Chapter Five #2
“So you are saying you would rather be my servant than my wife?”
“No,” I say, so fast and sharp that I hear him shift uncomfortably in his chair. I don’t even apologize for my tone. “I will never be someone’s servant ever again.”
I hear him inhale softly. “Apologies for my wording. I would never make you one.”
Another truth. I release a sigh of relief. “But I would like a purpose of some kind. I would like to feel useful, at least. I like it when my hands are busy.”
“I’ll speak with Oren and see if there are any tasks that he thinks you would be suited for and you can see if they’re to your liking.”
“Thank you.” I stare up at the ceiling, wishing there were a mirror, wishing I could get a glimpse of him. “What do you do to occupy the hours of your day?”
He chuckles again and I hear him take a sip of his mead. “Me? I’m trying to become a king.”
I laugh along with him. But the odd thing is, there isn’t even a hint of smoke in the air. He’s telling the truth.
But there hasn’t been a king of these lands in years. What does he hope to become king of? I don’t find the courage to ask throughout the rest of our pleasant conversation.
The next morning Oren is waiting in the kitchen for me after breakfast. I nearly drop my plates on the floor in surprise at the sight of him.
“You nearly made my heart stop.” I breathe a heavy sigh, trying to calm my suddenly frayed nerves.
Oren shovels the ash from the hearth, tiny embers still smoldering in the back, ready to help reignite the fire. “I have more business being here than you do.”
“Yet you never are.”
“How do you think your food is made?” He glances at me as I cross the room to the sink.
I expect him to tell me not to wash the dishes, but he doesn’t.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve been doing it for over a week now and he knows there’s no point trying to stop me.
Or perhaps it’s because of something Lord Fenwood said to him last night.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I assumed there might be a cook.” I shrug and turn on the water, focusing on the dishes. I’m dying to know if there are more people in this house. But I don’t want to pry too obviously. I already know that won’t go over well.
“There is not.”
“Then you are exceptional with seasonings.” I flash him a smile.
Oren chuckles as he finishes dumping the ashes into a metal bucket. “You’re trying to get on my good side.”
“I’m telling the truth.” I cross the room to free up the sink so he can wash his hands—he’s covered in soot up to his elbows. “Besides, I didn’t think I was on your bad side. Do I need to get on your good side?”
“I suppose having you here hasn’t been as bad as expected.”
“A resounding endorsement,” I say dryly.
He ignores the remark, turns off the water, and takes a little too long to dry his hands. I wonder what he’s thinking. “The master has certainly become intrigued by you.”
A tingling feeling rushes over my body, like the warm flush of a slightly too hot bath. Why does the idea of Lord Fenwood being intrigued by me excite me? I try to push away the sensation before it can reach my cheeks.
“What makes you think he’s intrigued by me?” Curiosity gets the better of me. I can’t stop myself from asking. I have to know.
“He’s been inquiring after you more and more, and I haven’t seen him spend so much time with a new person in years.”
He’s hardly spent any time with me at all. If this is his idea of spending a lot of time with someone, it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone mad as a recluse out here. “Well, you can pass along that I enjoy spending time with him too. I feel much less lonely whenever he shares a nightcap with me.”
“I will let him know.” Oren heads for the side door to the kitchen, bucket of ashes in hand. “Now, come along. Despite my protests, the lord has informed me that you have work to do today.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my excitement as I scamper after him. However, I stop in my tracks on the threshold of the back door. “I thought I wasn’t allowed in the back of the house?”
“This area is fine.” Oren points to the old stone wall where it stretches beyond the right wing of the house and into the wood.
In the dim light of the forest, I can make out the point where it crumbles to nothing.
“You cannot cross where that wall ends under any circumstances. Our protection extends only within its confines. Which means the garden is safe.”
The garden is boxed in between the wall at our right, the right wing of the manor behind us, and the conservatory dining room on the left.
I’m surprised I didn’t notice this was here before, but maybe that was because garden is a rather generous way to describe this area.
Overgrown beds spill onto cracked paths covered in a thick blanket of pine needles.
There’s a wooden shed in the corner where the wall meets the house that’s held together with nothing more than prayers.
Oren heads over to what I assume is the compost bin beside it and dumps the ash.
“You…grow things out here?” I ask.
“There’re potatoes in this bed,” he says.
He starts walking along the path and pointing as he goes.
I recognize the flat leaves of a potato plant.
“Carrots are over here, mixed in with the parsley. Rosemary is in the back. The basil bush took over the tomatoes last winter and then…died.” He looks a little guilty about that. “So, how are you with gardening?”
“I’m okay, I suppose.” That’s a bit of a stretch.
Joyce rapped my knuckles with a switch more than once over poor yields.
Not the worst wounds she gave me. You would think her harsh punishment would’ve made me exceptional at gardening, but it made me merely passable because it filled me with nothing but resentment for the task.
“But I can certainly clean up this place, shore up the shed, redefine the beds. And if you give me instruction on the plants, I won’t mess them up. ”
He looks skeptical. I’m excited for this project and I don’t want it to be taken away from me just because I have mediocre skills when it comes to gardening. So I add, “I promise I won’t let you down, Oren.”
“Why don’t you start with cleaning up today?” he suggests. “Then we’ll see about you tending the plants.”
“Sounds great,” I say quickly.
Oren leaves me to it. It’s a bit of a daunting task, given the state of the garden.
But that just means it’ll take me several days to complete.
My mind is already starting a list of priorities and considering all the potential this garden has.
Maybe, if there are enough supplies after I repair everything, I’ll make a bench.
This could be a lovely place to sit in late spring or summer when the pollinators are happily going about their business.
I dare to open the shed door, and the whole thing nearly collapses.
But inside is a rake, and that’s all I need for now.
I start with the paths, piling up the needles at the back edge of the garden.
There’s a clear line where the stone paths end and the forest floor begins.
I push the pine needles off onto the forest floor but go no farther.
It’s late morning when I take my first break.
I lean against the wall and wipe sweat from my brow.
My muscles are sore. It’s been only a week of lounging, and I’ve already lost some strength.
The stiffness in my bones makes me feel even better about staying busy.
Work keeps me moving, which keeps me strong.
The sound of a sniffle summons my attention; it’s followed immediately by soft crying. I look around for the source and my eyes are drawn to the woods. There, in the distance, I see a young girl with her hands balled into tiny fists, wiping wet cheeks as she weeps.
“What the—what are you doing out there?” I call to her. She continues crying as though she can’t hear me. “Little girl, are you lost?”
Still no response.
I look around to see if I can spot anyone else around her.
There’s no one. She carries a satchel slung across her body.
Who would bring a child into the dark forest?
I know there are men and women who dare to forage within it, but I’ve never heard of anyone being so foolish as to bring a child.
I push away from the wall, walk to the edge of the stone path, and cup my hands around my mouth. “Little girl, come over here.”
She stills, hands dropping from her face so she can look at me. She rubs her nose with her knuckles. And then dashes behind a tree.
“No, wait! Don’t run away!” I step off the path and onto the plush piles of pine needles I just finished raking. “You don’t have to be afraid; I’m trying to help you. Did you come out here with your parents?”
I see her poke her little face out from around the tree. Her hair is a painfully similar shade to Laura’s.
“It’s all right,” I coo softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I trail my hand along the wall, walking to the very edge, where it crumbles to nothing, and stop. She’s only three steps away from me. So close. “Come here.”
She retreats behind the tree.
“Please, it’s not safe out here for a little one like you. There’s chocolate in the kitchen—I can get you a piece if you’d like.” I have no idea if there’s chocolate; I just know that bribes always worked with Laura when she was this age.
The girl reemerges. I can see now that she’s absolutely filthy. I expected the mud and dirt covering her clothes. I didn’t expect the blood.
“Are you hurt?” I whisper.
She shakes her head and begins sobbing once more.
A picture is forming in my mind of what might have happened.
Someone, either well-meaning or nefarious, must have taken her into the woods, and then a horrible misfortune occurred that this girl somehow managed to escape.
That also means that somewhere out there, the man or beast or even fae who did this might still be hunting her.
It might be hiding behind any of these trees.