Snow Season – Day 22 of 90
The next day, as you walked the servant’s corridor, your thoughts about your master were still a jumble.
This was not the only time you were the target of an employer’s interest. Your first position was chambermaid to the second son of Fulston Manor, the noble bred Hunter Highton. Unlike Gravelorne, the relationship between maid and master at Fulston was simple. You cleaned the beds, and Hunter treated you the same way he treated dust bunnies: only a problem if seen. However, on the night of his eighteenth birthday, Hunter met Evangeline Calcraft, the heiress to the Calcraft Firearms fortune. Second sons may inherit names, but they do not inherit money or titles. Hunter was an idiot, but not a fool. He ponied around like the prince from a fairytale all night. Evangeline fell for Hunter’s chiseled jaw and painted personality. Mr. and Mrs. Calcraft, both of commoner background, fell for the noble Highton name. All of society agreed it was a match well made.
However, that very evening, Hunter’s drunken frustration about the situation became your problem.
“She is pretty enough for me, right?”
“Ms. Calcraft is very pretty, Master,” you had agreed.
“Maybe a bit too much, though. I bet she’s not a virgin anymore.” Hunter’s nose had wrinkled in a vile disgust. “Probably got taken by some uncle already. That’s what you females do, right? Play pretty and dumb so old men like you.”
Your heart clenched tight when he said those words. It was not a conversation anyone wanted to hear, let alone a servant girl. When his hand clamped around your wrist, it felt like your lungs were filled with cement.
“Well, I won’t let her laugh at me for being one.”
Only two things saved you that night: Hunter’s alcohol-induced erectile dysfunction and ugly sobbing. His slap had sent you reeling to the floor. A kick to your leg left you limping for two days.
“You’re going to pretend you’re so pure? Lying dog. Just get out.”
When you rushed for the door, Hunter waved your torn panties at you. Shadows engulfed his handsome face.
“Breathe a word of this to anyone, and this will be the only character reference you get.”
Perhaps it was the word he used. Maybe it was divine guidance. Either way, when you finally realized where you had fled, you found yourself hiding amongst the hunting spaniels. There in the kennel, sharing rowdy spirits with the eldest son of the house, was your late husband, Piotr. One look at your broken lip sent both men straight to Hunter’s bedroom for a “chat.” From that day forward, all the dogs at Fulston manor growled whenever the boy walked by.
This time, however, there was no big, strong gamekeeper to “talk” the problem away. You were on your own.
As you neared the servant’s entrance, a voice yelled:
“Watch out!”
You slammed back against the wall. A silver blur of metal and steam swept past you and out the door. It chugged down the ramp before bursting into the muddy courtyard with a whistling screech. Wild steel hands flailed in the air, flinging laundry everywhere. Wide eyes watched as clean undergarments fluttered into the muck.
Lyle came to a halt in the door frame, grabbing his red curls with both hands. With a horrified stare, he watched the mechanical nightmare charging straight through the opening of the north hedge maze.
“Oh shi—” He paused mid-word, casting a panicked look behind him. With a nervous chuckle, he swiftly corrected himself. “S-shipping routes! Oh! Shipping routes!”
You hid your laugh behind a cough. “Mr. Ellsworth has been upstairs all morning. I doubt he can hear you.”
Lyle shook his head and pointed to the side of his skull. “He reads your thoughts!” he hissed.
“Right…” You patted the young man’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should refrain from taste testing Cook’s
dandelion wine.”
Whirrrrrrr, crunch!
Turning to the maze, you both saw a stream of steam and leaves churning into the air.
“Ohhhh!” Lyle moaned in panic. “Norton’s gonna use me as fertilizer!” As if the gardener himself were on Lyle’s heels, he dashed off towards the shrubs.
When he rounded the corner of the maze, you could not hold the laughter in. Chest burning, you bent over and sputtered into your hand. Once your body stopped heaving, you started to collect the runaway laundry from the muddy yard. “I suppose progress cannot exist without failure,” you mused.
As a neat pile began to form, there was a great clunking noise. From the hedges, hopping behind the demon machine, came Lyle. His prosthetic leg was draped across the top of the casing. Next to it was a small metal box with loose wires. He waved at you. “Had to disconnect the friggen power source, but I got it contained!”
You frowned. “What happened to your leg?”
Lyle rolled the mechanical monster to the bottom of the ramp. “Got caught in the mud, and the suction broke. I think the valve seal cracked.” He slapped the washer. “Give me a hand?”
With a short grunt and a mighty push, the two of you managed to shove the hellacious creation back inside. Lyle sighed and grabbed his metal leg. Plopping down on the cement, he pointed the attachment into the sun and frowned at it.
You squatted down beside him. “Is the damage very severe?”
He shrugged, turning the limb this way and that. After twisting a loose screw back into place, his hand depressed the vacuum seal. A rush of air burst from the valve.
“Not too bad,” Lyle scratched his cheek. “I think.”
You patted his shoulder. “Take the time you need. I will collect the undergarments.”
Lyle hummed in response, still searching for defects.
You clutched your hem to your thigh as your leather boots squished in the half-melted mess. Step by step, you picked your way through the driest parts of the yard. Cold fingers plucked a deep purple V-string from the ground.
Lyle grinned. “That belongs to Reeves. Georgette bought it for him.”
Just what every woman wanted: a rundown of her coworker’s underwear selections and who purchased them. Apparently, Lyle had yet to learn about boundaries.
“Boundaries are often blurry in the dark.”
Your face burned hot. “May we talk about something else?”
“Like what?”
Your eyes rolled to the bulky apparatus inside the doorway. “How did you become a mechanic?”
“Family business. I’m the first son, so I was supposed to take over.” He patted his leg. “The shop got hit during the bombings five years ago. I made it out but dad didn’t.”
Your frozen hand hovered over the next pair of underpants. “I am sorry.”
Lyle shook his head. “It’s not all bad, you know. Losing my leg kept me from being drafted.” With a forlorn smile, he stared at the cloudy sky. “My little brother never came home from the war. Dunno what mom would have done if she lost both of us.”
You closed your eyes and folded your hands in front of you. “I am not happy you were hurt, but I am glad that we met.”
Lyle’s grin glowed like a warm ember. “Me too. It’s nice being here. Peaceful. All the yelling at home got old.”
“Yelling?” you asked in shock. “Did your mother yell at you?”
Lyle waved his hands. “Oh no, not her! Customers. People get all weird when you’re in a wheelchair. They’d talk real slow and yell at me, like: How! Are! You! To-day!? Same way a lot of them talk to foreigners.” Lyle snorted and pursed his lips to one side. “They always pucker-up like a fish when they do it too.”
You stifled a snicker behind your hand. “I see.”
“Sicarius came in one day because he was having trouble with the steam pressure in the Lacrima. He was the only one of them who treated me like… well…” Lyle pointed to his freckled nose. “Like me.”
At the words “treated me like me,” a moment long-cherished shoved its way to the front of your mind. The smell of hay and animal dander filled the air. As real as the night you first met, Piotr’s massive hand reached out to you from your memories.
“Come now. This is a place for the dogs to sleep, and you are not a dog.”
Hot tears seared your eyes. Before the red-head could see, you tilted your head back and swallowed down the salty pain.
“He’s weird, but he’s the only toff I can really respect, ya know?” Lyle continued with a stretch. “He treats people like people because of who they are, not what happened to them.”
“I understand that you used to read my friend to sleep.”
“Yes,” you agreed, dabbing your face with the cuff of your sleeve. “Yes, he does.” With a deep breath, you leaned over and plucked a pair of silk-black boxers from the ground. The tooth of your dry fingers snagged on the fine material.
“Those fancy things have got to belong to Sicarius!” Lyle laughed. “He has gaudy gold-trimmed ones too.”
“Indeed,” you muttered. “I have encountered them before.”
Lyle cocked a saucy brow at you. “Oh really?”
The back of your neck burned as you realized your mistake. With a stately cough, you replied, “Handling clothing is in the normal course of my duties.”
Lyle snickered. “Right…”
Your eyes narrowed. “I do not appreciate that tone, young man.”
The mechanic threw his head back and cackled. “You can be such a stick in the mud.”
You snatched a pair of teddy bear embroidered boxers from the ground. A wiggling finger poked through a hole in the seam. “My goodness! Are these not your favorite pair?”
The mechanic gulped.
A cold smile curled on your lips. “I shall call that charming young lady at the laundry straight away! Her darning work is excellent.” You tapped your chin and faked confusion. “What was her name? Josephine? Jessica? Jada?”
Her name was Jasmine. Lyle said it fifteen times a day.
Eyes as wide as saucers, the young man scrambled to the edge of the ramp. “It was a joke, ma’am! A joke!”
“A joke?” Your face was placid as a porcelain doll. “Whatever are you talking about? I thought you wanted to discuss underwear?”
Lyle hung his head. “Reeves was right. Under all those manners, you’re a fiend.”
You strolled over to him and tossed the adorable undergarments into his lap. With two firm pats to his shoulder, you replied, “As long as we have an understanding, I shall return these to your care.”
“Boundaries are often blurry in the dark.”
As evening fell, Sicarius’s comment repeated more often in your mind. While Gravelorne’s electric bulbs burned brighter than candles, the extra light only deepened the shadows at the edge of the wide passages. The black windows of the front hall looked like an open chasm to the below world. You turned your back on the night and knocked on the study door. Goose pimples prickled down your arms.
“Enter.”
Sicarius leaned back in his leather chair, balancing his pen upon his upper lip. As you closed the door, a wide grin knocked the writing utensil from his face. He snatched it from midair and set it in the cup. “So you found it then?” he asked.
You held the thick book of legends aloft. “You put it under C for Coriland, not F for Fables.”
“I really should create a more exact filing system,” he murmured, rising to his feet.
You glanced at the large stack of papers and then the mantle clock. It was only half-past ten. “Are you done for the evening, Master?”
“More than done, I am afraid.” The desk lamp clicked off. “The work will keep. My attention span will not.”
Sicarius strode to the door, holding it wide open. As you walked through the threshold, blue eyes stared at your bare neck. When you slipped past him out into the hall, it felt like the shadows licked at your heels.
“Boundaries are often blurry in the dark.”
Your fingers curled around the leather binding.
“I hear that Lyle’s new invention created quite a spectacle today,” a low voice said in your ear.
Your heart slammed against your ribs as you jolted to the side. When you turned to face him, the master was standing tall, hands in his pockets.
That was odd. You swore he was right next to—
You shook your head to clear the thought. “Y-yes. There was some damage to the hedge maze. Mr. Watts has been avoiding Mr. Norton since this afternoon.”
Sicarius’s grin looked fanged. “A wise choice.”
As you climbed the stairs, the darkness around you pressed in from all corners. You glanced back at the Fae Tree. Rising from a pool of shadows, the golden branches looked like groping hands reaching for your body.
“Are you all right?”
Your head snapped back around. “I am fine, Master.”
Despite his long legs, he kept pace at your side. “You seem on edge.”
“It is nothing.”
Sicarius hummed. “That makes it sound like it is something.”
His elbow brushed your sleeve. You clenched your arm tight to your side.
“Are you scared of the dark?”
“I am a grown woman.”
Sicarius’s taunting smile did nothing to ease your worries. As his eyes rolled from your gritted teeth to your tight shoulders, it felt like you were being stroked with flames.
Your master’s chuckle was low and deep. “Yes, I suppose you are.”
When you reached the second floor, Sicarius swaggered into the shadows, never turning on the lights. You froze at the top of the stairs. He looked at you and raised his brow. You swallowed and followed after him. Upon reaching the end of the long hall, Sicarius strolled straight into his lair. Pausing in the threshold, you buried your chin in the top of the tome. The bedside lily lamp flickered to life with a soft glow. His teasing smile was tempered by the calm courtesy in his voice.
“Better?”
You nodded, slinking into the room.
“You are as skittish as a kitten tonight,” he remarked, eyes flashing in the lamplight. “Are you sure nothing is the matter?”
Ignoring the question, you placed the book on the velvet-trimmed seat. Tight shoulders burned with tension. A breath of cold air filled your lungs. Try as you might, the heavy furniture was awkward to lift. One rosewood leg scraped the floor. You cringed. All at once, the weight disappeared from your grasp. Startled eyes looked up. With as little effort as lifting a feather, Sicarius carried the stool to his bedside. He patted the leather-bound collection and smirked at you.
“I know my maid cannot be perfect in all ways.” He faked a pained sigh. “I will have to settle for most.”
Shaking hands clenched in front of your stomach as you begged the pounding of your heart to be silent. Fighting your nerves, you looked him dead in the face. “Will you require me to help you undress?”
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Would you like to undress me?”
Your smile creaked. “I would like to perform my prescribed duties to your satisfaction, Master.”
He ran a hand through his hair and smirked at you. “My, this room got chilly.”
You turned on your heel and strode to the wardrobe. “I shall fetch your long underwear.”
As you sifted through the clothing, his gaze burned your throat. Quiet steps crept to the closet. A long arm reached past your shoulder. He leaned over you, watching the selections drift in and out of your fingertips. You stiffened but said nothing. Acknowledging it would only cause him to tease you more. Best to wait for him t—
All at once, you felt the bristle of a man’s whiskers brush against your neck. You whipped around, pressing yourself flat against the closet.
Sicarius laughed and held up both hands. “Easy now. I was just checking what colors I owned.” He pointed to the bathroom door and rotated his shoulder. “Would you go draw a bath for me? My arm is rather tense from all that writing.”
You frowned at him. “Master, please refrain fro—”
He turned his back to you. The clink of metal set your pulse pounding. His belt hit the floor with a thud. “Are you still here?” Wicked blue eyes peered over his shoulder. “Is watching me undress one of your prescribed duties?”
As you clenched your teeth and hustled to the bathroom, only one thought occupied your mind: Maybe if you filled the tub deep enough, he would drown in it.
Sitting in the bedroom waiting for your master to return, you were convinced that Sicarius loved his ridiculous bone china tub more than most men love their wives. Every time he sat in that basin, he hummed cheerful marches better suited for victory ceremonies than an evening wash. Honestly, how long could one man bask in a bath? The water had to have gone cold by now!
When you finally heard the sound of the drain, bloodshot eyes glanced at the clock. Eleven seventeen. You snapped the book shut, picked up his plush dressing gown, and rose to your feet. As you waited by the door, the smell of roses and salt hung in the air. You rolled your eyes. Great. Now the silver would tarnish all over again. Honestly, did this the man ever think for one sec—
The door pulled open. Flower-scented steam rushed into the room. You held out the dressing gown, eyes averted. Terry cloth slipped from your fingers. He chuckled at your efforts.
“You need not look away. I put on all my clothing before coming out.”
Did he really expect you to praise him for that? How old was he? Six?
Stomach squeezing tight, you plastered on an apathetic façade and turned to face him. Towel tousled hair? Check. Ruddy cheeks? Check. Saucy smile? Check. Clothing?
You steeled yourself and lowered your eyes.
Check…ish?
While the satin pajamas were in place, the loose lapel dived into a tight V, ending in the middle of his navel. On the left side of his chest, between the third and fourth ribs, was a wide, gnarled scar. Trying not to stare, you flicked your gaze lower. The chiseled divot between alabaster abs held your attention longer than you were proud to admit. When you looked up, Sicarius was smirking at you. You clamped your teeth around your tongue until you tasted copper.
“I will turn down your sheets, Master.”
As you reached for the bedspread, Sicarius loomed behind you. A prickling heat spiraled down the inside of your legs. Though the calf-length uniform did not expose anything, nervous fingers still tugged the skirt down. Bursts of static light danced across the silk sheets. The hairs on your arms stood on end as his hand caught your wrist.
“On second thought, the robe is warm. I’ll lay on top.” He nodded to the stool. “Have a seat.”
While you took your place, Sicarius brushed past you. As he settled on the covers, long legs clipped the lacey hem of your dress. His toe hoisted the fabric into the air, depositing the edge above your knee. Without thinking, you snatched up the twill and threw it back into place. Sicarius curled onto his side, his half-lidded eyes glowing in the dark.
“What are my options tonight?” he asked, leaning over to look at the book. The smooth fabric of his open pajamas dipped low to expose his pert nipple and broad chest.
Oh, he was going to play that game, was he? Fine. If he wanted to act like an attention-seeking child, you would treat him like one.
In an instant, you snapped into full-service mode. An impersonal smile and neutral tone became the hard wall between maid and master. Perched on the edge of the seat, you flipped open the cover and ignored the distraction.
“Shall I read you the table of contents?”
He huffed and flopped onto his back. “Please do.”
Your finger scrolled down the page. “The Cookie Cabin and the Witch of the Forest?”
“Something a little less gory.”
“The Cat Who Lived Thirteen Lives?”
He waved his hand. “I have that one memorized.”
Of course he did.
You flipped the page. “The Sour Apple and the Fiendish Fox?”
“A bit childish.”
Your lips stretched into a painfully tight smile. “It is a book of legends, Master,” you pointed out.
Sicarius hummed and dragged the cover down with his pointer. “How about a love story?” The long finger tapped on one specific name.
“The Nightmuse and the Seventh Son?”
“Yes.” Sicarius closed his eyes and flopped onto his fluffy pillow.
You supposed that was no great surprise considering the front of the house. Holding back an annoyed sigh, you flipped to your least favorite fable.
The Nightmuse and the Seventh Son
Long ago, there existed many creatures who preyed upon mortal souls. Amongst these fiends, the most cunning and beautiful of all was the nightmuse. Crafted from shadow and starlight, she sought out the hearts of lonely men. In exchange for sweet inspiration, she took from them a meal of vitality and vigor. Untouchable as dawn, she flitted from home to home, leaving nothing but smiling corpses in her wake. Because of the life she stole, neither age nor decay could tarnish her beauty.
For all her success, the nightmuse was cursed by her own kind. Fae have no lost love for humanity. By partaking in their souls, the nightmuse defiled her own. The realm of the flowers closed to her from her very first bite. Still, with a heart of ice, she took and took without regretting what she lost in exchange.
One summer’s eve, the nightmuse drifted through the open window of a small cottage. The humble home was owned by a simple farmer, too poor for a wife and too lowly to be missed. She hovered by his bedside and scoffed at his plain face. Every trait of the farmer was unremarkable, save one thing: as the seventh son of a seventh son, he was blessed with fae sight.
When the nightmuse leaned over her prey, his eyes opened wide. She froze, her hand cupped around his cheek. His tears spilled across her fingers. Only one word fell from his lips:
“Beautiful.”
Startled by his voice, the nightmuse stopped her feeding and fled into the morning light. The farmer ran after her, but she was long gone. With no other choice, he returned to his bed and etched her lovely face into his mind.
As days turned to weeks and summer turned to fall, the nightmuse returned each evening to spy on the farmer. Though she did not feast upon him, the curse of her touch lingered on his heart. Like a man possessed, he spent each day at his desk, ruining scroll after scroll. The fields matured and rotted. Strong muscles withered. His dreams faded. A once lively spirit soured in baggy flesh.
As the nightmuse watched, her stomach twisted in knots. All she had to do was touch him once more, and his soul would fill her belly. Despite the cries of her stomach, she could not. Boundless hunger turned to pained nausea. She tried to find another man, but every time she reached out to inspire them, she saw the farmer frantically sketching at his desk.
So it was that, as he starved, so did she.
On the final night of his life, as he lay prone at his desk, the nightmuse pushed open the latch on the window pane. Like a spring breeze, she fluttered to his side. Dull eyes filled with tears as she stood beside him. With the last of his strength, he reached out a shaking hand. On the paper, rendered in charcoal and devotion, was a mirror image of her beautiful face.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Until the day she faded into the shadows, the nightmuse never ate again.
The last words fell from frowning lips into tepid silence.
Sicarius’s left eye cracked open. He studied your dull, distant expression. “Is something the matter?” he asked.
“It is nothing,” you replied flatly. “What story would you like to hear next?”
“You look like you drank sour wine,” he mused, wagging his finger. “Tell me what the trouble is.”
“The trouble is over. Let us move along.”
He clicked his tongue and grinned. “So it was the story then?”
A neutral stare was his only response.
“You do not enjoy hearing a story about a woman taking a man’s life?” He rolled onto his back. “Somehow, with the way you looked at me earlier, I thought you might.”
Your shoulders stiffened. “If you insist upon continuing this topic, you may take solace that a woman murdering a man is not the part I find unrealistic.”
“You are looking for realism in fables?”
Refusing to rise to the taunt, you continued: “Love at first sight is a pathetic trope to begin with, but a love for which a woman would starve herself to death from one word of praise?” You closed your eyes and lifted your chin. “It is beyond any reasonable bounds of relatability.”
Sicarius’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead. “Reasonable bounds? For love?” His body shook as he snickered into the back of his hand. “Are you too jaded to feel, or is your heart is left cold by anything less than pure romance?”
You gritted your teeth.
The scarred man pointed at his nose. “Do you want to know what I think?”
The book snapped shut. “I am at your disposal for the evening, Master.”
Sicarius climbed to his elbows, leaning into the space between your bodies. Like the fae flames that once tempted travelers into the night, azure eyes danced with a hypnotic spell. You sat, transfixed by the sight. As he held your gaze, the fire inside his words burned you to your very core:
“I think we are all waiting for the right person to consume our soul.”