In which we face the Storm

[jesshartley.livejournal.com]

This is a piece I wrote for an upcoming Camarilla newsletter. I thought I'd share it here as well.

“This is how it starts,” she thought, one hand on the ancient wooden railing that bordered the steps to the next floor. “This is how the tales begin…”
Outside, the desert winds had picked up. Monsoon season had come early this year, and the storm hit the decrepit Victorian mansion with an unholy vengeance. Never built to resist such fury, the boarding house groaned a futile protest against the onslaught. Night fell early, as darkness closed in, wrapping the building in its haunting embrace.
The storm continued, poking its curious fingers into the building itself. Whispers and footsteps haunted every dark corner, and a constant chilling draft cooled the interior, despite the summer heat outside earlier in the day. Heavy velvet curtains rustled as if stroked by some invisible hand. Chandelier crystals sang against each other with the sound of broken glass in a particularly violent clap of thunder, giving the impression that the window panes were not far behind. The air held the threat of decay and entropy, as if Autumn had squelched Summer's reign over the neighborhood at least for this one night.
As if it stifled their vitality, most of the house’s residents took to their rooms when the storm hit, burning fires in the antique fireplaces to lend warmth and light to that provided by the flickering electric bulbs. It was little use, however. Whether manmade or natural, the storm sucked heat and brightness from the area, like a hungry leech draining its host.
A single figure stalked the rattling building’s empty hallway. Her long skirts brushed the faded Persian carpets, and slipped up the worn hardwood stairs as she waltzed through the creaking house. Far from cowering, she seemed to welcome the storm. She listened, with a faint wistful smile, to the whispering drafts, arms wrapped around herself as if she was being cradled in someone's embrace. Pausing, she stood at one of the tall upstairs windows, fingertips pressed to the cool, rain-splattered glass, and smiled lovingly out into the darkness.
Behind Mara, one of the shadows left the dark hallway, moving silently up behind her. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, and a dark head rested on her shoulder.
"Oh hello, Patty. I didn't hear you come up."
"Hello dear. Are you okay?" His soft voice spoke of a brogue without actually crossing the borders into one. Over her shoulder, he rested his cheek against that of his hostess, staring out into the rain as well.
“Yes... yes, I'm fine." Strangely, despite the oppressive storm, her words rung true.
“You enjoy the rain?” He sounded surprised, as if the idea of this queen of spring reveling in this foul weather was one he hadn’t considered.
“The rain?” Mara paused, her brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing again. “Oh... yes... yes, this rain... I do... I do enjoy it. It's comforting to have it near again... It's been gone too long.”
Patty leaned closer, looking at her as he brushed a soft kiss across the ivory plane of her cheek. “Oh? Has it been gone, this rain?"
“Indeed. Seasons change. Storms move on.”
He listened quietly to her sorrowful reply before speaking. “You miss Sirius. The Sirius that used to be? And the Autumn Nigel?”
Mara stiffened, her voice raising in timber and pace to her normal sprightly self. "Why, Patty. I said nothing about Sirius... Nor Nigel... Can a woman not enjoy a storm without it meaning more than that?” Tilting her chin up at a mischievous angle, she snaked one of her hands up into his. “Come... I wanted to show you a new dance step I've been working on..."
As the storm continued to rage outside, Mara-Zen turned away from the window to escort the other Spring courtier back into the light of the great hall.
But not before giving one last longing look out into the autumnal darkness.