Sweet Satisfaction (Purple UGC Winner 2014)

Sweet Satisfaction - Two

Two

“My nieces, my nieces, my favourite niece!” Aunt Rose cried like a child. Miniscule pieces of stone fell away as Rose’s striking pink slippers hit the ancient crumbling steps whilst she ran, as daintily as a flower, to greet us.

When I was Rose's age (twenty-seven years) I wanted to look like her, with skin as fresh as dew and hair like spun silk. I wanted to be as creative as her, with beads threaded through streaks of my hair randomly. My aunt still bloomed every year I saw her: she was so slender, youthful, spiritual and jovial.

Mary, having stepped out the carriage first, was enveloped in a lavender and jasmine hug from our aunt.

“Why Elsie-bee, you’ve certainly grown,” she laughed her tinkly laugh, reaching out to grab my wrist, gipsy bangles jingling.

A sharp twist of annoyance rose inside me.

“Don’t call me Elsie-bee, I’m seventeen now, and much too old for pet names,” I requested abruptly. Rose’s face fell, and I tried not to feel guilty as an awkward tension set in.

Aunt Rose gave us her usual tour of her fine but somewhat in need of repair house. She showed us all the pictures of the naked cherubs, she took us for a trip in the enormous maze, and she was going to let us dress in the Elizabethan garb she had stored in the attic.

However, Beatrice, who had somehow tagged along, reminded me it would ruin my hair.  I hastily agreed, proclaiming I was too old.

There was this secret part of me that still wanted to be a child.  I wanted to embrace change, but I was scared of it.

The interior of the house was still very nice but the ageing cracks on the walls reminded us of how much repair was needed. Beatrice carried our luggage to our rooms. Let me correct that to room!

Aunt Rose announced I had to share with Mary and foul thoughts about her annoying persona entered my head. I didn’t mind last year, but I needed my privacy now. I tried not to let my frustration boil through and poison my expression.

“I thought you’d like to share in such times of fear,” Aunt Rose told us awkwardly, as we reached the third door to the left of the spacious but somewhat eerie landing.

I knew we were about to see the daisy-patterned quilts, oak furnishings and bookcase stacked with well enjoyed books by Austen and Bronte. Instead, we heard Mary scream.

You would’ve expected me to rush in and comfort her, afraid of our fate in these war days. No, I merely thought she had seen a spider. Then a brick of fear did lodge itself inside me- I was meant to be the responsible sister- annoying as she was, if something happened to Mary, I would never forgive myself.

Whilst I paused to think, the door had crept shut. I hurriedly pushed it open, pupils wide, mouth dry. Mary pivoted around, eyes wide with an unknown excitement.

She seemed to be searching our aunt’s face. I turned around, but Rose was just smiling sweetly, like she always did.

My attention turned to the girl on the bed, who lay on her stomach; elbow propped up, bare legs suspended in the air. Promptly, she bookmarked the page of Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’, which was published 100 years ago this coming December, and jumped up with a grace I envied, wavy brown hair spreading around her, a protective shield.

"Girls, this is-” Aunt Rose began.

“Emma Aleksandrov, pleased to meet you,” the girl cut in, dark eyes fixing on me.