“Will that be all for the evening, Mr. Echo?” Jasper asked. He licked his lips and cleared his throat as if a powerful thirst had come upon him.
“Wait, Jasper. Just wait a moment. I don’t want you to go yet.”
“In a few hours the sun will be up and with it, your daytime chef. If there’s anything I can have him prepare for you, I can leave a note.”
“You’re not like me, but you’re not like anyone else. Are you?” Hugh asked.
Jasper met his gaze. “I’m a chef. And I’m loyal to this family. I will be back tomorrow night and the night after that if you’ll still have me. But right now I have to go.”
Hugh nodded, and Jasper turned to leave.
“Was my grandfather a good man? A kind man?” Hugh asked suddenly.
“I’m sure he was,” Jasper said. “I’m not the right person to ask.”
“Yes, you’re right. If you had known him that would make you very old, wouldn’t it? Improbably so…”
“May I see myself out?”
Hugh hesitated, but in the end he smiled and answered politely. “Of course. Thank you, chef, for your service.”
The chef gave a courteous nod and then left the room. He found his way back through the manor and into the kitchen. He saw to it that everything was exactly as the daytime chef had left it. Once he was satisfied, Jasper went to the weathered wooden counter upon which generations of meals had been cooked. He stood before his leather pack and ran his fingers over each of his twelve knives before putting each one into its respective place. He rolled the pack up and bound it twice with a black cotton sash so well used that it was no longer, strictly speaking, black. At the sash’s center had been an embroidered crest, but years had pulled the threads loose and the crest no longer identified any family or allegiance. Jasper ran his fingers over where the symbol had been before tucking the leather pack under his arm.
The chef left Echo Manor just as the sun was beginning to consider peeking up over the horizon. He would be gone by the time the first rays touched the ground. He always was.
THE ALCHEMIST’S DAUGHTER
Rosalía Zizzo
So what are you working on now, Father?” While suppressing my cough and the urge to chuckle at his wild hair, I toss my own honey-blonde tresses over the shoulder of my sweaty peasant blouse and then rub my father’s back as I stand over him. His rumpled wool shirt is covered in splatters from his sloppy stirring, but I watch him mix yet another of his many delicious concoctions in a stone jar anyway. I’m sarcastic, of course. “Smashed beetles mixed with the juice from mushed cherries?” I wish it were a joke. I really do.
My father looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and he probably hasn’t. He’s too preoccupied with mixing his elaborate fare. He’s wearing what looks like a burlap sack, and his unkempt, shoulder-length hair is a mess, the greasy strands facing this way and that, some even sticking straight up, with a couple of gray patches visible from the mass of unwashed and disheveled locks. The unshaven frizzy beard has grown below his chin, and he looks like a joke of a man mixing a joke of a meal. But he hasn’t always been like this. Before my mother got sick, he was known for his brilliance, and I’m sure his genius will shine again someday. Keyword: someday.
Perking up, he turns to me before resuming his work, and the look I see in his glazed, sea-green eyes is almost manic.
“I think I have it this time,” he says excitedly while he stirs in a furious fashion, slopping his mixture everywhere. “I really think this time it’s different.”
Poor Father. He really lost it when Mother died. Usually he brings out his trusty mortar and pestle and grinds up seeds or berries in order to mix them with some foul-tasting liquid for me to drink, spilling the berries on my white frock. He’s tenacious, and since I started exhibiting symptoms of the same illness my mother had before her death, he has been undying in his search for a way to save me—a cure, so to speak.
“Do you need help?” I grab his wrists to stop his frantic stirring and force his hands to the desk. We use our dining table as a desk, and he has turned the dining room/kitchen into his lab. I stare into his tired eyes. “I think it’s time to rest, now.”
I’m sure I don’t look much better than he does with the dark circles under my sunken gray eyes that look bruised from lack of sleep and my bony frame that reveals my daily feast of whatever I can get my hands on, such as crumbs from our neighbors’ bread and the meat from dead birds and rodents in combination with my father’s beverages. My oily hair shows I haven’t washed it for quite some time, and the smudges on my face and clothing prove my lack of desire to deal with bathing or the laundry. It’s not like I have more than two dresses anyway, but I’m sure I look like my mother did in her last days.
The chronic cough is the first symptom, as well as the sickly, gaunt appearance and bloodshot eyes. Before the pallid, dry skin and the weight loss comes the ever-persistent cough, as if you’re trying to rid your throat of a speck of dust that seems to linger no matter how hard you cough to expel it. My mother was always coughing, and she lost a lot of weight a couple of years ago, and her constant complaint about her sore throat and her persistent nausea made us seek out every doctor we could until we didn’t have an ounce of gold left to afford to even feed ourselves. And then she died, bringing a host of religious followers, insisting she could have been saved if only she worshipped their invisible god. As if their god cared about their dreary music and bland food—and their hard, uncomfortable seating. Sounds like a god who doesn’t know anything about having a good time.
When he starts experimenting with metals in his lab, I see the desperation in his eyes, the haggard and sallow expression on his face, and the dark grime under his fingernails. The solution to my ailment seems to elude him even though he attempts mixing all sorts of concoctions with the hope of eliminating my pain and anguish. All of the local New England population has even nicknamed him the village lunatic, stomping past our doorway and throwing rotten fruit while laughing hysterically. And some even claim he is in league with the devil, accusing him of absurd activities while insisting he has committed absolutely outrageous acts like dancing in the moonlight naked or flying over the rooftops every misty evening.
“Come here, my dear,” my hardworking father says while reaching toward me and grasping my filthy apron, pulling me closer so that I scrape the bottoms of my shoes on the wooden floor. As he drags me, I inch along in my slightly heeled shoes with buckles on top the size of my index finger, and I hope I don’t leave more mud on the floor. The grimy, tan-colored shoes have mud splattered all over them, attesting to the muddy streets outside.
“Everybody wants to make their own gold. I’m just different in that I also hope to ease your pain.” I nod with the hope of looking encouraging, but it doesn’t seem to help.
After running his hand vigorously back and forth over his head, further mussing his hair, he groans, “I refuse to have you live through Matilde’s misery.” He sighs loudly and cries out my name. “Elizabeth! What am I to do, Elizabeth?” Looking to be at his wit’s end, he focuses his eyes on me and lifts his eyebrows.
“It’s all right, Father. I’m just tired is all. Perhaps I just need some more sleep.” I try to soothe him with my voice and my touch, but any attempt to take him away from his task at hand is completely ineffectual. He ignores anything I do or say, and when another string of coughs erupts from my mouth, he pounds the table and sets his elbows on the wood before burying his face in his palms. I’m sure his groaning can be heard from the next town.
Feeling helpless about his mental anguish, all I can do is massage his shoulders and run my hands over his arms until I hear a crowd moving closer to our door. I turn my head and walk over. When I crack the door open and peer outside, I stop breathing. I notice the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life with a giant cross around his neck blinking his long lashes over liquid, dark eyes in front of a noisy mass of people, waving whatever tools they have collected.
“What are you doing?” I shout, trying to keep my voice from breaking as the man holds his arm in full swing, ready to hurl an overripe piece of fruit at my front door. “Why don’t you leave us alone?” Tempted to throw garbage back at him, I rush outside and grab his arm, tackling him to the ground, which is the only thing stopping the mob behind him from murdering my father with their pitchforks and kitchen knives. They tumble over us in their effort to get to the door, but they only end up making a muddy pile of silly fools. Panic and mass hysteria seemed to follow after my mother passed away, and the crowd mobilized outside our door. Too bad this particular fellow has joined them, so his good looks are wasted.
Any follower of the mob lacks the brainpower necessary to be considered a worthy man, and eating the fruit would be a better idea than throwing it. At least, that’s what I think.
“I, um, am only…” Dropping the purple fruit when he falls with me on top of him, he tries to compose himself as his three-cornered hat falls into the mud, and in his embarrassment, he fumbles over himself as he struggles to stand, apologizing profusely. But that doesn’t change my opinion of him: I see him as willing to murder someone because the crowd thinks it’s a good idea, a fool who deserves a slap to make his sly smile disappear.
“Go. Away.”
When I go back inside, my father questions me.
“Anyone we know?”
“No, Father. It’s just those demented people saying stupid things.” As well as the most handsome man in the world.
Slamming my journal shut in the evening and capping the fountain pen, I ponder my options as I place the book and pen on my makeshift nightstand, an old dusty crate that has worn, faded crimson paint on the back. I settle in for the night, but my stomach growls again as I attempt sleep, and I can’t help but think of the wonderful foods my mother and I used to make together.
We used to create some amazing holiday fare and some scrumptious desserts I loved to share with our friends and neighbors when we joined them in merrymaking. That was when they didn’t treat us like outcasts and when they invited us to gatherings, but I guess we don’t deserve their friendship anymore because, according to them, we only party with the devil now—as if that’s more believable than grieving over a dead spouse or worrying about whether or not you will suffer the same fate as your mother. Entertaining the red-skinned demon is a more acceptable reason for not sleeping according to them.
In order to get any sleep at all, I stroke myself to a fantasy of the dark-eyed stranger, the man leading the mob of angry lunatics carrying kitchen utensils and garden implements. Not his behavior, but his smile and his eyes. And the feel of his strong arms pinning me to the bed. My mattress probably isn’t the softest, but it’s my own. Like my mind. Like my fantasy of a man I’d like to touch, whose firm chest calls to my lips and hands. His strong thighs and muscular arms serve as relief from the pain of losing my mother, the anguish from watching my father change from a brilliant to a crazed man, and my extraordinary hunger.
In the morning, I humble myself, lift my skirts so they don’t get muddy, and walk toward the marketplace beside the Jefferson farm. My father needs food, and I remember when my mother was still alive I would accompany her to the marketplace to sell our eggs from our chickens. Over time, we eventually ate all the eggs and then the chickens as well. The mud created by last night’s drizzle splatters on my ankles, but I know that if I don’t find a way for the two of us to get some food, we’ll starve. As it is, my father is already behaving like a demented person with his lack of food and sleep, and his concern for me has turned him into a mad recluse.
Slowly approaching the table with Mister Jefferson fussing over local produce and jars of jam, I straighten my dress and rub my lips together, pinch my cheeks, and comb my fingers through my hair. Mister Jefferson looks up and addresses me.
“Why, Elizabeth! I haven’t seen you in a while. I was going to talk to you at church, but you haven’t been there for quite some time. I heard about your mother. I am so so sorry…” His eyes look warm and sincere, even though I can tell his mind is elsewhere. Regardless, I take a deep breath and say what I planned to say.
“I would like to talk to you, sir—” Distracted, he turns and yells over his shoulder.
“Samuel!” Turning back to me, he reassures me, “I’m sorry. I have to go. It’s all right. You’re in good hands with my nephew who’s come to stay with us. Now I need to help Sarah with the maple syrup made from the sap tapped from the Adams’s trees.”
Before I can respond, he’s already gone, and his nephew has taken his place. The nephew is clean and presentable and completely like a businessman marketing his wares, but when I look at his face, I gasp.
“You!” I see his deep brown eyes that make me melt like a puddle of churned butter left out in the midday sun. So his nephew’s name is Samuel. Now his strong farmworker’s build makes sense. Lifting heavy equipment must make for his huge biceps, or maybe it’s from chopping wood or from hoisting huge sacks of flour over his shoulder. Regardless, it’s going to take a lot more than a desirable body to change my mind about him. I briefly scan his chest and shoulders while I collect my thoughts. At least I can fantasize about him. It doesn’t mean I have to like him.
“Elizabeth?” He questions me with that smirk that makes me feel like I just swallowed a boulder. I quickly close my knees.
“Yyyes…” My mind is swimming with many thoughts, some of them hateful and some of them lustful, but I finally spit it out. “Well, I came here to see if there was anything I could do to earn some food to fill my father’s stomach. He needs to eat.” It feels like the temperature has risen a couple of degrees higher when I look into his eyes.
“Of course. I will make up a package you can take with you.” His grin crinkles the sides of his eyes, and the spreading pink flush over his cheeks makes him even more handsome if that’s at all possible.
I didn’t plan on begging for charity. “I can work for it. I just don’t have any money to pay you right now.” I scowl and then tentatively lower my eyes, looking at him through the veil of my eyelashes so I don’t have to look into his eyes directly. My heart pounds.
“That’s all right. I will give you something to take with you, Elizabeth. I’m honestly embarrassed about the other day. My mates dared me to—” He pauses as he begins collecting things for my father. “I’m sorry about your mother.” His eyes look down at his hands that are gathering items for me. “I’m sorry about the other day.” His apology seems lost in the growing sexual tension. Samuel wraps the items in paper and ties a long-sleeved shirt around the load, pushing them toward me, but my pride prevents me from snatching the items immediately. Instead, I offer more explanation so that I don’t accept an excuse for his rotten behavior so easily.
“I don’t want you to take pity on me. I am just frightened for my father.”
“Of course.” I hear sarcasm in his voice, but that’s probably because I’ve already prejudged him. After I freeze, tears begin to form as I think about my father and about a possible new plan. What was I thinking coming here? The cussed fool doesn’t deserve any more of my time.
“Forget it.” I feel stupid now. I quickly turn and head back in the direction I came, but just as I take a step, he reaches out and seizes my clothing.
“Wait, wait, wait. I had no intention of offending you. I promise to help. Really. I promise.” His sparkling eyes look sincere, and he grabs hold of the load. “Here. Let me accompany you.” He starts to follow me, but I stop him.
“No, no, no. That’s not necessary, but I don’t think my father’s strong enough to—”
“I understand.” When he sees me pinch my brows together in skepticism, he reassures me: “Really.” We meet each other’s eyes and gaze for a moment, him blinking his long lashes until he inhales sharply and adjusts his breeches.
“He’s mixing all sorts of things together and having me drink them. He worries about me.” I chatter on and on, and when Samuel sees my conti
nued difficulty, he steps forward, lowering his voice as he bends down near my ear.
“Really. It’s all right. I understand. We’ll take care of your food.” His warm breath on my ear makes me sizzle. He pushes the items back toward me slightly and gestures with his head that I should take them.
I reach toward the package, but my hands hover over it as I lift my eyes to meet his, where I see heat within the dark chocolate irises. He wiggles and adjusts his trousers again as we stare at each other for quite some time.
When I finally see that he is sincere, I hesitantly grab the items to head back home, not caring if my petticoats will get mud on them. “Thank you,” I mutter.
As I scoop up my belongings and quickly march home, Abigail, my shadow for the past ten years, appears and trots by my side.
“Hi, Elizabeth! Did you hear?” She always sounds out of breath and excited. She scurries along at my side like a four-year-old as I speed along.
“Hi, Abigail.” My monotone voice sounds cold and restrained and hopefully slows her childish skipping. “Hear what?”
Panting audibly, she tries to keep up with my pace. “They accused a girl in the next town over of working with Lucifer.” She takes a deep breath. “They’re going to burn her next week!” I stop briefly in front of our shed-like home and stare at her, cradling the food in front of me and losing myself in thought as she continues her story.
“Burn?” I feel numb while I turn to the door and climb the steps, not hearing anything further Abigail says because the world has become a confusing and lonely place.
When I walk through the front door, my father is still working, mixing something in a stone bowl. He looks up and asks, “Where have you been? You should see what I’ve been working on. I think this one will work.” His eyes glitter in excitement, but I refrain from joining him in his joy. I put on a face of seriousness and grab his hands to stop his stirring, gazing into his eyes. “I’ve been working on it all day and—”
Darker Edge of Desire Page 14