Chapter 8: The Master

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  Never in a thousand years would I imagine that I should one day come to miss the insistent daybreak crowing of Wailing Wilfred, the delightful rooster residing in the coop a few houses down the road from our tavern. But as a loud, sharp rapping on the bedroom door once again tears me from sleep right around sunrise after a few days’ blessed exemption, I am suddenly feeling uncharacteristically fond of the black-feathered hell fowl from Trefield.

  My three days off have now passed, along with my bleeding, so I get up, scrub myself down, get dressed, and return to whatever chores await me today.

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  One would think it impossible to keep finding things to do or clean, even at a sizable place like this, but apparently Chiselle manages to do so just fine. I can hardly finish one chore before she comes up with another. At least there are two benefits to this kind of life: I’m never bored, and I sleep like a rock.

  Today we’ve been melting several bucketfuls of old candle stumps down and dipping new candles, repairing clothing that had tears, holes, or missing buttons, and preparing a few batches of garlic and herbs for drying.

  I’m in the middle of pressing a stack of sheets large enough to last several generations when Chiselle informs me that it’s time for her to venture out into the forest and check her snares and traps for any small critters unlucky enough to have wandered into them. I know it usually takes her some time to check them all, so the second she leaves the house, I take the chance.

  With the books in one hand and a lit candelabra in the other, I carefully press down the handle to the library with an elbow and let myself in. As expected, a chilly darkness meets me; I shudder and proceed.

  The first book is easy to put back - the cerulean one, with the gold embossing - as I remember exactly where I first spotted it. I hide it neatly in the stack on the table. The others, however, I'm not sure what to do with. It would be easy to leave them on the table as well, but the stack would then grow noticeably taller, and that would most likely draw attention to the fact that I've returned them and rejected their gift. The more subtle option would be to put them back on their shelves where, hopefully, they would go unnoticed for a while.

  I lift the lights, illuminating the series of shelves around me, searching for those few gaps in the bound paper ranks. My gaze grows more frantic as it, row after row, fails to pinpoint any gaps at all.

  Perhaps this was an idiotic idea, I realize. I've practically broken in - again. The humiliation of being honest about the books is likely the better option to being thrown out for good for breaking the rules.

  But it's too late; now I'm inside, and I might as well get rid of the books one way or ano–

  There. A gap. The first of three. Carefully, I limp my way across the room, as painful as it is without the support from my crutch, but it's simply too noisy for this particular endeavor. The old wooden floor itself isn't exactly stealth-friendly, either.

  I can merely guess as to which of the three books has its home right here, so I simply pick the one that would blend in the most and move on.

  The second gap is close by, I soon find, and I'm already planning which book to put there as I make my way to it.

  The sudden whining of metal hinges blares like a song of warning, but to no avail; it's already too late to flee. I freeze to the spot instinctively, right in the open, as if movement is what would give my presence away - and not the lights in my hand illuminating me like a living beacon. Like he is some blind, motion-sensing predator.

  I sure as Hell feel like a trapped deer as I turn, ever so slowly, to meet his eyes - to assess what level of danger I should expect. But despite his dark, piercing gaze and unreadable expression, the master appears rather calm. A mask of patience; one that very likely has a breaking point in mere seconds.

  "You were told not to go in here."

  Regret tightens like a knot in my stomach.

  "I'm sorry, my lord," I say in a near-whisper and wiggle the books in my grasp to deflect his attention from my reddening face. "I merely wanted to return these."

  When he says nothing, I find myself bowing awkwardly before retreating. As swiftly as I can, I swing by the table and leave the remaining books there like I should have done in the first place.

  "Are the authors not to your liking?" he asks before I can reach the door. "Or perhaps you dislike the genres I selected for you?"

  I stop in my tracks.

  So it was a gift from him, not Chiselle? Somehow that's even worse.

  Whether he is speaking from disappointment, offense, or plain curiosity, I can't quite tell. His voice, still edged with hoarseness, carries an indecipherable tone.

  At least there is no need for pretense any longer.

  A vague shrug pulls at my shoulders. "I wouldn't even know. I can't read."

  “I see,” he muses aloud. “Such a gesture was perhaps a bit inconsiderate of me. My apologies.”

  Something about this conversation is odd. Wrong. He ought to be furious at me. Why isn’t he?

  In a fraction of a second, I decide to play along; decide to navigate through the situation as smoothly as I can. So I offer him a mild smile edged with shyness - the one usually reserved for stingy patrons who need to be sweetened up a bit.

  "Not at all. You couldn't have known," I say, although it's common knowledge that the vast majority of the population of Redbirch Vale is illiterate. "But, truth be told, I've always wanted to learn how to read."

  Something in his demeanor changes. Interest, possibly. His gaze upon me suddenly grows heavy, and I feel my body heat drop at once, my fingers icy as my grip around the candelabra tightens.

  I muster another soft smile and quickly add: “Once again, I'm sorry for trespassing. It won't happen again.”

  “Stay,” he says as I reach for the brass handle. “You have disrupted my slumber. The least you could do is make the intrusion worth it, even for a mere few minutes.”

  Nightrobe billowing softly, he makes his way to the center of the room and stops right behind one of the armchairs. Ever so casually, he grabs the upholstered backrest and turns the entire chair to face the other chair instead of the fireplace, its short wooden legs screeching against the floor in the process. He then repeats the action with the other one, beholding me closely, unfalteringly.

  “Please, sit.”

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  I don't know what it is about him, but the weight of his undivided attention feels too intense, almost suffocating. I am not sure I’m breathing properly when I let my arm drop.

  “I don't have anything to offer you, my lord,” I say.

  “Untrue,” he nearly interrupts me. “Your voice. Phonetic conversation. I have not had a reason to speak for… a very long time."

  So I am not the only one bothered by the incessant silence in this place. And it's not just the lack of speaking; there’s a general and utmost unnerving absence of life in general. No neighbors, no workers, no farm animals - only a sensory prison of wood and stone surrounded by a sea of grass and weeds.

  “Please, sit for a moment,” he insists.

  I must be mad. Or desperate, like him. Whatever it is, I do as he says and slip into the chair closest to the exit. As my candelabra is still the only source of light in the room, I place it on the table in the middle, right next to the very books that have landed me in this damned situation.

  He nods to himself in what I assume is silent triumph and strides to the nearest shelf, where a single compartment is dedicated to showcasing a row of intricate glass bottles. He plucks a glass from the array and turns to me.

  “Do you prefer whiskey, brandy, or wine?”

  The mere thought of alcohol, especially handled by a stranger, makes me grit my teeth behind my closed lips. Despite working at a tavern, I’m not exactly an avid drinker. One ale or two from time to time, sure, but I’ve seen what strong liquor can do to people. It’s rarely pretty. And after my latest drink - and, more importantly, the events that followed - I reckon I need a break entirely.

  It would appear the expression on my face is answer enough; the master inclines his head softly, puts the glass back, and returns to his chair, taking a seat on the embroidered cushion opposite from me.

  Uncomfortable silence sweeps around us, interrupted solely by the rhythmic pattering of rain against the concealed window panes. For a moment, we regard each other above the dancing flames of the candelabra. Perhaps he is assessing me, analyzing me; perhaps he is planning where to start this forced conversation; or perhaps he, too, is beginning to regret this… whatever it is we are doing.

  Finally dropping my gaze, I settle for observing my nails plucking at the hem of my sleeves.

  “Would you care to tell me your name?” his voice finally sounds.

  Between his words, I think I catch the faint creaking of floorboards, and the image of a frowning redhead presses into my mind. I can never predict how long she’ll be gone; sometimes it takes her barely ten minutes, other times half an hour. She’d undoubtedly be enraged to catch me in here right now.

  “Won't Chiselle mind that I’m leaving her with all the work?” I say, hoping he’ll change his mind about this whole ordeal.

  A light chuckle makes me look up, however. Amusement crinkles the otherwise smooth skin around his gleaming eyes; a rare sight, I imagine.

  “That sour hag?” he says. “Worry not. For many years she has worked alone. I am convinced she prefers it like that. She continuously refuses my offer to employ an assistant.”

  “Well, she certainly enjoys putting me to work,” I add with a thin smile and go back to watching my sleeve again.

  “So I have noticed.”

  Silence.

  “You never told me your name,” he continues.

  I consider his question for a moment. There’s no harm in telling him, is there? He surely has no idea where I live or who my family is - and even if he did, what would he do with such information anyway? He has no incentive to want to hurt me, and I don’t exactly plan on crossing him or stealing anything on my way out, even though his home offers luxury fit for nobility.

  “Kia.”

  “Kia,” he repeats, as if tasting my name on his tongue. “And what is your profession, Kia? When you are not assisting my housekeeper, naturally.”

  I am not sure why he is interviewing me like this, as if I’m applying for work, but I suppose it’s one way to keep a conversation going when one part is not particularly motivated or invested. Hopefully he’ll let me go before he knows my entire life story. Or perhaps I can bore him back to sleep long before then.

  “Nothing exciting, really,” I reply. “Most of my time I spend working for my mom and her husband - serving customers, cleaning, cooking, things like that. They run a small tavern.”

  “Then your stay here has offered no discernible change in the nature of your labor, I can imagine.”

  Before I can stop myself, I snort at his words. But where most others would react to the blatant rudeness of such a response, the master simply folds his hands in his lap and watches me calmly.

  “I must confess I have yet not rolled silverware, cleaned tapestries, or dusted off a private library back home,” I say, perhaps a tad sharply.

  Admitted, I’ve come to prefer such tasks to emptying a dozen chamber pots every morning and scrubbing vomit off the floors. But he does not need to know that.

  “Speaking of libraries…” the master says, leaning a bit forward and holding my gaze through flickering flames and dripping beeswax. “What would a barmaid such as yourself do with the ability to read, if I may inquire?”

  Once again, I can’t determine if his tone is simply portraying curiosity, or if there is some element of judgment hidden within his words. Surely the answer is obvious? Or perhaps he is merely testing me.

  “The same as anyone who reads for pleasure, I presume,” I reply with a shrug. “To be able to open a tome and expand your knowledge of the world - or to visit other places and worlds; to live lives other than your own, even for a few precious moments.”

  The master says nothing. In this dim light, his face appears gaunt and ghostly, his eyes black as obsidian and deep as the uncharted seas. Strangely enough, even with all this wealth, he looks like a man starved for decades.

  I tear my gaze from him and focus on my hands yet again.

  “Reading is power and freedom,” I add, my voice barely more than a whisper. ”All right there at your fingertips.”

  “Power and freedom,” the master repeats softly, as if musing aloud. “Interesting.”

  When silence once again befalls us, I grab the candelabra and stand up. He has had his desired ‘few minutes’ of my time, and I don't feel like staying any longer. Besides, the way he looks at me is increasingly unsettling - as if I am the single most fascinating being he has ever met; as if I’ll disappear from existence the very moment his eyes release me from their iron hold.

  As if he can absorb me if he wills it enough.

  Nobody has ever paid me this kind of attention or interest before - at least not without the intention of bedding me in a drunken stupor, or locking me inside a wagon for unknown purposes. In all honesty, nothing about me gives people any reason to. I am a plain serving wench from Trefield, nothing more.

  “I better get back to work. I did promise Chiselle I’d be done with the linens by her return.”

  A lie, but it's all the same to him.

  Mirroring my movement, the master gets to his feet and follows me to the door, thankfully keeping a respectful distance.

  Without hesitation, I turn the handle.

  “I could tutor you,” he offers abruptly.

  I pause on the threshold.

  “That sounds awfully ambitious, if you’ll excuse my bluntness. I can’t even read or recognize my own name, and we have a few weeks at most.”

  “Give me one month, Kia,” he says, challenge lacing his words. “I will teach you to read in one month.”

  Ridiculous.

  “I can't pay.”

  “Worry not. I am not interested in taking your money. As you have noticed, I have enough already.”

  I find myself laughing somewhat harshly as I cross the threshold and exit the room, leaving him in the growing shadows.

  Absolutely ridiculous.

  “Consider it.”

  “Sleep well, my lord,” I say simply. With a soft click, I shut the door behind me.

  It remains closed.

  Alone once again, I take three pelvic-deep breaths to recover from that unexpected exchange, to put it mildly. I broke the one supposedly non-negotiable rule, and I got off laughably easily. In truth, I don’t understand why, but I’ll take it.

  As I slip back into the scullery, hoping to finish my work in time, I nearly crash into Chiselle, who has just entered through the doors from the courtyard.

  Narrowing her eyes at me, she stops and looks me over; swiftly, her gaze glides from my neck to the crooks of my elbows and lastly to my wrists. Whatever it is she is searching for, she seemingly doesn't find it. Instead, she scowls at me in something that could - or should, perhaps - be interpreted as a rebuke. Or a warning.

  She, of course, says nothing as she brings the dead pheasant in her grasp to the worktable and prepares it for exsanguination.