Resonance

FIND THE PEOPLE WHO FULFILL YOU

Art by Tiffany Rzepka

Juliette pushed through the tall oak doors, the wood chipped and damaged from years of neglect. The engraved placard that was placed next to them simply read “Buchanan.” The grounds outside were terribly overgrown, once pristinely kept flowerbeds had become home to weeds and rot. The grass towered at nearly half a foot high. Dead leaves rustled through the place, caught on chill autumn winds. As the doors folded inward toward the foyer of the mansion, the leaves followed the woman in, guests of their own making. She didn’t mind. Each step she took in her stilettos echoed as she entered the mansion, each click of her heels louder than ever on account of the room being thoroughly, unapologetically empty.

The hand on her revolver’s polished wooden grip tightened as she entered. There was always a sense of danger looming over the place in recent days, as criminals and gangs had taken to using it as a place to squat.

“Anybody here?” she called out. “I’m warning anybody in this house . . . if you try anything I won’t hesitate to put you down.”

With her warning out in the open, she proceeded further into the manor. Her ironclad grip on her gun released. Against better judgment, she let her guard down. She was home, after all.

Her mind was flooded with echoes of maids and butlers hustling about the place, silver trays in hand loaded with wine glasses or fresh towels. She remembered her parents standing at the top of the once carpeted staircase, looking out over the splendor they’d accumulated through decades of hard work. Or so was the myth that they’d created for themselves. The truth of their resplendence was one far more common and far more insidious, a tale of fathers passing down their hoards to sons who would then become fathers. Juliette thought it awfully poetic that her father had only ever had daughters.

Wandering to the right side of the wide chamber, she walked through the doors that would have led her to the dining room. Its tall windows sat covered in dust on the inside, roots and grasping ivy on the outside. There was a collection of chairs scattered about the room that had long since been stripped of their frilled cushions. Much of their once elaborate backing was gone, leaving stools where regal, beautifully crafted seats formerly stood. The middle of the room housed a handful of bedrolls surrounded by empty bottles. To the left side of the room was a stage that spanned the entirety of the room where a grand piano had sat. That, much like most of the old accouterments that had brought the home to life, was gone.

She pulled herself up onto the stage and sat down on the edge, letting her feet dangle down. Her gaze drifted out the window to the spiderweb of vines that had consumed the glass. She breathed a long sigh and watched the dust flutter through the moonlight that pierced into the place.

She let her body rest on the stage, lying on her back and letting her light blonde hair surround her, a curtain of gold on the oaken floor, looking up at the slowly deteriorating ceiling that had once been some of the most intricate Elvish architecture in the entire city. Her father Kyris had made sure of that. He had never known poverty, strife, or hardship. He had a beautiful half-elven wife, two precious daughters, and more money than any one man would ever need in two lifetimes.  

And for all that, the house sat an empty shell.

She took out a gold piece from the coin purse she kept at her hip, flicking it into the air and concentrating on it, waggling her fingers and chanting a soft incantation. The coin burned up in the air, the cinders flitting harmlessly into death. She began to speak quietly.

“Hey. It’s Juliette. I came back home, just like always. The place is going to the rats and the squatters lately. It should be sad but somehow it feels exactly as it should be. I can’t quite explain why.” She began, trailing off before starting anew. “Do you remember when we used to hide tarts in our sleeves and sneak down to the basement after we were put to bed? We’d sit snacking for an hour, talking about all the gossip we’d gathered throughout the day without worrying about papa and mama overhearing. Mama would always say gossip wasn’t befitting of a lady. Then we got older, and all we’d talk about was music and boys and all the things we weren’t supposed to be doing. I remember getting jealous of you when we really started getting serious at the conservatory. You were such a natural singer. It made me so mad that I had to work for my voice when you didn’t. Now it’s just one of the things I appreciate about you. I’d give anything just to take the stage with you again, singing side by side. I still have one of the posters from when we were doing shows every night at the Maiden’s House. ‘The Buchanan Twins—the angels of castle ward,’ they’d say. We’d just smile and laugh and collect our flowers and escape out the back door to avoid all the fuss. Anyway. I just wanted to say I love you, Claire. Happy Birthday. I miss you.”

Juliette’s words echoed off the walls and off the ceiling. Shortly thereafter the room fell into the crippling silence that had seized it for a decade. The sound of her syllables dissipated into nothing, as if the words had never been spoken at all. The magic that had carried them was guaranteed to send them to the recipient, if they were able to accept them.

There was no reply, even as the seconds turned to a minute, and the minute into a handful. Juliette breathed a sigh and sat up, pushing herself off the stage. Her heels hit the floor with a solid, singular click that reverberated throughout the room. A small piece of molding that had been loosely attached to the wall fell off and hit the ground seconds later, her presence as an intruder to the decay now marked physically. The house loomed over her, a shadow and a blanket.

She moved into the kitchen, just off the dining room. The place had been gutted, and save for the remains of a camp site in the middle of the room, there was naught that would give away that it had once been a stunning bastion for the culinarily inclined. Her mother Sylvana had developed a fondness for cooking from an early age, and had passed that love of foodcraft onto her children. Despite having a full staff in their house, oftentimes the women of the Buchanan family would cook their own meals. Juliette managed a smile as she recollected so many evenings spent at the counter, rolling dough for bread, or chopping vegetables with her mother. She wondered where the woman was now. Or if she was even alive.

The cabinets were cleaned through, anything readily available having long since been taken, consumed, and forgotten about. But Juliette knew the one secret of the place – a hidden liquor cabinet that her father had used as his private stash – the very best vintages and the finest liquors. Century old Dwarvish bourbons, or wine from the Elvish forests in Vastaer. If it could be thought of, her father had likely tasted it and savored it on his nights of indulgence. She reached into one of the cupboards and felt around at the top, pressing upward to move the false panel out of the way.  There was a small lever in the opening, which she wrapped her hand around and pulled lightly. With a faint click, a piece of the wall swung open just slightly.

To the naked eye, the small “door” of the cabinet was untraceable, blending in with the wall seamlessly. There were four people in the world that knew where to find the lever: her parents, her sister, and Juliette herself. She took a few cautious steps toward the cabinet, reminiscing to her days as a teenager when she and Claire would sneak a bottle every now and then—just infrequently enough that they hoped their father wouldn’t notice. If he had, he’d never mentioned it.

She found a bottle of brandy sitting readily at the front of the collection. She scooped it up and read the label.

“Eyldorian Brandy, bottled in . . . 1392? Just over a century old now. You’ll do.” She muttered softly to the bottle, popping the cork and taking a swig. The bitterness was raw and biting, running circles across her taste buds before lighting her throat ablaze, ever so slightly. Altogether it was smooth, stiff, and just the sort of thing her father would have loved. “I can see why you were at the front,” she remarked dryly. She closed the secret door and the mechanism that would open it clicked back into place, the wall once again assuming its illusion of simplicity.

Now that she had her drink, Juliette found her way back to the foyer and began ascending the crescent shaped staircase that would take her to the bedrooms, in the west wing of the manor. She took a moment to look out over the room once she reached the top. The front doors creaked gently as they shifted in the wind. It occurred to her that she hadn’t bothered to close them upon her entrance. The leaves had continued their dance about the floor, occasionally sweeping themselves up into minute tornadoes before dispersing into scattered specks across the floor. The moonlight cast itself into the room, igniting the place in radiant white beams that were eventually swallowed up by shadows, creeping out from their darkness like the clawing hands of demons.

Turning away from the railing and heading into the west wing, every step she took kicked up dust. The corridor was caked in the stuff. Juliette could imagine the looks of many of her maids if they were to see the house in its current state.

Horror. Nothing but.

She passed several wooden doors as she traversed the hallway. The golden sconces that had once filled the place with light had been looted long ago, likely melted down and used for other purposes. The same could be said of the crystalline chandeliers, whose metal skeletons lay on the floor, plucked of their glistening adornments. The woman took delicate steps around them, almost as if paying respect to the departed.

Her room had been the last door on the left, with a corner window that overlooked the gardens and the coastline beyond them. She had her own balcony that overlooked it all, a place where the young Buchanan had found many precious moments of solitude. Her sister’s room was right across the hall, with a splendid view of the interior courtyard. She turned the knob of her bedroom door and entered, instantly feeling herself become immersed in the passageways of her mind. The ones that would return her to times long past.

The bed had been in the corner, a king sized mattress with a regal rose gold frame and headboard made of the finest oak, filigreed with gold. She had a canopy of blood red curtains that hung around the bed, and when she let the wind come in they would flutter and falter in the breeze. Her dresser and wardrobe had been next to her vanity, which was constantly adorned with perfume bottles, makeup brushes, lipsticks, and a bouquet of roses. Always a bouquet of blue roses. She had a bookshelf that was filled to the brim with books—storybooks, medical journals, old collections of verse, some penned music pieces that she’d composed, really anything she could fit. And as if the dresser and wardrobe were not enough (for truly, they were not), she also had a walk-in closet.

That closet had been filled with all manner of dresses and garments when she was at her peak—every night she spent on stage meant a new outfit, always something within the style trends of any given year. She had gowns of every color, designed by the finest tailors in the city. Claire had a sizable wardrobe herself, and yet she would always end up stealing from Juliette’s hoard of threads. Juliette groaned at the remembrance of that particular dynamic of their relationship. Yet there was not much that she wouldn’t give to have something go missing from her closet in that moment. Having everything exactly as she’d left it had become oh so very draining.

Memories faded as quickly as time and the present state of the room gripped her fiercely. A dingy cot set up in the corner. A rotting wardrobe filled with mouse droppings. Torn up carpet that had once been plush, regal thread. Several tin cans sat next to the cot collecting the corpses of flies as they sought food and became stuck in the contents.

Shuffling past the cot and its morbid accruement, she made her way to the balcony. There was a small sofa on it that had certainly not belonged to her. It was worn, slightly tattered, but its dark turquoise upholstery still shone true in the moonlight. Juliette knew it would be as good a place as any to sit and enjoy her drink. Her burgundy dress shuddered in the breeze, flowing about her form like a veil. A hearty swig of brandy went down the hatch. She knew it was proper to observe a sense of decorum and drink the stuff from a glass, but there were no witnesses to call her a brute.

And so in contentment a brute she would be.

She swigged and swigged until her cheeks were redder than the dress she wore. Her lips tingled with the sensation of the liquor. Her senses burned with the fire brewing within her. Her head was resting on the arm of the sofa, which felt as though she was laying on a cloud. In no time she was yawning, falling into the all-too-familiar sleep that a good drink could bring.

Normally, in that liminal space between consciousness and stupor-induced unconsciousness, there was nothing. Juliette let her thoughts become a blank slate and left her mind to its silence. There was the wind, the glass bottle, the surprisingly comfortable cushions of the sofa, and peace. Before long, Juliette was asleep.

The woman hadn’t a clue how many hours had passed before a knock roused her from her slumber. It was gentle, pleasant even. Juliette stirred but did not rise immediately, clinging to her silk pillowcase with a fervor. Then came a second knock.

“Juliette? You’re not planning to sleep all day are you?” came Claire’s voice from beyond the door.

Art by Tiffany Rzepka

Claire’s voice. Juliette shot up out of bed, her outfit now a deep purple chiffon nightgown that fell to her knees. Practically falling out of bed, she ran over and opened the door. There stood Claire, an elegant white dress on and a gold necklace about her neck. Her long blonde hair that was just like Juliette’s was straightened, with her bangs parting to the left across her face. Her blue eyes locked with Juliette’s mismatched blue and green irises, taking her in as much as Juliette did the same.

They wrapped each other in a tight, fierce hug. Tears rushed down both of their faces. They each squeezed a little tighter to try and comfort the other.

“Are . . . are you real?” Juliette asked, an undeniable sense of disbelief lurking just beneath an overwhelming joy. They pushed each other out to arm’s length so that Claire could see her as she spoke.

“I’m not sure, honestly. I doubt it. Before all the cocktails you used to be a vivid dreamer, remember? But it feels real, doesn’t it?” Claire replied, a tinge of sadness in her voice. Juliette shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“So what if I have a couple drinks to help me sleep? I recall one Claire Buchanan being the first to suggest we start sneaking bottles from the liquor cabinet,” Juliette fired back in defense. Claire laughed a bit at that, knowing that her sister was intentionally missing her point.

“We were teenagers, of course I did. Regardless, you don’t need to feel shame for it—I get it. Things haven’t been easy,” Claire assured her, pressing her palm to Juliette’s cheek. Juliette held it there for a moment. Her heart was brimming with a bittersweetness that threatened to break it in two.

“Do you know how long I’ve been without you? Without anyone?” Juliette asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Claire frowned.

“Too long, darling. Too long.”

“I tried looking for you, Claire. For months I tried looking. I never gave up, even when mama and papa told me it was useless. And then you were gone. Just . . . gone,” Juliette’s mind raced as she thought of the apologies she needed to make, all the things she wanted to say. Claire put a finger up to her lips to keep her from burning herself out.

“Darling, you carry so much on those shoulders of yours. I love you for all that you did, all that you are, and all that you can still be. But Juliette, the way things turned out for me? Those were my choices, and my penance to bear. I don’t want you carrying the weight of that for me,” Claire said sternly, her tone still soft. Juliette looked at her in shock, hardly able to process those words. She pulled away from Claire and walked over to the balcony. There was no sofa there, and her bedroom appeared exactly as it had when she’d called the place home. This was a painting from Claire’s mind as much as it was Juliette’s.

“I don’t know how to keep on living without you,” Juliette finally blurted out, staring blankly at the dreamscape ocean. Claire put a hand on her shoulder, coming to stand next to her.

“And you won’t until you actually start trying,” Claire shot back, a sad smile on her face. Her hand drifted from Juliette’s shoulder down to find her hand, and she held it tenderly. “You’ve been tearing up the city for ten years getting your revenge on any thief, murderer, or ne’er-do-well that you can find, thinking that blood will somehow ease your burdens. So tell me, has it worked?” Claire asked, though her voice intonated that she already knew the answer.

“No.” Juliette was flat in her response. Honest. It was as much an admission to herself as it was to Claire. The truth was that she’d been running into shadows in a vain attempt at retribution, knowing full well if she went deep enough into the dubious underbelly of the city that she’d arrive at the one thing she wanted most: the man who’d killed her sister.

“Dorian Glass is still alive, Juliette. And if you keep pursuing him you’re going to meet the same end I did. You cannot get to him on your own. And you know as well as I do that it isn’t even worth it anymore.” Claire urged her sister, now standing in front of her with distress clear on her face. Juliette looked hard at the vision in front of her, the product of dreamy threads and a longing for emotion.

“I’ve come too far to quit now, Claire. Even if it kills me, at least I’d be with you for good. Wouldn’t you do the same? If it were me?” Juliette’s revelation was delivered with a damning sense of finality, and her question was approaching an accusation. Her eyes narrowed.

Claire’s expression diminished, her entire face slumping into a grimace.

“I would do the exact same thing. That’s why I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that you shouldn’t do this. It will be the death of you. I’m begging you—choose life. Find the people who fulfill you. Find the lights that will ignite the sky of your lifetime. Find your reasons to keep going. Vengeance is not a reason, it’s an excuse, and a shitty one at that. You have to breathe and ask yourself if this is who you wanted to be.” Claire was firm in her frustration, her hands locked around Juliette’s wrists. Juliette didn’t pull away, but could not face her sister. Her eyes stayed affixed to the stone at their feet which shifted and quivered in wavy uncertainty. “Juliette, please look at me.”

Their eyes met, perfect strangers in the stillness and tragedy of the moment. There were tears then. Tears for the dead, tears for the living. In many ways the two were not so different.

“I can’t promise you what you want. Not now. Some day perhaps things will be different. I’ll be better. I’ll be good. But that isn’t me yet. It can’t be, Claire. There are still things I need to do.” Juliette had cleared her throat by then, her words filled with venom and dread and all of the misery lying just beneath the fire in her eyes. Claire just smiled.

“If that’s what you want.” The phantom before Juliette harbored no anger in those words. Her countenance was serene, unshakeable in its purity. “I love you, Juliette.  Don’t ever forget that.”

“I love you too. I always will.”

Their reality was crumbling, falling into shambles as the house, the gardens, the ocean, the coast, the firmament itself collapsed inward. The stone balcony shattered to bits; Juliette’s room withering into a rotted husk. Wordlessly they fell into the inky void that the dream was consumed by.

Wind rushed by them, debris from the house zipping past violently. Claire was hardly affected, even as Juliette was buffeted by the storm. They held hands until Claire herself was naught but dust. Juliette floated there in a blackness, admiring the perfect nothing that stood in the wake of a dream.

Her eyes opened to first pale hues of dawn, the sky a mosaic of color and clouds. The bottle of brandy had fallen onto the ground, approximately half of it spilled out in an unflattering brown stain on the alabaster stonework. She sat up, collected the bottle, and searched for the stopper. Of course, it was buried deep in the couch cushions. She scooped it out of the crevice and pulled out a healthy wad of dust along with it.

The bottle was left by the sofa. Juliette left her bedroom, took a lingering glance at Claire’s bedroom door, then took her exit from the west wing. She descended the staircase. The doors remained wide open behind her. And the leaves continued their dance among the old stones of House Buchanan, where they would surely find death.

Claire’s words echoed in her mind as she left in a dour mood. She pulled out a coin from her coin purse and tossed it into the air, watching as it burned up and glittered into the breeze.

Find the people who fulfill you.

In defiance of anguish, in rebellion against her self-proclaimed purpose, she offered a smile to the open air. And she called out to a friend.

“Hey Whitfield . . . I hope you’re okay, wherever you are. I wish you were here.”

The words faded into the world and received no reply.

Miss Buchanan walked alone, a steady hand on her gun.