Chapter 11
Eleven
Corabeth
The next evening, dinner was waiting for Corabeth in the dining room once more. A hearty stew with meat and root vegetables. Rooke, however, was missing from the other end of the table.
Corabeth took her meal alone in silence, but when she left the dining room afterwards, she noticed the door to the library open, a stretched out rectangle of light falling onto the floor in the hall.
She had started to suspect that open doors were like an invitation in this house.
If not quite invitations, at least a sign that she needn’t stay away.
It was a mix of curiosity and boredom that made her walk over to the cracked door and knock quietly.
“Rooke?” she called and waited.
“Corabeth?” he answered just a moment later from the library.
Corabeth pushed the door open and peered inside.
Towering shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crammed with neatly stacked books.
At the heart of the room was a massive fireplace where a blaze was devouring logs.
Its wooden mantle depicted two lions facing each other.
The mahogany of the interior seemed to drink in the warm light.
Facing the hearth at an angle were two high-backed leather armchairs.
One of them was occupied by Rooke, dressed in black, as always.
An open book rested in his lap, his gaze watchful and steady.
There was a pleasant smell of aged paper and smoke that lingered in the air. Dust motes floated lazily through the beams of golden light as Corabeth entered.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said, suddenly remembering her manners, and walked to the nearest bookshelf. It was somehow easier to look at the titles than at Rooke.
“Do you like to read?” Rooke asked, keeping his gaze on Corabeth. She tilted her head to better read the spines and slowly moved on to the next shelf. The shelves were filled with books on different topics: alchemy, botany, the occult, geography, biology, medicine.
Corabeth shrugged. “I think so. I can’t say I had a lot of time or even enough books to develop a real passion.”
“What kind of books did you like when you had the time?”
“I doubt you have the kinds of books I read,” Corabeth said with a small smile, stealing a glance at Rooke. He had closed his book but kept it in his lap.
“Try me,” he said, his lip curling into a half-smile.
“Fantastical stories about adventures, magic, romance,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks heat up a little. She considered them silly stories next to the books she observed in Rooke’s library.
“Try the shelves next to the door on the left,” he said, pointing behind himself.
Corabeth turned fully now to see if Rooke was mocking her. Instead, he gave her a small nod, opened his book once more, and went back to reading.
Her steps were muffled by the plush carpet as she walked over to the shelves pointed out for her. True to Rooke’s words, there were countless books with titles that promised just what she wished for: great adventures, incredible magic, and earthshattering romance.
After some time, she picked a book bound in blue leather, its title The Dragon and the Drowned Queen in golden letters across its cover.
She hesitated, considered returning to her room with it, but then she spotted the empty armchair across from Rooke.
Was it an invitation, much like the cracked door?
Corabeth straightened her shoulders, took a breath, and walked over to the chair.
She sat down like she belonged there. Her confidence shattered as soon as she noticed Rooke glowering at her.
Or was he simply looking at her? It was hard to tell.
His features made it look like he was always glowering.
“Is this alright?” she asked, muscles taut, ready to spring up as soon as Rooke gave any indication of discontent.
Rooke simply nodded and lowered his eyes to the page before him.
Corabeth let herself relax into the soft cushions and attempted to lose herself in her own book.
She barely made three pages before she felt another headache bloom behind her eyes.
The words began blending into each other, their edges becoming blurry.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Corabeth squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of nausea hit her.
“What’s the matter?” Rooke asked, noticing her struggle.
“Just a headache,” she replied, trying to get back to reading. But the words wouldn’t stop swimming before her eyes.
“Does that happen often?” he asked with a tilted head.
Corabeth shook her head, the motion making her dizzy for a moment.
“Do you have any head injuries?” Rooke continued his questioning.
Corabeth was about to shake her head again, but then she stopped. Her hand lifted almost by itself to the side of her head, where a large scab was hidden under her hair.
“I was hit with a rock, I think,” she said, remembering that terrible night.
“They threw rocks at you?” Rooke asked, his tone suddenly cold. The change in him was sudden enough to startle Corabeth. She simply stared at him, eyes wide.
Rooke sighed, placing his book on the drum table between the two armchairs. He lifted himself slightly and reached for the book in Corabeth’s lap.
“If the hit was bad enough, it might have injured your brain. You need rest,” he said, sinking back into his chair, and opened the book Corabeth had picked out. Then he began reading out loud.
“You don’t have to,” Corabeth blurted before he could finish the first sentence. Rooke silenced her with a single look and continued.
It took a few pages of reading before Corabeth began to relax again.
Rooke’s voice was low and a little gravelly, filling the room with unexpected tranquility.
Corabeth turned in the armchair and pulled her knees in to curl up in her chair, enjoying the warmth radiating from the fireplace.
A few pages more, and she allowed herself to close her eyes.
Corabeth didn’t fall asleep, but she did exactly what Rooke had suggested—she rested.
And it had been so long since she had been able to just rest.
A grandfather clock somewhere in the house chimed the time. Corabeth startled when she realized it was ten o’clock. Rooke, noticing her grow restless, stopped reading and lifted his eyes from the page.
“It’s late,” she remarked.
“Of course,” Rooke said after a beat, as if he had lost track of time as well. “You should rest. Properly.”
Corabeth nodded and stood, noting the slight stiffness in her joints from being in the same position for so long. She wasn’t entirely sure what to say, but leaving without a word felt wrong, too.
“Thank you. For reading to me,” she finally said, wringing her hands in front of her.
Rooke gave her a nod and replaced the book in his lap with his own.
“By the way,” Corabeth said, smoothing down the skirts of the same black dress she was wearing. “How come you have these clothes?”
Rooke gave her a crooked smile. “I’m not sure you want to know.”
Corabeth couldn’t keep the shock from her face when one horrible thought chased after the other. Rooke had already admitted that he killed people. Did he collect their clothes as some kind of sick trophies? Was she wearing the dress of some poor woman who had fallen victim to him?
“I’m not sure where your mind went, but I assure you, it’s nothing gruesome,” Rooke said, seeing her expression. It was obvious from the way he was holding back laughter that he found amusement in scaring Corabeth. “The clothes belonged to my mother.”
“Oh,” Corabeth replied, not sure if that was better or worse.
“Don’t worry. She has been dead for centuries,” Rooke said as if that was any help. “Besides, most of them are entirely unworn. She had too many dresses to go through all of them.”
In that, Corabeth finally found some comfort.
“Good night,” she said and found her way back to her room. But she had found another invitation in his actions, she realized. Rooke had bookmarked The Dragon and the Drowned Queen precisely where they left off.