Over the last fifty years, I had not enjoyed many instances of high spirits. I had taken to brooding almost constantly, growling at my servants whenever they dared come near me, and sending them scurrying away more quickly than ever. They never aged a day and that angered me as well, for I had begun to feel ancient, as if I had lived an eternity. And what an eternity it was; nothing but three centuries of days that were each nearly indistinguishable from the other.
The castle had long since become decrepit and, as I looked at it, I felt a grim satisfaction at the thought that it would fall apart and die just as I would. The servants had given up trying to do anything to improve it and now spent all of their time tending the roses. I could hardly blame them. The roses were the only thing of beauty and brightness that existed for leagues around the castle. Over the last three hundred years, the forest had grown so large and so dense that scarcely any light could filter through the dark screen of leaves. The roses remained remarkably unaffected, continuing to grow as vibrantly as ever, their beauty untouched by the grimness and despair that surrounded them.
I had even begun to lose interest in the roses. All that mattered to me was that my torment would soon cease. The world had long since forgotten me, and I could not help but laugh bitterly at my own insignificance. When I had been king, I had thought of myself as the center of the universe, but it took no more than a fortnight of gazing into my enchanted pool to show me how wrong I was. The world continued on without me, as if I had never existed.
Restlessly, I fled my chamber in an attempt to flee my dark thoughts, prowling the castle for I knew not what. I found myself in the great hall, gazing morosely through the doors at my roses when I heard a sound I hadn't heard in centuries. Holding myself absolutely still, I perked my ears up and listened carefully to ensure that I was not imagining things. I was not. Though faint, I heard the unmistakable sound of a horse and wagon approaching the castle. Had I not the ears of a beast, the sound would have escaped my notice.
Glancing up at the sky, I could see that it was almost nightfall. I felt a sense of incredulity as the sound of the horse and wagon's approach continued. It would have been impossible to sight my castle in the gloomy murk of the forest, so the approach could not be deliberate. There was no other explanation for it: whoever it was must have lost his way and stumbled accidentally upon my domain.
Whirling around, I bounded through the castle, searching for my servants. They appeared almost instantly, empty eyes turned in my direction as they awaited my command.
"Someone is nearby," I said, the sound startling me, for it had been many years since I had last spoken. My voice sounded dusty and unused, much like the castle itself.
The servants turned toward one another and then back to me, evidently waiting for me to say more. I thought carefully for a moment before arriving at a decision. "If this stranger manages to find his way here, see to it that a fire is laid and food set out, but do not let him see you. He may stay here for the night and then we shall see what happens on the morrow."
With these words, I swept from the chamber and left my servants to their work. I hurried through the many twisting corridors until I reached one of the front chambers on the second story, impatiently pushing the window open and listening closely.
Much to my amazement, the stranger had reached the castle. I heard the horse neigh nervously, followed by the voice of a man as he spoke low, soothing words to the beast. His boots crunched on the gravel walk as he leapt down from his wagon and approached the elaborate, rusted gates that led into the castle's front courtyard. I hazarded a glance out the window and clearly saw the man. He stood with his hands wrapped around the bars of the gate, staring up at the castle with his mouth open, his eyes wide with fear or astonishment--or perhaps both.
The man glanced around him, every muscle in his body tensing. As he looked toward the forest road, he gave a slight shudder, and I could see that he looked weary and worn. His clothes were thickly caked with dust and grime, and his face looked haggard, as if he had been traveling for some time.
"I suppose it is no worse than continuing on through the forest at this hour," he murmured. He pushed on the gates, and they swung open with a loud screech. He grimaced and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively in his throat, then he gathered his horse and wagon and led them into the courtyard.
I moved away from the window, keeping it open but not allowing myself to gaze out of it. I thought it likely that the man would pause to study the castle's facade and, if he did so, I was certain he would see me, which was the last thing I wanted. The sounds of his approach continued and then faded as he led his horse and wagon away from the front entrance.
With a low growl, I moved over to the window and closed it. I did not like the idea of this man staying in the castle, but how could I prevent it? If I showed myself, he would run from the castle in fright and tell every one of the people in his village of my existence. I had not the heart to face a mob of angry villagers, who would certainly come to the castle and try to kill me.
The option of killing the man was always available, but that too was not desirable. Though I had ordered people executed as punishment for their crimes, I had never killed anyone with my own hands and, in truth, I did not have the stomach for it. Moreover, if he were to be killed, how was I to be certain that no one would come searching for him?
Lastly, I could allow the servants to show themselves to him in the hopes that they would scare him away, but that would most likely have the same result as that of his seeing me. Better to let him stay the night in the castle and, if he did not leave in the morning, decide what to do with him then.
I spent the unbearably long night skulking about my quarters. When dawn finally broke, I quit my chamber and returned to the second floor window I had haunted the previous evening.
Peering out, I could see that the man was approaching the gates. He paused as he reached them, glancing back over his shoulder. I moved into the shadows, concealing myself from his gaze. He stared at the castle for several long moments before stepping down from his wagon and walking carefully across the gravel path to the castle walls, casting glances about him as he went. I was perplexed, but then I saw his object. Slowly, he approached the castle wall and reached out a hand to touch one of the roses. I went perfectly still, my spine rigid. Reaching into his pocket, the man pulled out a small penknife and used it to cut the rose from the vine.
Pure, sheer rage washed over me like a black wave, and I let out an ear-splitting roar. Before turning from the window, I could see the man start, his face as pale as milk. I ran on all fours from the second floor, down the stairs, and burst through the front entrance of the castle.
"Merciful heaven!" the man shrieked, dropping to his knees and throwing his arms over his head at the sight of me.
He was tall and thin with arms and legs that were ropy and well-muscled. His hair was a drab shade of brown, and what I could see of his face was very plain and trembling with terror.
"You dare to steal one of my roses?" I roared.
He cried out in terror. "For-forgive me. I d-did not mean any harm," he said, sinking closer to the ground, as if he sought to sink directly through it, the rose still clutched in his hand. I could see a bright spot of blood on his thumb from where he had pricked himself with one of the thorns. He had dropped his knife and it laid useless on the ground, far too small to be any threat to me and my rapier-sharp claws.
"You did not mean any harm?" I asked, my voice lowering into a deep and menacing growl. "I offer you my hospitality, feed you and shelter you for the night, and you repay me by taking what I hold most dear?"
"I did not think anyone lived here. I did not think the rose would be missed," he said, in a small and terrified voice.
"Then who fed you, built you a fire?" I asked, astounded by the stupidity of his statement.
"I am sorry. Please, I beg you, have mercy on me."
"Mercy? Why should I have mercy on a thief? I should stri
ke you dead where you cower," I growled furiously.
He lowered his arms and looked up into my face. I could see an expression of abject terror in his eyes, and a shudder of revulsion passed over his features. I raised one of my arms, ready to strike him down, but he held the rose out and pleaded with me.
"I beg you, do not kill me. I have three daughters waiting for me at home. What will become of them if I do not return?" he asked, his voice pitiful.
"Your daughters are none of my concern!" I shouted unthinkingly. "Why did you take my rose?"
"I took it for my youngest daughter. Her sisters asked me for expensive gifts, but she asked only for my safe return. I wanted to bring her a book, but could find none," he babbled. "She is such a good child, such a kind and generous child, and I could not bear to return without a gift for her. When I saw this rose, I knew that she would love it. She has always loved flowers."
Slowly and in spite of my rage, my mind was beginning to work. This man had three daughters, one of whom he described as kind and generous and who loved roses. Surely it would be a waste to simply kill him. Perhaps there was another option. I was silent for so long that the man ceased to shake and sob and went into what appeared to be a state of shock. His eyes went dull, and I knew that he believed I was going to kill him.
"You have two choices," I growled, speaking slowly. "Your first choice is to go home and, in a fortnight, return to me. You will be placed in my dungeon as my prisoner, where you will die. Your second choice is to send your youngest daughter to me in your place. I will not confine her to the dungeon, nor will I mistreat her in any manner. She will be well cared for and protected in my castle, but she must remain with me forever."
The man began to shake and sob again. "Please, have mercy! I will not send my youngest to you! But if I die, how will my daughters survive?"
"Those are your choices," I replied coldly. "I care not what difficulty they cause you."
"Please, sir, I beg you…"
"Silence!" I roared. "Be gone before I change my mind and kill you after all!"
My words spurred the man to action. Without looking at me, he clambered up into his wagon, his hand clutched so tightly around the rose that it was white. The rose itself was a deep, deep crimson, the color of the blood that ran from the puncture wound in the man's thumb. The horse was nearly screaming in fear. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing me their whites, and he reared and nearly toppled both the wagon and himself. The man managed to hold on and, as he applied the whip, the horse shot forward and sped out of the gate at breakneck speed.
I stood watching the man as he disappeared in a cloud of dust down the road. Then I closed the gates and walked back into the castle, finding my servants assembled in the great hall.
"I expect you heard every word of that exchange," I growled. They stared at me with their blank eyes but did not move. "Then you know what needs to be done! Ready both the dungeon and one of the guest chambers! We shall be prepared to deal with whoever returns here in a fortnight's time."
Chapter 6
Papa Returns
The wrath of my sisters had not cooled with time, and they were determined to see me punished from the moment Papa left until the moment he returned. They helped me even less than usual, creating messes throughout the cottage and leaving me alone to clean them while they went to court their smitten swains. I preferred their absence, though, for when they were home they were careful to make as many hurtful comments to me as possible.
"Thomasina, I do believe I have had a change of heart," Rowena said. She rested indolently upon one of the exquisite chairs in our sitting room as I cleaned the chimney.
"About what, dearest?" Thomasina asked lazily. She had brought her jewel case down from the room she shared with Rowena and her necklaces, bracelets, and earrings were strewn over every surface. I knew she would leave them there when she left, and she would claim it was my fault if any went missing.
"I have decided that when Papa dies, I will allow Mirabelle to come live with me."
My back stiffened at the sound of my name coming from her lips. She spoke it with a mocking emphasis on the last syllable. Gritting my teeth, I attacked the chimney with vigor, and was rewarded with a spray of ash that blackened me from head to toe, spilling across the floor and making a mess of the room, in spite of the old sheet I had laid across the floor to protect it.
"You nearly spoiled my best dress, you clumsy idiot!" Thomasina cried in a hard voice.
"She did it purposely," Rowena told her.
They were doing their best to goad me into fighting with them, but no matter how much it pained me, I would not fight. I would not give them the satisfaction of knowing that they had once again angered and hurt me.
"Of course she did. Horrible, dark little beast. She cannot help but be jealous of us, you know," Thomasina said.
"As well she should be."
"And why ever would you wish her to come live with you when Papa is gone?"
"She is quite useful, you know, and I will be in want of good servants."
Thomasina burst into cruel laughter. "I am ashamed I did not think of it myself! Why, only look at her. She certainly looks like a servant."
"Come now, Thomasina, that is unkind. Most servants are better kept and not nearly as ugly as she is," Rowena replied. The two of them laughed, and I bent my head so that they could not see the tears that were gathering in my eyes.
"I grow tired of this," Rowena yawned. "Surely it cannot still be too early to visit the Ashworths."
"Surely not. Let us go now before another cloud of soot rains down upon us."
My sisters left, closing the door behind them with a resounding slam. I could hear them laughing as they walked toward the lane. As the sound of their voices faded, I allowed my sense of self-pity to overtake me and wept for a few moments, soot running down my face in sludgy black rivers.
Enough. This is precisely what they wanted, I told myself, and the thought stopped the flow of my tears. As I wiped my face with my dirty apron, I could not ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. Surely, Papa would be home soon.
But that thought was of little comfort to me; for the last four days I had been expecting Papa to return at any moment, and still he was not home. I tried to tell myself that this was because he had enjoyed such success with the market that he had decided to stay at the inn in Swan Hollow for a few extra days, so that he could take more orders before returning. While this was possible, I could not convince myself to believe it. I continually fretted that something dreadful had happened, and I knew that I would not be easy until Papa had returned.
Cleaning the chimney and the damage that had been done to the sitting room occupied me for the rest of the day. When I was finished, I scrubbed the soot from my skin and changed my chemise and skirt before going outside to take a breath of the chill late autumn air. Night was falling and the forest was thick with nocturnal sounds as I stood in front of the cottage and looked out toward the village proper. My sisters most likely would not return until well into the night, which meant another lonely dinner for me.
I was too tired to go to much effort, so I contented myself with some bread and cheese and a mug of tea, dining while staring into the sitting room fire. When I was finished, I went up to my room and settled myself into the beautiful chair that Papa had carved for me. A small work table, also of Papa's making, sat at my right elbow; my inkpot and some sheets of parchment laid upon it. I was soon lost in a world of my own creation, the only sound the slight sputtering of my candle and the scratching of my quill across the parchment as I wrote. I was often happiest when occupied thus, and the worlds and characters I created called to me almost as if they were real. Rowena and Thomasina returned, but I did not heed their presence and they ignored me as well.
My eyes grew dry and gritty, and I reluctantly laid my parchment by, carefully closing the lid of my ink pot and placing my quill in its stand. I wanted to continue writing, but I was weary from the day's toils an
d decided that it was time for me to go to sleep. Just as I rose from my chair and moved toward my wardrobe for my night shift, I heard the door open again, and my sisters cried out. I ran to the trapdoor and poked my head through it, my heart rising into my mouth as I caught sight of my father.
"Papa!" I gasped, scrambling down the ladder. Rowena and Thomasina had risen from their chairs, but were frozen in place, stricken expressions on their faces.
"My little Mirabelle," Papa said, in a voice that belonged to a very old man.
Never before had he looked so haggard, not even after Mother's death. His face was pinched and colorless, his clothes caked with dust and mud, and he swayed slightly on his feet.
"Are you ill?" I asked, alarmed. I hurried over to him and wrapped my arm around his waist, allowing him to lean against me.
"It is not illness that troubles me," he said, cryptically. He rested his arm heavily on my shoulders and my knees buckled somewhat under the weight.
"Come, Papa, sit. You must rest."
"Yes, yes I shall." His voice was strangely detached.
"Where are the horse and wagon?"
"In the yard."
I was reluctant to leave him, but I knew that my sisters could not be trusted to take care of the horse. "Get Papa some ale and some bread and cheese," I ordered. "I shall take care of the horse."
As quickly as I was able, I hurried out of the cottage, releasing the horse from his tether and leading him into the stable. I groomed him hurriedly and saw to it that he had oats and water before returning to the wagon. It would simply have to be left in the yard for the time being, and I seized the two parcels that laid within, carrying them back to the cottage. I felt a brief bit of happiness when I saw that not a single piece of Papa's handiwork remained in the wagon, but it was immediately dispelled when I once more saw his face.
The Eye of the Beholder (2012) Page 4
