The Candle and the Key

         The clocktower bellowed across the city’s sky, expelling twelve, great, echoing moans. It was time. The soft thud of several, youthful footsteps hurried swiftly along the cold wooden floor of the darkened chamber. It was a small chamber, with a nook and with only one, small window, from which pearly moonlight sailed in and settled gently upon the floor. There were two beds in the room, both made of simple wood frames, both laid with straw mattresses piled with cotton shawls and fleece blankets, accumulated throughout the years. Apart from the beds, there was only an old wardrobe in the room, which held the girls’ clothes and valuables, an iron chamberpot, and a small table that held on its flat surface two towels, two candleholders (each with its own candle), and a bowl of water. A second nook, directly across from the window’s, led to the door. It was slender and wooden, with an old knob and an even older lock, to which there existed only one key.
         This room was on the third floor of the house, which was by no means any ordinary house. ‘Twas the house of Lord Mancerbury and his family: his wife, the Lady Mancerbury (named Mathilda) and his three daughters, Cesca, who was five years of age, Rowena, who was eight years of age, and Maria Rose, who was twelve years of age. Each daughter had the most beautiful, soft, silky, brown hair, long and straight, as did their mother. Lady Mancerbury and her three daughters were admired among the nobles and the Council of Lords (and the rest of the cityfolk, for that matter) for the beautiful color of their hair, that could only be described as the soft, light brown hue of a young tree’s bark in spring, the color of a warm and rich chocolate beverage, steaming, sipped on an equally warm hearth on a cold November evening.
         As for the soft footsteps upon the floor of the chamber, they belonged to the handmaiden, Gwendolyn, orange of hair and pink of skin, with freckles, and a buxom figure, newly matured during the past winter months. Gwendolyn was sixteen years of age, as was her roommate, Britannia, and she hailed from one of the mildly well-off regions of the city. As reward for her excellent skill with infants and children, as displayed during the many years she assisted her mother, Harrietta, the most able midwife for miles, Gwendolyn was hired by the Lady Mancerbury only a year before to be a tender, keeper, tutor, watcher, and servant to the three Mancerbury daughters. Britannia, a good friend of Gwendolyn’s, was hired the same week. You see, the Mancerbury’s nanny (who had raised the three children from birth) had become very old very fast and had died rather suddenly.
         Britannia was just as skilled with childcare as her friend but not in the same manner as Gwendolyn. While Gwendolyn spanked and hollered to discipline the children, Britannia was quieter and gave cold, stern gazes that frightened the girls to near death. While Gwendolyn scrubbed their faces forcefully with her massive arms and caused them to scream in agony when she tended their scrapes and bruises, Britannia, who was much less meaty and much more slender (“The poor thing is as thin as a willow switch,” the Lady Mancerbury once said), used a gentle, healing touch to apply herb salves and soothing oils, and her gentle, haunting voice to lull the girls into healthful rest.
         Britannia’s origins were unknown. She was raised by an old crone who aided Harrietta as a midwife. In fact, Harrietta was this old woman’s apprentice, her name being Hyacinth. As such, Britannia and Gwendolyn, for as long as they could remember, were the best of friends, sisters. They were a perfect balance: calm and chaos, elegance and outrageousness, and both possessing beauty in her own right. Britannia’s hair was as black as the inky, ebony twilight and her eyes were such an arctic, clear, and pure blue. She was pale-skinned and frail in appearance but she was not weak in any way. She was wise, willful, and intelligent, as all could see, and possessed a ghost-like grace, from her emanating both a sharp and focused mentality and a haunting, mysterious elegance.
         “Britannia!” Gwendolyn whispered, if her whispers could even be considered whispers. They were more like slowly spoken shouts. Gwendolyn nudged the being within the bed adjacent to her own. Britannia stirred and, after a few moments of groggy confusion, sat up, her black hair twisted and crazy atop her head, appearing as if a swirling vortex of shadow was eating away at her scalp.
         “Gwendolyn!” Britannia whispered with frustration. “Why dost thou awaken me at an hour such as this?”
         “Britannia!” Gwendolyn giggled her name excitedly. “ ‘Tis time for yet another of my great midnight outings. Dost thou wish to accompany me?”
         “I have naught but my chemise adorned, Gwendolyn!” Britannia whispered harshly in reply. “How dost thou expect me to accompany thee when I am wearing naught but my chemise?”
         “Oh, Britannia, thou must come!” Gwendolyn whispered (or slowly shouted, rather), her tone long and whining. “If it would please thee, I could fetch for thee a dress from the wardrobe!”
         “If thou wishes to fetch for me such a thing, I could consider accompanying thee on thine outing,” Britannia answered firmly, her chin up. Gwendolyn dashed to the wardrobe and, after a few moments of sounds of clutter and confusion, had placed a red dress upon Britannia’s lap.
         At once, Britannia leapt from her bed, adorned the dress, slipped into her shoes, and, both girls giggling with excitement, quietly left the room, making sure to shut the door tightly behind them. You see, Britannia was simply playing a game with Gwendolyn, a carefully rehearsed scene played out by the two whenever Gwendolyn wished to venture in the night. Britannia, though stubborn when first awoken, was always happy to join her, finding just as much enjoyment and excitement out of the adventures as her friend. The corridor in which they stood was dark, save a few, tiny windows letting in the faintest splashes of moonlight.
         “Light the candle, Gwendolyn,” Britannia whispered. When no reply was given, neither word nor action, by Gwendolyn, Britannia’s eyes widened with equal parts fury and fear. “Gwendolyn! You forgot the candle? Thou art nothing but vile scum scraped up from the floor of an old well! Quickly! Open the door so I may retrieve a candleholder.”
         Gwendolyn remained silent and still. Britannia’s face purpled to the color of a near ripe plum. Gwendolyn had forgotten the key, as well, which, as you remember, was the only key in existence that allowed entrance into their room.
         “Gwendolyn!” Britannia shrieked a whispered version of an utterly infuriated scream. “Thou hast forgotten both the candle and the key! Thou truly art a fool!”
         “My deepest regrets, Britannia!” Gwendolyn shrieked, now so distressed, forgetting to whisper (or shout slowly, rather, for now she shouted at the same volume but at a normal speaking speed). “I am such a fool! A fool! I was simply so entangled in the excitement of the moment! The need for such simple things as candles and keys were not apparent to me at the time! I am so deeply sorry, Britannia. So deeply sorry!”
         “I forgive you!” Britannia whispered with disdain, attempting to comfort her by rubbing her meaty arm. “Thou must stop this wailing at once, Gwendolyn. Thou shalt awaken the mistresses. We will simply journey to our Lady’s dress closet, retrieve the master key of the house, use it to unlock our chamber door, and, with haste, return it before the sun rises.” Though their key was the only key in existence crafted only for their very old lock, the master key, possessed by the Lady Mancerbury, opened every door and lock within the old house.
         “Oh! Thou art such a benevolent friend, Britannia!” Gwendolyn wailed gratefully into her friend’s shoulder. With a few pats on the back and a nudging by Britannia, Gwendolyn recovered from her misery and the two headed with swift and silent haste towards the closest stairwell.