It started with a rose. The fresh exquisite bloom the valentine shade of love, the rich hue of passion. Blood red.
Magda had no recollection of her parents. Raised as an orphan by the nuns all she could trust was the hushed whispers she overheard. That her father was part of the Russian mob and her mother the queen that wrapped him so tightly around her finger. They whispered often that Magda took after her mother, the same exquisite features and pristine nature. That Magda was just as much a perfectionist as her mother but did not lose her temper like her mother did. Magda even as a child grew up with a natural confidence and finesse, an eye for detail and the nature of a socialite that knew just what to say at the right moment.
Sixteen sweet years found in the sanctuary of the church where the nuns and "brothers" would take up lost souls like lonely women took in starving cats. It was snowing the day her life was changed forever. Magda was one that ever would love winter. The frozen beauty of it she found intriguing. Beguiling and lovely was the frozen grace of those winter nights. The other orphans would see that she seemed drawn to the frost and snow only because Magda herself carried a nature of indifference. She was far from a snow queen though. This could be said about her.
It was a dark December night with the ground fresh with virgin snow, untouched that she found a blemish on that frozen blanket of white. Like the fresh drops of blood that would bring a lovely girl to womanhood grew a blood red rose. Bold and unique in the frost born cradle of mother nature. The bold determination of that rose, the unnatural strength of it was fascinating to her.
"How peculiar?"
A whisper from a voice meant already to draw and demand attention and respect passed the lips of Magda like an angel's worship of a holy moment. She knelt in the snow, ignorant of the cold as it seeped through the fabric of her dress. Her fingers reached to gently caress the petals of a flower daring to bloom in the coldest, darkest night of winter.
"Beautiful isn't it?"
Her eyes turned shyly, perhaps coyly over her shoulder. The woman perhaps even in the young bloom of her own sweet years of life was fearless as she looked up to one of the "lost souls" that had claimed sanctuary from the church. Piotr, Magda knew was dangerous. No matter what the nuns might say about redemption the pinprick of shadow in the soul recognized a predator rather then the prey. That he was a hunter rather then the hunted seeking protection and safety in the deep bowels of the church.
It was a gift. Magda just knew. She felt the infliction, the desire to panic and run and knew in the way that one of like fabric that Piotr was enforcing that fear within her. Head tilting in question as she met his eyes directly, those cold blue eyes that held no light, no emotion.
There was approval in Piotr's expression then as he recognized her as an apt pupil and motioned for her to rise.
"Come, Magda. Would you like me to show you how it grows?"
"Yes. Very much so?"
And thus it would begin?
Magda had no recollection of her parents. Raised as an orphan by the nuns all she could trust was the hushed whispers she overheard. That her father was part of the Russian mob and her mother the queen that wrapped him so tightly around her finger. They whispered often that Magda took after her mother, the same exquisite features and pristine nature. That Magda was just as much a perfectionist as her mother but did not lose her temper like her mother did. Magda even as a child grew up with a natural confidence and finesse, an eye for detail and the nature of a socialite that knew just what to say at the right moment.
Sixteen sweet years found in the sanctuary of the church where the nuns and "brothers" would take up lost souls like lonely women took in starving cats. It was snowing the day her life was changed forever. Magda was one that ever would love winter. The frozen beauty of it she found intriguing. Beguiling and lovely was the frozen grace of those winter nights. The other orphans would see that she seemed drawn to the frost and snow only because Magda herself carried a nature of indifference. She was far from a snow queen though. This could be said about her.
It was a dark December night with the ground fresh with virgin snow, untouched that she found a blemish on that frozen blanket of white. Like the fresh drops of blood that would bring a lovely girl to womanhood grew a blood red rose. Bold and unique in the frost born cradle of mother nature. The bold determination of that rose, the unnatural strength of it was fascinating to her.
"How peculiar?"
A whisper from a voice meant already to draw and demand attention and respect passed the lips of Magda like an angel's worship of a holy moment. She knelt in the snow, ignorant of the cold as it seeped through the fabric of her dress. Her fingers reached to gently caress the petals of a flower daring to bloom in the coldest, darkest night of winter.
"Beautiful isn't it?"
Her eyes turned shyly, perhaps coyly over her shoulder. The woman perhaps even in the young bloom of her own sweet years of life was fearless as she looked up to one of the "lost souls" that had claimed sanctuary from the church. Piotr, Magda knew was dangerous. No matter what the nuns might say about redemption the pinprick of shadow in the soul recognized a predator rather then the prey. That he was a hunter rather then the hunted seeking protection and safety in the deep bowels of the church.
It was a gift. Magda just knew. She felt the infliction, the desire to panic and run and knew in the way that one of like fabric that Piotr was enforcing that fear within her. Head tilting in question as she met his eyes directly, those cold blue eyes that held no light, no emotion.
There was approval in Piotr's expression then as he recognized her as an apt pupil and motioned for her to rise.
"Come, Magda. Would you like me to show you how it grows?"
"Yes. Very much so?"
And thus it would begin?