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Carmilla dove into the water.
A hesitant breath escaped my lips, and then I was following her, the sultry air replaced by the cold embrace of the water. Carmilla glided through the depths, her form a pale silhouette. She moved like a swan – effortless, graceful – while my own movements resembled something of a duck. We swam together, her legs brushing mine. The cold water did little to dampen the building heat. Each touch sent shivers down my spine. Exhilarating, terrifying
“Did you swim often as a child?” I asked.
She sighed. “Again, you forget my condition.”
I hadn’t forgotten. My curiosity about her still thrummed like a taut bowstring. I yearned to learn everything about her, but her past was a locked door tantalizingly out of reach. "You do not remember your childhood at all? Your parents? Your home?"
"Dear Laura, I’m still a melody with missing notes.” She swiped her damp tendrils back. “I think I’m quite done with swimming." She swam past me without a second glance and pulled herself from the riverbank, looking like a water nymph just returning to the shore.
Did my questioning cause her ire? Had I pried too deeply? It was as if my questions cast a shadow over her.
I climbed the bank and dressed with her. Carmilla moved languidly as if she was still wading through water. Verbena flowers brushed her ankle, and Carmilla shivered, side-stepping them.
"Are you tired, Carmilla?"
"A touch. There, under that grand oak, shall we rest a while?"
Under the tree we sat. Carmilla closed her eyes and leaned her head into my lap. Her wet hair, the color of the darkest ink, fanned out like tentacles against my thighs. I couldn't resist the urge to adorn her hair with daisies that dotted the grass. Gently, I wove them through her ebony tresses until they looked like stars in a midnight sky. Carmilla sighed. The act felt intimate, a silent connection blooming between us.
"It's a shame you can't remember,” I said after some time. “I’m sorry.”
“But I’ll always remember these moments with you.” Carmilla's fingers brushed absently against the blooms. She resembled a fallen angel just now, her beauty breathtaking yet tinged with a certain melancholy. Her eyes fluttered open. "Tell me about yours instead. Your childhood.”
"There's not much to tell," I said, the words tasting like dust in my mouth. “I was brought up in the solitude of a grand schloss. My father and I, we've lived here alone for as long as I can remember. Well, except for the governesses, tutors… and a parade of faces that have blurred together over the years. My mother," I continued, my voice catching, "passed during my infancy.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her fingers threading mine. “It must’ve been difficult for you.”
“I was fortunate enough to have my governesses fill the void.”
Carmilla gave me a pained smile. “But they didn’t, did they?”
I said nothing. It wasn't a question that needed an answer.
Memories of my mother clung to me like cobwebs, dusty and cold in the recesses of my mind. I'd always tried so hard to appear composed, to hide that gaping chasm in my life, but how easily Carmilla could see right through the facade.
“We never truly recover from the sting of loss.” She reached out and pulled me into her arms. “Tell me more about your mother, Laura.”
Her soft words were like a knife probing at a wound that still hadn't healed. My breath hitched in my throat, caught between the solace of Carmilla’s embrace, the comforting press of her body against mine, and a primal instinct to flee.
“I…don’t know much about her except that she was a Styrian woman descended from the House of Karnstein.
"The House of Karnstein,” said Carmilla. “Quite a powerful line...”
“Are you familiar with it?”
She leaned back against the tree. “I am descended from the House of Karnstein."
“Are you?” I pressed forwards, hope blooming in my voice. Perhaps the amnesia was fading. “Tell me, did you know my mother? Her name was Katharina."
Carmilla's face remained a mask of impassivity. She shook her head, the movement slightly hesitant. “I don't know her. My connection to the House of Karnstein is quite distant, you see.”
A stab of disappointment washed over me. “Perhaps your mother knew her then? They would have been around the same age, I imagine.”
Carmilla's brow furrowed, a crease appearing between her perfectly arched brows. A hand flew to her head, and her face strained. “Apologies, it hurts. The effort of remembering.”
Guilt pricked me. I had pressed her too hard. So focused I’d been on unraveling her past and mine that I had failed to see the toll it was taking on her. “Let's go back inside,” I said, my voice softer now. “It’ll be dark soon.”
