Through a dust coated window a ray of light forces it's way to the locked away room. No-one had set foot in here for close to a hundred years, and it would have been the case for a hundred more if a small pipe hadn't sprung a leak that winter. Water had invaded the old house and the caretaker had to set things right.
The stairs creaked here and there, the carpet on the landing was threadbare and faded. It was once Royal blue, now it resembled a washed out grey. The lock protested as if it didn't want the ladies secrets to be told. A shove of the shoulder and the door gave way.
Her things still laid out waiting for her. An unmade bed of soft pinks and lavenders, a silk dressing gown lay on the arm of the chair. Drawers pulled out in disarray. On the dresser stood bottles of perfumes and potions, to the right of a clear crystal perfume bottle sat a squat little dish. In the dish held the finest yellow gold pile of links chained in an intriguing lines and swoops.
When laid upon the collar bone it was designed to grasp tightly around the throat on the first pass, droop slightly lower on the second, coiling over it's self and branching off three more strands each swooped lower than the last. The final stand bore a delicate butterfly with crystallised wings and a bejeweled body. The butterfly was to light at the hollow of the cleavage, resting.
Within a few hours the room has been sealed once again , sunlight glinting through the spot of roughly cleaned glass. As the sun kisses the wings a beautiful pink glow sparkles all around the room, bringing life back, yet no-one will ever know.
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