He had heard her voice before in the mirror, but hearing it with his own ears, so close—and speaking to him—was something else entirely, and he nearly shuddered with apprehension. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t screaming or crying…yet.
“No,” he managed to get out, and then eased his throat some and continued, “No, you may stay. I am the one who should leave. I am certain that I would only be a… distraction…to your work. And as you can see, you are clearly much better at this than I.” He gestured around to the shrubs and bushes.
Keturah turned her attention to where his plants lay. Those ones were in better condition than the others, but they still needed tending. She watched them all curiously for a moment before turning away from Alvaro and kneeling down by one of the beds to inspect his work. She was still between him and the door, but Alvaro watched her from the corner of his eyes without really turning to look at her. “You really don’t know much about gardening, do you?” she asked, and he winced a bit but smiled. His lack of skill was embarrassing, but at least it was keeping her from fleeing his sight.
Alvaro watched without moving as she inspected a few more things, getting up and tending to another bush, before she came to where he was, and he didn’t dare to breathe. Only Manok ever came so close, and he was much, much larger than the woman. She was so small. She would be helpless to his physical strength or his magic. It made him want to shield her, to hide her away somewhere. He knew how cruel the world could be and attributed his survival to his strength. She had so little. He didn’t want anything to hurt her.
“But you’re not hopeless,” she said at last, and he released a slow, steady breath, drawing her eyes to the black mask on his face. Her pupils were dilated, he could see, but she merely took in her fill of his mask and then turned her attention back to her task with the plant in front of him. “I can teach you…if you would like. It is not difficult.”
It took a few moments for him to speak. She wanted to stay? To help him? Even though he was… “I am…rather terrible at gardening,” he admitted softly, although that had not been what he wanted to say. He kept his head turned towards the plants and not to her so that he did not startle her. “I…would appreciate some instruction.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, and she swallowed to ease the dryness in her own before giving a single nod.
“Let’s start with this one, then,” she said. “Take up your shears.” He did as she said and faced the bush with her. “Now, see all of these ends are dead, so we need to cut them back. Go ahead.” He trimmed a few, but when he put the blades around one, she shook her head and put a hand on his gloved one to stop him. “No, you want to go above the juncture. Yes, there. Those three above it. There you go. Now it will bloom much fuller in the spring.” She glanced over at him, looking for confirmation that he understood, and he gave a single nod.
She went back to monitoring him while he worked and corrected a few things here and there. “Careful,” she said. “You’re holding your shears in an awkward manner. You’re going to get blisters.”
Alvaro glanced at her and then chuckled a bit. Keturah tensed until she realized that the sound was meant to be a pleasant one, laughter. “I do not think blisters will be a concern,” he explained and pulled his glove off of the hand nearest her. Keturah turned her attention from his face to his hand and seemed very much alarmed. At first, she was certain that his hands were made of stone, for she had never seen flesh look so haggard and firm, and it was cracked and worn in so many places. Because she could not help herself, she reached out a much smaller hand and touched the palm to see if it really was stone, for her eyes could not tell.
To her surprise, despite how rough the hand seemed, it was distinctly warm, slightly clammy, and certainly flesh. She gasped a bit and withdrew her hand at once, her eyes going at once to Alvaro’s. The Guardian recoiled inwardly from her reaction and pulled the glove back over his hand, ashamed at how the monstrosity of only his hand could frighten her so terribly. At least it had not been the back of his hand which was much rougher, and his nails were more like black-colored claws than thin human nails, no matter how much he filed them to keep them from getting in his way. “So you need not be concerned,” he said gruffly, softly, and turned his attention to the plant once more.
He worked a little more, letting her show him, teach him, and they spoke no more of his form or manner, instead working on the flora of his garden. As the sun climbed the sky, however, the heat began to soak Alvaro despite the late fall weather. The wind was chilly, but he was much larger, and especially with the heavy mask, he was beginning to sweat. So he sighed and said to her, “That is enough for today.” He stood up with a groan and stretched a bit, thankfully not seeing the way Keturah’s eyes followed him and how they widened impossibly large at the sight. She gathered her wits and scrambled up, clearly not comfortable with crouching down while he was standing, and she moved a bit away to give them both some space.
Clearing her throat, she said, “I will leave this plot alone for you to work. Just leave the cuttings in a pile, and I’ll put them with the others to burn.”
He looked over at her and almost smiled before reminding himself not to. Instead, he inclined his head in a single nod. “I am grateful for your assistance, lady.” She smiled just a bit, although it was slight and more of a grimace, but he thought that it was meant to be a smile. She wiped her brow, for the cold wind cooled her sweat and made it miserable, and she squinted up at him. It was then that he realized how bright the day was, and he made a soft, considering noise that had her raise a brow in curiosity. He reached out his hand, and within it appeared a large-brimmed hat made of straw with a dark blue ribbon wrapped around it and fitted into the holes on both sides. “May I?” he asked.
Keturah narrowed her eyes at him warily and considered telling him no, but a hat would be nice, and he had more or less proven himself harmless…as far as one such as he could ever be harmless, so she gave a little nod.
Brimming with delight over the permission, Alvaro set the hat upon her head and tied the ribbon underneath her chin with infinite care. “Do not overtax yourself, my lady. If you are tired or sore, please rest.”
Keturah said nothing to him, only watched with those piercing blue and green eyes. He could not tell if she was pleased or annoyed, but a faint blush appeared on her cheeks. Keturah could not decide if she was pleased or annoyed either, watching him incline his head to her before picking up his things and leaving.
She watched him go, curious at the sight. Was it his size and form alone that had scared everyone else away? Or was something more sinister lurking behind the mask? Whatever it was, she doubted that she would be getting any more answers today, so she left the plot to go work while Alvaro caught his breath behind the huge, wooden door. He could scarcely contain his excitement over the time spent with her, working alongside her, and that he had been able to come so close to her. She had even accepted a gift from him. He was nearly beside himself, and his smile refused to contain itself as he headed to his apartments once more.
Chapter Eleven: November
Their mornings became ritual, Keturah and the Guardian. She would get up and eat before heading down to work. He would always be there—waiting for her, she thought. He would be bent over the bushes, trimming carefully, turning the soil as she had showed him. She would take her place at his side, and he would greet her—every day—with a quiet, “Good morning, my lady.” And she would give him an annoyed look for the ‘my lady’ part but say nothing in return. Still, she let him greet her every day, and they worked side by side in companionable silence.
They quickly finished his own little plot, however, and on an especially cold day of their work, Keturah stood up and sighed, pulling her scarf further up over her ears. This really should have been done in the fall, not early winter. But there was no helping it now.
“Thank you for your assistance,” Alvaro said softly, glancing up at her from where he sat upon the ground. He always tried to avo
id standing unless he had to. She didn’t scream or flinch much anymore, but he still hated the way her eyes widened and she put more space between them. When he stayed low to the ground, she was more likely to let him near to her.
Keturah looked over at him and shrugged. She had enjoyed her time with him and was somewhat sorry it was over. She had expected the Guardian to be some great, powerful, mysterious man of might and wonder. Instead, he was an oversized puppy with a severe lack of social skills and a nearly clinical case of shyness. He was not at all what she had expected…but she still enjoyed his company.
“Of course,” she replied. “I won’t be here forever. I might as well teach you to do your own work.” She put her hands on her hips and didn’t catch the way his face fell just a bit. Yes…she would leave…it seemed far too soon. “Well,” she broke his somber thoughts, “I’d best get started on the remainder of the garden. There is still much to do.”
“Let me help,” he pleaded at once, pulling one leg out from under him to nearly stand, but she took a step back, and he stayed kneeling. Almost, he considered to his own embarrassment, like the way a man proposes to a woman. He banished the thought of the impossible and cleared his throat carefully, saying, “I enjoy working outside…and I would appreciate being able to tend the rest of the garden.”
She raised a brow at him, much more cunning than he gave her credit for. That was not why he wanted to tend the garden with her, and she knew it quite well. The question was…why would he try to hide his thoughts from her? What was he keeping secret from her? “If you wish for my company, you need only ask,” she said simply and turned away from him, heading towards the little hole cut into the wall.
For the first time, Alvaro was grateful for his mask, for it hid his red face and horrified expression, mortified that she could read him so well. Although, he supposed he was not exactly subtle. He stood slowly, carefully, although he didn’t move from his spot, watching her hopefully from beneath his black, demon mask. “Then…”
Keturah put a hand on the wall to steady herself before trying to go under. She paused and looked back at him. Was he…really asking her permission? How…odd. She smiled somewhat, despite herself. An odd man, indeed. One who asked permission to even spend time with her, who treated her to every manner of riches and courtesy. He was, she decided, like the princes of old. Or at least the stories of them: of their manners and kindness, the gentle way they courted fair ladies.
“Do as you will, Guardian,” she said, for she still did not know his name. She ducked under the wall, adding, “I enjoy your company.”
Alvaro stared as the space where she had once been, the little hole in the wall where she slipped through to the other side. He merely gaped, hearing his hard breath against the inside of his mask until his whole face felt hot. Or was that the blood that rushed to his head? She…she enjoyed his company? She wanted to spend time with him? Perhaps… she even…liked him? The thought made Alvaro’s head spin, but Keturah’s voice cut through the haze, “You coming?”
He cleared his throat and called, almost hoarsely, “Yes,” before gathering up his tools and going over to the wall. There was no chance on god’s green earth that he was going to fit through a Keturah-sized hole, so he merely parted the wall and created a walkway to move easily between the two plots. Keturah was already busy at work to his left, and he smiled just the smallest bit beneath his mask before going to her and taking his place at her side. She glanced up at him with those blue-green eyes, and he caught a small smile on her lips before she returned to her work.
◆◆◆
Several days later, Jacob was waiting in their apartments when Keturah returned from a long, cold day in the gardens. The boy was preoccupied by playing with something that fluttered around the room. “What is that?” Keturah snapped, ducking and glaring irritably at the thing.
“I don’t know,” Jacob replied, laughing and looking up at it overhead. Keturah knew that it must be some form of magic, for what she had thought was at first a pale butterfly was actually paper, although the craftsmanship she noticed on the wing was impeccable. Surely that clumsy ogre she had met in the garden was not capable of such delicate work as a paper butterfly or the beautiful designs on it, but she could think of no one else who would have been able to do such a thing.
Just as she was considering this, the thing flew past her head and out into the sitting room. “Now where is it going?” she complained with a sigh. Keturah had left her gloves and hat and tools outside, along with the strap that she typically used to tie back her hair but refused to stay in place when she was working with the thorny bushes. She watched the little butterfly soar through to the living room and then flap around up near the ceiling. Keturah sighed. “That thing is going to drive me mad.” She went out to the sitting room, but as soon as she did, it headed for the entry and the ornate double doors opened.
“I think it’s trying to go somewhere…” Jacob observed, his head craned back to study it. Keturah looked over at him to tell him that it was only a butterfly, but as she approached, it went out the door and a bit down the hall, but then stopped again.
“You stay here,” Keturah told Jacob, much to his disappointment, and he pouted, but Keturah only shook her head and left the room, following after the little paper butterfly. Every time she drew nearer to the creature, it fluttered further down the hall: past the spiral staircase and across a catwalk, revealing one of the largest libraries that Keturah had ever seen, and she stopped to turn around and stare. This place, at least, was well lit, and she turned around on the catwalk cutting through the library, going to the banister and looking over.
The library was at least two stories high, covered in books, and down below was a fire place and a few large, stuffed chairs on a rug. But an irate flapping in Keturah’s ear drew her attention, and she whirled on the butterfly to swat it away before she sighed and began following it again. It led her down into the right wing, and again, she was plunged into darkness. Where she went from there, she had no idea. But she followed the paper thing until the sound of one fluttering thing was eventually overwhelmed with the sound of hundreds of them.
Down the hallway, she could see a faint sliver of light and hurried to it. Her escort rejoined its companions flying overhead, and Keturah stared in wonder as she quietly pushed the left door open, heading inside. She stared up at the ceiling and the multitude of little things, and Keturah grinned at the sight, looking back ahead of her.
There he was again, working feverishly on something. The Guardian was sitting, but he was just as tall as her sitting down, if not more. She approached quietly and with a little smile, a little less afraid. Whether or not he wanted her here, twice his magic had proven than it did. “So, am I supposed to just call you ‘lord’ or ‘the Guardian’ or do you actually have a name?” she asked, the butterflies all settling on the edges of lamps and tables, along the crown molding, as if waiting patiently.
The Guardian gripped his heart when he heard her voice, crushing the delicate paper he’d been working with in the process. He felt sad for it for just a second, as though he had crushed a living thing. He reached out, grabbing his mask when he set the paper aside and pulled it back on. He didn’t want to scare her off, not when she purposefully approached him, though he was wishing that he could get more warning next time. “Gods, do you know how not to sneak up on people?” He sounded irate, but mostly he was sad at the delicate form he’d crushed.
Keturah jumped at his growling, but he wasn’t aggressive, and Keturah seemed to not have any sense of self-preservation, for she moved deeper into the room and said, “I suppose it’s habit. I am a thief, you know.” She assumed that he had been told, but she wondered at even with all of that knowledge his magic still presented many wonderful things to her. It didn’t matter. Keturah wouldn’t take anything. Alexzander held her son’s life in his hands. And so long as he had decided that she worked for him, she did what he said. But outside of that, she got by with trading her ve
getables and occasionally working odd jobs here and there, pretending that she lived a respectable life.
“It doesn’t matter that you’re a thief. There’s nothing you can take out of here that I won’t know about,” he said. Being alone meant that his possessions took on a lot of importance to him; the things he picked were things he liked and took great comfort in.
There were probably two dozen or more of the new butterflies sitting or drying on his table, and a small pile of dried ones on the floor for when he’d need them later. Every one was handmade and handcrafted. He was proud of that, but, really, it was because using magic to make the paper toys would mess with the potency of his spells.
She moved over to his workbench, and her face fell. “Oh…” she said quietly, watching him work on the crushed little thing. “Will it still fly?” she looked over at the others lying still on the table.
He sighed heavily, carefully trying to repair his work. He’d been planning on painting it soon. He didn’t want to just throw it away now that it had become less than perfect. He supposed that he could try and make it into a moth instead. That idea appealed to him and he took out his little knife, starting to work again. It took him a moment to remember as he worked that she’d asked him a question.
The Guardian glanced over at her. “I’m going to change it into a moth design. It’ll be special that way. Don’t worry; it will fly no matter what. I’m not going to let it die because of my reflexes,” he said. There he went again, thinking of his toys like real living things. Outside of the three of them, nothing lived in his home, no flowers or insects, nothing but the fish and only because they didn’t have a choice and didn’t care what their owner looked like so long as they were fed. Living things seemed to avoid him, as though he had a sickness…or a curse.
“You may call me whatever you wish,” he told her. “But Alvaro…Alvaro is my name,” he told her.
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