Ramona Gore: 'Whitewashed Tomb'

All contributors of the Serein Lark Review are interviewed for our blog.

You can read Gore's interview here!

When I read Ramona Gore's submission, I was immediately invested in the characters and just as quickly taken by her poignant language and imagery. Her work is an original take on an unoriginal trope. It effectively criticises the customary fantasy idea of 'I can fix him' in an arranged marriage. Without spoiling this short piece any further, dear reader, I present to you Ramona Gore's fantasy short story, 'Whitewashed Tomb.'

Her eyes flutter open, drinking in the exposed ceiling beams. A plush pillow rests behind her head, and a silk sheet envelops her body.

‘The guest room? Why am I…?’

Calliope tries to recall the events leading up to this moment but is startled to realize that there is a gap in her memories. It’s like her mind is in a haze, trapping her in the present, unable to access her past. A lump forms in her throat at the self-assessment.

Calliope slowly sits up, feeling off balance, her insides twisting with unease. As she does so, she becomes acutely aware of a burning itch just beneath her skin. It circulates from the tip of her toes to the top of her head, consuming her body and soul.

She can’t help but yearn for the soothing touch of her betrothed. Not that Calliope would ever be so bold as to request such a thing of him. They are still getting to know one another after all.

“I would advise against excessive movement. Healing magic is not so benevolent that it does not leave some kind of residual effect.”

She flinches, finally noticing the woman seated at her bedside. A simple gown hugs her figure while her hair is twisted in a style that only someone with far too much time on their hands would dare attempt. The sharpness of her gaze is accentuated by thick eyebrows, much like someone else she knows.

Calliope draws the sheet to her chest in a feeble attempt to protect herself.

“Who are you? Where’s Lord Declan?”

Her lips curl as soon as the name leaves her mouth. “Lord Declan is recovering in his private quarters. I’m Deirdra—his sister.”

Calliope purses her mouth. “He never mentioned a sister.”

“Of course not,” Deirdra says, derisively. “It would mean admitting to his greatest shame.”

“What are you talking about?” She shifts uncomfortably, her tone putting her on edge.

Calliope doesn’t appreciate being stuck with this strange woman who shows contempt for the only person she knows in this manor. It’s hard to believe that Lord Declan could have done something to warrant this attitude anyway. He’s been nothing but kind to her throughout their engagement.

Something in her eyes softens. “Do you know why you’re in this bed right now? He lost control. His magic ripped through you. I had to piece you back together.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” Calliope trembles, clutching the sheet around her as the sense of wrongness grows.

“He hurt you, and I had to clean up his mess, like always.” She furiously grasps at the fabric of her dress. “He made sure of that when he bound me to this house.”

“No no no. Lord Declan—he’s not like that! You’re just trying to trick me! Get out! Leave!”

“Fine.” Deirdra rises to her feet, the chair swaying from the sudden movement. “You’ll see the truth of my words soon enough.”

Deirdra stalks out of the room, closing the door behind her none too gently. In the silence she leaves behind, Calliope drags her nails down her body, desperate to make it feel like her own again. The itch, however, has a claim on her.

‘It’s fine. Everything is fine,’ Calliope thinks. ‘Lord Declan is a good person. He has to be.’

Otherwise, what does her future hold as his wife?

A shiver runs down her spine. The sensation feels far too much like someone walking over her grave.

The End.