Chapter 13 Lysa #2
We neared the second alcove. The Leonine sentinel sat there, a monstrosity of grey marble and furred muscle. Its mane was half-stone, half-coarse hair that bristled as we approached.
I tensed, my magic rising sluggishly in response to the threat. “Just keep walking. Don’t look it in the eye.”
We were abreast of it when a roar shook the dust from the ceiling sconces. The Sentinel launched itself from the plinth, aiming straight for my throat.
Move. The command died in my throat.
The beast slammed into substantial nothingness inches from my nose, with a loud crack.
The impact sent a tremor through the floorboards so violent I lost my footing. It wasn’t my magic. It was the air itself. The manor groaned, the timber and stone screaming with the effort of holding back its own guardian.
The Sentinel hung suspended in mid-air, pressed against the invisible barrier, its claws scrabbling against the empty space.
It whined—a pathetic sound that curdled in my gut—before an unseen force shoved it backward.
It skidded across the stone and collapsed back into its alcove, those eyes fixed on me.
“That’s it,” Thorven snarled, stepping in front of me, though the danger had passed. “I’m calling him. This has gone too far.”
“You will do no such thing.” My voice shook, and I hated it. I grabbed his sleeve, leaving a smear of potting soil on the leather. “Fenrik’s barely holding the curse back as it is.”
“It almost took your head off, lady! If the house hadn’t—“
“But the house did,“ I said, though my heart was hammering. “The manor handled it.”
“Handled it?” Thorven gestured wildly at the cowering beast. “It’s a bloody miracle you aren’t lunch.”
“Language, Mr. Hearthcleft. There is a child present.”
We both jumped. Mrs. Crane materialized from the shadows of a door, her black dress immaculate, her silver chatelaine chiming softly with her steps. She looked at the whimpering Sentinel, then at the mud on the floor, and finally at my bleeding arms. She merely sighed.
“We were taking young Tessaly here for something sweet, Mrs. Crane,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the mess.
“Take the child to the kitchen, Thorven,” she said. “We have ginger biscuits. And keep her away from the scullery; the mop bucket is feeling temperamental.”
Thorven opened his mouth, looked at Mrs. Crane’s expression, and wisely shut it. He ushered a wide-eyed Tessaly away, casting one last worried glance over his shoulder at me.
Mrs. Crane stepped into my personal space, her blue eyes scanning my face. Before I could explain, she took my wrist in a grip that was surprisingly gentle. She pulled a clean handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the blood welling from the scratches on my forearm.
“The house is possessive,” she said, inspecting the deepest cut. “It does not like its things broken before it has decided where to put them.”
“I am not a thing,“ I said, wincing as she applied pressure. “And I think it was trying to save me.”
“Are the two mutually exclusive?” Mrs. Crane raised an eyebrow. She wiped the dirt from my knuckles. “The manor is old, girl. It remembers when blood was the only currency that mattered. It seems to have decided yours is worth keeping inside your body for the time being.”
So I was ‘girl’ now. She tied the handkerchief around my arm with a knot.
“You should get that properly dressed,” she said, smoothing my tattered sleeve down. “And change. You look like you’ve been wrestling a bog witch.”
“Just a garden drake,” I mumbled, feeling incredibly weary.
“Close enough.” Mrs. Crane stepped back, her gaze softening for a fraction of a second.
“The Master is in the music room. He hasn’t played in some time, but the piano lid was open this morning.
” She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“If the house is working this hard to keep you alive, perhaps you should go and ensure the reason for its effort is still sane.”
“Is that advice, Mrs. Crane?”
“It is a housekeeping suggestion,” she said. “I cannot polish the silver if the roof falls on my head.”
I turned on my heel, ready to march toward the music room, but the front doors groaned. Lady Kelda Morvain stood framed by the morning mist. Now this was a hell of a morning.
She was immaculate, of course. Her robes of pale sage and silver shimmered as she moved, not a mud splatter or stray hair in sight.
She brought the scent of crushed lilies into the hall, displacing the smell of damp earth and blood that clung to me.
Upon seeing the tableau—Mrs. Crane stiff as a poker, the muddy footprints, my shredded sleeve—her perfect eyebrows rose.
“Oh, my,” she said, her voice a soft chime of bells. “I was in the neighbourhood, checking on the ley-lines for the valley council, and thought I’d look in on dear Fenrik. But it seems I’ve arrived in the middle of a catastrophe.”
“Hardly a catastrophe,” I said, though I casually tried to hide my bandaged arms behind my back. I felt suddenly aware of the potting soil smeared on my cheek. “Just a minor disagreement with a restless drake.”
Kelda stepped forward. She didn’t look at Mrs. Crane; she looked only at me, her sea-glass eyes sweeping over my disheveled state.
“You poor dear,” she said, closing the distance between us before I could retreat. “You really aren’t used to managing an estate of this magnitude, are you? It can be overwhelming.”
“I’m managing fine.”
“Of course you are.” She smiled, but it looked like just a shifting of muscles. “Let me help with that. We can’t have you dripping all over Fenrik’s floors. He does so hate a mess.”
She reached out. I flinched, instinctively pulling back, but her hand was faster, clamping onto my forearm. Her fingers were unnervingly cold, lacking the natural warmth of a living person.
“Hold still,” she said. “A simple Hearthcraft soothing charm. I’ve done it a thousand times for him.”
Before I could protest, magic spilled from her palm.
I expected the weaving sensation of natural healing, the itch of knitting skin, the heat of accelerated blood flow.
Instead, I felt a layer of cold, suffocating pressure slide over my skin.
It didn’t feel like the wound was closing; it felt like it was being covered up.
Like a thick, invisible lacquer was being painted over the tear in reality, sealing the damage under a flawless, glossy surface.
The pain vanished, but the relief brought no comfort. My skin felt rubbery beneath her touch, distant and numb, as if that patch of arm no longer belonged to me.
“There,” Kelda said, inspecting her work. She didn’t let go of my wrist. “Much cleaner.”
“It feels...” I trailed off, staring at the unmarked skin where a gouge had been seconds ago. It looked perfect though.
“Numb?” Kelda finished for me, her gaze drifting up to meet mine.
“That’s the quality of the spell. It suppresses everything unpleasant.
Fenrik always preferred it this way. When his curse flared in the early years.
.. oh, the nights I spent soothing him. He used to beg for my touch, just for a moment of silence in his head. ”
I tried to yank my arm away, but her grip held for a second too long before she released me.
“He requires a gentle hand, Lysa,” she said, wiping her palms on a silk handkerchief. “Not... whatever this is. Roughhousing with the beasts might be acceptable in a village clinic, but bringing that chaos into the manor? It unsettles him.” She gestured vaguely at my entire person.
“I helped stabilize the creatures,” I said.
“Did you?” She tilted her head, offering a sympathetic smile that made me want to scream. “Or did you stir them up? Fenrik needs peace, not more excitement. Perhaps you should go upstairs and wash. You look... frantic. I’ll go to the music room and let him know you’re safe. I know the way.”
She stepped around me, the silk of her robes brushing against my muddy trousers, claiming the space, the direction, and the man waiting at the end of the hall.
“I’ll tell him you’re doing your best,” she added over her shoulder. “He’s patient. I’m sure he’ll forgive the state of things.”
Lady Kelda didn’t even look at Mrs. Crane as she passed her, merely flicking a manicured hand toward the muddy footprints I’d tracked across the stone.
“Do try to keep the filth contained,” Kelda said. “It distresses the house so.”
Mrs. Crane stiffened, but said nothing. She didn’t have to; the temperature in the hallway dropped ten degrees, a silent rebuke from the manor itself.
Kelda seemed to notice the manor’s reaction and turned back to me.
She stepped into my personal space again, blocking my view of the corridor where Fenrik had appeared.
She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear.
“You’re out of your depth, little healer,” she whispered.
“Perhaps this arrangement is more dangerous than we thought. For everyone. Fenrik’s control is obviously slipping if even the Garden Drakes are turning violent.
He needs someone who understands the weight of a legacy, not a village girl who drags mud and chaos into his sanctuary.
You’re not helping him at all, Lysa. You’re another thing he has to worry about breaking. ”
The words lodged in my chest like a splinter of ice. Before I could find my voice, before I could defend myself or my magic, she pulled back with a dazzling smile.
“Rest now,” she said, loud enough for Mrs. Crane to hear. “I’ll handle Fenrik.” She swept away, heading straight for the music room. The heavy doors swung open for her.
I was left standing in the drafty hall, shivering.
I couldn’t look Mrs. Crane in the eye. I felt dirty.
And Gods help me, I felt a sick, churning jealousy that tasted like ash in my mouth.
She was going to him. She was going to soothe him with her numb, perfect magic, and I was dismissed like a naughty child.
“I need...” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “I’m going to my room.”
I fled. I didn’t run, but I walked with a speed that bordered on flight.
The house didn’t try to stop me; the hallways were straight, the lanterns dim.
I reached my bedroom door. I needed to wash the dirt from my skin.
I needed to look at my collection of ceramic dragons, to arrange them by color, to ground myself in something small and safe and mine.
My room was pristine, the bed made, the curtains drawn, save for one spot. On the floor, right in the center of the rug where I couldn’t miss it, lay a pile of jagged blue shards.
Mist.
My favorite figurine, a delicate water-dragon painted with painstaking detail. I had left him on the highest shelf this morning, tucked safely behind a stack of books. He couldn’t have fallen from there.
I knelt, and picked up a piece of painted wing. The violation made my skin crawl. This wasn’t the mindless rage of a cursed creature. This was deliberate. This was cruel.
I was seven years old, kneeling in the dirt with a sparrow in my hands, its wing bent at a sickening angle, crying as I pushed my power into hollow bones that crunched under my clumsy, eager fingers.
“You cannot force it whole, little bird,” my mother had whispered, her hand covering mine. “If you push the magic too hard, you only break what you mean to save.”
I squeezed the ceramic shard until it bit into my palm. I wasn’t seven anymore.