by Elise Kova
“That is precisely why you were told to disregard anything you heard. You are not in danger. The rest isn’t a concern to you.”
“But —”
“You are safe here.” Those words should be reassuring but the way he says them, filled with such anger, pain, and frustration… It almost sounds as though the safety he gives me is begrudging. As though it pains him to look after me. I truly am more ward than wife. The same burden I have always been.
“If I am safe then you don’t need to lock me in my wing.”
“Clearly I do, because you disregard simple instruction.”
“I am not your prisoner.”
“But you are my responsibility!” The outburst silences even the birds. I hear them take wing to avoid this awkward confrontation. “I made an oath to protect you. That is what I’m doing.”
I inhale through my nose and let it out as a sigh. My eyes flutter closed. If there’s one thing Joyce and my sisters have taught me, it’s how to let things go and move on. Bottling up anger only makes matters worse in the long run. Most of the time, I try and listen to my own advice.
“Please,” I say as plainly as possible. I try and pour every drop of invisible pain into that singular word. It is as close to begging as I ever would like to be. “I cannot feel like I am trapped. I swear to you, no matter what, I will not leave my quarters at night. So please do not lock the door.”
“How do I know you will keep your word?” He sounds skeptical. I can’t blame him. He did give me just four rules and I admitted to trying to break one last night.
I wish I could look at him. I wish I could see his expression—that I could meet his eyes and show him that I’m being sincere. How do I communicate those things when I can’t look upon the face of the person I’m speaking to?
“You’ll just have to trust me, I suppose.”
He scoffs softly. “Trust… Such a hard thing to give to your kind.”
“Has a woman burned you that badly?” I instantly cringe at my wording. For all I know, he’s had a wife before. Maybe she did burn him. Maybe his face is so horribly scarred that he won’t allow anyone to look at him. My back aches and I straighten my posture.
“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to protect myself from.”
The words still me. I hear the faint whisper of “stay out” and “stay away” dancing among them. I wonder who wounded him. A blow like he has endured—like I have—doesn’t need to leave physical scars; it is much deeper than flesh.
“The vow you took was that I would never be left wanting. I want the door unlocked.” I play my last card and wait, curious to see if it will work.
He lets out a dark chuckle. I can feel him wanting to resist and yet… “Fine. But know that the moment you leave those quarters at night I can no longer guarantee your safety.”
“Deal.” I can hear him move to leave. Leaves crunch under his light feet. I wonder what he was doing out here to begin with. It couldn’t be checking on me. “Wait.”
“What now?”
“You never heard the rest of the song.” I adjust the lute in my lap and still avoid looking at him. “Would you like to?”
“Yes.” That word is wrapped up in somber yearning. I wonder what this old folksong means to him as I adjust my grip and begin to play once more.
When the last note has faded among the trees I know he is long gone.
Chapter 5
There are still noises in the night, but I’ve grown better at ignoring them. Fortunately, in the week that has passed, there have been no more screams. One night I heard faint music accented by bells right when I was on the edge of sleep, as if drifting to me from a faraway place. Another night I heard heavy thuds and grunting that rumbled the door to the main hall. A different night, I heard laughter echoing from a faraway portion of the manor.
It’s funny how quickly you can grow accustomed to something. Now, I hardly wake up anymore at the strange sounds. The first night after Lord Fenwood and I spoke, I checked the door to my quarters. The handle turned. He did as I asked, so I kept my word and did not open it. After that, I’ve never slept better.
For a week, I find a strange sort of peace to the repetition of my days. It is nice not to be ordered around or have expectations from sunup to sundown. I can walk through the brush and strum in my glade with not a care in the world. Once or twice, I swear I sense the presence of Lord Fenwood listening again. But if he’s there, he doesn’t make himself known as an audience.
Then, the peace fades into monotony.
Today, on the seventh day since my arrival, I wake up and lie in bed and don’t have the energy to do anything more than stare up at the ceiling. What is the point of getting out of bed when there’s nothing to do? At least back home I had a goal. Every day there was something to be done, some necessary upkeep that I would busy my hands with and would make me feel accomplished at the end of the day. At the very least, I’d have Misty to tend to and ride.
When I was married off, I expected to find a new purpose. I was apprehensive of whether I would like that purpose or not. But building a home and family would be something to work on and toward. Having nothing to do is becoming utterly mind-numbing.
“You didn’t go out into the wood today,” Oren says to me at dinner as he pours my glass. I’m surprised he’s noticed my habits. We only interact at the beginning and end of the day and I’ve never seen him between.
“No…” I push some potatoes around my plate with a fork. “I didn’t feel like it.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes—I—I’m not sure, honestly.”
“Are you uncomfortable?” He seems shocked I would have any reason to be upset or distraught. I can’t blame him. I’m surrounded by a comfortable paradise, where all I have to do is say the word and my wish is granted.
“No, not at all.” I laugh bitterly. “Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe I’m so accustomed to being uncomfortable that I have no idea what to do with myself now that the discomfort is gone.”
“Is there something I can get for you?”
“Not something to get…but something for you to do. Would you mind asking if Lord Fenwood would be open to a nightcap tonight?”
His fine gray brows scrunch together as he looks down at me with his beady eyes. “I can ask him.”
I wonder what that unreadable expression meant for the rest of dinner. Oren doesn’t return. I take my plate down to the kitchen, washing it as I have after most meals and returning it to its place. On my way back to my room I notice that the door to my study is open. The two chairs are waiting, sweating glasses filled with a cool drink perched on tables at their sides.
I’m eager to take my seat. I settle in, shifting until I’m comfortable. Then, I grab the armrests and lean back into my chair, pressing my skull against the leather. Even if the lord startles me, I will not look. I want this meeting to go smoothly. I didn’t realize how badly I’ve needed to make a genuine connection in my new home until I’m in this very moment. I might not want love from the man…but friendship, a shared goal or understanding, I could do with that, I think. Even in the worst moments at the manor I had Laura.
Oh, sweet Laura. I wonder daily how she’s doing.
“You asked to see me?” That toe-curling voice startles me from my thoughts. I wonder if he knows that, however hideous he might imagine himself to be, with a voice like that he could have his pick of any man or woman.
“I did. I thought we might share a drink.” I lift up my glass, raising it off to the side so that he can see. I hear the whisper of his footsteps drawing near. Without warning, his glass clanks softly against mine. He’s close; if I turned my head I could see him. But I don’t. Once more, the fire smolders so low that all I can make out of him in the window is a tall shadow. “What are we toasting to?”
“How about the fact that I’ve managed to keep you alive this long?” He chuckles darkly.
I laugh as well. “I’m not that reckless.”
>
“But I have been known to be.” The chair behind me shifts as he settles into it.
“Oh?”
“In my younger years, especially.” The ice clinks in his glass as he takes a sip. “I have been the cause of many of Oren’s headaches throughout his time caring for me.”
“Oren has been with you a long time?”
“Yes, he’s looked after me since I was a baby.”
“Did you know your parents?” I ask softly, fully aware of just how difficult this topic can be.
“I did.”
“How long ago did they die?” I stare into the lemon-colored liquid of my glass.
“What makes you think they’re dead?”
“I can hear it in your voice. There’s a certain tone people have when they’ve lost a loved one. That loss leaves a void that gives everything a hollow sound whenever they’re mentioned.” I take a sip, trying to wash away that sound from my own voice. “Oh, this is really good. And sweet, like honey.”
“It’s mead. Not the best bottle I have but certainly not the worst.”
I smile faintly at the thought of him picking out a bottle just for this meeting from some dusty storeroom.
“Who did you lose?” he asks. My smile fades.
“Both of them,” I say. “My mother died when I was very little. My father said she was not made for this world—that she was too good for it. But that he was lucky that she at least left me behind for him.”
“And your father?”
“He runs—ran—the trading company, as you know…” I trail off. His death is fresher. I’ve tried to shove it away, into the same box my mother’s loss occupies, but it’s not the same. I had a life with my father. Mother is just faded memories and emotions imprinted on my very soul.
Lord Fenwood is patient, allowing me to wallow in my thoughts for several minutes.
“Joyce, his wife, she demanded he begin taking a more hands-on approach to the business by going on more trading ships. He was gone so often there were weeks I had to fight to remember the details of his face. Then…the ship he was on went down. No one found the bodies, so there was hope, for a while. But it’s been so long now…”
“I’m deeply sorry.” He means it. In none of our discussions have I ever smelt a lie on his breath. It strikes me that every single thing I’ve been told in this house has been as true as rain.
“I’ve survived.”
“As we all do.”
Even though we’re sitting back to back, I imagine what he must look like behind me. Is he leaning back in his chair as I’m leaning back in mine? If you looked at us from the side, would it look as though we’re trying to lean on each other, desperate for support? Isolated in a world where we have been cut off from those who should love us most?
“Oren tells me you are distraught. Is it the anniversary of one of their passings?”
I shake my head. Realizing he can’t see me, I say, “No, Mother died in the early fall and Father was in the summer.”
Saying it aloud makes me realize how close the first anniversary of his death is, and how much my life changed in a year. I should be sadder, I think. But I have felt some emotions so strongly I think they burned up, leaving nothing but charred edges of my heart behind.
“And ‘distraught’ might be too extreme a word,” I force myself to continue. “I suppose I want something to do, some kind of purpose here.”
“You don’t need to do anything, just lounge in the luxury I can provide you.”
“That’s just it, I’m not made for lounging and luxury.”
“You’re the eldest daughter of a trader lord.” He chuckles. “Oren told me of your estate. I know the luxury you are accustomed to.”
“You still know nothing about me,” I needlessly remind him with a bit of an edge. “And if Oren thought our estate was luxurious then you should have him check his eyes.” His silence prompts me to continue. “The estate was held together by nails, plaster, and prayer. I should know, I was the one responsible for keeping it upright.”
“You?”
“I know I don’t look it, but I’m actually rather handy, if I do say so myself; I can do a good variety of maintenance and upkeep. None of them exceptionally well, I’m forced to admit. But well enough. I cannot cook you a feast, but I can make sure the food is palatable so that you don’t go hungry. I cannot build you a house, or explain the finer points of architecture, but I can tell you when a roof is going to collapse and where you need to shore it up to make it last another winter until there’s enough money to hire a proper tradesman.” I pass my glass from hand to hand, thinking of all the things I learned from necessity. Part of me is afflicted with the sudden urge to explain Joyce’s cruelty as some kind of misguided lesson. I shake my head and take another sip of the mead. Her intention doesn’t matter when her execution was so wretched. I’m trying to give her benefits she does not deserve.
“So you are saying you would rather be my servant than my wife?”
“No,” I say, so fast and sharp that I hear him shift uncomfortably in his chair. I don’t even apologize for my tone. “I will never be someone’s servant ever again.”
I hear him inhale softly. “Apologies for my wording. I would never make you one.”
Another truth. I release a sigh of relief. “But I would like a purpose, of some kind. I would like to feel useful, at least. I like it when my hands are busy.”
“I’ll speak with Oren and see if there are any tasks that he thinks you would be well suited for.”
“Thank you.” I stare up at the ceiling, wishing there was a mirror, wishing I could get a clearer glimpse of him. “What do you do to occupy the hours of your day?”
He chuckles again and I hear him take a sip. “Me? I’m trying to become king.”
I laugh along with him. But the odd thing is, there isn’t even a hint of smoke in the air. He’s telling the truth.
But there hasn’t been a king of these lands in years. What does he hope to become king of? I never find the courage to ask throughout the rest of our pleasant conversation.
The next morning Oren is waiting after breakfast. I nearly drop my plates onto the kitchen floor in surprise at the sight of him.
“You nearly made my heart stop.” I breathe a heavy sigh, trying to calm my suddenly racing nerves.
Oren continues shoveling the ash from the hearth, tiny embers still smoldering in the back, ready to help reignite the fire. “I have more business being here than you do.”
“Yet you never are.”
“How do you think your food is made?” He glances at me as I cross the room to the sink. I expect him to tell me not to clean the dishes, but he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been doing it for a week now and he knows there’s no point stopping me. Or perhaps it’s because of something Lord Fenwood said last night to him.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I assumed there might be a cook.” I shrug and turn on the water, focusing on the dishes over him. I’m dying to know if there are more people in this house or not. But I don’t want to pry too obviously. I already know that won’t go over well.
“There is not.”
“Then you are exceptional with seasonings.” I flash him a smile.
Oren chuckles as he finishes dumping the ash into a metal bucket. “You’re trying to get on my good side.”
“I’m telling the truth.” I cross the room to free up the sink so he can wash his hands—he’s covered in soot up to his elbows. “Besides, I didn’t think I was on your bad side. Do I need to get on your good side?”
“I suppose having you here hasn’t been as bad as expected.”
“A resounding endorsement,” I say dryly.
He ignores the remark, turns off the water, and takes a little too long to dry his hands. I wonder what he’s thinking. “The master has certainly become intrigued by you.”
A tingling feeling rushes over my body, like the warm flush of a slightly too hot bath. Why does the idea of Lord Fenwoo
d being intrigued by me excite me? I try and push away the sensation before it can reach my cheeks.
“What makes you think he’s ‘intrigued by’ me?” Curiosity gets the better of me. I can’t stop myself from asking. I have to know.
“He’s been asking more and more after you, and I haven’t seen him spend so much time with a new person in years.”
He’s hardly spent any time with me at all. If this is his definition of spending a lot of time with someone then it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone mad as a recluse out here. “Well, you can pass along that I enjoy spending time with him too. I feel much less lonely whenever he shares a nightcap with me.”
“I will let him know.” Oren heads for the side door to the kitchen, bucket of ashes in hand. “Now, come along. Despite my protests, the lord has informed me that you have work to do today.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my excitement as I scamper after him. However, I stop in my tracks on the threshold of the back door. “I thought I wasn’t allowed in the back of the house?”
“This area is fine.” Oren points to the old stone wall that lines the perimeter of the property where it stretches beyond the right wing of the house and back into the wood. In the dim light of the forest I can make out the point where it crumbles to nothing. “You cannot cross where that wall ends under any circumstances. Our protection extends only within its confines. Which means the garden is safe.”
The garden is boxed in between the wall at our right, the right wing of the manor behind us, and the conservatory dining room on the left-hand side. I’m surprised I didn’t notice this was here before, but maybe that was because calling it a “garden” is a bit of a generous way to describe this area. Overgrown beds spill onto cracked pathways covered in a thick blanket of pine needles. There’s a wooden shed in the corner where the wall meets the house that’s held together with nothing more than a miracle. Oren heads over to what I assume is the compost bin beside it and dumps the ash.
