by Lucia Ashta
When Sir Lancelot settled on my shoulder, my hands were still too numb and pained from the returning blood flow to touch him reassuringly. So I leaned my face into him instead. I didn’t realize how attached I’d grown to my small friend until I almost lost him.
Marcelo didn’t spare time for relief. “Come. Let’s go.” He reached a hand out to help me, his face contorted in a grimace. I wanted to take his hand—I didn’t know if I’d make it up without it—but I couldn’t get my arms to work properly. So I struggled to my knees instead, tangling in the skirt of my dress until I could get my feet beneath me.
Even the feather-light owl seemed too much. The burdens of the last several days weighed heavily, especially now that I realized how needless they’d been.
We stumbled and lurched into the front entryway. Neither one of us could get our hands to work well. Our fingers slipped as they tried to grasp the handle of the door.
Finally, Marcelo resorted to magic to heave open the door. He did it silently, and we slipped outside, blinking and squinting against the brightness of the day.
Without magic, neither one of us could untie our horses from their posts or grip their reins. Thankfully, we were magicians and Winston and the castle’s staff remained elusive. Marcelo helped me onto my horse, jumped onto his, and we were away.
My heartbeat pounded in my head. My shoulders, arms, and hands were coming alive, the torturous metamorphosis of the dead becoming undead. My horse’s steps rattled every part of me, unstable as I was on the saddle.
My horse followed Marcelo’s down the hill in a gallop without my guidance.
“It’s all right now, Sir Lancelot,” I cooed. “The worst of it is over.” I voice the words for him as much as I did for me. I wanted to believe it was true and that Winston wouldn’t discover us gone immediately and pursue us.
Perched at the front of my saddle again, I ran thick, clumsy fingers along Sir Lancelot’s back in the direction of his feathers, until I pulled them back, too concerned I’d hurt him with my clumsiness. His petite body shook. The dying gasps of fear and helplessness left his body in shudders.
Then quietness settled in, seeming all the more still for the violent movement that preceded it.
Finally, Sir Lancelot relaxed into a deep sleep, the first real one since Winston located us along the road.
“Poor Sir Lancelot,” I whispered to Marcelo, but he couldn’t hear me over the footfalls of our horses. We’d slowed them to a trot. Now that we knew Winston was out there, perhaps looking for us already, Marcelo laid out a series of alert systems behind and around us in case Winston didn’t approach us from the road. Marcelo’s magic would warn us before Winston could ambush us for a third time. I added, unnecessarily, “He was so scared.”
Marcelo nodded with piercing, bright blue eyes. “How are you, Clara?”
I understood that his question covered more than just the matter of our physical restraint. Winston had purposefully humiliated me and shown me a level of disrespect I’d only experienced from him. The life of a lady of the aristocracy was devoid of opportunities for discourtesy; Winston had done what he could to make up for it.
I shrugged Marcelo’s question off. I didn’t want him to see how exposed Winston had made me feel.
Still, Marcelo’s eyes showed me that he already knew it, that there was nowhere I could hide from him. But I tried anyway. I looked away, urging the green landscape to take the memories away to get lost amid their beauty.
It was strange to think that our surroundings didn’t change even if we did. Nature was constant, as were the elements. Their state of being wasn’t as ephemeral as our emotions, wounds, or even lives.
“We should be in Bundry soon. The castles are only a couple of hours away from each other.”
“Is that Bundry there?” I pointed to a steep mountain.
“Yes.”
“Is the castle at the top of it, like at Irele?”
“Yes.”
“Will we stay the night there?”
“Yes.”
And then I asked no more questions. Like Marcelo, I watched first the mountain and then the castle as they came into greater focus with a certain amount of dread. For Marcelo, it was different. He knew exactly what to expect. For me, I knew that the man I loved disliked everything the castle had once stood for.
Could it be different for us if we were to make it our home? I wasn’t sure, but I found that thought was difficult. I allowed myself not to think at all, to savor the relief of the unexpected turn of events that brought about our sudden freedom instead.
By the time our horses began to climb, even Sir Lancelot woke to watch our approach. He fell into silence with us, and I didn’t know whether he didn’t speak because he was still exhausted from his ordeal or because he sensed the thick swirl of anticipation that overcame Marcelo and me. Either way, I enjoyed the respite from Sir Lancelot’s usual intelligent chatter.
We rode until the horses labored too much on the incline. Then we dismounted and walked alongside them, progressing uphill with trepidation.
Chapter 11
If my sense of humor had been lively that day, I might have laughed out loud. As it was, I didn’t feel like laughing at all. I didn’t know whether I wanted to cry or scream at the irony, but I did neither. I stood in front of Count Washur with an unreadable expression on my face. I’d cowered enough in front of bullies for one day. I wasn’t eager to do it any more.
It began with Marcelo’s surprise that no one was there to receive our horses. He hadn’t sent notice of our arrival, but the servants should still be there. Count Bundry had died only weeks ago. The servants would have continued their service until the new lord of the castle arrived. That was how it was done.
No one opened the door for us either, not the butler or any of the lesser staff. Marcelo let himself into his own house as if he were a stranger off the street. He did so just as silently as any burglar would, though he left the door open behind him, waiting, assessing.
Like the castles at Irele and Washur, it was dark within. None of Norland’s light and airy atmosphere was present. But if we were to live here once we married, I would change that. I could strip the walls of its dark art, open shutters, and replace muted fabrics with colored ones to reveal the castle’s potential.
Marcelo saw none of what I saw. He overlooked the luxury of the home he knew so well that it haunted his nightmares to notice the few things that were out of place. He took my hand and led me through the entryway to a parlor off the staircase. It was a room similar to the one at Norland, used mostly for entertaining.
I startled. Marcelo didn’t. He seemed to know what awaited us. The staff at Bundry was dutiful. The deceased Count had made sure of it. He wouldn’t tolerate disobedience or lack of decorum in the servants. There were few explanations that could account for the absence of attendants, and this was the most likely of them.
We’d escaped from our imprisonment at the Castle of Washur only to find Count Washur in our parlor, as presumptuous as if he were our first invited guest.
He wasn’t at his home because he was here, waiting for us.
“Count Bundry, I understand you’ve already met your nephew.” He didn’t rise to greet us as tradition and good manners required of him. All of us there knew his appearance as a member of polite society was a tactical maneuver.
Marcelo and I looked toward his nephew. He greeted us with a sullen look that made me wonder if he was thinking of murdering us in our new home before we could even make it that.
“I wouldn’t say that I’ve met him,” Marcelo said. “I don’t even know his name.”
“You didn’t tell him your name?” Count Washur asked Marcelo’s nephew with a hint of amusement. I couldn’t understand the flash of alarm that crossed the nephew’s eyes. What could there be to concern him in a name? I had heard some awful ones in my time at Norland, and their owners didn’t seem too perturbed to be burdened with them.
“Why don’t you tell th
em now then? I’m certain your uncle would like to hear it.” There it was again, the out-of-place wry enjoyment.
“My name is Salazar.” Salazar’s voice sounded dead, and I would have felt sorry for the young man if it hadn’t been so easy to remember that he’d tried very hard to kill me the last time we met.
“Salazar,” Marcelo repeated while he took in the man who was his dead sister’s son. While he did so, something whipped across his nephew’s eyes, but it was too quick for me to catch. Marcelo turned to the man who was a much bigger problem than Salazar. “I presume you have told him that you, and not I, are the one who killed his mother.”
“I did no such thing. Why would I tell the boy such despicable lies?” Count Washur’s tone didn’t match his words. He was mocking Marcelo, the boy, and the truth. But one look at Salazar confirmed that he hadn’t noticed. Why hadn’t he?
“You killed the poor boy’s mother, and you tried to kill him. I came to his rescue and hid him from you all this time, until he was strong enough to exact his revenge upon you. But you weren’t quite powerful enough to kill your murderous uncle, were you, Salazar?” Though Count Washur addressed the boy, he didn’t take his eyes from Marcelo. The more experienced magicians were having a separate dialogue with each other, one that didn’t hinge on the lies of which words were capable.
“No, milord. I wasn’t. I failed.”
“Yes, you did. But you won’t fail again, will you?”
“No, milord. I won’t.”
Count Washur stood to join the rest of us. “At least it wasn’t a totally wasted effort.” He examined his nails then flicked his gaze to meet Marcelo’s.
I saw Marcelo work to control the anger that surged within him as this sandy-haired man poked his finger in the open sores of Albacus and Marcelo’s father’s deaths. Although Marcelo hadn’t mourned his father, and probably never would, Count Washur had brought about the circumstances that caused Marcelo to kill his father.
Marcelo’s nostrils flared; his breathing became deep and controlled, but he didn’t speak. I was grateful Mordecai hadn’t joined us on this journey. He would have challenged Count Washur to the death right here in the parlor. Tragedy would have tarnished any happiness we could hope to cultivate here.
“Come, Salazar. We’re leaving.”
What? “You don’t mean to hurt us?” Regret filled my mouth just as swiftly as the words had blurted out. I squirmed under Count Washur’s appraising gaze until he turned it back toward Marcelo.
“The little witch dares to speak to me, I see.”
And what I could see clearly then was the man who’d killed several of his wives. Despite his lack of respect for women, he answered my question, even though, again, his eyes bored into Marcelo’s. “I won’t hurt you. Now. I have more to benefit from this”—his face puckered in distaste—“witch once she develops more of her powers. Salazar tells me she has some interesting talents.”
So Salazar had told Count Washur that I could unbind myself! He just hadn’t told Winston.
“I’ll be back for her once I deem her ready. Once it better serves me.”
I would have bristled at the offense of his comments, but there was no need. Marcelo was bristling enough for both of us. His jaw was set in silent defiance.
“I’ll let myself out.” Count Washur approached the doorway, and Salazar scurried forward to open the door for him. “Come, Mina. We’re leaving now.”
Marcelo and I swiveled, looking for Mina. There wasn’t anybody else in the parlor. But then a cat materialized from behind one of the armchairs. It rubbed itself on the furniture’s side before obeying the Count’s order. It looked at me so intently that I followed every graceful step that brought it toward the exit.
“Now, Mina.” Mina complied. I would have too; there was an underlying current of threat in the Count’s voice that I had no doubt he would follow through on.
I watched the cat’s reddish brown fur until the massive door swallowed it. Then the Count stepped out, and then Salazar, neither with a backwards look to us.
Marcelo and I followed them out. He wrapped an arm around me, careful not to disturb Sir Lancelot, who was playing dead again on my shoulder. I leaned my head into him.
We watched Salazar retrieve their horses from around the side, the Count and Salazar mount their horses, and the Count command Salazar to carry the cat on his horse. We watched until the steep incline and distance took the two horses and their riders. And we stayed outside long after that, waiting until the heat of the sunshine could take the chill of darkness or the taste of unpleasantness away.
Neither happened by the time the sun began to dip in the sky. Marcelo ushered me inside. Instinctively, I turned in the opposite direction of the parlor.
We found the serving staff downstairs. They were sitting around the dining room table, yet they stood immediately when we entered. I was surprised to discover that the kitchen and their dining room and common areas were bright and lively. Count Bundry’s grim touch didn’t extend to the servants quarters.
My burdened shoulders lifted some in the breeze that flowed in through one of the open windows. It was infinitely more pleasant down here than in the stiff, dark rooms reserved for the family. We would definitely have to make some drastic changes in the house if we were to live here.
The staff reflected my relief at our being down there. “Welcome back, your lordship. Does this mean that Count Washur has left, milord?” the butler asked. I was born and raised in a house similar to this one. I knew how to read between the lines of tradition and familiarity when servants spoke.
“It was that bad, was it, Carlton? How long was he here?” Marcelo asked.
“Count Washur arrived on Monday, milord.”
“And today is Thursday. Oh, how awful. We tried to get here sooner, but we were detained. Did he mistreat any of you?”
“Only Anna, milord. The rest of us did our best to hide down here.”
“Are you all right, Anna?”
One of the housemaids bowed her head. “Yes, milord.”
“Well, thank heavens. I’m very sorry you had to be exposed to that man.”
“We’re used to it, milord. He visited your father quite often, especially at the end,” Carlton said.
“That’s right.” Marcelo seemed hesitant to remember all the things he’d intended to forget.
“Shall we be seeing more of him into the future, milord?” Carlton asked what the rest of the staff was thinking.
“I should certainly hope not,” I said, and the staff turned to look at me as one unit.
“Carlton, this is Lady Clara. She and I are engaged to be married.” The staff swallowed me right up with their outwardly curiosity. “When Lady Clara and I marry, we’ll live here, and all of you are welcome to stay on with us.”
A wave of relief rippled through the staff so palpably that I felt as if it made me wobble on my feet (I don’t know if it did or not). One of the housemaids suppressed a cry. Carlton glared at her from under a stern brow, before explaining to Marcelo, “Excuse Rose, milord. The last few years with your father were particularly difficult.”
Marcelo’s expression grew troubled, and his brow furrowed. But he didn’t answer.
“All that will change once Lord Bundry is master of the castle. I hope that you’ll be able to create new memories in our home, happy ones, to replace the old.” It was the first time I’d spoken as the lady of the house—of any house—and I’d thought that, when I did, I’d feel like Mother. But I didn’t feel like her at all. What a relief.
Anna and Rose looked too young to have been here when Marcelo was a boy, but I suspected Carlton was one of the servants whose company Marcelo had found refuge in when he lived here.
“Carlton, I’m going to take Lady Clara to rest. She has lived through an ordeal of her own. We can settle the details later. In the meantime, will you please proceed as you think I would want and move toward getting the house flowing properly?”
“Of co
urse, milord.”
“I’m glad to see you all safe and well.”
“Thank you, milord,” several voices said at once.
Marcelo and I held our composure while we climbed the stairs. We bypassed the parlor and made it to the drawing room before we crumbled.
“What is it? What is it?” Sir Lancelot startled awake as I sunk further into the chaise longue in very unladylike fashion.
“Nothing, Sir Lancelot. We’re just finally safe and somewhere we can rest,” I said.
“Oh, very well then, very well indeed.”
“You may want to find another place to perch than my shoulder. I’m going to lie down, and I may not be able to get up for quite some time.”
“Of course, Lady Clara. It’s been quite the experience, hasn’t it?” He flew from my shoulder, but only to the table next to the chaise longue. His usual place at the windowsill wasn’t enticing with the shutters clamped shut.
I didn’t answer. If I had the energy to speak, I didn’t want to spend it. I used all that was left in me to get comfortable across the chaise longue. I didn’t plan on moving for a long time.
Knowing Mother couldn’t see me napping in the drawing room, I closed my eyes. Marcelo looked as if he might already be asleep in the chair opposite me.
Chapter 12
When I woke, neither Sir Lancelot nor Marcelo was there, and a fire was burning in the hearth. I had no idea how long I’d slept. It could have been only a few hours or a whole day.
I didn’t move right away. I hadn’t had a moment to myself in longer than I could remember, and my arms weren’t too eager to get moving either. Not just my arms, but every part of my body seemed to ache, either from the extended journey by horseback, the binding, or the nerves that tensed me all over.
Eventually, I’d require a bath. Now, I didn’t need anything at all. I let my eyes close again, and I didn’t open them until Marcelo was at my side, passing his hand across my cheek in the gentle ways of a hopeful lover.