Chapter 2
The manor of the Duke [Surname] is as high as it is wide. Columns surrounded by marble cherubim sculptures stood tall, supporting the weight of the equally extravagant ceiling that have been painted with faces of countless patron saints. The chandelier stretched from the uppermost ceiling to half of the fourth floor and hung like a spiderweb to a commoner's house, its crystals glinting like stars at night. The walls of the hallway, which were covered with thin sheets of gold, are decorated with portraits of the deceased relatives. The concrete floors of each storey were covered with white carpet, never seen even with the slightest bit of speck. The windows were all stained; all of them were the chronological images of the Son carrying the cross.
The first floor was empty and is used for banquets. The second one had the study room of the children, the office of the Duke, and the library, which only high-ranking servants can enter aside from the family members themselves. Only the third, fourth, and fifth had rooms, and every single bedroom had a parlor room for personal guests. Two low-ranking maids are assigned to clean each of the room regularly, and the head maid needs to check them after.
The land that surrounded the manor was filled with lavanders, its fragrance mixing with mints' that have overgrown. To follow your father's orders, no one is allowed to pluck even a stem of lavender. It was your mother's dying wish to let them grow freely, so your father fulfilled it up until the present. A huge glass greenhouse can be found at the east of the manor, inside was where the red roses were planted and where the gazebo was located. The gardeners are only allowed to touch the roses when it is the scheduled day to trim them. Under the bush of thorny blossom lied the bones of your mother. When she was still alive, she mentioned about being buried together with her own mother, yet your father could not handle being away from her, living or the opposite. So he had her be planted like the roses she adored.
At the west of the manor was the pond. It used to be filled with fish and frogs, which your mother liked feeding, but ever since she passed away, your father thought that there is no use to keep them alive. The water was untouched and soon became stagnant. The once clear water of the pond became muddy and full of algae, the carcasses of the animals that once swam there have now mixed together into fertilizer.
The south of the manor, or the land behind it, is full of imported narra trees. Your mother liked the small flowers that fall when the wind is ever-so-slightly strong. She would call them yellow rain, and your father would chuckle at the sight of her spinning. You could recall the times when your mother would have the cooks prepare her a picnic mat and food so the three of you could eat under the shade of the sturdy trees. It was a little funny to think the fact that these trees outlived your mother.
But, oh, well. Things never happen the way you expect them to, no?
Because who in their right mind would think that a Christian like you would even dare to communicate with beings who are considered unholy?
Yet, you did. In the end, you still did.
"You have asked me for a laboratory," you said. "But I cannot help but wonder where you would retire for the night."
The one thing he wanted had been built, its exterior seeming like a large but ordinary cabin to unassuming eyes. If, however, someone were to step foot inside, they would immediately learn that this place was far from normal. Vials of different sizes neatly placed on top of a large desk, a metal cauldron above what you could call a kitchenette, herbs and plants unfamiliar even to a well-educated lady like you, books with varying colors of book covers tucked in the shelves, lamps too few you can count them with one hand and candles too many to be counted, a feather quill instead of a fountain pen, an image of a man with his limbs stretched, and the man himself, who wore a strange yet prim set of clothes—all of this was strange.
"Retire for the night," he repeated, his voice has never failing to startle you with its softness. "I rarely sleep."
You hummed in acknowledgement. With your gloved hands behind you, you leaned down and took a whiff of the crushed plants from the stone mortar.
"You have difficulty sleeping."
He looked at you as though he thought of correcting your assumption, but his lips remained sealed. Instead, he nodded.
"I do."
You rose and let your eyes wander at the interior of his laboratory once more. Its ceiling was high, and there was a fraction of it replaced with a large glass sheet, appearing more like a sunroof. Straight below it was a deep, dug well with bricks encircled its entrance. Beside it was a closed furnace and other tools equipments you could not even name. All inside his laboratory were related to his craft; nothing seemed to be used for human needs, like cooking and bathing.
"This will be your first day of stay here," you trailed off.
"It is."
He leaned onto the empty space of his desk, his eyes studying your every move. With the harsh sunlight illuminating the area behind him, his beautiful face looked similar to an uncanny wax figure, eyes lacking reflection and sockets dark and void.
"Would you be traveling from here to your residence?"
He tilted his head, mulling over his words.
"Travel?" His lips quirked up. "Yes, I will be traveling everyday."
A lie? The truth? He was not letting you figure it out.
"I see." You breathed out through your nose in a snail-like pace. "I suppose you would not want me to provide you a carriage for that?"
He shook his head.
Good God, this was so painful.
You did not know what to say anymore, because you knew there was nothing left to be said. In the end, you force the silence fill all the empty space there were. His gaze was scorching yet chilling, and the pressure it gave you felt heavy against your shoulders. Yet, you could not avert your eyes, as though there was something that was preventing you from doing so.
"I feel bad letting you stay here," you suddenly spoke.
Intrigued, he asked, "Is there anything wrong with my working space?"
"What if you happened to feel drowsy? A chair is not the best thing to let your body rest onto." Your words were slow, just like how you were taught. "What if these ingredients spilled onto your clothes? Traveling in unclean clothes are not exactly preferable."
"What would you suggest then?"
"The manor has a lot of rooms you can use. You can choose from the ones at the third floor."
"You do not appear to fear that I can harm you."
Oh, you do. Deep down, hidden by your barely cracking demeanor, you do.
You fear his unknown abilities; you are not going to lie yourself and claim otherwise. From the hearsay that you witlessly believed, he is a practitioner of arts that is almost demonic. He is a man; he is not a man of God. You were at his mercy, and to make it worse, you were sure that he knew you fear him.
"Again, I choose to trust Him."
"Your grace," your handmaiden outside cut the conversation short.
"I will be going then."
You made your way to the door, hands carefully holding a fraction of the upper portion of your skirt.
"You have so much faith for something you cannot see."
His words made you halt, your eyes widening.
What did he say?
What did he just say?
"Sir Riddle?" you gasped, flabbergasted.
Then, you scoffed and laughed bitterly, reminding yourself who it was you were talking to. Your eyes scanned his face, and surely, there was a single expression that you noted. He was mocking you, again, and he did not even mask it.
"Lady [Name], you will be late for the mass."
You swallowed the words from exiting, before you replied with, "For us normal mortals, what else can we do but have faith?"
His ever-present smirk only widened by a minuscule length.
You breathed out, exhaling the words, "I will personally guide you once I return."
The claps of the nobles mixed with the sounds of the bell being hit rang against your ears. You stood up from your seat, walking to the large, oaken doors. Your steps were not hurried, but your heartbeats were. A pungent smell suddenly enveloped your nose, familiar and terrifying.
"Lady [Name]," a throaty voice has announced itself. "You are here today. How devoted of you."
The Viscount of the East was the sixty-five-year-old man who has made it clear years ago that he desires you. He claims that men his age are fools to prefer wombs that are not yet mature. He once said that to plant his seed inside you would be the greatest blessing he could ever receive from Him.
"Good morrow." You curtsied. "Your grace."
Against your will, he took one of your hands, which have unconsciously been hiding from him, and kissed your knuckles. His chapped, nicotine-littered lips stayed on top of the back of your hand too long for your liking. Your airways constricted on its own, as if you have swallowed a bush of roses.
"I prayed for your father," he said, like it makes thing better. "But perhaps, it was His will."
"His will?"
"Yes, my dove. The God's will for you to leave your nest and migrate to a different place."
This old man loved referring to you as a bird, his words a clear indication that he wanted to cage you and cut the wings that have never grown to begin with.
"How insightful of you."
"It is natural for men to be wise."
Wise.
Wise. Wise.
Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise.
Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise.
Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise. Wise.
Wise.
He thinks that he is wise.
This damned, old man.
This damned, old dev—
"Ah, unfortunate." Oh, he has let go of your hand already. "I still need to attend to my duties. I shall go first, my nightingale."
You could only smile. Crookedly at that.
"Be safe, your grace."
Do not be safe.
"I will." He bowed his head. "Just for you."
Time passed, and his carriage finally left. You entered yours, and the moment you did, your handmaiden took your gloves off.
"Lady [Name]," she pleaded. "Please, get ahold of yourself."
You plucked the metal hairpin that hold your hair together with the veil and gripped it hard. You focused on the petals of the silver hibiscus, attempting to calm your nerves. You breathed in, and you breathed out. You breathed in, and you breathed out. You breathed in, and you breathed out. Repeatedly, you did, yet it only made your heart pump blood faster. Your maid, who was paying close attention to the shifting of your face, hastily got out of the carriage and closed the door behind her.
Using the sharp-pointed metal stick wrapped with your palm, you stabbed the plush material of the seat across from you.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
And many times.
Again.
And again.
And again, until the white, cotton filling spilled out. You let the pin fall and your hand ache, but you know you were not satisfied. You could never be satisfied. You want this cotton to be his innards, just so he would stop breathing the same air as you do.
"Replace the seat," you ordered her, your voice low and strained. "Right this instant. We are going home."
The reason you were not and never will be like your mother was not because you did not share her face. It was due to your rage that have never simmered even when you have grown older.