Ansel of Pryor House

by Hayden Thorne

  Ansel didn’t hesitate. Murmuring his apologies clumsily, he withdrew from Miss Peveler’s company and escaped to his room.

  * * * *

  The following morning, Ansel forced himself to eat his breakfast in the dining room despite the overwhelming loneliness of being the only one there. As usual, Miss Peveler was nowhere to be found, having ventured out again “to see friends.” Ansel had begun to wonder about the lady’s activities, convincing himself that perhaps she was really at home and was simply one of those strange recluses. On his way downstairs, he’d even tried her bedroom door and found it locked. A pressed ear against the cold wood yielded no sounds from within. She might be in bed or simply devoting her hours to reading alone. Maybe even practicing her magic in some way or another. It was difficult to tell. Eventually he was forced to give up and move on. Magic or no magic, it was clear he was meant to be kept away from a good number of things for reasons only the lady knew.

  He glanced up and stared at the long table, the empty chairs, and the polished wood only adding to the weight of his solitude.

  Do what you need to do.

  For that morning, what his gut feeling told him he needed to do was go to the library. Unfortunately, that same gut feeling failed to explain why he should be there. When he entered, he heard those awful, familiar words, riding on waves of contemptuous laughter. His father again, back from the darkest corners of his memory, sneering and spitting, an unseen hand raised, ready to be brought down on Ansel’s face or body with horrifying force and accuracy.

  Dung brain!

  Ansel froze and almost turned around and fled, but compulsion—that strange, forceful urge to stay and risk torment—held him fast. Being in the library terrified him, and yet—and yet—it gave him hope, though he didn’t know why. Compulsion demanded he remain. A quieter, younger voice—his, he thought—begged him to stand firm despite the fear and shame that cast a lingering shadow around him. It took him a moment to steady himself, calmly take hold of the doorknob, and close the door behind him with a soft click.

  Chapter 10

  The library was cold, just like the rest of Pryor House. It was just as beautiful as ever, too, but empty and lacking, melancholy loneliness bound in leather, stitched into upholstered fabric, and gleaming under the soft polish of dark wood.

  Ah, here we go again. Let’s see what the ambitious little turd thinks he can read.

  Ansel chose a random bookcase, feeling at first defiant until he read—or tried to read—the gilt letters on different spines, and dismay crept in. Perhaps if he tried to pronounce words under his breath, their meaning might come to him.

  Many of the volumes, he was quickly reminded, were in different foreign languages. He forced himself to read what he could of the titles or the text on random pages. It was a mind-breaking effort and certainly an awful, insistent blow on what little self-respect he had because he simply couldn’t read them, let alone comprehend, no matter how he tried to pronounce them. And some of the letters had strange markings or symbols on them that made things even worse.

  Stupid little pup. Never knows when to stop.

  Ansel pinched his eyes shut and fought against his father’s shadow. It was a powerful presence, its ugliness a hovering threat to his peace of mind. He’d already been taken away; he was now safe in Pryor House. His father was gone from his life, perhaps forever, yet his tainted presence resisted this change.

  Ansel needed to keep it at bay—at least for now. Perhaps…

  He pictured Cedric again, laughing and beautiful and alive, rosy-cheeked from the winter and his eyes sparkling with so much hope. And along with that image came the gentle music a mysterious young man had written for his love, proving once again just how tightly intertwined it was with Cedric in Ansel’s private little world. He didn’t know how quickly the effects had taken place, but he was eventually made aware that the tightness and the pain that had pressed down on his chest just a moment ago had gradually eased. There wasn’t much of his father’s loathing that could be felt anywhere, though he could still sense it picking insistently at the fringes of his mind. Forced to the periphery, anyway, all those years of misery fought to keep their hold on him and demanded to be acknowledged. Shame and guilt had been forced aside but not vanquished. At the very least, Cedric and the music helped ease the moment.

  “I can do this,” Ansel whispered, letting out a rattling breath. He opened his eyes cautiously.

  He was still in the library, and he still stood before shelves filled with books he couldn’t read. He’d already replaced the last one he held, and he casually walked around the room, eyes scanning for spines he was able to read without trouble. He realized, once he’d slowed his pace some more and had taken his time, there were several of those books.

  Ansel blinked, his chest tightening again with an acute pain. This time, however, it was because of wonder and sudden joy.

  “Yes, I can do this,” he whispered again, almost laughing and weeping at the same time. And he did smile brightly through the gathering tears as his shaking hands worked, pulling out random books he now desperately wanted to read.

  Amid the surge of unexpected happiness, Cedric’s phantom continued to laugh and talk about daydreams, his voice turning into piano music that soared and celebrated. Guilt and shame shrank back a little more, fighting for an opening in Ansel’s mind, and Ansel could feel them still.

  “No. Not this time,” he said more loudly now, and he turned around and hurried to the table with four books cradled against his chest. “I can do this, and I will.”

  Before long, Ansel was immersed in his first book, reading silently at first before going back after a page and re-reading printed words aloud. Since there were occasional words he didn’t recognize or quite understand, he decided reading in that manner would perhaps help him. It was slow-going, to be sure, and he stumbled more than breezed through, but compulsion kept him there. He couldn’t even understand almost half of what he was reading, but it didn’t matter. He was reading a book—a simple enough act that had also been a far-fetched dream in his life before Pryor House. Despite his misgivings and his doubts, he was able to fight against the darkness that continued to shadow his steps and read a book in defiance of his past.

  As exhilaration gripped his heart, Cedric’s specter and its musical voice slowly faded, easing the way for a little confidence to settle into him. And not once was his father’s contemptuous, sneering voice heard. Ansel emerged from the library an hour or a little over an hour later, almost numbed by the fact that he’d just read a few books. None were finished, and he still only managed to comprehend a small portion of the material, but he still did it.

  In fact, he’d even spirited away a book that read like stories, and he wanted to enjoy it in the privacy of his room. He might not understand much of what was in it, but he didn’t care.

  “I just hope Miss Peveler doesn’t mind it so much if I took one book out,” he said under his breath as he stepped out into the downstairs hallway and glanced around guiltily. “I should have it back in the library before she returns home, anyway.”

  * * * *

  Ansel’s bedroom had few windows, and with a fresh curtain of snow falling outside, he couldn’t keep them open long enough for some much-needed light. Shut against the winter scene, the colorful panes both kept light out and transformed into soft prisms what little could pierce through their thick glass. He could always return to the library, which was more spacious and better lit.

  Ansel paused, frowning, as that thought struck. “That room’s bright enough to read in even with the windows being no different from what my room has.”

  He glanced back at his windows, blinking. There wasn’t a fire in the library, and there were no candles on the table. Those details he could remember clearly. The only real source of light in the library were the gem-like windows, and even then, only muted colors could be had.

  “Oh.”

  He continued to stare blankly, his mind awhirl, h
is fingers idly stroking the pages of the open book on his lap as he sat on his bed. Had he been so passive about Pryor House? He’d explored the rooms and the hallways—save for the other occupants’ rooms, of course—and spent time in only seven of them. He’d been so overwhelmed by his experiences that he’d never even given anything much thought. Well, anything but his need to be useful or somewhat important in the house, that is. Yes—he’d been so focused on nothing but the need to lose himself in familiar hard work he’d easily ignored the house beyond his initial exploration of it.

  Ansel stood up, cradling the book against his chest, his mind fixed on what he ought to do next.

  He went through the ground floor first, entering each room, moving around once or twice, his eyes wide and alert as he took in as many details as he possibly could. Kitchen, dining room, drawing room, music room, library, plus a couple of unfurnished rooms that had nothing else but portraits on the walls. Then he went upstairs and did the same thing. As he couldn’t enter Miss Peveler’s room, he invaded all others.

  Before he knew it, he was standing inside the master’s bedroom again, gazing around in wonder.

  Ansel had to shake his head as things settled in his mind. One by one, piece by piece, a strange picture began to form. He moved over to the bed, eyed it for a second, and sat on it, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed for daring to disturb the gorgeous bedclothes with his weight. But he needed to sit down as things continued to rattle him.

  The library, the drawing room, and the music room downstairs plus the master’s bedroom upstairs—those were the only rooms that appeared to be brightly or cheerfully lit by a source of light he couldn’t see. Their windows certainly added quite a bit of otherworldly charm to the space, with lovely multi-colored light spilling onto furniture and floors. But the light…

  Ansel looked around him and glanced up at the ceiling.

  Yes, the light seemed to come from the walls and the ceiling. They weren’t any different in terms of material from the rest of the house, but they seemed to radiate a curious kind of brightness that warmed and encouraged, lifting depressed spirits with an unspoken promise of…

  Of what, exactly?

  “Books? Knowledge? Art?” Ansel paused as he tried to come up with more answers. “Beauty? Happiness…”

  Happiness.

  Voices outside broke through his thoughts, and Ansel’s breath caught in his throat at the sounds. Tossing the book on the bed, he leaped to his feet, hurried to the nearest window, and fumbled for the latch. He realized he’d been holding his breath the whole time and had to inhale the fresh, icy air once he’d thrown the casements open and leaned out.

  There he was again, bundled against the cold, and this time around, Cedric held a small stick or a piece of a branch in his gloved hand.

  “Come! Willie! Come!” he cried, spinning around and whistling. He raised his hand and waved the stick. “Look, Willie!”

  Then he turned around again and threw the stick. A couple of seconds passed before a dog bounded past Cedric and then disappeared from view to chase after the stick. Ansel watched in wonder and pleasure as Cedric, who’d paused and stood directly across from Ansel’s window, watched his dog retrieve the stick somewhere, laughing and whistling the whole time. He was so full of life, Ansel saw, so carefree and so open—everything Ansel wasn’t.

  Willie reappeared, tail wagging, stick in mouth. Cedric dropped to his knees and blurted out a string of endearments while rubbing and petting his dog roughly.

  Then he glanced up, startled, as though he’d suddenly become aware of being watched. His gaze met Ansel’s, but there was no sign of awareness—as though Cedric were staring at a blank wall.

  Ansel’s heart dropped for one reason after another. He at first almost shrank back into the shadows in mortification at being caught, but the realization that Cedric couldn’t see him brought both relief and disappointment surging through him all of a sudden. He didn’t understand why, considering how terrified he was at being caught gawking at a complete stranger, but the disappointment was there, and it was palpable.

  Cedric’s attention was drawn back to his pet, and that strange moment was gone.

  “Good boy,” he said, ruffling Willie’s ears before stumbling to his feet. He’d taken hold of the stick again and walked forward, Willie trotting alongside him. In another second, boy and dog had vanished behind trees, and Ansel was left gaping at the empty scene.

  “Why can’t he see me?”

  And with that, Ansel spun around, ignoring the open window, and ran out of the room, down the stairs, and through the front door. If it were just another ordinary day, he’d have been absolutely shocked and horrified at his gall. He’d have stopped himself, reminded himself of his place, of his nobody-ness, of his insignificance in the face of beauty and happiness. And the fact he’d just thrown himself out into the snow without a coat on.

  But something had awakened in him. As he tore past leafless trees, panting and desperately searching, his rattled mind could barely manage keeping up with what was now obviously instinct taking over.

  He spotted Cedric and Willie’s footprints in the snow and followed them. They led him back inside the wood, and Ansel had to pause for a second, a spike of terror coursing through him now as memories of his father’s monstrous specter darkened his thoughts.

  But he heard—or thought he heard—Cedric’s laughter in the trees somewhere, and Ansel, for better or for worse, plunged on ahead.

  Chapter 11

  Ansel had never considered himself a good judge of distance, but he was quite sure he’d ventured farther than this before. He paused in his tracks, straining his ears for sounds of Cedric, Willie, or his father’s dreaded apparition. Nothing but uneven snow, gently falling crystal flakes, and what seemed like an endless sea of leafless trees met his gaze. Only an occasional soft breeze or the falling of lumpy snow from a branch or two broke the silence. The footprints in the snow had already vanished, but they’d never been deep enough to begin with—another puzzle to add to the existing one, seeing as how Ansel’s own prints were quite deep and visible.

  “Like breadcrumbs?” he muttered, frowning as he searched the immediate vicinity for signs of recent wanderers.

  Then he looked back and observed his own prints. Yes, he’d been walking forward in as straight a line as he could manage given the random peppering of trees in the wood. When he turned his gaze back to his original target point ahead, a sudden doubt seized him. He could see nothing for a good distance but the same leafless trees and snow-covered ground. Where on earth was he headed?

  From some indeterminate distance, Cedric’s voice rose, the cheerful tone instantly sending a spike of pleasure through Ansel. Cedric said something, but his words were unintelligible, and at least to Ansel, it seemed as though Cedric were calling out to him. Beckoning to him as though in a dream, waiting for his answer while cloaked in the winter sun.

  “To him,” Ansel murmured as he took a deep breath. “I’m headed toward him.”

  Everything bright and beautiful came together at that moment: Cedric, his unbounded joy, Miss Peveler’s music and verse. And the pull at the very core of Ansel’s being was great. Beyond those trees in the snow lay the end of a special road, if not the start of a new one. There awaited hope, happiness, companionship—everything Cedric had now come to represent to Ansel. Who knew what else was at the other side of the wood besides that mysterious yet familiar young man?

  Ansel took a couple of steps forward.

  A large, crooked shadow darted from the side and planted itself before him.

  “You’re going to him?” the monster growled. “What the devil made you even consider the idea that you’re his equal in anything? What a sick little joke you are.”

  The thing—that half-man, half-tree creature—shook every time it took a breath, as though its very core was so rotted that it could barely hold itself together whenever it tried to inhale some life-giving air. It only wore that same tattere
d and frayed cloak and hood, and since it stood directly in front of him, Ansel could see that its head, body, and limbs were more tree than man. The bark crumbled in several places, too, giving the impression of decay. Bits that fell to the ground littered the pristine snow with black rot. The monster stood close enough for Ansel to catch sight of dark worms wriggling out of cracks and struggling to hold on to dangerously loose surfaces. A few tumbled onto the snow as well, and there they’d stay, writhing like black maggots.

  The monster’s eyes were perhaps the most human part of its anatomy, and they fixed their gaze on Ansel—red and searing with rage.

  “You…” it hissed as its crooked form forced it to fight to stay upright. “You’re just like your pretentious little bitch of a mother. Your family not good enough for you, is that it? Eh?”

  It took a teetering step forward, and Ansel stepped back.

  “Look at you. You’re not even dressed. Offering yourself to him so easily and quickly? Is that how I raised you? To whore yourself off to the highest bidder?”

  Ansel gasped, stumbling back a few more paces, when the monster tried to grab him with unsteady, clumsy arms. It fell on its face in the snow, more dried bark and wriggling worms flying out in every direction and staining the white ground. It didn’t seem to care, though, and it struggled to raise itself up and then get back on its creaking feet.

  Ansel’s glance strayed to the trees behind the monster, the need to run after Cedric growing stronger. All he needed to do was to move around the monster, keep his eyes ahead and fixed on the point where he knew—or at least deeply felt—his goal was. To safety. To hope. To something much better than where he was now.

  “You don’t answer. I don’t have to expect an answer. It’s all over you, and I can smell it. You drip of it. Reek of the same stench I’ve known since the day you were born. Pretensions. Ambitions. Some laughable belief of you deserving something that’s well above you.” The monster laughed, its outburst as brittle and rotting as its form. “Do you see me, boy? This is what you’ve done to me! Look! Look!”