Elsbeth #2
Here, I don’t have to hide—at least, not my magical strength.
But before waking up in this house yesterday evening, I thought I knew how powerful magic could be.
I’ve spent years of my life dedicated to honing my ability and using it to its fullest when I was given access.
Come to find out, Alric’s gifts were only small sips of what these four men are capable of.
Fox was able to manipulate water as if it were as easy as putting pen to paper.
And under pressure, Thorne was able to incapacitate but not kill me, and that is a marvel.
My stomach does a small flip. One of the last things I remembered yesterday was the look of panic and apology on Thorne’s face as his hand closed over my mouth and nose.
Fox whispering something in my ear while his arms banded around my body is the only other memory that’s been replaying in my head for the last sixteen hours.
But after every cycle, I have to remind myself that Fox is not safe. None of them are.
They can’t be trusted. Thorne’s bedroom is proof enough that while they are merely men, they are dangerous animals.
There are three large paintings hung on each wall surrounding his bed, which is messy and untamed.
The first painting looks to be personal.
A woman in a long black dress with a look of determination forever memorialized in oil and ink.
The name plate on the frame reads: “Bridget.”
She’s young, maybe in her late twenties.
Her hair is tied into a braid that trails down her shoulder to the middle of her chest, where she’s clutching a large brown book.
Though her forearm covers most of the cover, I can still make out a white shield crowned with a knight’s helm.
A splash of red across the shield and bleeding off to one side is the only bit of color to the entire portrait, but the importance isn’t lost.
Bridget’s watchful guard hangs above a wardrobe that’s probably as old as the painting itself.
Many older New England homes don’t have built-in closets, which means that while the other rooms I’ve seen have them, this one wasn’t touched by the fire that tore through half the manor all those years ago. Ironic.
The other two paintings are landscapes. One is a mountain range, but I don’t recognize it as nearby.
Each peak juts up into a deep purple sky and is capped with pure white snow.
Didn’t he say he liked to camp once? Maybe the scene is from one of his curated conquests.
Nothing else in his room suggests that he’s dedicated to the “backwoods” style of camping and instead gives off big “glamping” energy.
The last piece of personality that draws my eye depicts tall grass and dry earth against a sultry red sunset.
It takes me a few seconds to realize that a pair of eyes is staring back at me through the sun-drenched straw.
When I step closer, the beast’s head comes into focus.
It’s a fox, but unlike every other I’ve seen in art hanging in museums or in your run-of-the-mill department store, this animal is diseased.
Its hair has fallen out in patches. Its skin is raw and rough.
The longer I examine the piece, the more pitiful the fox looks.
Even its once startling gaze appears to be pleading for relief.
There’s a signature at the corner that displays Thorne’s family name. A past legacy could have painted it. Or maybe Thorne has a touch of the arts that I’m not aware of?
Move on, Elsbeth.
I’ve spent too much time trying to analyze bits of a man I already know enough about.
I check his side-table drawers but don’t find anything of use .
. . or my necklace that he stole last night.
The wardrobe is packed with plenty of suits, T-shirts, jackets, and a few crewnecks from the campus store, but not much else.
Aside from clothing, there is a small trinket box sitting on an inner shelf.
My hopes hardly have a second to elevate before I open it and see that the only thing inside is an old coat of arms pin.
It’s the same coat of arms that’s displayed on Bridget’s book.
I trace my finger over the aged surface.
Centuries of dents, chips, and gashes dig into the soft metal.
The original iron rod has been worn dull.
I doubt that it’s seen the lapel of a jacket or light of day in decades, but it’s remains are still coveted by its lineage.
How fitting that Thorne would hide a piece of family history away from the outside world. We’re more similar than he’d like to believe. With that, I close the box and wardrobe. There’s nothing in here that is of use to me, and I don’t want Fox to catch me snooping.
At his door, I take one last look around the room and my eyes trail back up to Bridget. “I bet you never thought you’d see a Hale enter this house.”
Staring at her dark, varnished pupils, I imagine—or maybe feel—her spirit stir within them.
I hope she’s angry that one of her own tarnished their sacred house by bringing me here.
For every generation of Hale women who were forced to retain the little magical knowledge we stole away, I hope there is a Bishop screaming in agony beyond the veil.
Likewise, for every Proctor, Elwell, and Morey that slept dutifully within these walls, I will avenge every Hale that went hungry.
I stand before one of the women who is directly responsible for my missing legacy.
Because I deserve to be here. Sarah Noyce-Hale’s portrait should be hanging in one of these halls, but instead, we were ostracized and hunted down to be brutally murdered, save for my mother and me.