Ansel opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out, and for a moment, he didn’t even know why he bothered. Pryor House’s cryptic inhabitants were exasperating in their desire to communicate in riddles, but something held him back all the same, urged him to listen and let Miss Peveler’s words sink in. Somewhere, it said, tucked inside those vague messages, lay wisdom, and it was no one else’s job to pull it out but his.
Reluctantly, he left the room without another word.
Chapter 13
His bedroom was horribly cold and oppressive despite its small, cozy size, and nothing Ansel did could ease his restless, uncomfortable shifting under the blankets. After what felt to be an eternity of staring at the darkness, he decided to be audacious.
Bracing himself for the chill, Ansel threw the covers off and jumped up, quickly throwing on his thick coat and putting on his socks, which were all on a nearby chair he could find easily in the deep shadows. Teeth chattering, he fumbled in the dark for the matches and candle and was soon shivering his way down a silent hallway, the flickering little flame guiding his steps.
He eventually found himself on his knees before the fireplace in the master’s bedroom, throwing wood in the ashes. Within moments a small fire had started, and Ansel stayed before it, stretching his hands out and welcoming the growing heat with a tremulous sigh. Since it was going to take some time for the fire to warm the room enough for him to feel comfortable sleeping in it, he decided to settle down before the fireplace, crossing his legs under him and tucking his hands under his armpits. He stared blankly at the crackling, erratic flames as he waited for his shivering to abate.
He wouldn’t have been able to sleep right away, anyway, he realized. His mind was too full to the point of bursting from the riddles Pryor House kept bombarding him with. He’d long resigned himself to the idea that Pryor House was a house enchanted, and his companions were no less charmed in some way or another. They were there for a purpose beyond protection from the miseries of his old home life. They reminded Ansel of spirits—elves or even friendly fairies if there were such things—though as to the nature of their guidance and of his residence there, he couldn’t tell.
Ansel frowned as he continued to stare at the fire.
“How long am I supposed to stay here, then?” he muttered.
Sudden panic coursed through him at the thought. Was he going to be let loose in the world sometime, whenever he met their expectations, whatever they were? If so, where was he supposed to go? He swallowed as he thought things over.
“I don’t know…”
No, he knew nothing. He could barely read, had no real skills beyond cleaning. He was a beaten soul, terrified of strangers and at ease in silence and obedience without complaint. Who’d take him in after this, given what he was—a useless, half-literate, half-starved creature? He was certainly expected to learn something from his strange experiences and puzzling interactions with the residents of Pryor House. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that he’d be turned out of doors, regardless, once his time there was up, whenever that might be.
Ansel took a deep breath when he realized he was too hot now. Shaking himself out of his momentary trance, he raised himself back on his knees, claimed another piece of wood from the small pile Mr. Blacow had put together earlier, and poked around the fire. He added more wood before satisfying himself.
The bed looked terribly warm and inviting, and Ansel, now overcome by exhaustion in mind, heart, and body, stumbled toward it. At this point, he didn’t care if Mrs. Finn or Miss Peveler would object to the liberties he was now taking in the use of the master’s bedroom. The fire felt wonderful, and the bed looked comfortable. Before long Ansel was buried under layers of thick blankets, facing the fire and forcing the questions and the anxiety caused by them out of his mind.
* * * *
“You’re very unhappy.”
Ansel shifted under the covers and turned around to face Cedric. “What makes you think that?”
Cedric shrugged and smiled faintly. In the light cast by the dying fire, he looked almost ghostly, the growing shadows adding something quite special to his beauty. “I can see it,” he said. His voice was soft and gentle when he spoke. “I can sense it.”
“I don’t feel any differently.”
“Then you must be unhappy all the time.”
Ansel sighed. He turned his head so half his face was pressed against his pillow. He moved his partly obscured gaze to Cedric’s hand, which lay close. Ansel could feel the warmth radiating from it, and if he wished, he could move his head a mere two inches or so and kiss the knuckles.
“I didn’t grow up in a happy home,” he replied.
“But you’re here now.”
“I know. It doesn’t really matter.” Ghosts, he wanted to add. Ghosts. They wouldn’t leave him alone.
Cedric made a quiet sound in the shadows, his eyes sparkling. “Yes, it does. You’re well cared for here. You’re being shown beautiful things only you can understand and appreciate.”
Ansel had to chuckle at that and felt his face warm considerably. “Why only me? Anyone can see and appreciate pretty music and poetry. Even the poorest person can do it. Or the stupidest.”
Warm fingers gently touched his hair—feeling the short and rough strands in an idle, thoughtful way before releasing them. Ansel swallowed when he felt those same fingers move down and graze his cheek before settling against his mouth to trace its shape.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked. It took some effort for him to find his voice again, let alone string together a handful of words. He glanced up and met Cedric’s gaze.
“Examining you,” came the quiet reply. Cedric neither smiled nor frowned. He didn’t even show confusion or surprise. When he spoke, his manner was completely matter-of-fact yet so very earnest. Perhaps what was even more startling was that he didn’t even bother to snatch his hand away and continued his slow, curious exploration of Ansel’s face.
“There’s nothing to see. I’m worse than plain.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“They tickle—your fingers do.”
Cedric smiled. He pulled his hand away—but not before turning it and grazing his knuckles against Ansel’s mouth. The touch was not only gentle, but worshipful. It was a very strange and alien feeling that made tears threaten to flow, and it took Ansel everything he had to fight off the urge.
“So—when it comes to appreciating beauty, you consider yourself to be no different from the rest of the world,” Cedric said. When Ansel nodded in answer, he asked, “Then why are you so different from everyone else when it comes to your own happiness?”
Ansel blinked, baffled. “I don’t understand…”
“What you’ve been saying to Miss Peveler—why do you keep making that point, when you clearly don’t believe it?” Cedric’s face darkened, and Ansel felt a chill deepen, as though Cedric were slowly slipping away and taking all warmth with him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Don’t tell me you’re going to be using riddles just like everyone else!”
In a moment of panic, Ansel raised himself off his pillow. Cedric’s face, head, everything—Cedric was slowly vanishing in the growing darkness. The fire must have gone out behind Ansel, which could only explain the growing cold and the shadows that were devouring him.
Ansel immediately reached out and felt for his companion. Even though he could still make out Cedric’s form in the dark and he thought he could see the other boy’s eyes shining dully despite the night, his fumbling hand found nothing. Even the spot where Cedric had been lying was cold to the touch.
“Wait—don’t leave yet!”
He thought he heard Cedric’s voice calling out to him from some unknown distance. “Goodnight,” it said. Only one word, yet it dripped with so much regret and melancholy.
Then Ansel was alone in the icy darkness.
* * * *
Quiet sounds roused him f
rom his sleep, and once he awakened, Ansel groggily took note of furtive movement in the room. He realized he was still facing the other half of the bed, where Cedric had lain.
“In my dreams,” he mumbled, yawning and knuckling the rest of sleep from his eyes.
It was morning, and he sat up and turned toward the fireplace to find Mrs. Finn bustling about over there, humming a sprightly little tune. She’d apparently just added to the pile of wood sitting next to the fireplace and had started a new fire.
“Good morning,” she called out without turning around to look at him. “And how did you sleep in this room, Ansel?”
Ansel grinned. “Very well, thank you, ma’am. I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission or Miss Peveler’s, but I was—”
“You were too cold in your room, yes. That’s quite all right, my dear. The servants’ quarters aren’t made to be comfortable. Practical enough, perhaps, but not necessarily comfortable. There—all done.” Mrs. Finn straightened up and rested her hands on her hips as she regarded the fire for a moment. Once satisfied with what she saw, she turned around and looked at Ansel. “You look quite at home in this room.”
“Oh. I—I don’t have to stay, really. It was only last night.”
The housekeeper rolled her eyes and guffawed. She walked over to the bed, took Ansel’s hands in hers, and gave them a hearty squeeze. “Child, this is your room now. Allow yourself this.”
Ansel regarded her in baffled silence. “I had a dream last night. Someone said the same thing—or something similar, anyway.”
“Well, it’s true. You’re comfortable, you’re warm, you’re safe. Above all, you’re happy. Haven’t you the right to be all those?”
“I suppose.”
“Suppose?” Mrs. Finn laughed. “You do. You have.”
A moment’s pause followed, with Ansel turning so many things over in his head—yet another alien experience for him. In the end, though, a quiet voice urged him. What crime, exactly, was he committing by agreeing with Mrs. Finn? Wasn’t happiness something he’d always wished for himself? Ansel’s terrified defense cracked, and fine beams of light broke through. Not enough to flood the darkness, but enough to ease it.
“I do.”
Mrs. Finn broke out in a big, brilliant smile. Her reaction caught Ansel off-guard because she seemed not just pleased by what she’d heard, but very relieved as well. “Good,” she said, squeezing his hands again. “That’s very good. It’s something we’ve always wanted to hear from you. But—I hope, next time, you’ll believe it more.”
When she released him, a flustered and blushing Ansel made a move to get out of the bed and start his day, but the housekeeper stopped him with a raised hand.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Take your time getting ready for breakfast.”
Before Ansel could say anything in answer, Mrs. Finn nodded, grinning again, and left the room.
Chapter 14
Ansel went to the dining room armed appropriately this time. Bad manners or no bad manners, he’d thought to bring the book of stories with him to occupy his attention with while eating. He’d quite given up enjoying a meal with Miss Peveler, seeing as how the lady rarely, if at all, kept him company during lunch and dinner. When she did, the meal was quiet though companionable, with Ansel not at all feeling encouraged to converse with her. The meal was also very brief, at least for her. Ansel would only be about halfway through his own dish before Miss Peveler would neatly set her empty dishes aside, fold her napkin, and excuse herself from the table while urging Ansel to carry on.
Her time with him at the table was so rare, in fact, Ansel could easily remember four meals he’d enjoyed in her company.
Bad manners aside, he settled himself in his chair, barely giving his solitude much thought. Quickly opening the book to where he’d left off the previous day, Ansel dove in, alternately reading in silence, muttering his way through passages, and taking a bite of his rapidly cooling food.
It wasn’t until about an arduous page later when he stopped, eyes fixed on the open book next to his plate.
“I—can read it without straining?” Ansel frowned and glanced up to examine the walls, especially the windows. “It’s light in here?”
It was really just a small, silly detail, but the fact he’d proceeded to read the book without giving a single thought to the room’s darkness rattled him. And, yes, he’d long gotten used to the dining room being as dark as most of the other rooms in Pryor House.
A spike of amazement shot through him at the realization as well as the physical proof. It was true, he saw. The windows still allowed some light from the outside through, and the effects in the dining room remained gorgeous and magical. But the brightness in the room was definitely disproportionate to the muted colors Ansel had long loved and admired.
Book and cold breakfast momentarily forgotten, Ansel sat back and continued his visual exploration of the dining room. The walls, the ceiling—just like the other rooms he’d noticed before, the light seemed to come from the walls and the ceiling, as though wood, plaster, and paint had come alive and taken pity on him.
There was a distinct warmth and cheer that were brought on by the light. The overriding loneliness and melancholy that’d been so awfully palpable before were now almost gone. Ansel could still feel some lingering feelings of sadness, but they were very much tamped down, diluted, and softened considerably.
He smiled in spite of himself. “It’s Miss Peveler, I’m sure,” he murmured, delighted. “I suppose she’s pleased with me.”
His thoughts strayed back to his conversation with Mrs. Finn earlier. He could still vividly see the housekeeper’s pleasure at hearing him admit to his right to happiness, safety, and comfort. With the gradual easing of every shadow in Ansel’s being, would that equal an easing of the gloom in Pryor House?
“Is that my purpose here? Is that their purpose for taking me in? Huh…”
Yes, something had definitely shifted in Ansel since his arrival in that magical house, and it had been an anxiety-filled, laborious process, taking those tentative steps forward in the direction of his new life. It had always been no one else’s task but his to uncover hidden truths and do what was needed to do with them.
Ansel laughed now, albeit a little self-consciously still, and dove back into his book and his breakfast. His food was hopelessly cold, and the book’s text remained challenging, but Ansel didn’t care. By the time he’d decided he was done with it, he was about a third into the book, and he took considerable delight in comparing where he’d started and where he was now. He tucked the book under his arm after gathering his soiled dishes and gingerly made his way to the kitchen, where he deposited the pile and washed them. Mrs. Finn and Mr. Blacow, unsurprisingly, were taking their time over coffee, but neither dissuaded him from taking care of his dish-washing.
* * * *
Ansel took to his old room, gathered his clothes, and proceeded to transfer them to the master’s bedroom. He didn’t even need to think about it, let alone dwell on the implications. There was no time for guilt and shame for his presumption this time around because he didn’t allow himself to go there. Did his father’s voice scream at him in his head? Perhaps, but Ansel didn’t notice, let alone care.
Each time he stood inside either room, he felt a little older. Not necessarily more exhausted in any way, but definitely a good deal more aware of where he was and who he was.
On his third and last journey, he ignored what was left of his clothes for the moment and walked around his old room. Eyes moving and taking in details, fingers tracing patterns on the wall and grazing polished surfaces—Ansel lost himself in thought as he took everything in.
“What a small, dark room,” he said, gazing around as he planted himself by the bed. “I didn’t realize how heavy the shadows are in here.”
Frowning, he bent down and picked up the rest of his things and moved toward the door. Pausing there, he turned around again and gave the room one final assessing loo
k. Yes, he told himself, this room was quite small and dark. The chill inside was terrible, and somehow he knew it had more to do with how it was winter outside, and that the room had no fire. Confinement and isolation was everywhere—in every detail, no matter how innocuous it might appear to a casual observer. Ansel had tasted a different world in the master’s bedroom. He’d experienced space and freedom and light. Coming back to this room, even after only one evening spent in the master’s bedroom, felt so foreign now. So unsettling. So depressing.
“Well,” he muttered, sighing, “I can always come back if my new arrangements don’t work.”
It was an odd thing to say, to be sure, and his heart told him so. There was no going back now, it chided, and Ansel knew better than to argue against that.
Inside the master’s bedroom, Ansel busied himself with sorting through his clothes and organizing them in his new wardrobe. Against the richness of his new surroundings, his modest castoffs looked even poorer than they really were, but it couldn’t be helped. The disparity in quality between room and clothing was immense, and it certainly wasn’t Ansel’s right to ask for a nicer set of clothes. This was enough for him. Pryor House and its strange household had done far more for him than he could ever hope to repay.
He stared at his clothes, which were now all nicely tucked away in the wardrobe. “Why me, though? Why did they choose me?”
No one answered his question, naturally, and he closed the wardrobe doors and turned his attention to the fire. The room was cold, the fire having long gone out, and Ansel spent the next few moments cleaning the fireplace. Then he was busy tidying up the master’s bedroom as well as he could, his thoughts happily lost in his work and occasional remembrances of his dream. He rarely ever remembered his dreams, especially the good ones; his life had been nothing but a waking nightmare, anyway, and sleeping did nothing much but ease his heart and mind for a few hours unless dark dreams haunted them.
By the time Ansel had finished, he absorbed his new surroundings as though he were seeing them for the first time.
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