“Really?” the Guardian asked, suddenly very interested. No one stood up to Menawa—ever. Even the magician hesitated when faced with the man, and Alvaro was actually certain that he could win in a fight against his father. Surely this creature could not have won (for there were few creatures, let alone men, in the world who could best Menawa), and yet he’d still had the force of will to challenge him. “Who is this?”
“A boy, a thief,” Manok said. “I’m sure you’ll be careful,” he added.
“Everything’s spelled. Nothing can be taken out without my knowledge. No one can get in without me knowing, either,” Alvaro assured him. There were also few things here that Alvaro would care to part with. His paintings he cared for deeply but they were much too heavy to carry. Any other objects of value were kept within his personal rooms. It was through the Beast’s design that the manor had been constructed and decorated (which was not saying much considering how the halls and elegant rooms lay mostly bare and unadorned).
“I got in,” Manok said.
“I modified the spells so you could come and go as you pleased. You are different,” the Lord of the Manor said, smiling. His smile fell when he saw Manok wince. Even with what little skin could be seen, smiling made the magician’s face even worse, made the horns a bit more pronounced, protruding. He didn’t smile, never smiled where someone could see, but he slipped sometimes…after all, Manok was kin. Alvaro had been away from people too long. He had forgotten how terrible his monstrous form was, had become accustomed to it…and although he was glad for Manok’s presence, his companionship, there was also a bitterness in Alvaro for the reminder of why he was always alone in that place.
“Anything else I should know?” Alvaro asked.
Manok shrugged and replied, “The gardener has a little brother he cares for.”
“I’ll be extra careful then… thank you,” the man said, drawing the smaller brother into a hug. Manok awkwardly patted the magician’s back. Alvaro might have been offended if he didn’t know that the Darkwaters were probably the worst in the world when showing physical affection. Even before his confinement to the manor, Alvaro had known only his mother to have shown any compassion or outward affection for another, and that was most likely because she was married into their clan. Even their women were ruthless and usually lacked emotional displays. “Go, water your horses and take food with you,” he said. He didn’t offer them a place to stay for the night. The Darkwaters wouldn’t stay in his home, ever. Manok himself might, but he couldn’t since the group was moving on.
“Are you going to greet your guest?” Manok asked from the door.
“I will—in my own way,” the lord said. He leaned back, looking as his paper butterflies still fluttered around. He reached over, pulling over one of the mirrors he kept around. “Two rooms, one for a boy, and one for a man. Food and baths for both close by. Be ready to listen to specific instructions if any are given,” he said to the mirror. The rooms would make themselves. The food would make itself and deliver itself. The use of mirrors to command and communicate with his magic was something entirely of Alvaro’s own design. The Beast had never considered such a thing before and in fact still found it somewhat silly, but it pleased Alvaro to be able to talk to anything, even if in a mirror to his own magic.
The Guardian sat back, enjoying his paper butterflies for a few more moments, as long as he assumed it would take for the Darkwaters to leave. Finally, he stood and sighed, moving over to the window. He paused, made sure that his mask was on. The sun was behind the mansion, he knew, and so no one should be able to see in. But still, he parted the curtain only slightly. Just enough to see. His father was barking orders, everyone mounting their horses and preparing to leave. He saw his mother standing beside her horse, and she called out towards the main doors. They were almost too close to see, but there, in the courtyard, stood the new gardener and his brother…except…the gardener called back something to his mother and then turned…yes, yes he was sure of it—her face up to the window. Eyes. Blue eyes—or were they green—looking straight at him.
He gasped and withdrew from the window, stumbling back against the desk and barely hearing the sounds of clattering glass and books thumping to the ground. His heart pounded in his chest, and his throat seemed too small for air to fit through.
This wasn’t right! This couldn’t be right! The Darkwaters had brought him a woman? A woman! They knew his rules! They knew his temperament…all of the things that went wrong when women were here. They knew how badly it pained him. Why? Why would they do this to him?
But then…
This was the thief who stood up to Menawa? This was the one? He could see it in her eyes when she turned around: strength, cunning, protectiveness…she would do anything for that boy whom Alvaro seriously doubted was her brother. But more than that…they were both so skinny…too skinny. The thief stole to support her house and the boy. She would do anything for that boy, even come into a dangerous place like this. But why? Why had they brought her? Manok had said she was a boy…had they not known? Surely they had…No one should have been able to mistake a creature such as her for a boy. She was too delicate, too lovely. Like the fae, tall and lithe and thin, filled with mystery and beauty and awe…
Alvaro grabbed the mirror and peered into it. “Change the man’s room…for a woman—lavender; fill it with lavender until we know what she likes,” he said, and he knew it would be done. Again, he set the mirror down and looked back to the window, the curtains hiding the outside world from his view, and yet he still did not go near it. How had they ever thought she was anything but a woman? When she looked straight up at him…there was no doubt in his mind what she was. And that terrified him. She terrified him. Alvaro just didn’t know if he could bear another woman running, screaming. He had tried before. There had been servants once, long ago, before he had learned to use his magic as his keeper. The Beast had tried to find him all manner of humans as companions. But they were gone now and…more than anything… Alvaro did not want to be alone again…
She had only just arrived, she and the bouncing little child, but he knew at once that he did not want her to go. He wanted her to stay there…with him…the power in her eyes, the strength in her steps. If she stepped into this manor…into this world…he knew that he would never bear to let her go…
Chapter Six
Waning, golden sunlight had filled the courtyard with beautiful arrangements of gold and honey and peach, fire on the horizon lighting up the evening. But inside, all of those great, beautiful windows were securely covered with thick drapes almost a quarter inch thick. Keturah blinked several times until her eyes adjusted to the poor level of light. Even with the double doors opened, everything inside seemed a very dim gray. And when those doors boomed closed behind her, the world went dark. Thankfully, not a moment too soon, candles flickered to life, lighting up only what was necessary to show her the path to go. A neat trail of orange flickers of light, leading up the grand staircase and down a hall, disappearing from her sight. Everything else was clothed in darkness. “Jacob!” Keturah hissed, “Come here, child! You will be lost otherwise.”
A scampering of feet made her tense, but sure enough, Jacob soon came into her view, looking up at Keturah with a frown. “I can’t see a thing!” the child complained. “How am I supposed to go explore if I can’t see!”
Keturah looked up, her eyes following the neat, clear path up the grand staircase and down towards the left wing, everything else unable to navigate. “I do believe that is the idea,” Keturah replied dryly and took her son’s hand.
“Come on,” she said and tugged the boy along. They really could only see what was necessary to put one foot in front of the other without running into a wall. Shadows seemed to flicker and move, and so heavy was the oppressiveness of them, laying in wait in the corners. Keturah held tighter to Jacob’s hand, wishing she’d been permitted to keep her dagger. She had no idea where they were going other than that it had appeared
to be the left wing of the manor. They went down many halls, up a flight of stairs, and through more turns and divides. She was quite certain that she would never be able to navigate that on her own.
Her feet dragged, tired and heavy, along the plush carpet that bore neither imprint of her muddy shoes, nor evidence of sound in the least. She was about ready to lay down on the plush carpet and sleep when at long last, a great pair of double doors appeared, sconces on either side casting heavy, ominous shadows on its surface. Keturah hesitated, then stepped forward. Of its own accord, the doors swung inwards in a great motion, and a wide, open room was lit before them.
The single room in itself was larger than the whole of their dingy cottage at home. Both of them stared in awe at the plush, indigo couches, the marble tables, the piano, the stone hearth, elegant stone and gem statues, everything. Heavy tapestries covered the walls, and elegant paintings of the mountains and the rolling hills lined the walls with them in heavy, golden frames. The pair slowly walked in, one foot in front of the other. And with a hush of a sound, two other doors opened, one on either side of the room. Jacob went towards one, but Keturah held his hand tighter. “Do not leave my side. Not yet.” She walked to the left with him towards the open door, hearing the great double doors close behind her.
Inside the room to the left was a bedroom, beautifully furnished with dark wood and dark blue and gray décor. There was a heavy chest at the foot of the bed, and a dresser not far. There was a little desk with papers and an ink bottle and quill, and tables here and there with various things. The sheets were pulled back from the bed and a nightshirt was laid out at the top of the stairs leading to it. Everything was smaller though, shorter, and there was a set of small stairs so that a child could access everything in the room. “I suppose this is your room then…” Keturah said, walking inside. She dropped the bag, looking around.
“Or a very short person’s,” Jacob teased, and Keturah shot him a look. At twenty-two years old, Keturah was only a little over five feet tall, narrow and slender. And to her dismay, she hadn’t grown overmuch since.
“Look! A bath has been drawn! And supper on the table! Come look!” Jacob cried emphatically, and Keturah moved forward. Sure enough, in front of a crackling fire, a claw-foot tub had been drawn up and was steaming with water. And a breakfast table by the balcony boasted a tray with roasted chicken, potatoes, and seasoned vegetables. As much food as the pair of them would usually eat in a week. Keturah’s stomach growled, and she licked her lips, but when Jacob lurched forward, she called the child’s name.
“Come bathe first and dress for bed,” she ordered, and Jacob looked at the food longingly before sighing. The child stripped out of his grimy clothes, and Keturah gathered them off the floor as he got into the bath, folding them uselessly and setting them on the dresser before turning back to Jacob who was already nearly asleep in the tub. Keturah laughed and grabbed a rag, pushing back her sleeves and soaking the rag in water. “Come here, you,” she said and laughed, lathering up the rag and bathing the fussy, tired, hungry child until he was clean before fishing him out with a towel, the water now a murky brown. Keturah dried him off and had scarce stuffed him into his nightshirt before the boy sprang for the food.
“Don’t you want some?” he asked between a mouthful of chicken.
“Close your mouth,” Keturah muttered, turning back the sheets further as the boy stuffed down as much as he could. “I’m sure there’s something in my room,” Keturah said when it disturbed the boy that she wasn’t eating. Keturah was sure of nothing of the sort, but she wasn’t about to take the child’s food. When the boy was thoroughly swaying from exhaustion (or maybe he was simply about to puke from gorging himself), Keturah smiled a bit and shook her head tiredly, picking the boy up and wiping off his hands and mouth before tucking him into bed. “Sleep tight,” she said and kissed her son’s brow. It would be strange not sleeping next to the boy, but Keturah wanted to investigate the other room.
Once Jacob was asleep (and it didn’t take long), Keturah left his room, blowing out the candles (which took a hint after the first one and all went out) before leaving the room and shutting the door, cracking it a little. Once she left, however, the door shut firmly behind her. “No,” Keturah snarled at the door and opened it again, leaving it cracked. “He’s scared of the dark. Leave it open,” she growled in a whisper at the door, and it remained obediently cracked. She stood a moment longer and then sighed with weariness before going across the living room to the other open door.
Just as she had thought, the second room was another bedroom. It was lit up beautifully with candles and carried the scent of lavender. The carpet was a soft peach and the bed was a beautiful, pale lavender with violet, embroidered roses. The wood in this room was a lighter color, and the furniture was arched and curved with regal elegance. Keturah just stared for a moment, looking at the rose-colored drapes and the paintings of richly dressed ladies at various functions. She smirked. Apparently, she could not hide from the magician. “Hmph. Not half bad, Guardian,” she remarked, stepping into the room.
Just as in Jacob’s room, the covers had been turned down and a lovely, silk nightgown was waiting, as was a hot bath by a somber fire and dinner by the balcony. She shut the bedroom door behind her and stepped inside with a heavy sigh. At first, Keturah hesitated. She was not used to magic like this, and she would have felt better with a face to look at instead of eerily moving doors and candles. Or rather, what disturbed her the most was the unknowing of whether anything was there with her.
Was the Lord of the Manor in the room? Could he see her? Hear her? Or was it merely is magic acting on its own? She hadn’t really thought about it much in Jacob’s room, but here in this room…she was hesitant to strip or relax when someone could be there.
“Hello?” she called hesitantly. “So help me, Guardian, if you’re hiding in here, I’ll destroy you. You have my word on that.” But there was no response aside from the cracking and popping of the fire, and after a while, Keturah’s exhaustion and hunger began to override her paranoia, and she sighed, relenting.
“Alright, alright,” she muttered to no one, sitting down at the chest at the foot of the bed and pulling off her shoes, depositing each with a heavy thud. Then came the shirt, pulling it over her head and leaving it on the floor as well. Keturah stood wearily, half convinced to sleep on the chest. She unbuckled her breeches and pushed them off her hips, then disposed of the wrappings around her chest. Her arm was still so sore from where she had been knocked against the wall and then bound in such an uncomfortable position for hours.
She grimaced, rotating her arm a bit and sighing heavily before going back to the wrappings around her chest. She pulled the end, her fingers cold and making her flinch every time they came into contact with her skin. But she needed to get the wrappings off. Round by round, her breasts were uncovered, one of them a bit larger than the other and boasting five little ovals of dark purple. Keturah considered her reflection in the mirror and glared at it, mostly at the imprint of Alexzander’s hand.
But where a dirty thief-boy had stood a moment ago, now stood a woman with black hair and dark, two-toned eyes, albeit a battered and dirty one. Her shoulder was badly bruised, and she had a few bumps on her head, and a—where had she gotten that gash in her side? Keturah sighed and stretched a bit, padding barefoot across the carpet to the bath. There was no point in fixating upon the abuse her body had taken. She was too thin, too pale. She could see her ribs, and her collar bones jutted out from her chest. It was sickening to her how malnourished she was, but there was nothing she could do about it for now. For now, she was here.
She decided to focus her attentions instead upon the bath, laying her head back and closing her eyes. The water was hot, but it felt good. Thankfully, her cheek was no longer swollen from the blow Menawa had given her, but her shoulder remained swollen and tender. Keturah sank further into the bath with a soft moan of delight, closing her eyes and laying her head back, soakin
g.
She sighed then, clean but tired, and she leaned her head back in the bath, staring up at the ceiling. “What do you want from me?” she whispered to the air around her, or perhaps to the Guardian. Although she was impressed that the lord knew at once she was a woman, that also frightened her. Men were not creatures to be trusted, she had learned. If he knew that she was a woman…what else would he ask of her? She laughed a bit to herself though and reminded herself that, isolation-sickness or not, there was little chance that a powerful magician would desire anything of that nature from one such as her. She was well aware that it was not out of lust for flesh that Alexzander indulged in her body but because of his lust for power and for his desire to humiliate her. There was nothing desirable about her.
When she was finished and the water was far filthier than it had been before, Keturah got out for fear of falling asleep and wrapped a towel around her. She went to the table and ate her fill, picking slower than Jacob had because her stomach was turning uneasily. Wearily, she stood, her hair half dry, the tub mysteriously empty and clean, and went to the bed. The nightgown was there, but the woman paid it little attention, her black hair damp and clinging to her neck and cheeks.
She had hardly slept in three days, and this had been a very…very…long week. As soon as she climbed the stairs to her bed, Keturah just plopped down onto it on her belly, not even bothering to get under the covers. Sleep came almost at once to her, throwing darkness over her and dragging her from the world of the wakeful. She went completely limp in surrender to it.
But, after a soft snore started in her room, the blankets tugged themselves out from under her and wrapped her up properly on the bed, the pillow shifting to wedge itself under her head. Keturah didn’t stir in the slightest, merely snoring a bit louder and occasionally giving a twitch. Once she was surrounded by the soft, silk sheets, she gave a soft murmur of approval and snuggled into them, curling up into a ball on her side.
Rose Borne Page 6