Chapter 10 #3
The view from that window is a beautiful one.
To the right, jutting into my line of vision, are the small towers and turrets of the north wing.
The gardens and grounds spread out below, shades of green and gray interrupted by the crystalline dome of the greenhouse and the squat, broad shape of the refurbished barn.
Beyond those, the forest rises in shades of olive and rust, up to a sky strewn with dusky blue clouds whose edges are tinged peach-pink by the oncoming sunset.
The bed itself is huge, big enough to accommodate three Beresfords. Its dark headboard is just as grimly, gloriously elaborate as the rest of the décor. Beneath the bed is a thick, square rug patterned with moths and swirling vines.
“This is so… royal.” I trace the edge of a bureau. “A little dark, but beautiful.”
“We can add some color if you want,” Beresford says.
“Though I rather enjoy the atmosphere of this room. Here’s another surprise—your closet.
” He flings the door wide, and I gape at the length of the space beyond.
It’s like a wide hallway lined with gorgeous gowns, fitted trousers for riding and walking, coats, capes, shoes, and blouses.
“And this.” Beresford darts inside and brings out the most beautiful scarlet cloak I’ve ever seen, crafted from thick, rich wool and lined with satin. It’s in the same style as the old red cloak I’ve loved for years. It even has a hood.
“It’s lovely!” I catch the cloak in both hands, stroking the material. “This, and all the clothes—there are far more here than the ones I bought in the city.”
“I asked your mother for your measurements,” he says. “I had to buy mostly ready-made pieces in the approximate size, but you can have things tailored if they don’t fit right. There are still a few pieces on the way, custom-made for you.”
“I feel like a princess.”
“Nonsense.” He winks, laying the cloak over a chair. “You’re the queen of this particular castle.”
“I can’t believe I get to explore this whole place.”
Caution flickers in his eyes. “All except for the south wing. As I said, it’s not in good shape. Potentially unsafe. I’d prefer you don’t go there.”
Eyes narrowed, I prowl toward him and trail my fingers over his chest. “Why Mr. Beresford, do you have something hidden there?”
“I’m concerned for your safety.”
“Do you think I’m going to fall through a rotten floor?”
He takes my shoulders, a gentle grip, but firm. “Don’t question this, Sybil.”
The gravity of his tone surprises me, but I’d rather not argue with him, so I merely nod.
“My closet is there.” He points to another door. “But it’s not as interesting as yours. I’ll show you the bathroom.”
He leads the way to an exquisite world of blue tile, creamy marble, and gilded faucets. I exclaim over everything, from the plush towels to the porcelain toilet with its gold chain for flushing. But inwardly I’m distracted.
Beresford and I are happy. Of course we are. It’s our wedding day.
We made our peace with secrets. Agreed to let each other keep them.
Promised not to discuss the past. I was fully aware of the arrangement, and I consented to it.
Just being with him was enough for me. So why do I feel as if I only have access to part of my husband?
He’s a lake with vast depths, but I’ve only gotten to swim along the surface.
That has been fun, and I still want to do it, but I’m also ready to hold my breath and dive to the bottom.
Yet I’m afraid. Terrified that if I cross him, he’ll fling me out onto the shore and never touch me again.
There’s another fear, too—that if I plunge down to the bottom of his soul, he’ll transform into something awful and grip me with wicked claws, holding me below until my air runs out and darkness trickles into my lungs, killing me.
I don’t really know the man I’ll be sleeping next to tonight.
He has stopped talking, right in the middle of explaining to me how the hot water system of the house works. He’s watching me quietly.
“Sorry.” I vent a little breathless laugh. “I think I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” I summoned three demons and one of them was different from anything I’ve seen before…
I’m keeping so many secrets from him, too. Who am I to demand complete honesty?
It’s the same cycle of doubts and worries I’ve endured before, and I always come back to the same conclusion—that I love him and I want to stay. So why can’t I ever be happy with my decision and let things rest?
“I should give you your gift!” I exclaim, as if I just remembered it. “Let me see if I can find the box in the closet or in one of these bureau drawers.”
The third drawer I open contains the wooden box I’m looking for. I take it out and hand it over to Beresford.
With an intrigued glance at me, he lifts the lid.
“I got rather good at whittling and carving last winter,” I tell him. “And I thought you might like this. If you don’t, I can make you something else. Anything you like. Though I’m not very good with dragons. I don’t know why. I’ve tried to carve them before, and—”
“Sybil.” He stops me gently. “It’s beautiful.”
He lifts the figure out of its velvety nest. It’s a horse, carved from linden wood, poised in the act of galloping at full speed.
Its mane and tail are frozen ripples, tossed by an intangible wind.
There’s a boldness in the lines of its body, a desperate need for liberty, that I felt in my bones while I was carving it.
“You make me feel like that,” I whisper.
Beresford looks up at me, tears glimmering in his eyes. His lips compress, and he doesn’t speak, but I smile, knowing that my gift means something to him.
“No tears, my love.” I rise on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Only joy today. Joy and fun.”
He clears his throat and sets the carved horse reverently on top of the nearest bureau.
“Speaking of fun, there’s a game parlor across the hall.
It used to be downstairs, but as part of the renovations, I had it moved up here.
The view from that eastern window is nearly as wonderful as the view from our bedroom. You mentioned that you enjoy games.”
“I do. We had a few old ones, and a couple that we made ourselves.”
“I’ve been collecting them,” he says. “I like a variety of different kinds—the simple ones that can be played quickly, as well as the games with lore and strategy that take many hours. Come, I’ll show you.”
We cross the hallway to the game room. Its fireplace is cloaked in painted tiles that tell bits of old fairytales.
The wide windows are framed in burnt orange drapes that have a golden shimmer in places, like autumn itself stitched into curtains.
The armchairs are low and fat, with well-stuffed cushions, but they’re light enough to be moved into different orientations around the three low, square tables.
Built-in shelves and cabinets cover the walls.
Stacked on the shelves are wooden boxes, each with the name of a game painted along the edge.
I take them down one at a time, stunned by the craftsmanship of each one.
My favorite is a long box that contains a hinged board, which can be unfolded and spread on a table.
There are hand-painted cards, figurines, and dice that go with the board, along with a carefully lettered booklet of instructions. The game is called Conqueror’s Creed.
“I bought this from a toymaker in Gresoul,” Beresford says. “Would you like to play?”
“Fuck yes.”
He laughs. “Go ahead and start setting it up. I’ll get two mugs of cider from the kitchen.”
“I’ll fetch the drinks,” I offer. “I should start familiarizing myself with things, shouldn’t I?”
“Of course.” He glances toward the window, where the light is fading. “I’ll get a fire going and prepare the game. Will your ankle be alright?”
“It’s fine,” I assure him.
Leaving him to his task, I head down the hall. At the top of the stairs, I hesitate.
Below me is the front hall, and to my left is the lofted area overlooking it, which is lined with doors leading outside, onto the exterior balcony that runs along the east-facing front of the house.
At the far end of the lofted area is the entrance to the south wing.
There’s a door blocking access to that section.
From my earlier explorations, I know that the dining room and ballroom are part of the south wing, on the first floor.
If the upper floors of that wing are really in bad shape, maybe that’s why Beresford didn’t want to have parties at the mansion.
Perhaps he was afraid the ceiling might collapse on his guests.
But he has plenty of money—enough to redecorate multiple rooms. Why didn’t he make the repairs? Has he run out of funds? He has given no indication of impending poverty. Quite the opposite, in fact.
As the new mistress of the house, I should be aware of any dangers here, and I should have a say in how and when we make the necessary repairs. He’s being overly cautious about my safety. I can certainly take a look at the damage without hurting myself.
On silent, bare feet I traverse the balcony and approach the door. It isn’t locked, but it squeaks a little, and I cringe. When Beresford doesn’t emerge from the game room to investigate, I push the door wider and squeeze through.
The passage beyond is pitch black at first, but once I’ve stood there for a moment, my eyes adjust, and I perceive some faint light issuing through an open door farther ahead.
Staying at the edge of the hallway, in case there are weak spots in the floor, I creep toward the room from which the light is seeping.