Rosette - The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows

“Melisande?”

“Yes, sir?” I turned to him, surprised that he had spoken to me. Usually when he started writing, he lost touch with everything and everyone.

“I want some roses,” he said, pointing to the empty vase on the desk. Ask Millicent to fill it, please.”

“Right away, sir.” I grabbed the ceramic vase with both hands. I knew it would be heavy.

“Red roses” he specified. “Like your hair.”

I blushed, although there was nothing romantic about what he had said.

“All right, sir.”

I could hear his look piercing my back as I carefully opened the door and went out into the hallway. I went downstairs with the vase in my hands.

“Mrs Mc Millian? Ma’am?” there was no trace of the old housekeeper, and then a thought came to my mind, too small to grab it. The woman, at breakfast, had told me something about her day off... Was she referring to today? It was hard for me to remember it. Mrs Mc Millian was a source of confused information, and I rarely listened to it from start to finish. Also in the kitchen there was no trace of her. I sorrowfully placed the vase on the table, next to a basket of fresh fruit.

Great. I realized I had to pick the roses in the garden. A task beyond my ability. It was easier for me to grab a cloud, and dance a waltz with it.

With a persistent buzz in my ears, and the feeling of an imminent catastrophe, I went outdoors. The rose garden was in front of me, the roses in bloom like a fire of petals. Red, yellow, pink, white, even blue. Too bad I lived in a black and white world, where everything was shadowed. A world where light was unfathomable, indefinite, forbidden. I couldn’t even dream of distinguishing colours because I didn’t know what they were. Since birth.

I took an uncertain step toward the rose garden, my cheeks in flames. I had to make up an excuse to justify my return without any flowers. One thing was choosing between two boxes, another was to pick roses of the same colour. Red. How is red? How can you imagine something you've never seen, not even on a book?

I stepped on a broken rose. I leaned over to pick it up; it was dead, lethargic in its death, but it still smelled nice.

“What are you doing here?”

I brushed my hair off my forehead, and regretted not tying it up in my usual chignon. It was hung over my nape, and was already soaked with sweat.

“I have to pick some roses for Mr Mc Laine,” I said laconically.

Kyle smiled at me, the usual smile full of irritating allusions. “Do you need help?”

In those hollow words, empty and ambiguous, I found a solution to my problem, an unexpected shortcut, and I jumped at it.

“Actually you were supposed to do it, but you weren’t around. As usual,” I said bitterly.

His face was crossed by a quiver. “I'm not a gardener. I already work too much.”

This statement made me laugh. I put a hand to my mouth, as if to hide my hilarity.

He looked at me furiously. “It's the truth. Who do you think helps him to wash, dress and move?”

The thought of Sebastian Mc Laine naked almost caused me a short circuit. To wash him, dress him... I would have done it very willingly. The following thought, that I would never be the one to do it, made me answer harshly.

“But for most of the day you are free. Of course, at his disposal, however, he rarely disturbs you” I reinforced the message. “Come on, help me.”

He finally gave in, still annoyed. I handed him the shears, smiling. “Red roses,” I said.

“All right,” he grumbled, setting to work.

In the end, when the bunch was ready, I escorted him to the kitchen where we picked up the vase. It seemed more practical and easy to split the task between us. He would carry the ceramic pot, I the flowers.

Mr Mc Laine was still writing, fervently. He only stopped when he saw us come back together.

“Now I understand why it took you so long” he hissed at my address.

Kyle hurried away, clumsily placing the vase on the desk. For a moment I feared that it would fall down. He had already left when I started to arrange the roses in the vase.

“Was it such a difficult task that you had to ask for help?” He asked, his eyes glowing with uncontrollable anger.

I floundered, like a fish that had stupidly bitten the bait. “The vase was heavy,” I excused myself. “The next time I won’t bring it with me.”

“Very wise”. His voice was deceptively sweet. In truth, with his face shadowed by a two day stubble, he looked like a malicious demon that had come straight from the underworld to bully me.

“I didn’t find Mrs Mc Millian,” I insisted. A fish still clinging to the bait and hasn’t yet realized that it’s a hook.

“Oh, right, it's her day off,” he acknowledged. But then his anger, only temporarily alleviated, reappeared. “I won’t tolerate love stories among my employees.”

“The thought never crossed my mind!” I said impetuously, so earnestly that I got a smile of approval from him.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” His eyes were icy despite the smile. “Of course that doesn’t refer to me. I have nothing against having an affair with my employees.” He stressed the words, as to reinforce the fact that he was mocking me.

For the first time I felt like punching him, and I realized it wouldn’t be the only time. Unable to vent my rage on who I would have liked to, my hands tightened over the bouquet, the thorns forgotten. The pain surprised me, as if I were immune to thorns, since I was busy fighting off other ones.

“Ouch!” I snatched my hand away.

“Did you prick yourself?"

My look was more eloquent than any answer. He stretched his hand out to catch mine.

“Let me see.”

I gave it to him like a robot. The drop of blood stood out on my white skin. Dark, black to my abnormal eyes. Crimson red to his normal eyes.

I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was strong. I watched him, bewildered. His gaze didn’t abandon my finger, fascinated, hypnotized. Then, as usual, it all ended. His expression changed to the point that I couldn’t read it. He seemed nauseated and hurriedly looked away. My hand was free, and I put my finger in my mouth to suck the blood.

His head turned in my direction again, as if driven by an unrelenting and unwanted force. He had an agonized and distressed expression. It lasted just a moment, though. It was incredible, and illogical.

“The book is going well. I recovered my streak,” he said, as if answering a question I had never made. “Do you mind bringing me a cup of tea?”

I clung to his words, as if they were a rope thrown to a person who was drowning. “I’ll go right away.”

“Will you be able to manage on your own, this time?” His irony was almost pleasant after the scary look he had given me earlier.

“I'll try,” I replied, playing along with him.

This time I didn’t meet Kyle, and I was relieved. I moved through the kitchen with greater ease than I had in the garden. Since I ate all my meals there, in the company of Mrs Mc Millian, I had learned all her hiding places. I easily found the kettle in the cabinet beside the fridge, and the tea bags in a tin can in another one. I went upstairs with the tray in my hands.

Mc Laine didn’t look up when he heard me come in. Evidently his ears, like radar antennas, had already understood that I was alone.

“I brought both sugar and honey, not knowing which one you prefer. And milk.”

He sneeringly looked at the tray. “Wasn’t it too heavy for you?”

“I managed,” I said with all the dignity I could muster. Defending myself from his verbal jokes was becoming an exceptional habit; certainly preferable to the terrible expression he had a few minutes earlier.