Chapter 17
Seventeen
Corabeth
There was a restlessness growing inside of Corabeth that could only be eased by wandering the decrepit gardens behind the manor.
She could imagine how in the spring it all bloomed to life, bringing with it a wild kind of beauty.
It was a space once made by humans but now entirely undisturbed by them.
In some places, the hedges grew to form arches above the cracked pathways.
In other places, vines crawled up wrought iron fences, bending them towards the earth, as if sent from below to drag the world above down.
Indeed, warmer months would transform it into an untamed wilderness but now, it was barren, the skeletons of the plant life laid bare.
The thick burgundy cloak around her shoulders, Corabeth strolled past the crawling vines and unruly hedges and thorny briars, closer to the edge of the woods that she had now learnt to perceive without fear.
There was nothing to be afraid of in them.
The most fearsome of those creatures was now the only one she felt safe with, she realized with a start.
Corabeth could not help how her thoughts looped around but always seemed to find their way back to Rooke.
She sensed a certain softness underneath all that sharpness.
A malleability. It seemed to her that, as she imagined his severe features, even those had somehow tempered, transformed into something almost handsome.
Deep in thought, Corabeth wandered further than she ever had before and was all at once surprised to find a notably clear patch of land.
It was obvious it was a space tamed by someone’s hand, someone who did not let the forest beyond encroach nor the overgrown hedges intrude.
From the snow-covered earth rose a single row of stones, like rotten teeth from between frozen lips.
Corabeth knew immediately she was looking at graves. Seven altogether.
One after the other, Corabeth wiped the snow from the stones, but no names were revealed. Save for one. With frozen fingers, Corabeth scraped the moss that had made a home in the grooves until the name became legible.
Evangeline.
Her name had been carved into the speckled stone in crude, uneven letters.
A low growl was the only warning Corabeth got before she was pushed back several feet, the frozen ground below her unforgiving in its welcome.
“Don’t touch that!” rumbled Rooke who now crouched over his mother’s gravestone. His head was drawn low between his hunched shoulders, fingers digging into the snow. His chest heaved with deep breaths.
Corabeth had never seen him look more like an animal. A beast.
“I’m sorry, I…” she stammered, her heart beating hard in her throat from the suddenness and brutality of the intrusion. “I was just cleaning her name.”
Rooke blinked, shook his head, as if clearing some unseen fog from his thoughts. For a moment, he seemed as confused as Corabeth felt. When his eyes found hers again, all animosity drained from him.
“Forgive me,” he said, hurrying over to Corabeth to help her up. “I’m not entirely… well.”
Corabeth took his hands without hesitation, getting to her feet. Even after such an unexpected attack, she could not imagine Rooke hurting her. This close, peering up into Rooke’s obsidian eyes, she could see the shame in them, in the way he was struggling to meet her gaze.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, genuine worry lacing her tone, searching his face.
On the outside, Rooke seemed unchanged. That made the sudden change in his behavior even more unnerving.
Rooke tried to pull away, release Corabeth from his hold but she held tight, keeping Rooke in his place. He could have, of course, overpowered her. And yet, he remained, letting Corabeth’s hands linger on his arms.
Rooke sighed. “I get rather… quick-tempered sometimes. Especially if it’s been some time since my last feeding. And I’m somewhat protective of this place.” He looked over his shoulder at the gravestones that stood, unchanged.
“I’m sorry for intruding,” Corabeth said, finally releasing Rooke. This time, he didn’t try to distance himself from her.
“No, I’m sorry. This is not your fault,” he assured her, “You’re welcome to go wherever you’d like.”
The question burned in Corabeth’s throat, impossible to swallow, like a cough demanding to be released. “You buried your mother here?”
Rooke now turned to fully face the graves. As he spoke, his gaze jumped from stone to stone. “My already-dead father. My mother who ended herself. And the five servants I ripped apart. I don’t even remember their names anymore.”
His voice did not quake when he spoke but he sounded detached. Here but far away at the same time.
Corabeth’s hand twitched. She nearly grabbed hold of his hand but she stopped herself. Instead, she asked, “When was this?”
Rooke shrugged. “A long time ago. Centuries. I did not carve the dates into them. Back then, this all did not feel quite so… permanent. I did not think I’d need such reminders. It seemed impossible I might forget at all.”
All at once, Rooke seemed to return to himself. He shot Corabeth a bitter smile over his shoulder. “You must think me quite morbid for this.”
“Not at all,” Corabeth replied. “In my village,” she said, although calling it ‘her village’ tasted bitter on her tongue, “if there’s a body, it gets burned because there’s no room to bury entire bodies. If there’s no body, their name gets etched into a large headstone with all the rest.”
The bodiless dead were the ones who fell victim to Rooke. They both knew it. Neither said it.
Her gaze returned to the unmarked stone next to Evangeline’s. Presumably, the final resting place for Rooke’s father. He had not earned the right for a named grave.
“No marked grave for your father?” she asked somewhat carefully. She was hungry for any tidbits about his past. But when the past was as harsh and painful as Rooke’s, prying could make him draw inward, right as she had started peeling back his many layers.
“He did not deserve it. He deserves to be forgotten,” Rooke said, his tone as hard as the headstones.
They stood in the solemn silence of the makeshift graveyard for some time. The wind brushed its gentle hand over the snow that lay over the burial site like a soft blanket, already erasing the signs of a disturbance.
Corabeth could not help but wonder if her own village had memorialized her on a gravestone, if anyone cared enough to carve her name into it. For all they knew, she was dead. But she was no great loss for them.
As if reading her thoughts, Rooke turned to Corabeth and asked, “Do you think your name is on that stone in your village?”
“No,” she replied with a surprising quickness. “If it was, I’d strike it out. They will have no part of me.”
It felt good to lash out with words like that. The contempt for her village and its people festered inside her and demanded letting. Like a wound, swollen painfully with pus.
If she had looked at Rooke in that moment, she would have seen the admiration in his eyes, the recognition of her rage—like seeing like.
Instead, she stared ahead into the woods without seeing much of anything and packed that anger neatly away again. She was still frightened of examining it too closely.
“They wouldn’t deserve a single speck of you,” Rooke said earnestly.
Corabeth turned to look at Rooke. The man who stood over the graves of his family and victims, carrying the guilt, and still somehow found it within himself to offer her comfort.
“And what do we deserve?” she wondered aloud.
Rooke considered it for a moment while the wind whipped up the loose snow around them. “Nothing. Everything.”