Turning away, and smoothing black taffetta skirt as if soothing a crying child, her eyes are captured by a gleaming silver teapot, on a tray, gilded with broken promises. She unleashes herself from its glaze of smugness, and perches on the edge of a straight-backed chair in the corner, by the window, where dreams were once stitched. A rebellious curl is swept away from coal black eye; red on creamy fingers. The thundering announcement of half past the hour crushes the indifference of trickling expectancy; causing one last searching of eyes, beyond the honeyed columbine, towards a winding road, that leads nowhere. No horse straining at the bit. No man waving smile of surrender. Curtain replaced, she steps away to collect the untouched refreshments and notices a faded, but compelling presence, nestling in the shade of silver's arrogance. The woman in black takes the petal to her lips, for they are sisters in their singularity and in their secret. Unable to fly heavenwards; trapped by murderers' curse; they are echoes of butterflies' wings.
A petal fades, and floating through a rusty sword of sunlight, it lands; butterfly wing on a pretty pink table. He hadn't come!
Doll photograph by courtesy of Rebbekah Guoleifsdottir Photography