NORMI CAPSULE II

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ESCAPE

ESCAPE

THE MANOR & THE GREENHOUSE

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THIS SEASON ESCAPE TO THE MANOR & THE GREENHOUSE PHOTOGRAPHER: GARY JORDAN HAIRSTYLIST: KELIA STONE MAKE-UP ARTIST: BRE KALI MODEL: ALEXANDRA CUNNINGHAM

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ABOUT over the Hudson River, the rapidly declining peach glow lighting up the sky as if Manhattan were smoldering.

And as Manhattan burned, I thought of home. I remember a life from a distant past, echoes of waves crashing on Maracas beach, visions of frothy bubbles kissing the shore, and the taste of salt against my lips. But even as I tried to hold onto those memories, they blurred and bled like the slices of oranges and reds that bruised the Hudson River.

And as I watched Manhattan burn, and the Hudson bleed, I thought, “Every now and then, don’t you just wish that you could ESCAPE”

From the award-winning costuming company, K2K Alliance & Partners, comes NORMÌ, resort capsule pieces reimagined for every brand of beautiful.

NORMÌ is committed to producing artfully crafted garments that provide an effortless yet glamorous statement for women. Mixing sensual with sophistication; and elegance with timeless, the capsules are intended to capture romanticism. At the end of the day, a woman wants to feel beautiful in her skin, and NORMÌ is made for every brand of beautiful

ESCAPE (to me) means, experiencing a sense of peace. The wardrobe pieces therefore are crafted to enhance that sense freedom. The garments mix elegance with comfort, and the refined with easy.

Why ESCAPE? I think ESCAPE will mean something different to each individual. For some, it may mean finding time for oneself. To someone else, it may mean running away from something or everything. And to another, it may represent a journey to somewhere unfamiliar to discover something new.

--There is something to be said when a woman can mix modern edge with oldfashioned glamor.

The truth is - ESCAPE, like many of our themes under the K2K Alliance & Partners platform, took root from a personal source - I sat in my apartment, watching the sun fade

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NORMÌ, Where timeless elegance never looses its magic

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P.S.

This issue contains a short story

which starts to evolve from page ten

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Step inside the gates of

the Manor & the Greenhouse

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THE MANOR

This house is filled with so many secrets …

Secrets behind closed doors; secrets etched in the walls; secrets I have yet to discover. But this is my house. I own it, just as it owns me. I own the secrets. I own the paintings on the walls. I own everything and nothing at the same time.

For you see, I am the Lady of the Manor. But once upon a time I was the girl that visited this estate and cultivated the Greenhouse.

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THE MANOR & THE GREENHOUSE

“Don’t go close to the house, Lilly,” my mum always said. “We are here to service the greenhouse. We do not go to the Manor.”

But there was something about the Manor that called to me – maybe it was the dark ivory that stifled the gates, or maybe it was the contrasting white hydrangea bushes that grew on the outside – but something, something binding, something forbidden called to me… And when you get the ‘call’ the only thing left to do is answer or send a letter!

So, one night, I wrote a letter. I slid it under the door of the Manor, addressing it to it’s Keeper.

--Dear Keeper of the Manor, Do you ever venture outside? The town’s people say that you are allergic to the the light, but I think that you have simply grown sick of people…

Lilly, the girl of the greenhouse

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BLOOM WHERE YOU ARE PLANTED 21

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WHE R E

F L O WE R S

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HO P E

The sun bounced off the earth, scorching everything in its path – the people, the land, the trees and the lake. But the lake, unlike the flora and fauna, glowed and shimmered, like a million diamonds under the unrelenting sun.

The rays of the sun pierced through the windows of the greenhouse with an aggressive intensity, its windows glittering from the reflection of the water from the lake. The greenhouse, like the lake, lapped up the sun. It greedily absorbed all of it. In response, the flowers stretch their necks even more proudly in the morning light.

Although mum often complained about the intolerable heat, and the devasting effect that the heat had on her menopause, she also noted that these hot days made for the most glorious evenings.

“There is nothing better that watching the ochre globe dip to kiss the lake. And the lake, glitter, almost blush in response. It is such a beautiful miracle,” mum would say.

And like clockwork, I would respond, “I agree!”

The view at the lake front was surreal, almost divine. It really made for a breathtaking miracle. However, it was on this surreal evening, that I received my letter from the Manor --Dear Lilly, Friendship is like a flower, sometimes they bloom where & when it is least expected.

The Keeper of the Manor

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THE CRIMSON ROSE He leaves the letters by the crimson roses in the greenhouse, tied with an ochre straw, attached to the neck of a single rose. The first time I received the letter, I marveled at the fact that the writer took the time to find a suitable nesting place for the note. The other tidbit that caught my curiosity, was the impeccable penmanship of this writer. Between the writer’s resting place for the letter and his calligraphy, it was obvious that my writer was a meticulous man.

Tucking the letter into my dress pocket, I turned to watch the Manor through the glass windows ahead. The sky bled just then, fading from deep red to black. This was not the first time the sky ran red, nor was it the first time that after the bleeding, the sky turned to a clear blue. It did this every three months or so. Yet, the anomaly never failed to fascinate me. The town’s people called this the death and resurrection of The Lady of The Rose. They said that this was tied to the history of this Manor and the crimson roses we grow in the greenhouse.

The Crimson Rose, also called the "Assassin's Rose" grows here in the Manor. She is kept in the darkest corner of the greenhouse, budding even in the winter. The rose is odd, but mesmerizing in her oddity – fascinating because her crimson tips fades to a black stem and dark thorns. But her true beauty lies in her determination to bloom even in the most difficult conditions.

The petals of the Crimson Rose are used to induce sleep. They can be boiled as a tea, or crushed into a powder form, to be repurposed to create pills. Small doses of the powder can also be placed in juices. This is how the Manor makes annual income. We provide sleeping meds from the flowers. However, an overdose of this powder may lead to death. To counter its effects, we also make the antidote through boiling the stem and thorns.

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THE EVENING SKY The discovery of the rose and its purpose, began with the owner of this Manor. The people say that the Lady of the Manor is the rose reincarnated.

The tale says that she was a Queen, captured by a jealous King and tortured.

Her bleeding body was later returned to the Manor and placed in a hole near a weeping willow tree by the lake.

On the night of the Queen’s murder, her maid, a very young and pretty girl, received a letter with special instruction, detailing the location of her Queen’s body. Distraught, her maid left the Manor without guards in search for her Queen. That very night she was captured and abused by the King’s soldiers and left for dead with her Queen at the weeping willow tree.

The next morning, two female bodies were found, booth devoid of blood. It is rumored that due to the goodness of their hearts, that both the Queen’s and her maid’s blood were absorbed by the land, transforming the soil to bloody red, with rare nutrients to grow the crimson rose.

One day, however, the sky turned red, blood red, like the roses in the valley.

That day, all the roses lost their petals and crumbled to dust; the dust immediately pollinating the air.

Days later, news travelled that a King and his entire army in a far away land had been killed overnight, attacked by an army of the dead that carried a red powder. A few days later, after the massacre of the King and his army, it was rumored that a priest, covered in a cloak, moved into the Manor. It is said, that he was appointed by the deceased Queen, to protect the area. The people therein called him the Keeper Of the Manor.

Throughout my years, I often wondered about this man; about the manor; about the greenhouse and the roses, and secrets these flowers keep. But if the crimson sky, is a sign of change, then I can’t help but wonder what change drifts in the wind.

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Dear Lilly, I saw you today from my library window. I regarded you as you knelt to put your letter at the door. You seem to take a lot of care with everything that you do, from your chores at the greenhouse, to the meticulous way you slide your letters under the door.

You wore blue today. The fabric danced in the wind, like the waves of the ocean on a choppy day.

Do you enjoy your days at the greenhouse, Lilly? Do you enjoy singing to the flowers on days like these? - Days when the sky burns from red to burgundy, like the crimson roses we grow in greenhouse.

--People are like flowers - some are rare while others appear to be ordinary; some grow in the wild while others are cared for. Regardless of type or circumstance, they are all beautiful in different ways The Keeper of the Manor

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Days turned into nights; and nights into weeks; and weeks into months; and to my delight we wrote.

--Letters… Ours came in the form of letters: Letters where his words shackled my heart, unknowingly linking my soul to his; Letters - where I connected to a man, without physically knowing the touch of his body against my own; Letters - where I fell in love with his words and inevitably, and desperately, fell in love him.

It was silly, I knew, to fall in love with a man through his letters. But I did. Sometimes, the heart falls so fast that the only thing that you can do is surrender to the twenty-foot drop. Regardless of the whys, I fell in love with the beautifully crafted words; and through his words I found a companionship that I’ve never known.

--“Love is like a wildflower, it is found in the most unlikely places”

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MENOPAUSE! The crimson roses did not bloom today. Instead, they seemed sick with a kind of fever, their petals gathering a sort of dew in the afternoon heat.

“Mum, the flowers are crying,” I said, concerned over the state of the roses.

My mum bent to touch the petals, collecting the dew. The water on her fingertip ran red, like blood. ”Indeed.” she said. “It seems that something is wrong with the flowers. Our flowers never cry.”

I looked outside at the sky, expecting to see something unfamiliar, but the sky remained the most brilliant blue. Refocusing, I looked at my mum. “What do you think is wrong with the roses?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. But when something is sick, you do not leave it to die. You simply tend to it.” Dipping her hand into her skirt pocket, my mum pulled out a large thermometer and stuck it into the soil. After about a minute, she pulled the thermometer from the ground, reading its temperature. Wrinkling her brow, she said, “Even the ground is hot. I think our flowers do have a fever.”

“A fever?” I gasped.

“Yes, a fever.”

My mother held my stare, her face grave.

“Menopause I call it. Tonight, all our roses will get hot flashes. And in an attempt to cool down their internal temperatures, they will lose their petals.

The dew on their petals and the heat of the soil is a sign that change is coming. Then again, everything changes, Lilly, even the roses."

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WHEN FLOWERS BLOOM I looked at mum. “Change is coming” mum had said. “Everything changes, even flowers.” And in that moment, I better understood how all living things are similar. Different but the same.

Tonight, mum and I did something that I had never done - we covered the soil with ice and then placed a white cloth to catch the petals.

“When a flower does not bloom, you don’t change the flower, you change its environment,” mum continued. “The ice will cool the soil, and the cold sheet will preserve the petals till morning.”

It took us two hours to tend to the roses and by the time we reached our cottage, we were both exhausted.

Mum and I live in a cottage on the estate, close to the greenhouse. Our home resembles more of a chateau than a cottage. It is filled of wooden furnishings, wooden walls and floors. Its best feature is the floor to ceiling windows which circles the home, letting all the natural light in.

I love the light – sunlight and moonlight. I love the hope that light brings.

I think this why I also love going to the greenhouse. There’s so much light.

Lights.

The lights at the Manor were dim today, almost as if the house is in mourning. It was odd to see the Manor without its brilliant yellow glow.

Usually, every window looks like a beam of a lighthouse. But not tonight.

Tonight, the house looks haunted. And with the dimming of the lights, came no letter. As I looked at the now haunted house, shrouded by shadow, I couldn’t help but worry about the Keeper of the Manor. The people say that he is tied to the Manor and the crimson rose. Could the lack of correspondence and the sickly flowers mean that he too was sick?

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CRIMSON NIGHTS WHEN A FLOWER DOESN’T BLOOM, YOU DON’T CHANGE THE FLOWER, YOU CHANGE ITS ENVIRONMENT 45

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“Madam, you are to gather your things and come with me to the Manor,” said a worker from the kitchen.

“Come with you? To the house?” I replied.

I looked at my mum, who looked at the boy and then looked at me.

“Can I bring my mum?” I asked.

“No madame, you must come alone.”

I looked at my mum again, who gave a gentle nod.

“It’s okay child.” my mum said. ”Go to the house.

When someone calls, you must answer, after all.”

--All flowers that bloom today are from the seeds of yesterday

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IF WALLS HAD EYES… I stood in the library, waiting, with the shadows bouncing off the walls from the outside lights. The shadows danced and swayed in this room. In the day, I’m sure that this room is beautiful. But in the night, with my new shadowy companions and unanswered questions, there seems to be a darkness looming.

This room is filled with history – history in the paintings on the walls; history in the naked statues peeking from the alcoves; history in every dark corner and shadow. There is a painting of a girl in this room. A beautiful girl. Her eyes catch the light, her hair catches the wind, but her spirit seems unsettled.

“Madam?” a voice breaks through my thoughts and I turn. “Thank you for coming to the Manor tonight.”

I nodded, fearing to move an inch.

“My name is Andreas Crimson.”

I looked at the approaching silhouette in front of me. He was tall, at least 6 foot three. He had broad muscular shoulders and lean hips. Wearing a white tailored button-down shirt and black trousers, he looked pristine.

“I am here to deliver a letter. In that letter you will find an explanation as to why you have been summoned to the Manor.”

Mr. Crimson passed me and walked to the floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the view of the greenhouse some meters away. With his hands behind his back, eyes focused on the lake, he said, “My instruction is to wait.” He angled his body slightly, his face now completely shrouded in shadow. “I am to wait until you’ve read your letter. “ I looked at him, anxiety and worry coagulating in my stomach like stale milk.

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…THEY WOULD SEE TOO MUCH “After you’ve read your letter, I’m to fill in the gaps and / or answer any question that you may have.” He lifted his hand, pointing to a lit table in the far corner of the room. “Your letter is sitting on the table.”

I nodded, still hesitant to say too much and walked to the table.

The table was made of dark mahogany. It was heavily carved on its edges, with artwork that looked like roses’ leaves. To its center, sat at least two dozen of our crimson roses in a blue and white ceramic pot. At the base of the pot, was an ivory parchment paper, folded and closed with a rose seal, reinforced by a burgundy bow.

I looked at the man as I picked up the paper, only to realize that he was no longer looking at me. Instead, he gazed at the lake through the window.

Regarding the note, I opened it.

--Dear Lily, If you have received this letter, it means that I have passed. However, your father has ensured that you are no longer in danger and someone who he trusts has delivered this letter.

Things aren’t as they seem, Lilly. You are not as you seem. You are the owner of this Manor, just as you are also the keeper of the Greenhouse.

There are so many things I long to say, so many secrets I want to share, but I fear that even as I sit here tonight with my pen and paper, that every minute I spend, is a minute too long.

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This house is filled with secrets…

secrets hidden in plain sight

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IF FLOWERS HAD LIPS… The enemy, King Thornhill, is coming. I can see the torches on the hills from my bedroom window. They burn bright. But I cannot run. If I do not surrender to the King, we will not only lose the crown, but I will also endanger all my people. In this room, there is a wooden craved box which holds all my secrets.

These are letters I wrote to the Manor. In truth, these are memories I left behind of me. I need you to take the box and in your own time, read them. And in reading them I hope that you get to know me.

The drums are growing louder outside. They beat faster and faster. These are drums of war; drums I fear are the melodies to mark my end. But in my end, I know that you are my beginning. You are the heart and soul of me. Just as you are the Lady of the Manor & the Keeper of the Greenhouse.

I love you, Lilly.

Your mother, Queen Elizabeth, The Lady of the Manor --With shaking fingers, I folded the letter to find the man in the shadows watching me.

“Who are you?” I asked, swallowing a lump of fear in my throat.

Sighing, the man finally moved from the shadows to stand in a steady beam of light. But the sharpness of the light blurred his face.

“As I said earlier, my name is Andreas Crimson,” he replied.

“I got that!” I snapped. “But who are you? And how do you fit into this letter?”

I waved the piece of paper in my hand, annoyed that the man before me seemed to know more about me than I did about myself.

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…THEY WOULD REVEAL MANY SECRETS He cracked his knuckles, a sign that he was either angered by my tone or nervous. He stepped forward.

“Don’t come any closer,” I demanded. “Stay there and explain. How do you fit into this letter?”

He sighed again, his shoulder distinctly lowering as if he were exhausted from carrying a heavy load. He angled his back to me, as he had done earlier, regarding the greenhouse.

“My name is Andreas. I was born to King Thornhill, the man who murdered your mother.”

I gasped and eased back, my shoes scratching the marble floor.

“Please!” he said, never looking away from the greenhouse, ”Before you try to run, let me finish.”

I eased back further yet, wanting to get as close as I could to the door. But even as I retreated, he continued.

“My name is Andreas. I was born to King Thornhill. I am the son of the man that murdered your mother, her maid and your father.” ”Oh my God!” I gasped, placing my hands over my lips.

He continued.

“Your father, Sir Crimson, was a great man. He was my father’s right hand in battle. But in all truth, he was like a father to me, and for all purposes of my heart, Sir Crimson was my father.

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THE HEART SPEAKS TRUTH King Thornhill was a very jealous king. He did not love your mother.

Instead, saw her as a trophy of battle.

When he discovered Sir Crimson’s affair with the Queen, he ordered the Queen to be raped and her body to be left at the weeping willow tree.

The weeping willow tree which sits behind our Greenhouse is noteworthy to this tale. It is said that the weeping willow was chosen as the meeting spot by Sir Crimson and the Queen because of the Queen’s attraction to its location. The weeping willow sits behind her beloved Greenhouse, peering at its own reflection over the glistening water of the lake. The landscapers of this Manor told me once, that the Queen had remarked that this weeping willow had great significance to her because of the way it tilted over the lake. They said that the Queen often noted that the tree looks at its reflection every day in the lake, reminding itself that love lives on even after death. It is said, that the Queen and Sir Crimson made an oath to love each other forever by that tree, the proof of their oath, engraved in the frame on the painting of the Queen Elizabeth.”

Mr. Crimson pointed to the picture that had captivated me earlier - The image of a beautiful girl with her hair blowing in the wind. Although, it had not caught my attention before, sure enough, in the background, was the Greenhouse, the lake and the weeping willow tree.

He continued. “The oath says, weeping willow, stop your tears, for there is something to calm your fears. You think death has ripped you and your love forever apart but know that love will always be in your heart.

There is a beautifully landscaped walkway on the opposite end of the Manor that that leads to the weeping willow. It is said, that Mr. Crimson and the Queen used that pathway on his visits to the Manor. But more importantly, that pathway is where the Queen and Mr. Crimson first met.

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THE HEART HEARS TRUTH The Queen’s maid, Lady Eleanor was Sir Crimson’s most beloved little sister. She was also his greatest secret. One night, Sir Crimson discovered a most dreadful plan which included the rape of Lady Eleanor by the King’s guard for sport. On that very night, Lady Eleanor was snuck out of the palace by Sir Crimson and delivered to the Queen. Lady Eleanor was eight.

Throughout the Manor, it was rumored that the Queen took nightly strolls to her Greenhouse. On the night of Lady Eleanor’s escape, Sir Crimson, met the Queen during her nightly stroll. To this day, no knows how he made it into the Queen’s garden, but what was documented was that Lady Eleanor was delivered to your mother in exchange for the promise of protection.

Every three months or so, Sir Crimson would leave the palace. Men with his rank often left for days to seek pleasure. On those occasions, Sir Crimson would use it as an opportunity to visit his sister. In between the visits, Sir Crimson became friends with the Queen, and like a budding flower, their friendship bloomed to love.”

Mr. Crimson titled his head just then, the silhouette of his face becoming edged with light, like a ghost materializing the dark.

He continued.

“The night that the Queen and Lady Eleanor were murdered, was the second to last time I saw Sir Crimson.

In the middle of the night, he came to my room with your letter. He told me that he was going to save your mother and Eleanor. I had begged him him not to go. I pleaded with him to choose his life over theirs.

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The secret pathway to the weeping willow tree

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THE PRISONER IN THE CELL Sir Crimson,” I said, “The King has no heart. People say that he writes his deeds in his own blood. If you are discovered, the King will break your will.

He will then break your body. But in doing so, he will also break me. Your quest to save life will end in your death. Please do not go.”

“Son, I must go.” Sir Crimson said. “This was the first and last time Sir Crimson referenced me as son. But it was the use of this word, that made me realize, that he knew that he would not be returning. If I stay, then I am no better than your father. And, my son, I am not that kind of man. A man with no heart, is a dead man walking. A man with no heart, is weak at its core.

Love strengthens the heart, as much as it nourishes the body and feeds the soul. It takes a courageous man to surrender to it.”

Mr. Crimson shifted his gaze from me as if stepping into a different space or recalling a memory.

“On a windy day, it is the straightest, stiffest tree that will crack. Things that do not yield and are dry from the inside out are weak. It is like an object without a heart; without feeling. On a turbulent day, it is the willow tree that will survive. The willow will survive by bending with the wind. You see, the willow is tender enough to bend without breaking. Love makes people, like that tree, malleable enough to survive the most damaging things without breaking.” He re-shifted his gaze and looked at me with new determination. “Although the willow looks frail, it is strong. And you, my son, are like a willow tree. Although you look frail, you are strong. If I do not return, I need you to find your strength like the weeping willow tree. In time, I will need you to deliver this letter following the instruction that I have placed in your draw.”

I was thirteen.

It is rumored that when the King realized Sir Crimson’s betrayal, he sold his soul to someone or something that had lost favor with God. And on the 60

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SON OF THE MURDEROUS KING night of the murder of the Queen and Lady Eleanor, it was said that the King showed no mercy to Sir Crimson, forcing him to watch the brutality of the Queen and his beloved sister, Lady Eleanor. To punish Sir Crimson further, the King tortured Sir Crimson for a month after the slaughter.

On hearing about Sir Crimson’s imprisonment, I hired a young boy to keep tabs on Sir Crimson as he suffered in his cell. On the nights when he was unfed, I sent food. On the days when he was left without drink, I sent water.

One day, word reached the house that Sir Crimson was dying. Longing to see him, I devised a plan. I told the King that he should have me dress as a priest and falsely absolve Sir Crimson of his sins. The act, I proclaimed, would condemn Sir Crimson’s soul to hell, as no child without a heart can absolve a man. The King, full of pride, thought that my suggestion proved that I too could be a merciless King. With new pride, he got me a hood and a staff to go to Sir Crimson’s cell. The night that I visited Sir Crimson, the King’s army was also preparing for war. As such, I was granted the gift of visiting Sir Crimson alone.

When I saw Sir Crimson, I was brought to my knees in grief - There were so many nights that I had wanted to visit his cell; so many nights that I wanted to tell him that I would not betray him. But when I went to him, I wept as a broken son to a dying father. “Father,” I said, “I will not have you die alone. You are my father, bonded not by blood but in spirit. You are my friend although the world thinks we are enemies. You are and will forever be the father I lost.”

Sir Crimson could hardly say my name when I began to talk. But in his grief and worry he began to cry. ”Don’t worry, father,” I whispered, “I have the letter for the child of the Manor. You have my word, that I will deliver the letter. I will keep this child safe. I will keep this child away from your enemies, for I know that the child of the Manor is your daughter.”

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FEAR NOT… Sir Crimson’s hands tried to grab onto to mine but failed to take hold. It was through the frantic beating of his pulse that I sensed his desperation.

“Fear not father,” I said, “I am with you. And God is with you. God nor I will forsake you.”

I remember squeezing onto his hands holding onto faith, grabbing onto hope for the both of us. Closing my eyes, I prayed, “Oh Holy Lord, let my father into your heavenly gates with his Queen and his sister, Lady Eleanor. Let his heart not be troubled. Let him find peace. And in his peace, let the righteous live and the evil fade. Where there was crimson blood, wash it away with your light. Where there was crimson soil, let it bloom anew.”

That night, as I knelt holding Sir Crimson, screams echoed through the kingdom. And in that moment, I could not move. Through the cell’s window, I saw a crimson sky, and in the air, I smelt a thousand roses. As I looked to the corner of the cell, I saw a woman and a young girl watching me. I knew then, as I know now, that the visitors in the cell were the Queen and Lady Eleanor, who’d arrived to collect Sir Crimson. And although I did not want Sir Crimson to leave me behind, I was so relieved they’d come. “The Queen has come father, “ I wept, “The Lord has sent your beloved to collect thee.” And with my relief came holy words. These were prayers I did not know. These were words I had never seen. But as the words left my lips, I knew that God spoke through me. And as I squeezed his hand and rocked our bodies, I wept in prayer, “Father, I have sinned, help me find my way. Remember not my sins, just let me hear you say: I forgive you. I love you. You are mine. Take my hand. Go in peace, fear no more, my beloved one.”

When the final words left my tongue, so did Sir Crimson’s last breath.

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…COURAGE IS BIRTHED FROM FEAR I remember my throat burning from the grief and I remember my body shaking from my sobs. I remember feeling terrified, alone and lost. And as my desperation grew so did the silence in the kingdom. Through the cell’s window I saw the sky moving from red to blue. And despite my despair I scented the perfume of roses thickening on the breeze. Between the pure light outside and the absolute quiet of the cell, I knew that King Thornhill was also dead.

As I sat on the floor weeping, a voice broke through my grief, saying, “Run child. Run.” # I blinked and looked at the man in front of me with new eyes, as if I were seeing him for the first time. He was thirteen years my senior, thirty-five to my twenty-two, and in that moment, with sadness lingering in the air, he reintroduce himself to me.

“My name is Andreas Thornhill Crimson. I am the son of a murderous King, but I pledged allegiance to Sir Crimson. I have been tasked with delivering a letter to the Lady of the Manor, but through my task I have been titled the Manor’s Keeper.”

The Keeper of the Manor. My Keeper. I tilted my head, seeing bruised eyes starring back at me. My Keeper had thick black hair slicked back, speaking to the refinement of the man. He had dark brows, cresting warm brown eyes.

He had an aristocratic pert nose and an acute jawline, accentuated with a very deep clef. Indeed, the man before me was striking with his tanned skin glowing beneath his crisp white shirt. His perfection was made even more heart wrenching, by the long scar, which started from the top of his forehead and ended at his left brow. I traced the scar with my eyes. Indeed, he was beautifully damaged.

“Why did you summon me to the Manor today?” I asked.

“Didn’t the crimson roses start their rebirth today?” he countered.

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THE DEPARTURE I frowned, still not understanding the connection. “Yes. They did.”

“Every ten years, the flowers get sick. The first time it occurred you were just a little girl. Ten years ago, your mother and I tended to the flowers, until we found a remedy for the soil. In doing so, we also discovered a way to preserve the petals. By morning, the floor will be covered with frozen petals and the soil will be blood red from the roses’ tears. Only the black stems and a dark bruised bud will remain standing tonight. In a week, the plant’s roots will absorb the roses’ tears and the roses will bloom again. This is the death and resurrection of the crimson rose.”

The rebirth, I thought, my mind going back to my mum’s earlier words, everything changes, even flowers. “So why didn’t you wait for another ten years to give me this letter?” I asked.

The Keeper bowed his head as if in prayer or as if he was leafing through the pages of a mental flipbook. Exhaling he said, “As Sir Crimson lay in the cell dying, and I sat on the ground weeping, the apparition of the Queen spoke to me. Her tone was as gentle as a mother to her child, but as firm as a commander to its army. In her hand she held a crimson rose. She said, “Fear not my child, God is with thee. Just as you have not forsaken your father, the Father will not forsake thee. In your deepest hour, call onto God, and you will walk through the Fire of Fear with the courage of ten thousand men – Because courage is birthed from fear, just as flowers are birthed from seeds.

You must travel to my estate tonight. You must stay there. At the Manor you will experience the first rebirth in ten years. It will mark a time of change. It will also mark a change for you. But you are to give the letter to the Lady of the Manor at the second resurrection. Not before.

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THE GHOST WRITER When you leave this cell, cover your body and your head with the priest’s cloak. The cloak and your staff will protect your body for the journey ahead. As you pass the crimson dust, no evil will come to you. And as you walk through the streets, the petals will fall at your feet, the wind will keep the dust away from your nose and eyes. Although the journey ahead will be rough, keep moving forward. Never turn back. Back is the past which you cannot change. Forward is the road you have yet to walk – and your walk marks change - change starting in the now.

Run now. Run. Leave this place. Leave Sir Crimson with me but walk the path that is lit for you. ” # Raising his head, the Keeper of the Manor looked at me, his stare haunted like the shadows in this room.

“It took me three nights to get to the Manor by foot. As I walked through my kingdom on the first night, I saw the bodies at my feet. Each body were bathed in crimson. The petals of the roses were dewy that night, creating puddles and rivulets of red, making the streets look like it flowed with blood. But the air, although saturated with grief, smelt sweet of the roses’ perfume. As I walked through the streets, women grabbed to me thinking that I was a Holy man, and as they clung to me, I clung to my cloak and staff and lifted my words to God. On the second night, I took a wrong turn and found myself surrounded by two cayotes. During the battle I was wounded and that night, I found myself calling to God like the Queen said.

On the third day, when I reached to the door of this house, I was sick with fever. Your mum took me in and gave me shelter. “When something is sick,” she said, “you do not leave it to die. You simply tend to it.”

Dipping her hand into her skirt pocket, your mum pulled out a large thermometer and stuck it into my mouth. “You have fever,” she said, “or maybe it just menopause, “ she concluded with caring eyes. Your mum 67

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SCARS tended to me, wrapping me in white sheets. When my body was too hot, she rubbed me with cool cloths. When I cried in the night from the bad dreams, she wiped the tears away. Later, when the fever passed, I told your mum of my story, and like a mother bird, she built me a nest and helped me to strengthen my wings. In the end, although I’m pledged to Sir Crimson, I owe my life to this house and your mother. So, you see, I could not give you the letter before.”

I nodded, trying to digest all the information of the night – The bleeding roses; the bleeding sky; the bleeding hearts that make up the Manor and the Greenhouse. “You are the one that writes?” I asked.

“I am the one that writes,” he replied.

My eyes traced the contours of the Keeper’s face. He was a strikingly handsome man.

“Do you have any more questions for me?” Mr. Crimson asked “One.” He nodded, his eyes never breaking mine.

“How did you get your scar?”

Andreas Thornhill Crimson raised his hands fingering the keloid. He looked away then, the quick movement making Lilly away that bruise embarrassed him.

“On the night that Sir Crimson was captured, I ran out to the yard in front of the King’s guard, crying, begging the King to show Sir Crimson mercy.

I was just a boy.

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CRIMSON BLOOD My father, King Thornhill, infuriated by weakness and by my act of the treason, pulled out his dagger and slashed my face. “You are not my son!” he admonished. “You will have no likeness to me!”

The action was so swift, that for a minute, I did not even realize that he’d branded me. It was not until I tasted the tang of blood on my lips and saw the red liquid pool on the floor, that I became completely aware of the gash.

Forcing me into a kneeing position, the King, my father, ordered one of his soldiers to tie my hands behind my back. Next, he order another soldier to tied my ankles together.

I remembered by heart reverberating in my chest. I remember hearing the throbbing so aggressively in my ear, that my temples hurt. I’d seen the King, do this to prisoners of war. Slash them. Tie them. What usually came after was a slow, antagonizing torture and swift death. But what I couldn’t believe was that my father, the King, treated me like a prisoner.

“Papa!” I yelled, terrified that he would do so much worse with the knife.

“I am not your father!” he spat, “I am King Thornhill!”

My heart galloped wildly. The blood ran down my face. Warm. And Oh God! The blood was so very very red.

Pulling out a vile that he kept on his waist, the King looked at me, disdain and hate etched all over his pristine features. “Tonight, I brand you with your crimson blood.” Thumbing the cover off the vile, he shoved me with his foot to the floor. Placing his foot on my back, he poured salt to the wound and left me in yard.

I remember lying in the floor with my face to ground, covered in dust, tears and blood. I had been left outside to drown in my shame. And as I wept, my mind went back to Sir Crimson’s words, “You are like a willow tree.

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BEAUTY WRAPPED IN THORNS Although you look frail, you are strong. If I do not return, I need you to find your strength like the weeping willow tree.” But cloaked in shame and grief over Sir Crimson’s demise, I could not find my strength. I cried till I eventually feel asleep. Hours later, after being left in the cold, someone lifted me inside.

Years later, after living at the Manor for ten years, we experienced the first death and resurrection on the crimson roses. During the first week, after they lost their petals, the roses grew the greenest leaves, but on the fifth day, the roses lost all their greenery. Curious as to its purpose we collected all the leaves and boiled them. Over night the liquid turned to gel.

The next morning your mother came to me with a saucer, carrying the gel, and a bread knife. “I going to put this on that nasty scar,” she said.

I remembered my eyes going wide and my heart picking up tempo because of the knife. She looked at me, and then she looked at the knife, realization dawning. “My son…” she said. I remember looking at her, but not seeing her. I remember seeing in her place Sir Crimson with a determined stare the night he came to my room and then I saw King Thornhill face full of hate as he denounced me as his own. It was your mother’s gently voice as she called me “Son”, that forced me to re-focused on her gentle gaze.

Your mum’s eyes were kind, when I finally met her own. As she placed her soft hands on my wrist and squeezed, I felt as if she’d just seen what I just had experienced. With a gentle smile she said, “…Some of the gel fell on my bruise last night and healed a most terrible wound.” She turned her hands so that I could look at her wrist, showing me the fading scar. “The butter knife will ensure that we spread the gel evenly on your face, and that my skin does not absorb the goo.”

The next day, the scar on my face faded drastically, the angered puckering of flesh lowered to this prominent but much kinder slash. Not wanting to waste the healing gel, I had asked your mum, not to waste any more of the ointment on me. Instead, we agreed to saved the gel to heal the very sick.”

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THORNS OF PROTECTION Raising his hands, my Keeper thumbed the scar again. “The scar that King Thornhill had given me has never healed. In fact, it was crimson red and terribly puckered from the skin as a boy. Although it was a gruesome monster that had turned me into a beast, it was the women’s stare in the village and children’s expression that made me cold. When people saw me in the day, they starred at me and had terrible things to say. Tired of being shunned, I spent my first ten years at the Manor only going out at night.”

I nodded, realization dawning. So that is why the people rumored that the Keeper of the Manor was allergic to the sun.

“Your first letter,” he continued, “although ignorant of the past, spoke to the secrets of the house…”

And then, he did the most unsuspecting thing, he recited my letter: “…Dear Keeper of the Manor, Do you ever venture outside? The town’s people say that you are allergic to the the light, but I think that you have simply grown sick of people…

Lilly, the girl of the greenhouse “There are nights that I forget I no longer wear a crimson scar. But of late there were nights, when the words in your letter, was louder than the silence in this house. ” I looked at the Keeper of the Manor, wanting to let the words of my heart just flow like a river. Instead, I simply did the most ballsy thing I ever did in my life, I approached Andreas Thornhill Crimson and fingered his scar saying, ”A rose is made twice as compelling because it comes wrapped in a crown of thorns.”

--Love is like a flower, sometimes it blooms where & when it is least expected.

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THE GREENHOUSE’S SECRETS LETTERS

TO THE MANOR

Dear Manor, The days come and go, and I fear for my life of late. The King of Thornhill grows aggressive and wants to conqueror this land. In my prayers I have offered my soul as sacrifice, hoping to keep my people safe. But I do fear I’m not brave enough for the task.

This greenhouse house, like the Manor, is also filled with secrets… too many secrets. The flowers in this greenhouse have greedily listened to many my secrets and have even become witnesses to them.

“Poor Flowers” If their petals were lips, they’d have much to say. Maybe too much to say. Or maybe they’d be like me? Maybe they’d keep yesterday in the past, where it belongs, away from idle lips.

Lips.

We kissed here, in this house often, against the sharp morning light, amongst the flowers. But the light and flowers are all that remain of us.

The light comes in and out of here. It comes through these glass windows everyday, chasing away the shadows of yesterday, chasing the promise of every tomorrow As for today, I wish that I could be like the flowers in this greenhouse.

I wish that I could chase the sun and simply bloom where I’m planted.

The Lady of the Manor

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GREENHOUSE CHASING THE SUN

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NIGHTFALL WHEN… THE SHADOWS WALTZ I REMEMBER THE STORY OF US

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LETTERS

TO THE MANOR

NIGHTS AT THE MANOR Dear Manor, The nights bleed, flowing from one crimson sky to the next. Always crimson.

The crimson sky means that the King is near. I know it.

My people fear it. But fear and courage are companions, they walk hand in hand. And so, I will admit that I am afraid.

My lover, the King’s second, has pledged to keep me safe; he has promised to keep my people safe. But even this I fear – I fear that my destiny is already marked by the crimson sky and his courageous heart cannot fight destiny.

The shadows in here dance - they dance on these walls, bobbing, weaving, like the way we danced in this room.

It’s funny, or maybe it’s just sad, how the simple things, like my shadowed companions, call to mind the memory of us; the memories of sweet yesterdays. But then the lights pierce through these windows and the shadows disappear, leaving behind a single silhouette of me.

--When the crimson sky meets the clearest blue, you and I, my love, will dance.

The Lady of the Manor R E S O R T I

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KISSED BY THE SUN IN BETWEEN ALL THE IN BETWEENS, WE ARE REMINDED THAT THE SUN EVENTUALLY COMES OUT

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WE DELIGHT IN THE BEAUTY OF THE ROSE BUT RARELY ADMIT THE CHALLENGES IT HAS GONE THROUGH TO BLOOM DESPITE THE THORNS THAT SPRING CLOSEST TO ITS BUD

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THE ESTATE LETTERS

TO THE MANOR

Dear Manor, The sun storms into the rooms at the Manor with very little regard for anyone else. Then again, this was why I loved this house. I loved that the sun bathed the hallways of these rooms in absolute light. I adored that daybreak brought new hope. I got a thrill that even the sun irrefutably echoed that message of hope through every window, through every glass door. I found happiness in the thought of new beginnings.

These days, however, I find it difficult to bear the sun. Every day, is one day closer to an end that I’m sure is coming.

I’m pregnant. But the baby in my womb will be kept safe by the keepers of the Greenhouse.

The Greenhouse.

The sun’s yellow flexes showers the lush landscape, creating a heavenly halo over the greenhouse today. And the glass of the greenhouse glows in response to the brilliant sun. Meanwhile, the sun’s rays are picked up even more gloriously by the slow-moving waves on the lake, nestled a few meters away, as the weeping willow bends over the water, watching its reflection as it always does.

In a few days, my baby will come and she will know of the beauty of the earth. But I fear that she and I will never have the opportunity to know each other.

The Lady of the Manor

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