Melanie almost didn’t notice the sign at the turn off, and on seeing it, her first thought was of the catalogues that used to arrive monthly at her home – her old home, she corrected herself. She wasn’t going back. She’d decided – somewhere between locking her apartment door behind her and handing her suitcase to the clerk at the airport. She turned the rental car onto the hidden lane with a tug, her arms aching from the long drive from the airport without power steering. Matthew would have refused to accept the rental, but taking it was just another skirmish in the battle of wills she fought against his wishes.

Even thousands of miles away, his pull on her was mesmerizing. That was a good word for it, she thought, bouncing up the long drive to the hotel. There was almost something magical about it. Hypnotic. The last few years, she’d felt like she’d been sleepwalking, almost, while someone directed her, controlled her from outside her body. Pulled her strings, told her what to wear, how to behave, what to do.

But not anymore. It wasn’t something drastic – he hadn’t hurt her or anything, God forbid. Hadn’t threatened her or terrorized her, just… kept her. From herself, maybe. Mel didn’t really even know what she was running away from, or if she was running towards. Except – well, yes, there was the hotel, wasn’t there?

And there it was, appearing between the trees, like something out of… out of one of the romance novels she used to read, before Matt tried to polish her, and forbade her from buying them. Mel snorted, though the pain of that attempt to culture her still stung. She’d picked up two big, deliciously trashy looking novels before she got on the plane, and was already halfway through the first, sinking back into a glamorous world of sex and adventure in a century so far removed from this one.

After checking with the familiar-looking girl at the front desk, Mel followed her detailed directions down winding corridors, up stairs, down steps, and past countless rooms she couldn’t wait to explore further, finally finding herself in front of a heavy-looking wooden door with a small brass plaque at eye level which read “Amelia,” with a small number almost an afterthought beneath it. Fitting the key into the lock, a heavy old-fashioned model that suddenly reminded her of a long-ago trip to England, Mel glanced down the hallway as she opened the door, then rolled her suitcase into the room and closed the door gently behind her. In the still corridor Mel had just left, the brass sign reading “Genevieve” caught the light as the door it was attached to was pressed silently shut.

Matthew would have insisted on unpacking first. Making sure that everything was put in its proper place, no matter if they were staying somewhere for just a night. Mel enjoyed another rebellion as she reached into her luggage only for her bag of toiletries, then stripped, leaving her travel-wrinkled garments on the floor as she stepped out of them and slipped into the red silk robe that hung on the back of the door. She dug into her voluminous purse for the half-finished novel, and clutched it and her bag of shampoos and body lotions to her as she opened the room door and padded down the corridor to the shared bath.

She’d asked for an en suite room, of course, but the girl at the reception desk had smiled sweetly, almost happily. “We don’t have one available right now,” she replied, with a hint of an accent. “But I can put you on a mostly private hall. There’s only one other guest staying there right now.”

And that had seemed fine. She was never one for long sessions primping in front of mirrors, not since she’d moved in with Matthew. Still, there was something appealing about the idea of a long afternoon soak in a bathtub. Something… decadent. Surely the other guest was out, and wouldn’t mind her occupying the bathroom for a while, Mel convinced herself.

And was glad of it when she opened the bathroom door. The tub was one of those old, huge, claw-foot models, placed in a sort of rotunda. Mel thought she’d remembered seeing a turret on the outside of the hotel – this must be the tower. Frosted windows ran from floor to ceiling, draped with gauzy curtains that hung open, late afternoon golden sunlight flooding the tub. Mel turned on the water, and poured in a generous helping of bath bubbles she’d found on a shelf nearby, tucked between slightly waterlogged copies of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins and Fear of Flying by Erica Jong. She twisted her hair up in a loose bun as the tub filled, and thought briefly of dashing back to the room to look for a minibar, for something cold to drink, but decided against it.

The tub filled quickly, and Melanie let the robe pool at her feet, enjoying for a second the swish of silk against her bare skin, followed by the slight chill in the autumn air that whispered in through a round window on the wall above the toilet. Making sure her shampoo and soap and sundry bottles and lotions were all within arm’s reach, Mel stepped into the tub, one foot at a time, allowing each extremity a moment to adjust to the hot water, then sank fully into the water, up to her neck, its heat almost unbearable for just a spilt second before she adjusted to it.

She closed her eyes, and the tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying slipped from her in the heat of the bath. She was… safe. Free. From Matthew, from his expectations, from what she’d been. Before.

No, that wasn’t it, not exactly. Before Matthew, she’d been free. Been something else entirely, almost. It teetered on the edge of her memory, in flashes. The girl at the desk, the key in the lock, a painting she’d glimpsed on the way to her room of a starlight night in an ancient city. This was familiar.

Flight, she suddenly thought, and opened her eyes. A monarch butterfly perched on the ivory rim of the tub, opening and closing its orange and black wings in gentle time. Her heart slowed to its rhythm as she watched it across the bubbles that covered her bath water.

After a moment, it flittered back through the open window, and Mel picked up the romance she’d been reading, and fled into the past. There was much to think about, to worry about, but that was for later. For now, there was the book, and the hot bath. Land’s End was just the beginning.

by ktbuffy

• Genevieve Dreams
• Waterlogged