relative peace to walk to my room.

These corridors did not look different from one another, but it was a maze I knew by heart. I could almost feel the walls welcoming me back. No other soul met me on the way, and I came to a stop in front of my childhood bedroom.

It looked like all the other doors in the manor. That’s not to say that all other doors in this house aren’t mine, though. I turned the knob and entered.

The room was incredibly neat. And dark--they kept the curtains drawn. Late afternoon sunlight flooded the space when I drew back the heavy drapes. I liked shiny and ornate things as a child, and that became much more evident in the sun. Evident, also, was the fact that children have terrible taste.

Every element of the room clashed with another. Glinting gold embedded in aggressive red was reminiscent of bleeding wounds. Purple was a royal color, and its blending hues on the tapestry made the wall look beaten and bruised. Deep shades contrasted with things that reflect. Uncle called it ugly the first time he saw it, and I agree. But he has no love for the place like I do. It was an eyesore, and it was mine.