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--
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
It is the middle of the night by the castle clock. You are in the wood, but you hear the bell tolling. The owls hear it, and they cry; the cocks hear it, and they crow. Sir Leoline, your father, has a toothless mastiff bitch. She makes sixteen short howls, as she always does, in answer to the clock. Some have said she sees your mother's ghost.
The night is chilly, but not dark. The moon is small and dull. Spring comes slowly here. You kneel below a huge oak tree, and pray in silence.
You've been dreaming of your betrothèd knight, Sir {cycling link for for: 'name', choices: ['Giselric', 'Adelbrand', 'Belimar', 'Godewin', 'Everard', 'Filimir']}. As you pray for his welfare, you think of...
[align center]
[[his hair->outside2]]
[[his face->outside2]]
[[his hands->outside2]]
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
He is lovely; you are fortunate indeed. You only hope that he will return to you unharmed. On that day, you think, you will be happy.
A sound rises through the trees. Is it the wind that moans so bleak? No; there is not enough wind to move one of your curls away from your face, not enough wind to tear the last red leaf from the top of the oak.
Again you hear the moaning. Like an animal, injured or desperate.
[align center]
[[spring up, and look behind the tree]]{embed passage: 'woods css'}
You cannot leave her alone in the woods. She shivers, and looks at you through tearstained lashes. You promise her that the Baron, Sir Leoline, will guard and guide her home; that she is among friends, and will be returned forthwith to her own noble father's hall.
She seems to take heart, and rises with the aid of your hand. The two of you move as quickly as you can through the forest, but in the dark, it is difficult to find your way.
All the household is at rest, you explain. Your father is weak in health, and it would not do well to awaken him. But you will go quietly through the halls. Tonight, Geraldine can sleep with you.
You cross the moat and approach the gate: a fortified entrance fit for an army to pass through. There is a little door in the middle, and you unlock it. But as you are about to step over the threshold with Geraldine, she slumps against you, gasping as though in pain.
[align center]
[[lift her over the threshold]] {embed passage: 'woods css'}
She is heavy in your arms, and makes no effort to help. Your hand brushes her bare skin. You shift; she is cold, and one of the jewels in her hair is pressing into your shoulder. You carry her through the little door and over the threshold. The effort heats you and your breath comes hard.
Once in the court Geraldine moves, as though she would be set down. You lower her to the flagstones and she rises to stand. She walks on with you, leaning again on your arm, but no longer seeming pained. You praise the Virgin for this. Geraldine, breathless, cannot do so herself.
Free from danger and fear, you cross the court.
Your father's mastiff bitch lies outside her kennel, asleep in the moonlight. She does not wake as you pass; yet she makes an angry moan. Never before have you heard her bark or growl while you were near. Perhaps, you think, she was disturbed by an owl's cry.
The hall echoes, no matter how lightly you pass. In the hearth, a fire is dying; its brands lie flat. But as Geraldine passes, a fit of flame licks up like a tongue. She seems to glimmer in that red light. Your father's shield, in its niche on the wall, does too. But it is dulled by the dark.
You will have to pass the Baron's room. Your father is ill. He seldom sleeps well, and the lightest sound may disturb him.
[align center]
[[cross to the other side of the hall]]
[[take off your shoes and walk by his door]] wine: false
--
{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
{embed passage: 'post wine'}{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
You do as she bids, and lie down on your bed. In vain you try to sleep. There are too many thoughts plaguing you.
[if wine; append]
The floral wine doesn't help; you are calm, but not drowsy. Your perception feels intricate and pleasantly slowed. The carvings on the walls and ceiling attract your attention, as does the light glistening on the body of the sculpted angel over the lamp. They almost seem to metamorphose into different forms, full of promise, rich and slick and twisted.
[continue]
You sit up and recline on your elbow to watch Geraldine. She was abducted, you recall. That could have been you—{cycling link, choices: ['the victim.', 'the captors.', 'no. No, it couldn’t. Nothing like that would happen to you.']}
She prays like one afflicted by distress; she shudders, and her eyes linger on the corners of the room. Without a glance towards you, she unbinds the cincture beneath her breast, and her robe and inner vestment fall to the floor. Her bosom, and half her side, are—
A chill of horror grips you. This cannot be. No living thing could be so afflicted. You think of months-dead corpses, frostbite, lepers, reptiles. The papery skin of the very old. Illustrations of skeletons that caper and dance. Candle-wax. Shrouds. You cover your face with your hands, but through your fingers you see her approaching.
She hesitates, silent. Her expression of heartsickness seems to mirror your own. Then she lifts her chin, and her eyes go cold. She lies down beside you and draws you [[into her arms]]. {embed passage: 'castle css'}
Each matin bell, the Baron often says, knells us back to a world of death. He has said it since he found his lady dead; he will say it until the day he dies. For his grief, the sacristan tells forty-five beads between each toll of the bell. The sound strikes the faces of hills and mountains, echoing, changing, and dissipating in the misty air.
You awaken. Geraldine stands before you, tall and radiant. She is dressed again in her white silks. Her hair is braided, and her demeanor is light and gentle. She seems even fairer, somehow, than she did last night; as though she has consumed something restorative, as though the blessings of angels are laid upon her. She smiles.
"Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? I trust that you are well-rested."
[align center]
[[dress, and pray for your unknown sins]][css]
body {
background-image: url("backgrounds/castle2.png");
background-repeat: no-repeat;
background-size: cover;
background-position: center;
background-image: contain no-repeat;
}
[continued]{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
Her skin is pressed against your skin, the two of you bared to each other. She is unlike anything alive. Her voice is soft and low and certain.
[align center]
"*In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;*"
[align left]
Something from her is crawling into you. Your breath catches. Her arms are light around you but you cannot move.
[align center]
"*But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare:*
*That in the dim forest
Thou heard'st a low moaning,
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;*"
[align left]
She touches your hair, your hands. The places where her body was set against yours when you carried her over the threshold. Shivers run down your back.
[align center]
"*And did bring her home with thee in love and in charity,*"
[align left]
She touches your face. White fingertips on your brow, tracing beside your eyelids.
[align center]
"*To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.*"
[align left]
You must be asleep. Your eyes are open, but this cannot be the waking world. Your muscles are tensed, and your breath comes in quick little gasps. Geraldine moves slowly beside you. The lamp burns out.
What do you dream of?
[align center]
[[God->night thoughts]]
[[your mother->night thoughts]]
[[Geraldine->night thoughts]] config.footer.center: "{restart link, label: 'End.'}"
--
{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
You think of Bracy's dream. The dove struggling under the oak, as a serpent constricts her. Your heart flutters.
In Geraldine's arms, you are motionless. She is so cold. You feel the touch of her bosom, pressed against you, and horror comes. Yet mingled with that shame is a keen fierce pleasure. Your breath hitches and slows, very gradually.
Elsewhere in the Baron's court, in a large and lonely room, her father is doing to your father what she has done to you. Soon the drowsy sacristan will come to the chapel, to give twelve strokes at the castle bell. Your mother said she would hear it on your wedding-day.
The green snake coils tighter around the dove, until it no longer moves. The serpent's fangs pierce its breast.
Midnight. The castle clock tolls like a funeral bell. Like a wedding bell. {embed passage: 'castle css'}
You emerge into the sunlight, thinking of your Savior.
Your father awaits the two of you in his presence-room. The Baron embraces you first, then Geraldine, in cheerful welcome. But when he hears her tale, your father looks faint. He murmurs, over and over, the name Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.
You remember that name. Your father once told you of a beloved friend he had in his youth. Enmity came between them, and each insulted the other. From there they parted, but neither of them ever replaced the other with a better friend.
As your father gazes at Geraldine, he seems stricken by memory and tenderness. He curses her captors; he calls his favored bard, Bracy, to deliver the message to Lord Roland de Vaux that his daughter is safe, and that Leoline gives up all the disdain of his youth.
Geraldine falls to her knees before Sir Leoline, weeping in gratitude. Bracy replies, in a faltering voice, his thanks and hail to the Baron. But he asks a boon: that he should not be sent out to ride today.
"For," he says, [["So strange a dream hath come to me..."]]
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
Your breath catches in your throat. Lying at the base of the oak is a damsel clad in a robe of white silk. The moonlight makes her all purity and shadow. Her skin is paler than her gown; you see the veins in her bare feet, her wrists, her eyelids. Gems glitter wildly in her hair.
She is like a statue. She is beautiful beyond belief. She frightens you.
[align center]
[["Who art thou? How camest thou here?"]]{embed passage: 'woods css'}
Her voice is faint and sweet. "Have pity—I scarce can speak from weariness. My name is Geraldine, and I am of a noble lineage. Five warriors seized me yestermorn. I know not who they were. They tied me on a fleet white palfrey, and silenced me with force and fright. One, the tallest, took me from the palfrey's back scarce alive, and laid me beneath this oak. He swore they would return. I cannot tell how long it has been; I am sure I have lain entranced. I thought I heard, some minutes past, sounds of a castle bell. Stretch forth thy hand, and help a wretched maid to flee—!"
[align center]
[[stretch forth your hand]] config.footer.center: "{restart link, label: 'End.'}"
--
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
He is unarmed. You hear him give a start of surprise.
"What is this? Christabel—God—"
You imagine her touching {name}. His hair; his hands; his face. You hear a cry that might be his anguish and might merely be an owl in the wood. Then no sound comes.
You wait. The moon slides behind clouds, making a frayed tapestry of the night. You enter the chapel.
In the corner, indistinct in the dark, a body is sprawled. You would not have noticed it, but for a shudder of your heart. A pure clear anguish thrills you. A moment longer, and your sight is fixed on Geraldine instead.
She is more beautiful than she has ever been. She seems all life, all blessed radiance. The white light of a benevolent sun in the night's chill and mist. But there is a distance in her eyes, as though she is distracted; as though some weight bears heavily upon her. As you watch, she seems to throw it off, and compose herself once more.
Elsewhere in the Baron's court, in a large and lonely room, her father is doing to your father what she has done to {name}. Soon the drowsy sacristan will come to the chapel, to give twelve strokes at the castle bell. Your mother said she would hear it on your wedding-day.
Geraldine clasps your hands in her own, and looks at you, and smiles.{embed passage: 'castle css'}
He dismounts from a white palfrey, with his retinue gathered around him. The horses pant and foam. They have ridden hard.
Lord Roland, like his daughter, is tall and magnificent. He seems untouched by the years, still in his full power. His hair holds no grey; his frame is unbent. He is everything Sir Leoline is not. Next to him, the Baron looks sunken, frail, and old. But your father grips Lord Roland's hand with the strength of a younger man. In his gaze you see remorse, cruelty, pain, affection, earnest love.
You don't understand.
Sir Leoline's voice trembles, but does not break, as he calls for a banquet to be laid in honor of the guests.
[align center]
[[compose yourself, and sit beside your betrothèd->feast]]{embed passage: 'woods css'}
You are not quiet enough. The architecture betrays you. From within the dark of his room, scuffling, you hear your father.
"O—" He coughs. "Who is there? Christabel—"
You stand still, clutching Geraldine's wrist. In the low light your father appears, clothed for bed, weighed down by grief and exhaustion. He looks between you and the lady. His brow furrows in concern. "Who is this?"
[align center]
[["A noble lady, in distress, who needs shelter for the night."]]
[["I know not. I found her in the wood; she claimed to have been ill-used."]]plead: false
--
{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
Without waking your father, you reach your chamber door.
{embed passage: 'bedroom passage'}wine: true
--
{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
It is richly floral, bittersweet. It warms your core and steadies your mind.
{embed passage: 'post wine'}[css]
body {
background-image: url("backgrounds/woods2.png");
background-repeat: no-repeat;
background-size: cover;
background-position: center;
background-image: contain no-repeat;
}
[continued][css]
body {
background-image: url("backgrounds/bedroom.png");
background-repeat: no-repeat;
background-size: cover;
background-position: center;
background-image: contain no-repeat;
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[continued]{embed passage: 'castle css'}
The household awaits Bard Bracy for days, then weeks. But he never returns.
A new sorrow strikes your life before the spring's warmth dawns in full. You receive word that Sir {name}, has been killed.
You feel your heart crushed by the cruelties of fate. First your mother, and now your beloved knight. Your father grows sick and weak by the day. Will you be all alone, soon, between these cold stone walls?
In the court, your father's mastiff howls.
[align center]
[[mourn your betrothèd and pray for his soul]] config.footer.center: "{restart link, label: 'End.'}"
--
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
An owl cries like the screaming of a distant woman. From behind the trees there is a flutter of movement.
A figure emerges, all in white, with a light step. Her hand is raised close to her bosom, as though to shield herself or beckon you. Even in the half-dark, you see the glinting of Geraldine's eyes.{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
Footsteps, light and certain, echo soft on the floor behind you. Geraldine flinches. Her hands tense; she grips you tighter, then releases you.
You turn. Sir {name} has come to your aid. He bears a naked sword.
Geraldine says nothing; she merely looks at him, her eyes wide and tear-filled. Her blighted bosom swells with pain. She, like you, is a suffering maiden, and he will strike her down. He has come into your chamber, seen the horror of her body. You cover your face. Your heart beats very fast.
It is over soon. Your soul sinks within you, encoiled by a snake of subtle poison. You cannot tell, any longer, what is right and what is wrong. But you lift your eyes to heaven, praying that guardian spirits above will guide you.
Geraldine looks sweeter and more innocent than ever she did in life, wounded and bled like a martyr, sprawled in the moonlight amid the rushes on the floor.
You catch at {name}'s sleeve. "My father, the Baron Leoline—I pray you, hurry. Lord Roland, I fear, is with him, and I know not—"
[align center]
[[A cry goes up.]]{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
You spend part of the night entranced, caged in a livid nightmare that you cannot quite recall. No; not a nightmare. It prickles you with shame. Geraldine holds you, like a mother with a sleeping child. She has had her will. Your eyes are open, unseeing. In that hour, the night birds are silent.
But now you stir, and gather your limbs, and move freely. Tears trickle down your face. Yet you smile. Perhaps you dream of your mother; perhaps you dream of saints. Perhaps you only dream of what you've done this night.
You do not remember it when you [[awaken]], but the sweetness of the dream stays with you, lingering in your mind like a fragrant flavor on your tongue. plead: true
--
{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
Does he see something in her features that gives him pause? In the dull red light he stares, all haggard, as though doubting her. But his expression softens; he always was a chivalrous man.
"I beg your pardon; thou art an honored guest in this house. Tomorrow I shall bid thee a better welcome. But now let us retire; I have faith, Christabel, in thy hospitality to a fellow maid."
The two of you walk softly to your chamber, and leave your father to his rest.
{embed passage: 'bedroom passage'}{embed passage: 'castle css'}
At the head of the table, your father holds conversation with Lord Roland.
"Your castle is far from Langdale Hall. And Geraldine was found last night. The ruffians must have ridden at a frightsome pace, many miles, to leave her in this place."
Roland's face is stern, yet he seems amused. "I ride faster."
If Geraldine is not what she seems—if your wild guessing is true—then what could her father be? He talks of hunting, and of the days when he and your father were like brothers or closer. Neither speaks of the injury that came between them. Those words will never be repeated.
But you see Sir Leoline casting troubled glances at him, as though he is not quite what the Baron expected.
It is close to the appointed hour; you long to see Sir {name}, and draw some comfort from his words. You beg pardon for your leave, claiming that a weakness of the nerves is troubling you, and you slip away from the feast.
[[Geraldine stands in the hall.]] {embed passage: 'castle css'}
"In my sleep I saw a white dove, called by thy daughter's name, fluttering and crying on the forest ground, in the grass and green herbs beneath the old tree. I stooped closer, and saw a snake coiled around its wings and neck—a snake green as the herbs in which it lay.
I woke—at the tolling of midnight—and the dream did not pass from my eye. I see it, now, before me. And thence I vowed, with saintly song, to clean the wood from any unblest thing that loiters there."
The Baron, half-listening, smiles upon him, and turns to Geraldine. "Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove: thy sire and I shall crush the snake!" He kisses her forehead. From your father's embrace she looks askance at you. Her eyes are shrunken in her head, cold and dull as the eyes of a snake. It is the gaze of a serpent, a gaze of deep dire malice and dread. It is only an instant's glance, but you feel envenomed. You stagger, your breath hissing in a broken gasp, and stand as though paralyzed.
Why do you have the thought that she only appears to be a damsel? That she has clothed herself in young flesh—cold white flesh—that she is something else entirely? You have seen the mark spread over her bosom. You, alone, know something of her truth.
You beg your father:
[if plead; align center]
[["By my mother's soul, I do entreat that thou this woman send away!"->success]]
[else; align center]
[["By my mother's soul, I do entreat that thou this woman send away!"->fail]]{embed passage: 'castle css'}
You have betrayed his hospitality, dishonoured him. There is rage in his eyes, and pain. But he trusts you. He loves you, and despite his lack of understanding, he wishes to protect you.
He orders Bracy to deliver the damsel back, safely, to her father's house.
That night, you sleep restlessly. The tranquility you felt will not return; the turmoil remains. You imagine Geraldine's arms around you. You imagine the consolation of your mother, of heavenly spirits.
The castle is quiet.
[align center]
[[try to forget her]]plead: false
--
{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
His expression softens. "I beg your pardon; thou art an honored guest in this house. Tomorrow I shall bid thee a better welcome. But now let us retire; I have faith, Christabel, in thy hospitality to a fellow maid."
The two of you walk softly to your chamber, and leave your father to his rest.
{embed passage: 'bedroom passage'}{embed passage: 'castle css'}
You have betrayed his hospitality, dishonoured him. There is rage in his eyes, and pain. He barks: "Why, Bracy, dost thou loiter here? I bade thee hence!" The bard bows and leaves in haste.
Sir Leoline turns from you, and leads Geraldine away.
You retreat to an inner chamber, and give vent to your sorrow in a flood of tears. You are forsaken. Never before has your father been unkind to you.
In the courtyard, there is a noise of voices. You listen. Your senses feel painfully acute.
You would not have thought it possible, but for an instant, all your distress is forgotten. Sir {name} has arrived.
[align center]
[[go to greet your betrothèd knight]]{embed passage: 'castle css'}
He reads the urgency written in your features, and he understands what your father could not.
"Meet me in the chapel tonight, at the eleventh hour. And whatever ails thee,
I pray that thou wilt unburden thy mind to me. But, for now, let us rest. I will go to greet thy father."
There is no rest for you within these walls. Your chamber offers you no solace, now; and any guardian spirits in the sky above feel very distant.
You think of the wood, of its cool inviting green. What better refuge could be found? You will linger there for some time, picking the spring's first wild flowers, and your knight will join you.
But as you start over the bridge, you hear the beating of hooves. A band of white horses, approaching the gate, ridden at a furious pace. You think at first of the warriors that Geraldine described. Then you realize: [[Lord Roland de Vaux, of Tryermaine, is here.->roland arrives]]{embed passage: 'castle css'}
She seems distracted, stricken, a weight gathering in her brain as she stares at you. She says not a word, but her face is pale, and slick with sweat. Her eyes flare wildly. She seems to struggle in the grip of some torment, before she calms herself.
You think of the night you spent in her arms, and hastily recall your Savior to your mind. But the dream lingers. The fear, the sweetness.
[align center]
[[tell Geraldine where your betrothèd awaits]]
[[say only that you will see her tonight]]{embed passage: 'woods css'}
Her eyes linger on you, you are sure. But she does not follow you through the lonely halls.
Your preferred place for prayer is beneath the great oak in the wood. The chapel feels desolate and still. So many of your ancestors were baptized here, and so many mourned. The colors of evening bleed and fade in the western window's high arch.
The moon is waning now, just barely. An edge invisibly thinned. It silvers you: your hands, your robe. You feel as though you're waning too. Something deeper and more essential than mere fatigue is afflicting you, as though a vital force was drawn from you. But dread touches your heart at the idea of sleeping tonight.
You are so caught up in fearful musings that you do not notice {name} entering the chapel. You startle, though his presence soothes you. His hands; his face; his hair; his living body.
Perhaps here, in such a holy place, you can unburden yourself to him. Your eyes flit wildly up to the cross. For the sake of your mother, for the sake of your Savior, you wish to be free.
[align center]
[["It is Geraldine. I can say no more; I beg you, come at midnight to my chamber, and thou shalt thereby preserve my life."]]
[["'Tis this only: I have been so long fearful of your fate, that your return brings sentiment renewed. We shall be married soon; think on that, and worry not for me."]]config.footer.center: "{restart link, label: 'End.'}"
--
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
Sir Leoline, the honorable knight, is dead. Age and sickness have taken their toll. The matin bell awakens you in the morning, but not him. You think, with grief renewed, of all that was left unsaid between you and your father. The shame, the betrayal. You could have explained yourself, had there only been time.
You will be married, soon, to {name}. Your father's inheritance is yours. But you never see Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine after that night, and you thank the ethereal spirits for it.
Sometimes in years hence, you linger still in the wood, beneath the oak. But you have a husband, and you do not stray far. The bells toll, as they did when you were wed, and you think of your mother's spirit, certain that she was with you. You return to the castle alone.{embed passage: 'bedroom css'}
The carvings on the walls seem to watch you. Grotesque fancies of a sculptor inspired—perhaps by divine gift, perhaps by diabolical presence. She is awake, praying, as you knew she would be. You are her host. She was waiting for you.
The maiden's body is uncanny as a dream in the lamplight, like a ruined cathedral. Horror and desire mingle in your heart. You approach her, like a sleepwalker, and she takes you gently in her arms.
[if betrayed; align center]
[[unrobe->betray geraldine end]]
[else; align center]
[[unrobe->bad end]]{embed passage: 'woods css'}
You do not need to say more. She understands your intent.
Your soul sinks within you, encoiled by a snake of subtle poison. You cannot tell, any longer, what is right and what is wrong. But you lift your eyes to heaven, praying that guardian spirits above will guide you.
The moon is waning now, just barely. An edge invisibly thinned. It silvers you: your hands, your robe. You feel as though you're waning too. Something deeper and more essential than mere fatigue is afflicting you, as though a vital force was drawn from you. But you feel keen, sharp, and eager for the night.
Sir {name} waits within the chapel for you. For months you have prayed for his weal. It is as though, for all his valiant power, you hold him in your hands. Like the dove.
[align center]
[[lead Geraldine to the chapel, and avert your eyes]] betrayed: true
--
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
His eyes widen. A thousand surmises must fill his thoughts, yet he cannot guess your meaning. He stands, staring, doubting. But he gathers himself with all the solemnity proper to his position.
"I shall do e'en as you command. I am ever thy protector. I trust in you, Christabel, whose innocence and virtue shine unblemished! One night's trial; then we both, guarded by saints and angels, shall enjoy all the happiness allotted us."
He bids fond leave of you, and goes to prepare himself.
[align center]
[[return to your chamber]]betrayed: false
--
{embed passage: 'woods css'}
Surely he senses your lie. But he bows his head, and kisses your hand. "I am thy protector. I trust in you, Christabel, whose innocence and virtue shine unblemished! Soon, guarded by saints and angels, we shall enjoy all the happiness allotted us."
[align center]
[[return to your chamber]]{embed passage: 'woods css'}
Once again, you find yourself in the wood, beneath the huge oak. You linger after dark, shedding tears for {name}. Already he seems so distant. You think of his spirit, and your mother's, watching over you from above. But imagined phantoms can do nothing to comfort you.
You hear the castle clock striking twelve. An owl shrieks somewhere nearby. You stare out into the night.
Who are you hoping to see?
[align center]
[[your knight->reappear ending]]
[[Geraldine->reappear ending]]Geraldine flinches, and stares wildly, as though she sees shades of the bodiless dead. "Off, woman! This hour is mine; I bid thee flee." Her voice is hollow. The suggestion of your mother, and her own captivity, must have driven her to bewilderment. You kneel beside her, and raise the wine to her lips, as she presses a hand against her cold brow.
She stands. Though sweat glistens on her face still, she looks restored. There is something distant and timeless about her, as though she has come from some far land; yet her voice is gentle.
"All the spirits who dwell in the upper sky love you, Christabel, and know that you love them. And for their sake—and yours—I will try in my degree to requite you well." Her eyes linger on you. "But now unrobe yourself; for I will pray ere yet I lie with you."
[align center]
[[undress yourself]]The moon shines dull, and none of its beams enter here. But you do not need it. An angel adorns in the ceiling, and a silver lamp hangs from its feet. By the dim light you see the strange sweet figures carved in your chamber, all phantasies of the sculptor's brain.
You think of this place as a comforting one. But here Geraldine sinks down upon the rush-strewn floor, overcome by exhaustion and misery.
You trim the lamp so that it burns brightly, casting wavering shadows as it swings. For Geraldine you retrieve a cordial, and offer it to her, explaining that your mother made this wine of wild flowers.
"And will your mother pity me," she asks, "who am a maiden most forlorn?"
Woefully you tell her: your mother died at your birth.
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[[drink some of the cordial wine]]
[[reserve it for your guest]] {embed passage: 'castle css'}
Just as Bard Bracy, you hear, is being refreshed from his ride with good wine in the house of Lord Roland, so will Geraldine's sire be welcomed here. Your father keeps his word: the table is laden with the richness of this household, all that is delicate and good. Game and fowl, perfumed confections, pastries, nuts, and sweet preserves. A hunger stirs your blood. Yet the fine meats do not appease it; the wine does nothing to quench it. You watch Geraldine, and you feel dizzy and weak.
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[[try to think of anything else]] {embed passage: 'castle css'}
He is strong and well, just as you dreamed. He is everything he should be. But you cannot hide the worry and sick fear, even now, when you should be rejoicing. For his sake you smile softly upon him, but he sees past your false composure. His brow furrows. He takes hold, lightly, of one of your hands.
"Dear Christabel, what ails you?"
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{reveal link: '"Geraldine."', text: 'The curse holds your tongue. Her touch keeps you from revealing the truth to him.'}
[["I cannot say."]]