“I am as you see me, young man,” she said. “I’m no fairy, though, if you’re wondering. Neither are Mr. Farnham, Mrs. Finn, and Mr. Blacow.” She paused and glanced around as though buying a little time. Then she sighed and looked back at Ansel. “We’re all Pryor House. We’re all attached to this structure, and we’re meant to stay here till—well—till Nature deems it time to let me go.”
Ansel frowned. “So—are you saying you’re not related to Mr. Farnham?”
“Not by blood, but by circumstance. Don’t be alarmed when I tell you that none of us are mortals. But we’re quite alive in Pryor House because of you—and because of young ones like you. Nature rouses us, you see, when she decides it’s time to take in another poor stray, and we oblige her because one never says no to Nature.” Miss Peveler laughed softly. This time she nodded at Ansel. “You’ll need to sit down, my dear. Unless you’re so terrified right now that you’re more likely to bolt than to sit and listen and have your questions answered.”
Ansel, who was now shocked at realizing he hadn’t run screaming out into the snowy world, numbly obeyed. When he sat down, he also grew increasingly aware that, despite his horror, he also felt no threat from his companion, who remained standing by the piano, waiting for him to settle down.
Then Miss Peveler finally walked around the instrument and sat on the bench. Regarding Ansel over the piano and across the room, she nevertheless continued the conversation despite the distance and the interfering instrument.
“I was alive about five hundred years ago,” she said. “I was engaged to be married to a good man—a kind man. A month before Christmas, during a dinner celebration, a half-frozen, starving, homeless boy appeared at my doorstep, seeking food and shelter. My fiancé convinced me to take the boy in—not just feed and clothe him, but help him in other ways as well. Treat him with dignity and respect, and help him discover his humanity, so he could move forward with his life as an independent young man with a purpose.”
Miss Peveler took a deep breath and turned her attention to the wall closest to her. She tilted her head while staring at it as though making something out of the wallpaper patterns.
“I was—I was no different from your father in some ways, Ansel. I didn’t drink, but I was abusive. I didn’t trust the boy because he was clearly from the worst kind of household—filthy poor, unlearned, with no good values taught to the children. He’d been caught trying to pocket spoons or trinkets he thought no one would miss because there were so many. And if I were to be really honest with myself, I wouldn’t have noticed anything missing. I rarely used them or bothered with them as I was—so used to being surrounded by wealth. My staff complained about his bothersome behavior, but my fiancé defended him and in fact urged me to help the boy go to school or someplace where he could be taught and kept out of trouble. ‘Before it’s too late,’ he said.” Miss Peveler broke off and swallowed stiffly.
“I wish I knew what I was thinking then. I wish I did what he’d told me to. But—anger is an intoxicating poison, you know. And I was born privileged enough to think myself above everyone else, with no one—not even my own parents—checking my outbursts when I was younger. I suppose the only thing I’d ever learned from them was that no one ever crossed me and got away with it.
“No, I wish I knew what I was thinking when I ignored my fiancé. What I do know was that I punished the boy not just for what he’d done, but also for small infractions of rules I specifically set for him. Once I’d discovered his early thieving, I looked at him in no other light—thought of him as nothing better than a filthy, crude little pup who was beyond saving.” Miss Peveler glanced at Ansel, the faded smile on her face giving her a tired, broken air. “I called him names when he angered me. I had him held down by two servants while I hit his bottom with a switch. I broke the boy’s spirit so much that he ran out into the cold in terror when he accidentally dropped a priceless heirloom vase. And he froze to death, of course. Alone. Terrified. He’d sooner run away, you see, than be dragged before me again for punishment. He was only twelve. He lived under my roof for four weeks, and it was Christmas Day when he died.”
Ansel swallowed. “And—you’re now punished for what you did.”
“Yes. My fiancé broke things off, I grew old alone and haunted despite being surrounded by society and wealth and everything you can ever dream of. I died—afraid. Of death and what came after.” She looked around, raising her hands and waving them about to indicate the music room or perhaps Pryor House on the whole. “And this is my punishment. Whoever Nature decides to rescue, she sends to me, forcing me back to the land of the living despite my need for rest. Mr. Farnham’s her messenger, and Mrs. Finn and Mr. Blacow are nothing more than entities meant to keep you clothed and fed. And when the right moment comes, as Nature decides, I release you to the world, hopefully a thousand times more fortunate than that poor child I hounded to death.”
“But—Mr. Farnham—all those stories he told me about his family and you…”
“All made up, with Nature’s leave, to keep my new charge from bolting in terror. What would you do, after all, if he were to come out and say he’s a spirit of Nature? An immortal? A creature neither living nor dead, sent out to seek specific children to bring to me?” Miss Peveler raised a brow. “Will you go with him willingly or turn and run away into the freezing night and back to your father’s house?”
Ansel didn’t quite know how to answer that.
“So everything you do here—when you tell me to listen to music and poetry—”
“They’re for you. It’s my job to help you heal, to help you find your humanity, so you can have that second chance. It isn’t my job to tell you what to think about yourself or how to feel about yourself, young man. You can’t reach full understanding without making the effort yourself. I can nudge you down one direction or another, but you have to take those steps and discover things on your own.” Miss Peveler turned her attention to the piano and idly played random notes with one hand. “I’ve been tasked to do what I’d failed to do five hundred years ago. It’s a curse that I’ve earned. Nature is unforgiving, but…” She frowned, still toying with the keys. Then she glanced up and met Ansel’s shocked gaze with one of calm resignation.
“I’ll continue to do this until she decides I’ve been punished enough. We can’t save every poor child out there. She decides, however, who’s next to be helped. You can’t ask me about the others who still suffer because I can’t answer your question. I can only assume that Nature has her way of meting out justice for those children and young people like you. Are there others like me? I don’t know. Humanity boasts too many monsters—I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a good number of us everywhere, dragged from our rest to serve Nature as she sees fit.”
Ansel remained silent for a long moment. He was not only stunned by the revelation, but also overcome by disgust, anger, and pity. He had to ball his hands into fists and press them against his lap as he fought off the outrage. There were too many things swirling around in his head at that moment, and if he had an eternity, he’d jump to his feet and scream execrations at Miss Peveler. He couldn’t avoid picturing that dead boy, the horror that must’ve been his home life that had led him to wandering the streets and the countryside, starving and cold. The terrible turn of fate of being born into a dirt-poor household that left him deprived of a childhood or of a sliver of a chance at growing up into adulthood. The cruelty leveled at him for something that had always been beyond his control.
Ansel could feel it, the boy’s experiences, because they’d been his as well. He’d lash out at Miss Peveler, perhaps be reduced into an incoherent, sobbing mess as he unburdened himself at her. All he needed to do was to gather up his strength, open his mouth, and simply let loose.
But he held back—or at least something did.
Do what you need to do, young man.
Taking a deep breath, Ansel thumbed away the tears that threatened to fall. When he looked back at Miss Pe
veler, who sat quietly at the piano, looking as she’d always looked—a stern, aristocratic woman patiently waiting for him to do or say something—he calmed down.
“You’ll never be allowed to forget, will you?” he asked in a quiet, steady voice.
“A life lost to hate—to ignorance—is one life too many. It was avoidable, too.” She smiled again. This time it was bigger and brighter, though still edged with resignation and fatigue. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”
Ansel thought for a moment. Then he sat up straight, eyes widening. “It’s Christmas! I—I have to admit I’ve lost all track of time!”
Of course, now the question of whether or not Christmas was meant to be celebrated in Pryor House in the traditional way crossed Ansel’s mind, but he dared not ask, considering the day’s implications. He just stared at Miss Peveler, who laughed softly.
“We’ll part ways tomorrow, Ansel Tunnicliffe. You’ll rejoin the world, and there you’ll find what you’ve been looking—waiting—for.”
Miss Peveler then waved him over, and Ansel obeyed. As before, he took up the chair that’d been assigned to him and carried it over to his usual spot by the piano. When he sat down, Miss Peveler indicated the music sheets that still lay in a pile on the instrument.
“The music and the poems—they’re all you. You’ll take them with you, of course, when you leave, because they’re expressions of your heart. Your soul. I looked into them, felt as deeply as I could, and pulled out what I found buried under all that fear and loneliness. You’re capable of appreciating beauty, and you’re equally capable of creating beauty, Ansel. Never forget that. You said everyone deserves to be loved. So do you. It’s a difficult lesson to teach, you know—a difficult task digging through the rubble to find hope and pull it out despite the resistance. But after five hundred years of this, one does get to be quite good at it.”
Ansel chuckled in spite of himself, and Miss Peveler watched his reaction with a light of what seemed like fondness in her eyes. Wistfulness, perhaps. Then she sighed, reaching out a hand and pressing it against Ansel’s cheek. Her hand was warm and solid—definitely not a reminder of her true state, but it was likely Nature’s way of ensuring her task was carried through with the least trouble.
“I’d thought about being a mother when I was alive,” she said quietly, moving her hand down to cover one of his. “But I’ve also considered my poor strays to be my own, and in a way, they are. Those portraits you see hanging everywhere? Nature might be unforgiving, but she’s at least blessed me with reminders of my special children. Don’t feel any pity for me, Ansel. I may never fully rest, but at least I’m assured by those portraits that I’m able to do something good.”
Ansel nodded. “I’m very sorry for everything,” he stammered. “That—that all these horrible things had to happen. I do hope you find peace someday.”
Miss Peveler merely smiled in return, and Ansel turned his hand over to wrap his fingers around the lady’s hand and give it a gentle, grateful squeeze. He didn’t know if it was the effect of the candlelight in the room, but Miss Peveler’s eyes shimmered as though moisture had captured the warm light and held it fast.
“No pity, Ansel Tunnicliffe,” she said, her tone shifting to a quiet playfulness. “Pryor House has always been about you.” She released his hand and turned back to the piano, this time reaching for music sheets. “Now that mysteries are answered, I’d like to entertain you with something immensely charming.”
Ansel colored, the heat suddenly suffusing his face speaking of a deep, deep blush. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than to allow a small, awkward sound to escape his throat.
“Don’t be too shy, young man. First love is always charming. Embrace it.”
When she set the music sheets up, Ansel braved a peek. The front sheet appeared at first to be blank, but as he forced himself to try harder, he saw very faint marks on the staves. He could barely make them out beyond what seemed like random pencil scratches very lightly made. The entire page was filled with them, too, and he also saw something scribbled at the top of the page. A title, perhaps? Yes, it must be a title.
He was so startled by the whole thing he didn’t even realize Miss Peveler had begun playing the piano, and he had to sit back and force himself to listen—to himself. And what a breathtaking experience it was, being shown beauty he’d never thought existed in himself, let alone one he was apparently capable of creating. Still furiously blushing, he closed his eyes and listened, and he daydreamed as well.
Chapter 17
Ansel dreamed of the sketchbook. It’d been opened for him, a strange-looking hand idly turning pages and blessing Ansel with a final look through his predecessors’ stories. When they reached the first drawing of Cedric, a voice—female, low, melodious, and intimidating—spoke.
“They’ve shown you hope. He helped open your mind and heart. It’s now your turn to tell your story to those who’ll follow.”
The hand, which Ansel couldn’t quite see very well because it kept shifting its colors to capture different seasons, playfully touched the first drawing of Cedric. The drawing moved, shifted, reshaped itself until Ansel was looking at his own portrait. In it, he stood by an open window—the one in his old room—and he wept, face flushed and pinched, his thin, bony figure barely kept decent in his old rags.
Cedric’s second portrait received the same curious treatment. In a few seconds, Ansel was staring at himself again, this time bent over a book, concentrating hard, but he seemed to glow despite his efforts. His hair was nicely trimmed, he wore a proper suit, and he’d filled out a little. A couple more images of him looking happier and healthier appeared, and the last was of him and Cedric stretched out on a grassy slope, staring at the sky and laughing. Ansel’s head lay on Cedric’s shoulder, and he held a half-eaten apple in one of his hands. Cedric had looped an arm around Ansel to hold him close and pointed at something above them, most likely a strangely formed cloud, and they were enjoying themselves with a simple, idle activity.
“There,” the voice continued. “Your story here is at an end, yet it will live forever. Now sleep.”
* * * *
The first thing that Ansel noticed on waking up the next morning was how bright—wintry bright, that is—the master’s bedroom was. While the windows continued to cast their whimsical magic on parts of the interior, the soft light that seemed to come from everywhere else spoke of cold, tranquil days, with short daytime hours characterized by winter’s meditative nature. Ansel would, if he could, simply sit by the fire, a nice cup of tea nearby, a good book lying open on his lap.
He sat up and looked around, his heart suddenly full.
“No, I can’t stay,” he chided himself. “It’s time.”
He quickly moved, gathering his modest clothes and packing them all inside a bag large enough to accommodate them. It might be a small bag compared to what the wealthy were used to, but it was his all the same, and it contained everything connected to his brief but remarkable time in Pryor House.
He washed and groomed himself, not at all surprised at finding the fireplace emptied and cleaned, the stray books he’d taken out of the library gone. Those volumes were perhaps back in their respective shelves already. The sketchbook was also missing, and Ansel was convinced it now waited for the next unhappy boy or girl to stumble across it somewhere in Pryor House.
Yes, that was it, he realized. Pryor House had reset itself in preparation for the next lost youth to cross its darkly magical threshold. Ansel stared at his reflection as he thought about this.
“The best of luck to you, whoever you might be,” he whispered to the mirror, shyly marveling at his physical transformation from four weeks of living in between worlds. He’d gained some weight, the deadness in his eyes was gone, and while he knew he still had quite a ways to go, he was comforted by the fact that he was off to a good start, and that was what Miss Peveler had intended.
“And the best of luck to you, too, ma’am,” he added.
>
When he returned to the bed, where the bag sat, he gave a start at the sight of a bundled pile of books and a portfolio. A thick, silk ribbon in bright blue held them all together, and Ansel knew, without inspecting them, that he was looking at the books of verses and the music sheets. There were two thin volumes and the portfolio, and Ansel immediately picked them up and held them tightly against his chest.
Pryor House, as expected, was empty and quiet. His breakfast awaited him, though, and it was nice and hot still. After filling himself up, Ansel made one final inspection of the downstairs area, moving from room to room and reflecting on his adventures there. Before leaving each empty room, he’d murmur his thanks, pressing a hand against a piece of furniture and wondering if Miss Peveler could hear him. At the very least, he hoped she knew just how grateful he was in being the fortunate one to be chosen. It wasn’t fair that there were more children out there who couldn’t be helped in such a way. He took some measure of comfort in the thought that, in her own mysterious way, Nature would triumph on their behalf either during their lifetimes or after death claimed them.
The portraits and landscapes were now vivid and simply gorgeous. Features and personalities came through in the portraits, and idyllic beauty and youthful joy resonated in every landscape. Ansel didn’t see himself in any of them, and he wondered if his likeness was somewhere in Pryor House at the moment. There was also a chance that it wouldn’t make itself known till the next resident appeared. It could also be the same about the sketchbook and the final drawing of him and Cedric together.
No, he told himself as he stood by the front door, giving Pryor House one final look, his bag in hand and his books and music cradled against his chest. All those questions he had about his likeness was no longer his concern. He’d forever be a part of Pryor House now, and he felt a surge of pride at the notion that, in some indirect way, he’d be helping future boys and girls. His transformation, captured and preserved in a mysterious sketchbook, would be the means by which he could reach out through time.
Ansel of Pryor House Page 11