Mythangelus

by Storm Constantine

  Our guest made a gesture of apology. ‘You are right. Under normal circumstances, I would have attempted to contact you beforehand. Unfortunately, I found myself in this part of the country temporarily without accommodation. Having a full inventory of throngs in my possession, I made haste to the nearest haven.’ He smiled sweetly, apparently attempting to flirt with the stony countenance of Letitia. ‘I generally find that all Grigori are sympathetic to stranded individuals such as myself. That is, I have found such to be the case until this moment.’

  Letitia narrowed her eyes at the gentle rebuke. ‘I do not mean to appear ungracious,’ she said, visibly relaxing a little, ‘but this is not a common circumstance for us. However, you have crossed our threshold now so, please, take off your coat.’

  Bayard had dragged me forward, so that we stood close to Letitia. She turned and fixed us with a commanding stare. ‘Celestine, Bayard, enough of your whisperings! Seeing as you are obviously so fascinated by our visitor, perhaps you could conduct Peverel Othman to one of the guest chambers; the Peacock Room, I think.’ She pointed an imperious finger at a lesser relative. ‘Bradley, fetch kindling and fuel to light a fire in there.’ Then, the situation resolved, she fixed the rest of the family with a steely eye. ‘Noses into your wine, my dears. Please do not forget that we have an elder to welcome home soon!’

  Well, as can be imagined, the actual arrival of Great Uncle Gerhard was quite eclipsed by the sudden and glamorous manifestation of Peverel Othman. Following his unusual introduction into our midst, Othman collected his bag from the hall and obligingly accompanied Bayard and myself up the great staircase, making affable remarks about the surrounding countryside, the weather and the interior of our house. In response, Bayard was outwardly flirtatious, while I maintained a cool yet courtly mien; sure my approach would be far more fascinating than Bayard’s obvious manoeuvres. We took Othman to the Peacock Room, which despite its opulent appointments held little to do with peacocks, either spiritually or decoratively; it was named, I believe, after some member of our family with a leaning towards the non-essential.

  Peverel Othman nodded in appreciation as I lit the lamps beside the mantle. Although it was one of our best rooms, it was not often used, and the air was chill. But a fire would soon invoke a more congenial atmosphere. After a short examination of his surroundings, Othman put his bag upon the ottoman at the foot of the bed. His friendly overtures had dwindled. I suggested he might like to rejoin the company downstairs, while his bedroom heated up. This he seemed inclined to do, although I must confess he had a preoccupied air about him, and scarcely seemed to notice either Bayard or myself. He intimated he would like to change his clothing, which we took as a request for us to leave the room. Somewhat nettled, Bayard and I went back downstairs.

  ‘He wears a handsome shape,’ Bayard said.

  ‘No great feat,’ I snapped. ‘Behold, I wear myself most beautifully.’ Whereupon, we both started giggling and swept back into the drawing room arm in arm.

  Shortly, Othman reappeared, neatly dressed in dark clothing and with his hair tied back. He was adopted by a clutch of our menfolk and seemed quite happy in their company. Bayard couldn’t keep his eyes off the man, whereas I, more mindful of my dignity, confined my curious scrutiny to glancing at the mirror opposite where Othman stood.

  At a quarter hour to midnight, we heard the sound of a carriage crunching over the drive outside the house. We heard the driver call out to his beasts as they stamped to a halt. Letitia went to the front door, opened it, and let the light of the house spill out into the night. Again, we clustered behind her, although this time our anticipation was somewhat dulled. Outside, the carriage door opened, and Great Uncle Gerhard stepped down. He wore the aspect of a trim middle-aged man, not ugly but fairly plain, who spoke in a fussy manner to the driver’s man about unloading his luggage, who rubbed his hands together in the cold, even though they were mittened, who said, ‘Letitia, you are wondrous as ever!’ and who came into our house in a very ordinary way; a relative returning home after a long absence. Still, his congenial character definitely had a beneficial influence on the rest of us. There was positive merriment in the drawing room as Great Uncle Gerhard sat upon one of the couches, surrounded by smiling faces, to recount tales of his travels. More wine was brought from the cellar and a selection of sandwiches from the kitchens. All those who but an hour ago had been looking fatigued brightened up and joined in the conversation. Predictably perhaps, there were a few minutes of glumness following Letitia’s tactful description of the fatal accident concerning Great Uncle Gerhard’s lovers, but it did not seem to upset him for long.

  Only our gaunt visitor, Peverel Othman, did not appear delighted and enchanted by the mundane yet friendly presence of Great Uncle Gerhard. He stood some distance away from the family group, a globe of brandy nursed against his dark-clad chest. He appeared bored, only occasionally directing his glance towards Aunt Lathorne, who had become quite silly with liquor, but whose nose, I was pleased to note, retained its proper shape. It occurred to me then that it was perhaps imprudent to let Lathorne run riot with the decanter when strangers were present. I had little fear her shape would become indiscreet, for we women of the Gravewells took great pains to invigilate Lathorne, and were alert for the earliest signs of impropriety.

  I was introduced to Uncle Gerhard by my mother. He was polite and avuncular, as one would expect. With a roguish twinkle in his eye, he spoke of having presents in his luggage for all of us. I smiled and batted my eyelashes, as I anticipated would please him. But on the whole, I found very little to stimulate me in his character. Bayard, I knew, shared this sentiment. Often, our eyes would meet, and stray in unison towards the sombre figure of Peverel Othman. I planned eventually to glide across the room and engage him in conversation, but just as I thought a judicious time had come, Othman left our presence, no doubt to retire for the night. I surmised he’d found our family reunion just as tiresome as I had.

  In the morning, I dressed myself in my best dark silk, and arranged my hair loosely about my shoulders. I did not deceive myself this effort was employed for anyone other than our mysterious guest. I was disappointed to find that he had risen early and was therefore not present at breakfast, but I tracked him down later in the library, where he was perusing our collection of books.

  ‘Are you refreshed?’ I asked him, skirting the library table with a swish of silk.

  He turned and looked me up and down, a book held open in his hand. ‘Thank you, yes,’ he said. It became immediately obvious to me that he considered me silly. In fact, I suspected he found all of my family somewhat trivial and uninspiring. The Gravewells are traditionalists and preservers of custom. Perhaps Peverel Othman espoused more revolutionary convictions. On the rare occasions I had met Grigori of a more progressive outlook, I had found their rebellious zeal, their desire to tread forbidden paths and rediscover the ancient, forbidden knowledge, annoying and wearisome traits, but in Peverel Othman, the suggestion of unorthodoxy only increased his appeal.

  ‘Have you any plans for the day?’ I enquired.

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, then perhaps you would allow my nephew, Bayard, and myself to escort you around the grounds. There is much to see; the ornamental lake and its shore-line folly temples, the greenhouses - oh, such orchids! - and...’

  ‘I said I had no plans for the day,’ Peverel Othman said, replacing the book on its shelf. ‘Neither do I anticipate making any.’ He smiled at me; I felt stunned at the abuse. ‘Excuse me, Miss Gravewell, but I am in a mood for relaxing and my greatest deeps of tranquillity are never realised in the company of others.’

  ‘In that case, forgive me for intruding upon your solitude!’ I said, in the crispest tone I could manage. Whereupon, I turned and marched to the door.

  ‘You are forgiven,’ he said. I suspected he was smiling, but I did not look round.

  ‘He is attractive but rude,’ I said to Bayard, as we took our morning constit
utional among the yew trees behind the kitchen garden.

  Bayard linked his arm through mine. ‘He is travelling, isn’t he? I expect he’s had many adventures. It’s only natural he would find the company of Gravewells dull.’

  ‘You think yourself dull?’ I asked, surprised. ‘Personally, I believe us to be dashing and companionable creatures, even though we’ve yet to experience the outside world.’

  ‘Perhaps he is a solitary creature, someone who is older than we imagine.’

  ‘Make excuses for his impropriety, if you must, Bay,’ I said haughtily, disengaging myself from his arm, ‘but I feel your sympathy is misplaced.’

  This altercation brought a disagreeable atmosphere to our walk, and we finished it quickly, in awkward silence.

  I had no idea how long Peverel Othman planned to remain a guest of my family. In fact, I don’t think he made his arrangements known to anyone. Great Uncle Gerhard was naturally the centre of attention at this time. Grigori from other far-flung throngs came long miles simply to attend social gatherings, and listen to Gerhard’s lengthy and rambling tales of seductions and adventures in far lands. True to his word, he had brought many fabulous gifts; jewels and exotic fabrics and strange books and artefacts. To me he gave an elaborately worked golden head ornament, which I would not have been surprised to discover had been snatched from the brow of some entombed princess, long dead in the sands of Sumer. It was exquisite, but I could not imagine when I might ever wear it. Perhaps in the future I would be invited to some masquerade ball, when it could come in handy.

  In the privacy of my chamber, I sat before my mirror and arranged the ornament on my head. I struck a dramatic pose and flared my nostrils at the glass. I was still quite a novice at summoning the intense concentration required for adjusting my physical appearance. Some Grigori don’t even grasp the ability until they are nearly a hundred years old - well past puberty. Still, I fixed my attention upon my reflection and slowly willed the colour of my eyes to flow into a yellowy-orange hue and slitted the pupils, like a cat’s. It was while I was indulging in this private display that I heard furtive movements in the hallway outside. Of course, I am used to the brisk steps of our servants as they go about their daily business in the upper storeys, but these steps were not at all brisk, and the very creak of the boards spoke of some sly commerce being enacted. Swiftly, I rose to my feet and, still wearing the golden ornament, opened my door and looked out. It was thus I surprised Peverel Othman in the act of creeping down the right side of the corridor, his head pressed to the door next to my own.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said in a loud voice.

  He did not start in surprise, but stood up and turned to face me in an insultingly languid manner, making me feel as if I was the one who’d been caught unawares.

  ‘Are you lost?’ I asked. Peverel Othman was staring at my head, so I snatched the ornament from my brow, tearing a few strands of hair from my scalp in the process. This was enough to bring tears to my eyes, and it was then I remembered they were orange and catty.

  Peverel Othman folded his arms. ‘Fortunate for you I was not some wandering human, who’d found their way into this house by mistake,’ he said in an infuriatingly despotic manner. ‘You should take care, Miss Gravewell, as to your appearance when you burst unannounced from your room.’

  I decided to ignore his remark. ‘What are you doing?’

  He put the fingers of one hand against the door beside him. ‘Whose room is this?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just answer me,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed I will not!’ I said, aghast he dared to use such a harsh tone with me in my own home, and he a guest of my family too. I went back into my room, slamming the door most emphatically. My heart was pounding. I felt furious. The room he had referred to was that occupied by Lathorne. Perhaps he had heard the hissing of the snake. Still, how dare he creep around our house, listening at doors. It was clear there was more to Peverel Othman than met the eye. Were my suspicions the product of his insulting demeanour towards me, or did my instinct speak truly that there was something sinister about him? My first reaction was to speak to Bayard about it, but, because of his partiality for the stranger, I felt disinclined to seek him out, sure that his infatuation would prevent him being a reliable ally.

  I returned to my mirror and made sure my eyes were adjusted to their usual shape and hue. Then, after dragging a brush over the top of my head to quiet the frantic strands uplifted by the removal of the ornament, I left the room once more. There was no sign of Peverel Othman in the corridor outside. I walked purposefully towards the west wing to check he hadn’t turned a corner, found nothing, then repeated the process to the east. Othman must have either gone downstairs or entered one of the rooms. Perhaps he had ventured up to the third floor, although this was unlikely as the doors to the stairs in this area were kept locked. Throng members in retreat slumber were secreted there, and we took all precautions to safeguard their rest.

  I decided I must report our guest’s eccentric behaviour to Letitia at once; at this hour, she would be found in her sitting room.

  Unfortunately, almost as if he’d anticipated my move, Peverel Othman was also present when I entered the room. He was taking tea with Letitia, who seemed quite at ease in his company. Othman afforded me a curt glance as I crossed the carpet, and despite my pique at his rude treatment of me, I could not help but appreciate those finer points, of which Bayard seemed so enamoured. Othman was undeniably a fine-looking creature; aristocratic and finely-cast, his skin was white as bone. How well he sculpted himself, how beautifully. Humans must have died for his touch, I was sure.

  ‘Celestine, I was not expecting you,’ Letitia said, raking me with a cold eye. Clearly, she had plans of her own concerning the beautiful Peverel Othman.

  ‘I was concerned about our guest here,’ I said bluntly. He did not look at me, but smiled in a secretive fashion at the carpet.

  ‘Oh?’ Letitia oozed disinterest.

  ‘Yes. He was quite lost upstairs just now. Did you find the room you were looking for, Mr Othman?’

  He looked up at Letitia and laughed a little. It was a lovely sound, quite boyish. ‘Yes... Miss Gravewell is angry with me, because I corrected her. Perhaps it was not my place to do so. Perhaps I should simply have reported to matter to you.’

  ‘What matter?’ enquired Letitia.

  I could have turned to ice with fury, for my anger was not hot but achingly cold. How dare he!

  Othman raised his hand. ‘A trifling thing, of no consequence. I’m sure Miss Gravewell will not neglect her appearance in such a way again.’

  ‘Celestine! What did you do?’ Letitia demanded.

  Cornered, I related the incident in detail, expecting Letitia to reprimand me further, thus increasing my mortified embarrassment. However, she merely turned away when I had finished speaking and said, ‘Which room were you looking for, Mr Othman?’

  Her response obviously surprised him, although he swiftly smothered his expression. He glanced at me. ‘It hardly seems mannerly to explain,’ he said.

  Letitia laughed sweetly. ‘Indulge me! I am not easily offended.’

  ‘One of your youngsters,’ he said. ‘The boy. Bayard. We had an assignation.’

  I made an explosive sound of disgust and, pausing only to excuse myself to Letitia, left the room immediately, intending to seek my wayward nephew out and pull his hair. When had he had the opportunity to arrange such a liaison? I had been with him nearly all the time since Othman’s arrival.

  Bayard himself denied all knowledge of the arrangement when I found him in the music room. At first, I accused him of deceit, but his obvious excitement that our guest had at least used him as an excuse caused me to change my mind.

  ‘Was he really looking for me do you think?’ Bayard asked, eyes alight.

  I shrugged moodily. ‘Who knows! His antics were most suspicious. Why should he want to see you anyway?’

  I was convinced Peverel Othman had li
ed. He had noticed Bayard’s interest in him, so had used it as a convenient cover for his activities. And what exactly were his activities? I smelled malfeasance; I intended to root it out.

  While changing my apparel for dinner that evening, I began to make plans. They necessitated involving Bayard, a course which initially I had shrunk from, because I did not consider him particularly intelligent. However, it seemed to me that Peverel Othman had created the very avenue for my intentions to traverse; therefore I must use it.

  Having readied myself hastily for the meal, in order to have time to consult with Bayard, I went directly to my nephew’s room. Usually, he spent more than an hour deciding which garments to wear, so I anticipated finding him there. Giving our coded knock - three-two-one - I entered the room without pause. Again, Peverel Othman had pre-empted me. To my astonishment, no less than my embarrassment, he had my nephew Bayard beneath him in the bed. Such was their engrossment in their activities, which indeed appeared ecstatic, neither of them seemed inclined to stop what they were doing. Othman turned his head to me and said, ‘Get out!’

  Which I did.

  I was disappointed. It seemed Othman must have been telling Letitia the truth in some respects. Of course he would not admit to prowling round the house in order to sniff Bayard’s chamber out, but in the light of what I’d seen, it certainly seemed that must have been his intention.

  Lathorne had been having a bad day of it again, which meant she was not present at dinner. Peverel Othman came into the dining room, accompanied by Bayard and, after scanning the table, asked where Lathorne was. I could not bear to look at him, although it did strike me as unusual he should enquire after my aunt so soon after having lurked outside her room. Did his interest lie with her after all? If so, why? Did he suspect her defects? My mind was full of such thoughts as I tried to consume my dinner, although I was somewhat distracted by the clowning of Great Uncle Gerhard, who was on form as usual, telling jokes and playing tricks with the spoons. In truth, I was beginning to find his jocularity rather wearisome, and several of his stories had been repeated at least twice, without the slightest alteration of detail. Soon, I feared, we would all be able to recite them along with him. Why had our relative turned out to be so tedious? I wished he could be more like Peverel Othman, with his air of mystery and handsome shape, though perhaps without his malignance. Bayard, throughout the meal, was a nauseating picture of infatuation; I despised him deeply.