Chapter 3
Instead of guiding him yourself like you promised, you ordered the butler to do it in your stead. The memory of the exchange has managed to make you lose your composure, and despite your little concern for your appearance, there was something that tells you not to show this side to the wizard.
Right now, with your eyes closed, you have your bare back against the tiled walls of the elevated bath, your hair being carefully washed by two of your servants. The younger one, who was tasked to lather your hair up, suddenly giggled like a little girl, and when you slowly opened your eyes, you saw her olive skin now tinted with a deep shade of red.
"Lady [Name], Sir Riddle is a fine, young gentleman, is he not?" she asked, eyes twinkling.
The older servant, who was her sister, snapped her head to look at the other, appalled and understandably nervous. She nudged her younger sister with her elbow in hopes of stopping her nonsense, but she only laughed, unaware of the weight of her sin gradually becoming heavier and heavier.
"I saw him walking at the garden while you were gone, and he looked so dreamy," she babbled. "He felt so much like a noble man."
"A noble?" you repeated.
"Yes, my lady." She nodded all-too-eagerly. "His poise reminded me of the duke."
"What else?" you lightly pressed, your eyes peering through her sister's.
"He seems as though he would be a good husband to you, my lady."
With her statement, your eyes narrowed. Although you were physically at a lower position than her in the present, the intensity of your stare never diminished. You still appreared to be of a higher power—which you were—yet the oblivious maid appeared not to notice.
"A husband, you say?"
She hummed in confirmation, solidifying her grave right there and then.
"Noble men might not desire to marry you due to your age," she explained, her gaze still not meeting yours. "However, with your high position, you need not worry about him being a commoner. You can easily buy him a title."
You chuckled, loud and unrestrained. Your shoulder shook, and the water that surrounded you danced, rippling and creating small, disturbed waves. Your laughter bounced onto the walls, echoing until they became softer and then gone.
Mistaking your snicker as a sign of approval, she continued with, "You are very lucky, my lady. I wish that my spouse would be similar to him. Regal—"
Her older sister swiftly slapped her mouth with her wet, soapy palm, her eyes full of fear. The younger maid tried to lean back to removed the hand on her lips, but it only followed her. She made a sound of frustration, but when she saw your calm yet strained expression, she promptly quieted herself. The two maids quivered in fear, their souls terrified beyond explanation.
"Your sister is rather imaginative," you commented, as though the young adolescent you were pertaining to was not in the same room as you. "Such a creative mind."
You lifted your hands from being submerged in the water and scanned your nails, a pleased smile breaking through.
"My lady," the older maid whispered. "Please—"
"You are making it sound as if I will lift my hand against her."
You might not punish your servants with lashing or whipping like any other nobles, but you were everything but a generous master. And the servants who have served you since your birth has known that long ago. Too well.
"Please do not send her out, your grace." she rushed. "Your grace, I will discipline her myself. I vow to—"
"How old is she again?" you interrupted her.
"Ple—"
"How old is she?"
Your voice was lower, and even a fool would know not to step out of line.
Swallowing her sobs, she mumbled, "Fifteen, my lady."
"How young." You clicked your tongue repeatedly, disappointment radiating from your form. "She should not be thinking of marriage this early."
"I will—"
"How unfortunate it is to think that girls are conditioned to dream of marrying."
"Please, I beg of you, let her stay here."
"Oh, I will." You grinned. "Transfer her to the laundry area."
The laundry area, although paid fairly, is one of the most difficult and strenuous tasks in the manor. It is a consequence you lay out to those who have displeased you in any manner, and those who are not originally appointed to work there are given more labor.
"The laundry ar—"
"You will, will you not? Unless you wish to take her place."
"No," she stuttered. "She—she will be there."
They stood up with shaking knees, the younger one tugging at her sister's arm. The latter yanked the former's hand, her eyes still downcast and afraid to look anywhere but the floor.
"Oh, and never speak out of turn." You tilted your head down and resumed with you bath. "That goes for the both of you."
Now clothed in your indoor dress, you stood beside the opened window of your father's study. You flipped through parchment and parchment, searching for nothing. His quill, which has been unused for weeks, settled on top of his favorite book, while its inkwell, open and its lid nowhere to be seen, held dry ink residue. You made yourself comfortable on his chair, imagining a woman—who she was, you made no effort to imagine her face—entering this office.
You could see her beaming smile, her laughter lulling your ears. Beside her was a small child—a son—clutching the thick material of her skirt, looking up at you ever-so-shyly. She would encourage him to make his way to you and ask for an embrace—something you have never once received from your own father.
"The man. Would he be dining with you, your grace?" the butler, who you did not realize was in front of the closed door all this time, asked. "Lunch has been served."
"Ah," you breathed out, reality sinking in.
You were certain that if you have been born a man, you would never need to face such predicaments concerning marital life and inheritance issues. You were definite that if you were a male, you would have been significantly and undoubtedly happier.
"Send a servant to ask the wizard," you commanded. "If he wishes to eat inside his laboratory, let him."
He opened the door without waiting for you to let him, causing you to knit your eyebrows.
Everyone was adamant on testing your patience today, no?
"Have something happened during the mass, your grace?"
You did not reply immediately and stared at him.
He, the butler, has been working for this manor longer than you were alive, probably also longer than your father has been alive. He knew every single thing that happens in this manor, and he is the one that manages such.
Picking up the quill with your right index and middle fingers, you stated, "I do not recall your job involving prying with the personal affairs of your masters."
Quickly, he fixed his monocle and said, "My apologies, my lady."
Walking to the dining room with the butler trailing ten steps away from you—a custom—you saw an older man who looked so similar to your father.
"Mister," you said, taking his outstretched hand and kissed the middle knuckle as a sign of respect.
When the servants have finally left, he embraced you, even attempting to lift you from the ground, just like he used to do when you were still a younger girl. You sat on your usual seat while he took your father's chair.
"Call me uncle, child," he gently reminded you, his voice as pleasant as the birds singing whenever mornings start. "I am not dressed in my cassock."
Your uncle, the older and only brother of your father, has been a person who never wished to have wealth and never saw having such as a symbol of a fulfilling life. From a young age, he saw the cathedral as his rightful place, and when he as come of age, he entered the seminary to become a direct server of Him. Naturally, this led to your father to be the heir and, soon enough, became the Duke.
"How have you been faring?"
"The usual."
"[Father's Name] still has not woken up, I see."
As the two of you started the meal, you two talked about things ranging from trivial to important. His food intake was just as proper and enough as it is in the past—he claims that gluttony is a sin that a priest like him would never commit—making you feel slightly embarrassed of how much—or little—you normally eat.
"It was said in the Bible that the devil will show himself in a form that will tempt someone," he began. "If man is lustful, the devil shall show himself as a fair maiden; if man is greedy, the devil shall show himself as gold. However, most importantly, if man can do wrong, th devil shall show himself as a problem that will make man question his morals."
Now finished with his meal, he grunted as he leaned on the backrest of the chair and gave you a fatherly smile. You returned it, suddenly remembering your younger years, when he would visit you and play with you whenever your father was preoccupied with admiring your mother's beauty.
"The devil targets those who are the most devoted to Him."
Who had been his target then? You or your father?
"There are temptation everywhere, but it is our choice whether to succumb to them or not. That is why He gave us free will."
You nodded, letting his words hang before saying, "I wish to enter the convent."
As though a coin has been flipped, his posture changed.
"[Name], child, do not start with this again," he reprimanded you, his stone suddenly stern. "I will not let you."
Oh.
How ironic.
How utterly ironic.
"Let me?" you parroted, the syllables being drawled out. "Let me?"
He cleared his throat, concluding that his words have insulted you.
"I did not—"
He sighed again.
"A servant of a baron's daughter has reached out to me," he changed the topic hastily. "She has mentioned something about her master succumbing into a death-like sleep."
You huffed, recalling that your uncle, no matter how hard you deny it, is and will always be a man.
"Which baron's daughter?" When he answered you, you stiffened in your seat. "She was one of the ladies who I helped."
"You helped?"
Ever since you were an adolescent, countless bachelors have gambled for a chance to have your hand in marriage, and being an unmarried woman meant that you have no other option but to accept while not entirely entertaining their subtle and not-so-subtle displays of desires. You could never refuse them outright—because doing so is rude and disrespectful—and you cannot use a man as a shield, unless you were determined to marry him.
Not wanting to receive jealousy from your fellow young ladies, you decided to hold regular discussions with them, which were masked as tea parties. Ladies of lower backgrounds than yours—from a march, an earldom, a viscountcy, a barony, a fief—have asked assistance from you to provide them a suitable pair, and wanting nothing more than to rid of the pesky bugs that encircled you everywhere you go, you indulge these ladies with choices—that being your unasked suitors.
You figured that becoming a bridge to them will enable you to achieve not only one but to goals while spending the doubled amount of effort. That decision of yours turned rather successful, and whether it was a fortunate thing or the otherwise, a rumor of you being cursed to have no lover circulated through the kingdom.
"Lady affairs," you lied smoothly.
"I see." He bobbed his head up and down. "Her spouse, the Earl of the North, has been constantly sending me letters demanding me to see his wife. He believed he was under the devil's doing, but at first, he has speculated that it was due to a witch."
Lost, you exhaled exasperatedly.
How come no one has mentioned this to you?
"A witch?"
"Yes." Solemnly, he reminisced about a memory. "There was said to be a woman that was seen lurking around the estate of the earl. When her residence was visited, the knights found stacks of books and hand-drawn images of a human body separated by shapes."
"What happened to her?" You tilted your head and waited, yet his silence told you more than what was sufficient. "Uncle."
So they burned an innocent, commoner woman who can read? A commoner woman who knew how to draw human figures?
"Were there any proof that she did it? That she was the source?" you inquired, in which he, again, gave you no answer. "They killed—they excecuted a woman because the earl thought she was a witch?"
If the so-called witch was indeed one, should she not be affected by the fire? What was telling these people that the lady they incinerated were actually burned into ashes? Do they not think of the possibility of this lady allowing them to do that as a ruse?
Expelling air through your nose, you asked him, "The Earl's wife? How's the Countess?"
"Still bedridden."
For an unknown reason, you feel as if it was your fault that led her to this situation.
"Have you visited her yet?"
"Yes, I did, and she looked no better than your father."
Rising from his seat without a warning, he patted his mouth with a napkin.
"I have a mass," he confessed sheepishly. "I almost forgot."
When you attempted to walk him out the door, he raised a palm, telling you not to. He paced and then halted; he appeared serious once again.
"Swear to me that you will always confide to Him and to Him alone."
"What?"
"Child, swear to me."
"You need not have me swear; I always will run to Him no matter what."
Hours have passed, and you were left to your own company at the now-emptied dining table. There was an inkling fear that was veiling you, and it was all due to your uncle. The manner of how he talked to you was unusually curious, if not invasive. He appeared to know about what you have done and was merely waiting for you to voice it out yourself. You, however, would be a fool to do so.
"This is killing me," you muttered to no one.
You held your bell and rang it. A servant showed, and you directed her to fetch your Bible from the prayer room. When you finally had it, you decided to take a stroll. Your feet has no end destination, and you were surprised to find yourself standing on the wizard's doorstep. Before you could even turn around and return to the direction you came from, the door opened, revealing him, cloak gone and only wearing a long-sleeved-shirt that had a trim you were not familiar with.
"You are here," he pointed out the obvious.
Quick with your tongue, you replied, "Need I have a reason to go here? This is my father's territory."
"Never said the otherwise."
You entered without his permission, something you would never do with any other men—again, a custom—and looked around.
"When will you be able to heal him?"
"Impatient, are we?" he tutted. "I have only been here for a few hours, and you are expecting much already."
Vexed, you held yourself back from rolling your eyes.
"Give me an estimation. Something I can hold onto."
"A month or two."
"That long?"
It was now his turn to be aggravated.
"You have asked me to estimate."
"Why that long?"
"Because whoever did this to your father must have been an excellent dark arts practitioner." Seeing your tense expression, his eyes softened. "Fret not, Lady [Name]. Your father is in good hands."
Despite his tender, empathetic tone, the glint in his eyes indicated that he was everything but. The way his gaze raked over your figure—only realizing that moment that you were wearing an indoor attire—whispered to you that there was something that he would want to confess but could not—or rather, would not.
"You better be."
Those three words made a series of deep, airy chuckles erupt from him. You really were so impatient, and it never not made him amused to no end.
As you wordlessly leave him, his eyes moved from your back to the thing in your hands—which he only now noticed were bare. You were holding a thick book with a black, leather cover—the Bible.
"How was the mass?" he said before you could step out.
"You need not to pretend to be interested with my mundane life, sir." You turned on your heel to look at him, the sight being ever-so-familiar. "Concentrate on your job."
Oh. That was surprising.
He could almost feel the heat of your glare burning him.
"And you need not to feel offended by such an innocuous question," he poked, his eyes crinkling for the first time. "But here we are."
Deciding that it was not a good move to irritate you further, he sighed.
"Trust me. You saw him improve after that one, single vial, did you not?" he said. "Or, at the very least, trust your God."
It sounded ridiculously hilarious for him to preach faith on you, after all, he is no believer of it. To Sir Riddle, religion is a concept that he merely finds himself very intrigued. The idea of worshipping an unseen figure and giving one's life and faith to them simply due to the tales narrated and texts written about the entity's miracles, which provided no concrete proof of existence, may not be a foreign thing, but it is foolishly nonetheless.
"The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence," he remember hearing the saying from a normal mortal—one of the creatures who possess no magical ability like his kind, really.
The statement might make sense to them, but to him and his kind, it is far from plausible. If anything that could not be explained in the meantime is a miracle to them, then every wizard and witch should be revered. If one were to be the littlest bit logical, then Sir Riddle would be a god amongst these vermin.
"I am trying to."
Would you look at that? Someone sensible.
But after all that defensiveness not too long ago?
"Giving up faith already?"
"No," you seethed, stepping out of his cabin. "Never."
Ah. Not too sensible, apparently.