by Elise Kova
A voice cuts through the silence and my thoughts, resonating deep in my core. It has the same tonal quality as the low growl of a wolf and sparks a prey instinct within me. Run, my better sense urges at the sound. Run far from here, this is not a place for you.
“Do not turn,” he says.
Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder. Instinct, really. When someone speaks, I look. I wasn’t intending to disobey… Not this time, at least.
“I said don’t turn.”
My eyes snap forward again. “I only saw a bit of your shoulder. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Oren has been over the rules, has he not?”
“Yes.” The man I’m speaking to is of tall build, judging from where his shoulder came up to on the doorframe. But that’s all I can tell about him. He’s leaning against the wall to the side of the door, as if he knew I would try and look upon him despite his order.
“This is the final rule that you must know,” he says. “Under no circumstances are you to ever lay eyes on me.”
“What?” I whisper, fighting every urge to look over my shoulder once more.
“Oren informed me that you wished to meet with me. I am obliging you, as is now my duty. However, I will only do so if you swear to never look at me.”
The chairs now make sense. I wonder if he is horribly disfigured. Maybe he’s just cripplingly shy. Whatever the reason, I have no want to make him uncomfortable.
“That’s fine with me.” I take my seat in the wingback that faces the windows, my back to the door. “I’m grateful you took the time to meet with me.”
I hear his footsteps across the floor. He has a wide gait, further confirmation that he’s as tall as I suspected. His steps are light, almost silent. He walks like I do, as if he’s trying to never make a sound. I can’t imagine him being a very muscular man, given his footsteps. No…I’m imagining him as a wiry individual. Not much older than me, judging from the strength of his voice. I try and steal a glimpse of him in the watery reflection of the windows but the room is already much too dark for that. He’s little more than a blurred shadow moving behind me.
The chair behind me sighs softly under his weight. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’ve never been more aware of anyone’s presence. I have never been more tempted to do anything than turn and look and see if my every assessment about him is correct.
“Now, what is it that you would like to speak about?” he asks, somewhat curtly.
“I merely wanted to meet you, is all,” I say. “It seemed rather odd to be married to someone without ever—” I stop myself from saying “seeing them” and instead say “—speaking to them.”
“You married me without speaking to me, why does it matter now?”
I can’t tell if the fact wounds him or not. Did he hope that I would beg and plead to meet with him before signing the papers? Does he even realize that my fate was sealed with a stroke of a pen that I wasn’t even holding?
“We are going to spend our lives together,” I say. “I’d like to make that as pleasant as possible.”
“There is nothing pleasant here.”
My husband is very cheerful, it seems. I roll my eyes, grateful he can’t see my expression. “You have a nice enough house, wealth enough to do as you please, no one telling you what to do—”
“Don’t presume to know me,” he interjects sharply.
“I would be happy to, if given the chance.”
“I have no interest in you knowing me, because I have no interest in knowing you. This is an arrangement, nothing more. All you are is a bargain that I have to live up to.”
I clutch my dress over my chest, as if physically trying to shield myself from an invisible wound. What did I expect differently? What had I really been hoping for? Some great romance? Ha. The type of love in the stories young girls read isn’t true. I’ve seen “love” between my father and Joyce. That is the only love that’s real, and it is not something to want.
No, I didn’t want him to love me. But, maybe, I’d hoped I would not be seen as a burden, for once.
“Fair enough,” I say softly.
“Is there anything else? Or are you satisfied?”
“I’m satisfied.”
“Good. I expect to have no issues from you while you are here. Heed the rules, and you will want for nothing as long as you, or I, walk this mortal plane. You will never have to cross my path again.”
The chair squeaks as he stands; his footsteps fade. I wish I had something else to say, or a clear picture of what I wanted. But the fact is I’ve never been allowed to want anything in my life. I’ve been told what I can and can’t have for so long that whatever skill a person is born with to make those choices has been lost to me. It has withered and died from never being used.
I sit for almost a full ten minutes after I’m certain he’s gone, just staring out into the dark woods. Night has fallen and the moon is waning, so it’s almost impossible to make out the dark silhouettes that bar the forest. The longer I stare the more I am filled with a strange sensation that something is staring back at me.
Unable to tolerate the uneasiness any longer, I head for my own room. But as I emerge in the hall I hear footsteps in the main entry. My head slowly turns toward the door that serves as the entrance to my wing. Against my better judgment, I creep across and press my ear to the door.
There are muffled voices on the other side, but I cannot make out what they say. The words are strange, and foreign, spoken in a tongue that I don’t recognize. I tread lightly over to one of the windows that overlooks the circular drive. It’s empty. Not even the carriage that took me here is parked out front any longer.
Who is there? I wonder. Do others live here? Oren made it sound like there were only three of us in the manor. Would he lie? If so, why?
Heed the rules and you will want for nothing, Lord Fenwood said. Oren had also made those rules clear: I am not to leave my wing at night regardless of the sounds I hear. Whatever the lord gets up to in the late hours is not my business.
Fine. I don’t mind being more long-term house guest than wife.
I retreat to my room and ready myself for bed. The mattress and duvet are among the most comfortable I’ve ever felt and I quickly fall into a dreamless sleep…
Only to be woken within the hour by bloodcurdling screams.
Chapter 4
I jolt upright, clutching the covers to me as though they are armor. The screams stop as quickly as they started and echo only in my ears. My heart races; my breathing is short and fast. I look to the door wondering if some bandit or worse is about to break through and murder me in my bed.
But nothing happens. The air is still and quiet once more. There’s not even a breeze rustling through the trees of the woods outside. I do not hear the songs of nighttime bugs or the soft creaks of an old house.
I don’t know how long I sit like that, but it’s long enough that the muscles of my back begin to spasm from holding me so tall and rigid. I exhale and try to release some of the tension as I slip from the covers. Throwing a shawl around my shoulders, I lean against the door to my room, listening. I still hear nothing.
Knowing I must certainly be mad to venture forth, I crack open the door. Gray moonlight, little better to see by than a single candle trying to illuminate the whole hall, streams in through the windows. I look around and see no one.
I dash across the hall and lean against the wall by one of the windows that face the drive. I peek outside. The gravel is empty and smooth, as though Oren just raked it. I keep moving forward as though lingering in the moonlight too long will make me a target in this brisk and eerie night.
Finally, at the door at the end of the hall, I press my ear against the wood. There’s no talking, no movement, and no screams. My hand falls upon the handle, trembling. I was given four very clear rules. But that was before I heard screaming. What if there’s an attack? What if we’re in trouble?
I push down on the handle. It
doesn’t budge. I’m locked in.
My heart is in my throat as I back away from the door. I shake my head, silently pleading to no one. I’m no longer in the hallway. I’m in the long closet underneath the stairs of my family’s manor. The door is locked. Helen tells me that Mother has thrown away the key and that I will never see sunlight again.
I rush back to my room and curl up in bed, drawing my knees to my chest. All night, I stare at the windows that overlook the dark woods and remind myself if I needed to escape—truly needed to—I could shatter them. I have a way out.
Even if that way out is into the woods I have sworn to everyone never to venture into.
When morning finally comes, I breathe easier. There were no more sounds. No other strange things happened in the night.
I venture to the bathroom. I only inspected it briefly the night before. It’s the third door in the hall, situating it between the study and my bedroom. It’s a strange room with water that flows hot and cold from the tap by a magic I don’t understand. I test this phenomenon twice during my morning ablations. Both times the water steams if it runs long enough.
This is a strange place indeed.
Dressed and ready for the day, I stride down the hall. I’m far more confident in the sunlight than I was the night before. The door handle turns effortlessly, granting me access to the rest of the manor. I step out and am drawn to the dining room by the aroma of freshly baked bread.
A plate has been laid out for me. Two eggs have been fried and laid over cooling slabs of toast. Half a sausage is nestled beside them. It’s a breakfast fit for a queen and I make quick work of it.
There’s no sign of Oren, or Lord Fenwood, however. And I had desperately been hoping to catch one of them. I wonder if there was an accident last night that prompted them to leave early in the morning and take the carriage to town.
The scream still resonates in my ears.
When I’m finished, I collect my dishes and head to the side door I saw Oren step through the night before. Sure enough, it leads to a well-stocked kitchen. I can’t fight my instincts; I look through the pantry at the dry and jarred goods. It’s enough to feed ten people for two winters, easily. There’s another door that leads down to the basement that I presume is cold storage. I’m not brave enough to venture into the dark after last night.
I walk along a preparation table to the back of the room, where there is a large basin sink set into the countertop, and tidy my dishes. The open shelves along the wall opposite the hearth allow me to return them to their proper place with ease. I emerge back into the dining room, half expecting Oren to be there, ready to scold me for daring to lift a finger.
But there’s still no one.
The silence is unbearable. Especially since the last sounds I heard in this manor were those screams. I head back to my room with renewed purpose. I can’t stay in this building a second longer. I can’t live with that noise as my only company.
I change into a far simpler dress, one that only goes down to my knees so it doesn’t get caught in brambles and with slits high on the sides to give me mobility. Underneath, I wear a sturdy pair of leggings. I take my lute, sling it over my shoulder, and venture back out to the main hall.
I come to a stop before the front door and repeat the rules Oren told me to myself. I am allowed to leave right now. It’s daytime. And I am only venturing out in front of the manor, not behind. It’s within their parameters; I’ll be safe. I slowly glance over my shoulder. I might even be safer than in here.
The morning is crisp and refreshing. The air, even at the foot of the mountains, feels thinner and lighter. I can smell the dense pine of the forest behind me. The small saplings that make up the woods before me pale in comparison to their ancestors.
Out of curiosity, I follow an offshoot of the drive around the side of the building. Sure enough, it ends at a carriage house and stables. The horses are in their stalls. Carriage parked. So it appears they didn’t head into town.
I almost go over to the horses but immediately think better of it. They’ll remind me too much of Misty and that wound is still too fresh. Instead I turn on my heel and walk along the drive all the way back out to the main gate. It’s closed, and the gravel here shows no sign of the cart being driven out this morning. Then again, I’m no real tracker—if I had been, my family might have eaten better—so it’s hard to be sure.
Feeling braver, I walk along the wall among the brush and bramble. My sturdy work boots give me sure footing. Somewhere between the wall, the manor, and the drive, I come to a glade. Arrows of sunlight strike the ground in beams that pierce the thinning canopy above. The coming winter is making these trees shed and they’ve bled on the ground in shades of orange and red. At the center of the glade is a massive stump. It must have been one of the old trees, felled long ago to stop it from encroaching too far into usable land.
I sit and brace one ankle on the opposite knee, lute in my lap. Holding the neck with one hand, I lightly strum with the other. It’s out of tune. Of course it is, it’s been weeks since I last played. I make my adjustments and strum again, repeating until I’m pleased.
Pressing down with my fingertips, I pluck a single note and allow it to hold in the air. I hum, adjusting the pitch of my voice until it matches with the resonant sound in the body of the lute. I allow the harmony to fade and take a breath, before my fingers begin to dance atop the strings.
Pluck, pluck, pluck, strum. The introduction rises to a swell before stopping in a sudden silence. Then, the first note. I sing with the second.
“I knew you,
When the trees
Were on fire.
“I saw you,
When you were
Not a liar.”
A brief interlude. I rock with the music. Swaying with the trees and breezes that round out my merry troupe. Strumming as we reach the chorus.
“Our song, rode on the mists of mountains high.” I close my eyes, feeling the music within me as much as around me. The forest has fallen to a hush, as if listening to me play. It’s been ages since I had a space to play and sing. “Our song, lurked in crypts of kings gone by.”
I shift my fingers on the neck, transitioning back to the verse, now playing each note in harmony as I find the melody once more.
“I saw you,
When the—”
“Well aren’t you a surprise?”
I’ve only heard his voice once before and yet I would know it anywhere. That resonance is deeper than a bass string. Richer than dark chocolate. I jerk, startled, and glance over my shoulder on instinct.
“Don’t look,” he reminds me.
I quickly stare forward again. “I didn’t see anything. Well, just your shoulder again.” He’s hiding behind a tree.
“You’re going to make me think you have some kind of obsession with my shoulders.”
I let out a soft snort of laughter and play along. “Well, so far as I can tell, they are quite nice shoulders.”
It’s his turn to laugh. The sound is as bright as sunlight and as sumptuous as velvet. I have to force my hands to stay still so I don’t try and harmonize with it on instinct. I know how annoying I am with the lute in my hands.
“I didn’t know you can play the lute.”
“I suspect there’s much about each other we don’t know.” He hadn’t seemed interested in opening up the night before to discover such things.
“Where did you learn that song?”
“I’m not sure…” The taste of metal explodes in my mouth, like I ate something burnt or bit my tongue and now have blood on the insides of my cheeks. I hate lying. Whenever someone tries to tell a lie to me, I smell smoke. Whenever I tell a lie, I taste metal. Either way, lies are unpleasantness I try to avoid at all costs. “I must’ve heard it somewhere when I was very young. I’ve known it for a long time.” Half-truths are easier.
My mother was the one who taught me that song. It was my lullaby. But as I grew older, and Joyce entered our lives, m
y father always told me to keep the things she taught me a secret.
“I suppose those sorts of old songs have a way of lingering in places like this.”
“I suppose so.” I grip the lute protectively. “Is it all right that I was singing it?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
I think back to Helen, my mother, and their scolding. Laura’s encouragement is weak by comparison. “I’m not a very good singer, or player.”
“I’m not sure who told you that, but they were lying. You’re exceptional.”
The air is still crisp and clear; my nose isn’t singed. He’s not lying. He really thinks I’m good. “Thank you.”
“Will you finish the song for me? It’s been a very long time since I heard that one performed,” he says softly. I can hear in his voice how unsure he is of asking. How hesitant. Maybe he feels bad for how he treated me last night.
“Only if you answer a question for me first.”
“Yes?”
“Last night… I heard screams. Well, one scream. It ended quickly… Is everything all right?”
His hesitation is horrible. “Is it possible you had a nightmare?”
“I know what I heard.”
“I didn’t scream last night.”
“I never said it was you.” I can’t stand his evasiveness. The way he’s speaking to me right now feels the same as when Joyce would talk down to me, tell me I was mistaken when I knew I wasn’t. Looking for any excuse to explain away or belittle how I thought or felt. “I went to investigate but couldn’t because the door was locked—”
“You tried to leave your quarters at night?” There’s almost a growl at the end of the question. Rage is a palpable thing and I can feel it radiating off of him. “There are explicit rules for your well-being.”
I want to glare at him. I want to look into his eyes and tell him how unreasonable it is to lock me up like an animal at night. “Maybe I wouldn’t have tried to leave if I hadn’t heard screams. I thought I was in danger.”