Chapter 15
“Alistair,” Mildred greets me, standing at the kitchen counter, a stack of dishes in front of her. “What brings you to the kitchen at this hour?”
It’s nearly midnight. Mildred, Brutus, and the three older women—Tilda, Denise and Franchesca—are cleaning up, preparing for tomorrow. They all give me thoughtful looks but say nothing as I take my usual seat at the long table in front of the fireplace.
They’re used to my nightly appearances in the kitchen, though I don’t usually come here quite so late.
“The usual,” I sigh, splaying my fingers across the table. I haven’t slept well since before the curse, and I’ve slept even worse in the last two years. Since Leeta. And now that Stella is here bringing up unwanted feelings, I hardly sleep at all.
“What was it this time?” Milly asks, sliding a cookie on a plate and a glass of milk my way. All of the older staff members have heard my stories to some extent, but only Milly has the nerve to ask me personal questions.
Franchesca, Denise and Tilda join her as she sits on the other side of the table, all of them watching me with expectant looks. But it’s not their brazen curiosity that bothers me. It’s the empathy that they’re already preparing to dole out.
Empathy I don’t deserve.
“It was nothing,” I lie, pushing at the cookie but not eating it. I hate the way the lot of them look at me. Like deep down underneath the selfishness and insults, I’m worth saving. I’m not. And they would know that if they knew me half as well as they think they do.
But I don’t let them. It’s easier that way.
“Let’s try it this way then,” Milly says, her knowing gaze pinning me in place. “What’s on your mind?”
“Myself,” I admit quietly.
Brutus laughs, standing by the stove, and I glare at his bald head. “Pardon me, master,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all, “But that doesn’t sound like new information.”
He’s always been more honest than the rest of the staff, and quite frankly I was confused when he decided to stay and bear the curse with me. The man has never liked me, and I can’t blame him.
“Am I a bad person?” I ask, directing my question at the cook. Milly and the other women are kind, but almost to a fault. Milly especially sees more in me than there is. But Brutus will be honest regardless of my feelings.
The cook groans and wipes his hands off on a towel. He takes his sweet time answering and I finally dig into my cookie, trying to distract myself.
“You’re not a good person,” Brutus says, his expression slightly sympathetic now. “But you’re also not a bad person.”
“So, I’m what—a medium person?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “You wouldn’t kill anyone unless you had to and I don’t believe that you would put any of us in mortal danger on purpose.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “But?”
He lumbers over to the table, sitting at an empty seat. The women watch him with warning looks, but he ignores them.
“But I don’t know that you would risk your skin for someone else,” he says matter-of-factly. “Especially if that sacrifice didn’t come with a reward.”
“And you would risk your skin for me even if you got nothing out of it?” I ask. I’m not angry with his words, but they do bring an uncomfortable pinch in my chest. One that I’ve never felt before. Is that guilt?
“I would risk my life for Franchesca’s or Milly’s or Tilda’s,” he shrugs. “And…yes. If I saw an arrow heading for you, I would push you out of the way.”
I stare at him, certain that he’s lost his mind. “But why? You have a child. Surely, she’s more important than my self-absorbed carcass.”
“Aye, she is. But she won’t be leading us. You will.”
I turn my eyes back to my plate as I recall the nightmare that woke me. I was walking the halls of the manor in the dark, a single light up ahead. The hallway became narrower and narrower as I went, and at the end a mirror hung on the wall.
Only it wasn’t me in the glass. At least, not one that I recognized.
My reflection was perfect, hair styled, shirt pressed and not a thing out of place. There was almost a porcelain look to my skin, and a sick, greedy smile on my face. Sharp canine teeth peeked out over my bottom lip and blood dripped down my chin.
But it wasn’t the blood or the teeth that disturbed me so much. It was the look in my eyes. Like I was starving. Like I had torn through the necks of every person in the village just to make my skin shine, but it wasn’t enough. Completely insatiable.
Is that who I am? Is that the man these people are putting their faith in?
“I’m not worth that kind of faith,” I growl, breaking the cookie into pieces.
“Maybe not, but the people of Roburry are,” Brutus argues, his tone somehow tough and forgiving all at once. “And they need you more than my Kaitlyn needs me. You aren’t a great person—”
“Brutus, really,” Franchesca complains, her red hair bobbing as she turns to glare at him.
“It’s true Franny,” Brutus shrugs. “You are not a great person, Master. Not yet. Your brother, on the other hand…I’m not sure he’s capable of goodness.”
I don’t waste my breath pretending to defend Orrin. He doesn’t deserve it. There was a time that he did. A time when he was aggressive and quick to anger, but also quick to ask for forgiveness and easy to make laugh. But that Orrin is gone. I haven’t seen him since we were young teenagers, and I’ve lost faith that I will ever meet him again.
“You’re probably right about Orrin,” I say tonelessly, pushing the plate away. “But you’re wrong about me.”
And then, like a coward, I leave the kitchen, mindlessly wandering the dim hallways until I can no longer hear them discussing my exit. I’ve heard it all before. They think I need motivation to change. That if I could just see things clearly, I could be different.
But they don’t understand. I don’t want to be different.
My feet pause as I come to my own portrait hanging on the wall. My brother sent it to me shortly after the curse began. And although I knew it was meant to be a cruel reminder of what could have been, I hung it anyway. To remind myself of what I was trying to get back to.
The picture before me is of a man who knows who he is. Who isn’t tied down by the opinions and approval of others. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that he’s good. In fact, he prefers if they hate him to begin with.
No expectations, no disappointment.
The man in the frame isn’t happy per se, but he’s…
My brows furrow. I can’t quite remember the positives of my past life. I had money, social status, women. I was the black sheep of the family for certain, but that didn’t stop me from finding the success and comfort that I craved. Life was lonely at times, but it was good.
At least I used to think it was.
But when I look back on it now, I just see a boy on the run. Running from consequences, running from connection, running from responsibility. Desperate to change the prophecy of loneliness and guilt that I crafted and fulfilled for myself.
And for what? For women like Carissa? Women who only wanted me because I was the man their fathers told them to stay away from. But I can’t resent them for it. I used them the same way they used me, and then we mutually tossed each other aside, having gotten what we wanted.
“But why do I suddenly care about the lack of fulfillment in my past life?” I whisper to myself, staring at the portrait. The man in the frame never cared and I don’t want to either.
But I’m starting to think that a desire for revenge isn’t going to be enough anymore. Because when I break this curse—and I will—revenge won’t last me the lifetime I’ll have waiting for me. So what do I want to fill those years with?
Just someone who wants my company.
I recoil at the thought. That can’t be right.
People are fickle. If someone wants my company, it’s for a reason. What a stupid thing to wish for.
Frustrated with myself and my stupid, frail human soul, I turn and stomp down the hall. I’ve almost reached the library, ready to lecture Narcissus about how emotionally detached I am—hoping I might believe it—when I feel a knife pressed against my side.