Illusions of Fate
Page 21
Finn opens one onto a washroom. It’s generously sized, bigger than my room at the hotel, and far larger than the doors in the hallway would account for. But inside, the walls are free from extra doors, a pale blue color with waist-high wainscoting.
This house makes me dizzy.
I decide to willfully ignore the problem of the doors and inspect the washroom, instead. There’s a claw-foot bath, and a pillar washbasin against the wall, complete with in-room faucet. Running water! A large, gilt mirror hangs above a dressing table and a plush chair. Against the far wall is a window, through which I can see branches of a tree and the late afternoon sky.
“Towels, here.” He opens an armoire. “And a clean nightshirt with a dressing robe. I am sorry I cannot offer better, and that it’s not pressed.”
“It’s fine, thank you.” Something nags at me, however, and though it should be the least of my worries, I cannot help but ask. “What will you tell the servants?”
“I keep secrets in this house. I have found that one can either keep secrets or keep servants. The two are incompatible. I’ll leave you to it, and prepare a luncheon in the library.” He closes the door quietly behind himself, and I turn the lock.
As I struggle to undo the lacings of my corset, I look out the window, needing distractions. Odd. The windows in the library were streaming warm golden light, but this window overlooks a tree-lined park, the day drizzling and gray as it was when we fled the nightmare man’s house. I suppose I should no longer expect anything in the world to make sense, but I find this annoying in the extreme. Other memories demand to be felt, tugging at the edge of my mind and emotions, but I cling to the annoyance so I can delay addressing what the nightmare man did to me.
Finally managing to rip free of the corset, I slide out of the whole mess and toss it in a bin along with my ruined stockings.
The prospect of soaking—actually soaking!—in a bath sings a siren song and in a few minutes I am up to my chin in hot water. I have no concept of the time. The fact that I no longer feel hungry means I have gone beyond the point of complaint from my stomach. My fingers tremble as I undo my bun and let my hair fall onto my shoulders.
I stay until the water cools, then towel dry. I kept my gloved hand out of the water. I will have to ask Finn how to wash it. The nightshirt I choose from the many options is light and thin, and feels marvelous against my skin. I wrap a black dressing gown around it, and though I am now more covered than I was in the dress, I feel exposed.
I try on a pair of slippers, but they are far too large, so I leave the washroom and pad silently down the plush rug in the hall. One door is cracked open, so I push it but stop short of entering the library.
Finn is wearing a fresh suit. He sits on the couch facing me, but with his head bowed and cradled in his hands. He looks so despairing, so raw with pain or worry, I know I have intruded on a private moment. My first impulse is to go to him, to put my arm around his shoulders and comfort him. But this is not done here. Nobles are proper and distant, and no doubt that is the best comfort I can offer him. I back silently through the door, pulling it closed behind me and then wait a few minutes before knocking.
“Yes, come in,” Finn calls, and I reenter the library to find him standing, straight and assured as ever, with falsely bright eyes.
We wear faces as disguises. I hold back a shudder, remembering the nightmare man’s true face revealed in snatches behind the one he wears for the world. I suspect I was seeing straight to his soul.
“I’ve some sandwiches, and there’s tea—”
“No tea!”
Finn startles at my exclamation, and I stutter to explain. “It’s—you see, there was tea—I could smell it so strongly while he was—” I twist my hands, running my fingers over the glove.
“Of course. We need brandy.” He grabs the silver service set and whisks it away. I sit, jumbled with nerves, on the edge of the couch. He is going to explain everything. I am not sure how, but he will. I long for the security of the world I lived in yesterday, but it is lost to me forever.
He returns with two cut crystal glasses filled with amber liquid, and sets one on the table in front of me. I eat half a carefully cut sandwich and find it is all I can manage. Sipping at the warm brandy, I wait for him to start.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see the tea,” he says.
I frown. “How could you have? And how did you know what . . .” I cannot say aloud what the nightmare man did, because then I have to acknowledge it happened. “How did you know to prepare the glove?”
“You saw my shadow, correct?”
I nod.
“It is a . . . peculiar sort of connection and separation. I could choose to see through it, which is much like looking into a dim room from outside in the brilliant sunshine, or hear through it, which is much like listening with cotton in your ears. Since I needed to prepare the glove, I was forced to listen instead.” He stares into his cup of brandy and then takes a gulp. I remember my screams. Clearly, he does, as well.
“Why was your shadow there? Is it like his birds, a sort of errand runner?” I look for Sir Bird and instead find a massive black volume atop one of the piles of books. I hope he’s resting.
“The bird!” Finn stands, whirling and frantically searching the room. “Curse that bird, he’ll—”
“Here!” I grab the book, waving it at Finn. “Unless this is one of yours.”
Finn’s eyes narrow, and he reaches out to take it. I hug it to my chest, matching his glare.
This house makes me dizzy.
I decide to willfully ignore the problem of the doors and inspect the washroom, instead. There’s a claw-foot bath, and a pillar washbasin against the wall, complete with in-room faucet. Running water! A large, gilt mirror hangs above a dressing table and a plush chair. Against the far wall is a window, through which I can see branches of a tree and the late afternoon sky.
“Towels, here.” He opens an armoire. “And a clean nightshirt with a dressing robe. I am sorry I cannot offer better, and that it’s not pressed.”
“It’s fine, thank you.” Something nags at me, however, and though it should be the least of my worries, I cannot help but ask. “What will you tell the servants?”
“I keep secrets in this house. I have found that one can either keep secrets or keep servants. The two are incompatible. I’ll leave you to it, and prepare a luncheon in the library.” He closes the door quietly behind himself, and I turn the lock.
As I struggle to undo the lacings of my corset, I look out the window, needing distractions. Odd. The windows in the library were streaming warm golden light, but this window overlooks a tree-lined park, the day drizzling and gray as it was when we fled the nightmare man’s house. I suppose I should no longer expect anything in the world to make sense, but I find this annoying in the extreme. Other memories demand to be felt, tugging at the edge of my mind and emotions, but I cling to the annoyance so I can delay addressing what the nightmare man did to me.
Finally managing to rip free of the corset, I slide out of the whole mess and toss it in a bin along with my ruined stockings.
The prospect of soaking—actually soaking!—in a bath sings a siren song and in a few minutes I am up to my chin in hot water. I have no concept of the time. The fact that I no longer feel hungry means I have gone beyond the point of complaint from my stomach. My fingers tremble as I undo my bun and let my hair fall onto my shoulders.
I stay until the water cools, then towel dry. I kept my gloved hand out of the water. I will have to ask Finn how to wash it. The nightshirt I choose from the many options is light and thin, and feels marvelous against my skin. I wrap a black dressing gown around it, and though I am now more covered than I was in the dress, I feel exposed.
I try on a pair of slippers, but they are far too large, so I leave the washroom and pad silently down the plush rug in the hall. One door is cracked open, so I push it but stop short of entering the library.
Finn is wearing a fresh suit. He sits on the couch facing me, but with his head bowed and cradled in his hands. He looks so despairing, so raw with pain or worry, I know I have intruded on a private moment. My first impulse is to go to him, to put my arm around his shoulders and comfort him. But this is not done here. Nobles are proper and distant, and no doubt that is the best comfort I can offer him. I back silently through the door, pulling it closed behind me and then wait a few minutes before knocking.
“Yes, come in,” Finn calls, and I reenter the library to find him standing, straight and assured as ever, with falsely bright eyes.
We wear faces as disguises. I hold back a shudder, remembering the nightmare man’s true face revealed in snatches behind the one he wears for the world. I suspect I was seeing straight to his soul.
“I’ve some sandwiches, and there’s tea—”
“No tea!”
Finn startles at my exclamation, and I stutter to explain. “It’s—you see, there was tea—I could smell it so strongly while he was—” I twist my hands, running my fingers over the glove.
“Of course. We need brandy.” He grabs the silver service set and whisks it away. I sit, jumbled with nerves, on the edge of the couch. He is going to explain everything. I am not sure how, but he will. I long for the security of the world I lived in yesterday, but it is lost to me forever.
He returns with two cut crystal glasses filled with amber liquid, and sets one on the table in front of me. I eat half a carefully cut sandwich and find it is all I can manage. Sipping at the warm brandy, I wait for him to start.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see the tea,” he says.
I frown. “How could you have? And how did you know what . . .” I cannot say aloud what the nightmare man did, because then I have to acknowledge it happened. “How did you know to prepare the glove?”
“You saw my shadow, correct?”
I nod.
“It is a . . . peculiar sort of connection and separation. I could choose to see through it, which is much like looking into a dim room from outside in the brilliant sunshine, or hear through it, which is much like listening with cotton in your ears. Since I needed to prepare the glove, I was forced to listen instead.” He stares into his cup of brandy and then takes a gulp. I remember my screams. Clearly, he does, as well.
“Why was your shadow there? Is it like his birds, a sort of errand runner?” I look for Sir Bird and instead find a massive black volume atop one of the piles of books. I hope he’s resting.
“The bird!” Finn stands, whirling and frantically searching the room. “Curse that bird, he’ll—”
“Here!” I grab the book, waving it at Finn. “Unless this is one of yours.”
Finn’s eyes narrow, and he reaches out to take it. I hug it to my chest, matching his glare.
