“Where is he?” She asked, her voice hoarse with emotion.
Her aunt’s face began to emit sincere concern, and she shot up from her laying position, barely noticing the pain in her head, nor the dizziness. Nothing seemed to matter but the answer she was about to hear. She noticed a paleness she hadn’t seen in her aunt before, a drawn expression that told her something was terribly wrong.
“Aunt?” she asked, her voice trembling and losing strength.
It took Aunt Everild a moment to speak, for she dropped her face to the ground, as if studying the pattern of the rug; and her eyes stayed there for some time. When she looked back up at Maryone it was with a look of resolution and duty. She hardened her face, straightened her brow, and spoke emotionlessly.
“He has gone, Maryone,” she said.
Maryone’s heart stopped suddenly, as if gripped by an icy fist.
“...Late in the night there was an... altercation. He left most displeased.”
Maryone stared at her aunt wide-eyed and reeling. She couldn’t say anything, only exert all her efforts to keep breathing. Since she didn’t reply, her aunt continued.
“He said that you,” she paused, swallowing. “He said that you conducted yourself... that you acted indecently with another man.”
Maryone swallowed hard, choking on the words. He’d seen her with Valefar and must’ve thought it some sort of romantic rendez-vous. But truly, how could he think that? It was so far from the truth in her heart, and she’d thought them so in sync in their thoughts. She heard what her aunt said, but was so filled with shock that she hardly registered it.
“He declared this in front of some of my- the guests,” her aunt said, her voice distraught, “Most passionately. He seemed quite livid. He broke an heirloom vase in the main hall and then left with his servants.”
Her aunt paused as Maryone teetered on her feet, reaching out to grasp the table top as she wavered.
“He has denounced you,” she said, her voice betraying a small bit of emotion but remaining austere. “And your engagement. It has been... called off.”
At the words, Maryone’s eyes glazed. Her body froze and her chest became hollow. She felt she could see for miles, but they were miles of muck, filth and desolate wasteland stretching out before her in a sickening expanse. In her mind, she could see nothing but his eyes - how they’d looked on the side of the lake and on the day he’d arrived here. But now they twisted and flickered with disgust, hatred of who she was. They’d seen deep within her and found her wanting - they looked on in horror. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She knew he loved her. She knew it. It felt like she was gagging. Every inch of her body contracted, filled with misery from her throat all they way down to her toes.
As she grappled with what she’d heard, her aunt stood and straightened her back. She said nothing more, only lifted her chin and eyebrows, ever austere. She was a woman very sensible of propriety, and Maryone could tell she was deeply offended - at her. She could tell that this turn of events bothered her most deeply, but not out of pity or compassion. She was upset for her own sake, to have invested so much into shaping and introducing a niece who had shamed her in the end.
Her stomach lurched with betrayal. There was nowhere for her heart to seek solace now. She could sense her aunt’s resentment at having been put in such a situation, in which her respectability was called into question and in which she’d been shamed before all her friends, most of whom had left by now, fled the scene like a plague house, not wishing for any taint to attach itself to them or their relations. Looking up at her aunt, she found no sympathetic looks or compassionate words; and she saw that her aunt was one of those who cared when it was convenient, who showed affection when others did as well. But in the face of hardship or isolation, her kindness dissolved. She knew now that her aunt had no real love for her. Deep down, it was her own vanities she had served all along in her pampering and fussing over her niece. Her knees gave out beneath her and she dropped to the chaise just before her aunt turned and left the room.
~
Every waking moment was a torment. It pained her to breathe, to be awake, to think. So she spent most hours in sleep. She wrote a letter to Ascelin, though it took several tries and she wasn’t sure where to have it sent. She didn’t know what to say to him. It seemed strange to tell him the true nature of her relationship with Valefar. In fact, he might think her crazy if she did. So, she came up with a story of having come upon him by accident in the forest, that he was merely a guest who’d suffered a loss, and she wished to comfort him. For, telling him that Valefar was a man she knew and saw frequently didn’t seem like a statement that would cool his blood.
She found some small hope in reminding herself that Ascelin may yet see the light. Even her aunt maintained this, pointing out over tea that a man who’d gone to such lengths, and shown such particular attentions for so long, and from so far away, must not give affection of a fickle kind. She found the strength to stay awake without spiraling into misery through this belief, though it was a shaky one, and she often had to hide in corners while tears poured over downcast cheeks, and the hopelessness set in all over again.
Her first letter to Ascelin received no reply. But her aunt learned that he had taken up residence in London, and was spending much time with the Foley family. At learning this, Maryone felt an overpowering surge of jealousy and alarm. But she tried to reassure herself, reminding herself that he did not love the young Miss Foley. Truly, through all that was happening, she knew Ascelin loved her. The love she’d sensed from him was not the kind to disappear so quickly. Any other connection would be a momentary folly, and he was too wise to pursue anything so foolish. Though the pain in her gut made her feel she was constantly falling, and set her to tears at random moments, she determined to be strong and believe in him. She didn’t know what would happen, but she knew that the love she’d sensed from him was stronger and more possessive than anything she’d felt before. She would have to restore his faith in her somehow.
Weeks passed and she sent more letters. She hadn’t the courage to send too many, not wanting to lose all dignity in his eyes by begging. Her trips into the village became less frequent, for the villagers had become increasingly hostile and suspicious of her - some of them openly rude, which she found quite alarming and traumatic considering all she was dealing with. One Sunday afternoon, on her way home from the village, a group of young boys had thrown rocks at her, just on the outskirts of town, calling her a witch and a harpy. She’d gotten away with only a few scrapes and bruises, but a cloud fell over her then, one of shame and isolation that, even in coming years, would never lift. If the townspeople had thought her strange and impish before, the shame of her failed betrothal was enough for total condemnation in their sight.
Her aunt was increasingly cold and distant. She spoke optimistically at times, as she sat dutifully across from Maryone over tea. But the look in her eyes was sour and detached, as if she wished to be far away. The optimism, it seemed, was fueled more by a desire to raise her family and reputation up again, rather than support or care for Maryone. She offered little comfort or consolation, and was available to keep her company less and less.
Her letters went unanswered. And one day, five weeks after Ascelin’s departure, her aunt came and sat her down. Her eyes were solemn and blank, betraying a detached bitterness that chilled Maryone to the bone. She informed her that her duty was done, and that she was removing to her own home in the north. Maryone tried not to cry, nor to let the spinning in her head and sickness in her stomach take over. Instead, she held her quivering belly and watched rain drip down the windowpane in silver lines as her aunt spoke.
Her future stretched out before her bleak, gray and unbearable. Her aunt would be taking her servants, leaving Maryone with enough to get by, and would leave on the morrow. It served no purpose, she said, to delay.
From that moment on, Maryone sat and couldn’t find the strength to get up. She lay staring, her limbs t
oo weak to support her. Her breath came slow and low. Not a soul came to offer succor and she reminded herself, with a sense of emptiness, that this was unlikely to change.
A week after her aunt was gone, she travelled into the village on a small errand; more in search of company and distraction than anything. Since the departure of her aunt, the isolation had become stifling, settling over the house in an oppressive cloud, until she was willing to take the chance of facing the hostile villagers. She wished above all to remove herself from her thoughts for a short time, from wondering and longing after Ascelin, of the image of him in the company of Miss Foley, and the stabbing pain of regret and powerlessness that came at the thought of his rejection. Turmoil had filled her head with a heat and mania that bordered on madness over the previous weeks, and with her aunt now gone, her world was desolate and bereft of a practical voice to cheer her.
As her feet trod upon the borders of the village, several small children who’d been playing nearby scattered. They ran into the village before her, not speaking a word. And as she continued on, passing tudor houses with slender streams of chimney smoke rising above, windows were slammed shut. The roads were more quiet than she’d ever seen. Such strangeness wasn’t doing wonders for her mindset, which was already on edge. She tried to reassure herself that it was some fluke. Perhaps someone had died, and the villagers were in mourning. She turned a few corners and found her way to the small shop at the center of town. Several customers were inside, and as she stepped in, they turned and stared at her with scandalized looks. All conversation stopped, all eyes were on her. She tried to ignore them and the conspicuous feeling that crawled up her back, nervously stepping forward to the counter. She greeted Annie, the shopkeeper, who looked back at her with a sallow and drawn expression. The woman didn’t reply to her greeting, only glared at her.
“I think ye should leave,” Annie said, her voice low. “Ye aren’t welcome here.”
Maryone was shocked at being treated so, and by a lowly shopkeeper.
“Ah-” her mouth dropped open, and a nondescript sound came out.
“Leave, witch!” exclaimed one of the other shoppers.
Several of the other women concurred with sounds and exclamations at her back. Maryone felt hot tears filling her eyes, flinching against their harsh sound that washed through her heart as well as her ears. She set her jaw so it wouldn’t quiver and turned to walk from the store without conducting her business, holding her chin as high as she could manage.
Something hit her between the shoulder blades as she walked. Her feet hesitated when she felt it, but continued on right away. She wished more than anything to be gone from the place.
Outside, several villagers were gathered near the door. Her heart almost stopped when she saw it, for they were a healthy-sized crowd and seemed riled. She kept moving, veering to the side to make her way through the thinnest part of the crowd.
“Witch!” She heard a voice cry from behind her.
Others called after her until their accusations became a dull roar. Her feet scurried more quickly over the ground as a trembling took her limbs. She felt small items hitting her back, and panic took her mind, for she realized that they truly meant to do her harm. Suddenly, a painful force kicked her to the ground, and her hands sunk into mud as she tried to catch her breath. Several hands took hold of her arms, pulling them back until it hurt. She was lifted off the ground and dragged into the center of the angry crowd. Coarse-faced women, children and old men who’d once greeted her with a smile scowled and scolded her, pointing and condemning her to death with their eyes. They seemed insane, unthinking as she scanned their faces for an ally. There were none present, so she looked up desperately into the gray skies.
The crowd continued to hurl small items and hoarse insults. A young boy threw a rock at her, and it hit her square in the left cheekbone, rending a loud thudding sound through her skull and nearly knocking her to the ground. At that, the crowd hushed and her arms were dropped. She dizzily struggled to right herself, finding it hard to focus or coordinate her movements. The crowd seemed momentarily ashamed at how far they’d gone, and to be deciding if they meant to go any further. But she could sense in their buzz that their remorse would soon be spent, and their barbarism would take hold, pushing them to new extremes; if only to justify their initial ones.
She surveyed the crowd, their once-innocent faces ugly and gray. A few of the young, foolish boys who craved violence more than anything made suggestions of what should be done with her. Middle-aged women piped in in self-righteous tones. The crowd absorbed their suggestions as Maryone swayed on unsteady feet. She knew she didn’t have long before matters escalated, but she had no way to retreat - they’d surrounded her. Some of the young men moved threateningly forward, slapping at her with their dry, calloused hands. The boundaries were falling, control was ceasing. They would soon do real harm.
Storm clouds brewed overhead, and she began to shake uncontrollably; from shock or anger, she didn’t know. Her conscious mind folded back until she felt she was under the influence of something else, a strange, pitiless passion, one that burned hungrily for vengeance - the rage of a ravenous, furious animal.
She bore her teeth as young boys lunged toward her, feeling no pity for their ignorance and naivety anymore. They had proven themselves vile. Why should she sacrifice her life to their depravity, their state of debasement? They’d the faces of goblins, twisted by the expression of pigs. She focused her attention on one in particular, a doughy youth with dried snot under his nose, and felt a hateful power pour up from the pit of her stomach in undiluted potency. She didn’t stop it. She didn’t try to understand him or the life that’d caused his ignorance, though her heart flickered a small sound of pity for the boy from a hazy distance. She glared like an angry tiger, and felt something rise up through her feet, as if from the ground, and rush through her quickly. She hardly knew what was happening before her hand reached out towards the boy. From the sky, a deafening crack sounded. At it’s breaking, a brightness flashed over the crowd, one so bright it was blinding. But it only lasted for a moment. A white, hot bolt of lighting crashed down from the skies then, channeling through the body of the boy. She felt the power and heat of it rush through her, filling her veins and shaking her violently. She was barely able to see, but she saw the bolt had connected, through the boy, to the entire crowd of hecklers. They all shook together under the power of the bolt, like a crowd of horrific marionette dolls; their eyes vacant and their bodies shaking in a strange, fractured dance. They moaned and screamed in a strange, liquid sound - a mixture of men, women and children - a sound she never forgot, not even until her last day alive.
When she saw the faces of children under the bolt’s power, writhing in agony, she strived with all her might to stop it. She grasped at her hand with the other, pulling it down until the shard of pure light was released back up into the darkening skies. But it was too late. The crowd of villagers had burst into flames, homespun imprisoning their bodies as it burned around them. The circle of hecklers now formed a strange fiery wreath all around her. She watched in horror as they writhed and panicked, those uninjured enough to help themselves searching for ways to extinguish their flames. Many others fainted dead on the ground in smoking piles. Beyond the horror, onlookers stood in doorways, disbelieving.
Maryone gasped and stumbled away as she surveyed her terrible handiwork. Truly, she was the devil’s daughter; Lucifer’s own mistress. Of course Ascelin didn’t love her. Who could? None could. None would after this. She surveyed their faces with eyes drawn wide, barely able to look at the burned horrors their features had transformed to. She couldn’t stand the looks of those who watched from afar, their hatred and judgment burning deep into her. She turned and ran towards the moors, clutching her dress to her bosom, which was more ripped than she’d realized. She looked back once or twice, partially to see if she was being followed, and partially to check that it’d all been real. It had. And she couldn’t help but l
ook. She couldn’t help but torture herself. And from that day forward, her isolation was complete.
~
No one ventured to the manor to molest her. The rumors about her being a witch in league with the evil one were so widespread that none dared come near. Now she was a prisoner - a prisoner in her own home, a prisoner in her own mind - sentenced to timeless isolation. Several of the servants resigned, out of fear of her or of retribution from the villagers, she didn’t know. Very few were left, and she feared those who remained would leave soon as well, for the workload was far too heavy for so few to do.
For some weeks, she was distracted from her previous pain of the loss of Ascelin, living in the dazed horror of what’d happened in the village. She spiraled between denial and fear, wondering who her family must be that she’d been born thus; fearing the damnation of her immortal soul. She’d none to seek counsel from. She knew none would hear. Likely the friar condemned her each Sunday in church, to uproarious agreement from the rest of the congregation. Most of all, she felt how she was now unlovable, completely and absolutely; unreachable by any friend or lover. She was isolated from human company, from any kind of future; but most of all, from real and lasting love; the kind of intimacy and companionship she craved like essential air.
But strangely enough, and to her even deeper regret, the event didn’t make her feel unlovable to Ascelin. Her heart told her that the man she knew understood her, and that he would stand by her given the chance. For she knew his nature, and he knew hers. In that she could trust. But these thoughts only tormented her more, filling her with regret and hopeful confusion; for he was not here. She yearned for word from him desperately, agonizing over his absence as waves of fear and doubt threatened to wash her from the path of truth.
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