The Crimson Inkwell

by Kenneth A Baldwin

  In fact, I had used a frumpy appearance as a measuring stick in the past. My father had taught me that a man who spent too much attention on outward beauty wasn’t worthy of my affection, anyway. But now, I hoped so badly that he found me pretty. If my beauty was ever worth anything, let it be tonight.

  “It looks like it was made for you,” he said. I blushed before accepting the drink he offered in a crystal glass. “They have held dinner for us.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated, unsure of what else to say. There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask him and a thousand answers I wanted to explain to him, but I couldn’t find the words to start.

  “I’m sorry that I had to bring you here under such difficult conditions. It’s not how I would have liked to introduce you to my home life.” He looked pained and uncomfortable. I wanted to apologize as well, but for what? I was the woman that got his father killed. I had already said the word sorry what felt like a hundred times, each one sounding more hollow than the last.

  “How are you managing with everything?” I asked as delicately as I could. He scoffed.

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose. I may still be in shock. I don’t know. None of it seems real. I’m half-expecting my father to join us for dinner in a matter of minutes. It’s difficult to fathom that—well, that he’s gone.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked. He looked at me with the same feeling of longing I sensed from him when I entered the room. My question felt pre-drafted, formulaic, but I held my breath, hoping for an answer.

  “You have already been such a support to me,” he replied.

  “A support?” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He held up his hand to stop my reply.

  “I know. I know, but even in spite of it. I don’t know why or how, but just being around you gives me strength.” I moved closer to him and took his hand. The generous fire gave me a warm feeling all over.

  “My presence is the least I can offer you.”

  He leaned toward me, and suddenly, we were very close. He looked down into my face and I up into his beautiful grey eyes, allowing myself to give in to them. They were like two magnets, pulling me closer, closing the space between us, space that I had considered insurmountable. If I were to kiss him, would it ease the pain he felt? I would give him a thousand kisses if it were true. I forgot how to breathe. The fire danced on his eyes like glossy fireballs.

  Fireballs.

  Images of that night in Bram’s yurt came flashing back to me in fragmented order. I could almost see myself in the tent, at that rickety table, penning the story that would kill Edward’s father. I could almost see myself writing feverishly, recklessly, playing God.

  I could not let myself kiss this man.

  I pulled back and turned to study the flames. They licked up at the air in random and reliable flickers. The flames held nothing for me but a reminder of the kiss I just ran from and the indelible memories of Bram. Toss a paper in the fire, watch the magic happen. Wasn’t that the way of it? My past lived in a frame of stupidity. It hung in my mind like a bad painting. I recoiled from the flames and searched for something, anything, else to talk about.

  “This is a beautiful rug,” I said. Sometimes, I disgust myself.

  “Are you alright?” Edward asked.

  I wasn’t alright, but I couldn’t complain or unburden myself to him. I couldn’t imagine what dark feelings swirled around him. Unburdening myself now while he dealt with that would be so selfish. I’d have thought that he’d feel more settled by asking about the details of my magical folly, but I could not press those details on him. To do so would risk ever repaying him for the countless charities he had bestowed on me. If only he would change his mind and the painful memories that held me prisoner could illuminate him with the knowledge he needed to grieve for his father.

  “Do you have anything you want to ask me, Edward?” I said, scrutinizing the hammered metalwork on an old bookcase.

  “Ask you?”

  “I don’t mean to press the issue.” I turned but did not look him in the face. “I just thought that maybe I could offer you some degree of closure.”

  He drank from his glass deeply before gripping the edge of a writing desk near the sofa. I waited for him to speak, trying my best to urge him onward with my expression. He looked at the back of his hand, intently. One side of him was illuminated by dancing firelight, the other by the faint glow of gas lamps from the hall.

  “Luella, I—”

  “The two of you haven’t exhausted your conversation topics already, have you?” Lady Thomas’ humming, alto voice cut through the room. She strode forward in her sweeping black gown. “After such a long ride, I mean. Edward, would you pour your mother a glass as well?”

  We both instinctively jerked backwards, not for the first time, as if we were two children caught in the larder. Edward sulked over to the bar and poured his mother something from an expensive looking bottle. I busied myself studying an elaborate globe.

  “Edward,” Lady Thomas said under her breath, “I’m so glad you’re here. Since news got out, I can’t tell you how many of your father’s acquaintances have sent me letters or stopped by to offer condolences. It’s exhausting, and I can hardly keep up with it all. It’d be one thing if they were family friends, but I’m talking about men I spent my marriage despising. You know who I mean. All of those brutish personalities that kept your father from me. Now they’re trying to cozy up like we’ve been friends all along.”

  I noticed Edward’s broad shoulders slump a little lower as he handed his mother a glass.

  “Well, I’m here now, mother. I’ll see what I can do to manage the brunt of the condolences,” he said.

  “Fortunately, the full story didn’t get out into the papers,” she went on. I couldn’t help but feel like this last comment was directed at me. “As far as everyone else knows, your father suffered an unfortunate accident. An accident! It’s ridiculous.”

  One of the servants, a tall gangly man I recognized from the front courtyard, entered the room and gave us all a curt bow.

  “The dining room can receive you now,” he said.

  Lady Thomas nodded her approval and swept out of the room, leaving her unfinished glass with the servant. Edward finished what remained in his own glass before putting it down on the table and extending an arm to invite me through the door. I curtsied and followed his mother, regretting that I could not continue my conversation alone with Edward. I did not look forward to dinner with her. I couldn’t help but feel this woman was harboring an increasing dislike toward me. All the same, I found myself in the dining room, looking at the end of a long table, built for twelve, dressed for three. The room, like the rest of the house, had been updated with gas lighting, but lit candelabras stood on the table, adding ambience and a sense of intimacy. Ornate mirrors hung on the wall, reflecting the light in eternal patterns.

  Their servant pulled out a chair for me, and I found myself sitting directly across from Lady Thomas.

  “Mother, why don’t you sit here at the head of the table?” Edward said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. My son, you’ve inherited the estate. It’s your household and your table.”

  “It’s a little early to be talking about inheritances, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all, if that’s what it will take to get you to come home and live with me.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this now, mother.” There was no mistaking the tension between the two Thomases. I was instantly defensive over Edward, but I couldn’t deny that she was asking questions to which I also wanted an answer. He had taken me out of the city to his home, but I had assumed that his plan was to go back to work at the force. Now, after seeing what he really was giving up to be there, and the state of his inheritance and widowed mother, I wondered whether the Steely-Eyed Detective might be hanging up his hat.

  The first course arrived, a soup made of potatoes, cream, and a rich cheese. Edward and I ate in silence while La
dy Thomas prattled on about how difficult it was to keep the estate up these months prior to winter or how agricultural and textile productions in town were experiencing a significant low. To hear her speak, even the trees in the area needed some serious “doing up.” How one might “do up” a tree escaped my simple-minded city-dweller’s mind.

  Edward ate his meal stoically. I did my best to look polite and gracious but felt almost incapable of appeasing his mother. It didn’t take much for me to understand that I was her son’s guest, not hers, and while Edward was quietly brooding, I couldn’t do much but try to emulate the etiquette I had read about in books and novels. I tried desperately to remember the research I had done to write my boring articles for Langley’s but to no avail.

  When we had finished a beautifully roasted duck and the plates had been cleared away, Edward’s mother got on to the real business.

  “Now, humor your dear mother. I know you’re tired from your traveling, but we really have to address the memorial. It’s coming in a few days.”

  “What memorial?” Edward asked, breaking his silence and folding his arms.

  “It’s customary for a family to grieve and bury its lost members.”

  “You can’t intend to have a funeral.”

  “I most certainly intend that.”

  “He hung himself,” Edward went on.

  “His acquaintances don’t know that,” Lady Thomas said through pursed lips. “We have to keep up our appearances.”

  “They will in a few days. Mother, these things have a way of getting out.”

  “They’d better not. You don’t trust your own fellow officers?”

  “Even in the tightest groups, scandals like this seep through the cracks. If we grieve the man like he died honorably, we’ll look like we’ve been taken in and draw attention to a disgraceful death.” Edward leaned forward now, both hands on the table. I could nearly see his pulse starting on his neck.

  “Your father was a well-known and respected individual. If we don’t hold a service, we’ll all but confirm his distasteful end.” She choked on the last words, as if she couldn’t yet decide whether her husband’s suicide was a betrayal or a tragedy. “Enough. I’m holding a service, and you will attend. It’s time that you get on with a serious plan for your life.”

  “Our first dinner together, and you’re already throwing this at me. You are being uncivil toward our guest,” he said with deeply furrowed brows. I was suddenly quite conscious of how my hands were positioned. How was I supposed to respond to that comment?

  “You can’t bring a woman home to shield you from the reality of our situation. I wouldn’t care if we had a hundred guests; it’s time for you to step up. If you won’t do it, I’ll do it for you. Your father’s acquaintances will be attending the memorial, as well as other families who mean to pay their respects, many with beautiful daughters.”

  I nearly choked on my wine. Edward’s face flushed a deep red, and I buried my eyes in the lace table runner, silently counting the number of threads in its cross-stitched pattern of rabbits.

  “Good heavens, mum. Would you give me even a few hours or a night’s sleep before you’ve married me off?” He pushed his chair out aggressively and walked out of the room, leaving me with the most formidable woman I’d ever met in my life. My stern neighbor, Mrs. Crow, seemed like a turtledove in comparison.

  I looked after him, wondering whether I might not just follow him right out. His mother stared at me with an expression that showed plainly her belief that I was the reason her son was not eager to marry anyone else. Her inquisitorial gaze made my blood boil and filled my chest with unbridled excitement at the same time. She was meddlesome and controlling, and Edward had been through enough. But, she accused me of a monopoly on her son’s affection, and the very fact she accused me of it gave me a shred of hope that it was true. Maddening flattery.

  “Edward always has been a gentleman,” she said. “Especially as he grew up and became friendlier with his young female acquaintances, even if they did try to persuade him to behave ungentlemanly.” She let words drip off her tongue like venom. I didn’t need a lesson in etiquette to know she was trying to make me jealous.

  Fool of a woman. Who cared what Edward had done before meeting me? What a peculiar tactic, a noble lady trying to convince a girl from the east side that her son was morally unworthy of marriage. Still, while the substance of her strategy fell harmless, the attempt stung me adequately for her purpose. I felt my anger rising. It wasn’t proportionate to her comments, but I was tempted to dive in. It would feel so good just to let go. I knew this had been building, that I had repressed it for days. I had been plugging the top of a volcano, and its rumblings gave me sweet, devilish power.

  “He always played the gentleman with me as well, even if our relationship made my former fiancé uncomfortable,” I replied nastily. Let her digest that. Let her think on her son’s behavior while working in the city. Her slack lips betrayed the slightest twitch, letting me know my fletchlett had hit its mark. I hoped it hurt.

  No. This wasn’t like me. A charitable and deep-feeling part of my heart chimed in. This woman had just lost her husband, whom she loved despite the distance between them. I couldn’t imagine her current pain. How could I add to it like this? I would not be a grotesque monster. I would not open that dark door. Was it not enough to take her husband; must I also take her son? I clenched my core and my fists. I needed to fight the rancor.

  “You’re no beauty,” she responded, directly. “You are, of course, invited to the memorial. It should be quite illuminating. You’ll see what caliber of women you’re up against.”

  Her words were like a battering ram. Each one weakened my resolve. The volcano took back over and brewed nasty thoughts. How dare she insult me to my face? I didn’t care who she was. I looked down at the table, trying to control my breathing. My eye caught a fine, silver spoon. It was the perfect size to hurt but leave no lasting damage. Why not prove her right and show her what caliber woman she’d dined with?

  What was I thinking? My thoughts flashed to my father, the lessons he’d taught me as a girl. Defuse with kindness. Respond to aggression with love. Give a fixing only to those who deserved it. She was a grieving widow. I would not give into another episode again. I could not. If I were to be angry, let me be angry at the fog and its monster. Let me be angry with the magic that corrupted the memory of my father. I would not allow it to corrupt anything more. I pushed my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I wouldn’t give in.

  But, she was a grieving widow that stood in open defiance to what could be certain happiness. Not a spoon, there were other ways.

  She smirked at me, sizing me up like a lioness and trying her best to make it apparent that any future I might have with Edward would be plagued by her every sabotage.

  Bid me do, I will obey. My thoughts flashed to the crimson inkwell, and scenes of traceless interference played in my imagination. The fog monster had been so confident that it could change my life, bring to pass my desires without anyone else being the wiser.

  What might this woman look like on a sick bed?

  This wasn’t me.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Lady Thomas,” I said, boring a hole in the table with my eyes.

  She stood and walked slowly, dangerously across the room. I couldn’t breathe well. The corset was suffocating.

  “Go home,” she said. “You don’t deserve my son.”

  Maybe it was the boldness in her voice, or because she had given voice to the inner critic I knew to be true, but I lost the battle. The dark door inside of me swung wide open.

  Critics are evil monsters.

  I stormed out of the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Two Dormant Trees

  I PRACTICALLY SPRINTED to my room, trying to outrun Lady Thomas’ accusations and my own venomous thoughts. There was so much anger, and its thick roots took hold inside of me. An evil plan formed from within, not from my own mind, but
from somewhere else.

  The ink inside of Bram’s gift was magical. I was certain of that, though he had never told me so. I was also convinced that, in my last meeting with the fog monster, I had grown more powerful than Bram ever was. He may have understood more about magic, but I had a working relationship with some type of magical entity, an entity that wanted me as a partner in bringing out more magic. There was a portal inside my heart to that effect, and letting the illness take over, giving into it was the key.

  My idea was plain and simple, albeit malicious and maniacal. I would use the ink to write the end of Lady Thomas’ story. The fog creature would effect my wishes. It couldn’t be simpler. With her out of the way, I had a straighter path to Edward.

  I reached the door to my bedroom but could not bring myself to push it open. Once I walked inside, the inkwell waited. This door alone separated me from a twisted, evil design.

  Open the door. Open it and bid me do.

  But, I was afraid of being alone, afraid of what might happen to me. I felt the anger swelling in ways I never had before. It was worse even than when I lashed out at Rebecca.

  My insides churned like a forge. I clenched my fists as tightly as I could and hugged my torso, trying to restrain the feelings. I was becoming a monster. I could not take the life of Edward’s remaining parent.

  He would never know. It could seem so natural. The desire was overwhelming. I collapsed against the closed door. I hated the world. It never gave me anything. I worked and scraped, grit and hay pennies under my fingernails to crawl my way to a semblance of respectability. This world deserved nothing from me. It had stolen my father. It had stolen my mother. They didn’t deserve it.