Chapter 7
SUNLIGHT SLAPS ME AWAKE. I lurch upright, wincing as my torso flares in agony. I press a hand to my chest, atop my bruised sternum, and gradually, the world takes shape. A mattress, soft beneath me. My clothes from yesterday, still worn.
The previous afternoon returns to me in fragments. It took all my courage to board that boat in the garden so I could return to the lone tower with its singular window. There, I collapsed, exhausted beyond measure. I wished to forget the day and its preceding night.
But the morning is bright, and this is no fantasy. Beyond the open window, the rupture of water on rock explodes skyward, the churning storm just beyond. No creak of old wood, no hiss of steam over the hearth, no aroma of diced herbs.
Hunger coils in my stomach as I climb from bed.
Judging by the sun’s position, it is quite late.
Her ladyship required that I begin work at dawn—sometimes earlier, and my duties always kept me busy well into the evening.
Teas to brew, plants to harvest. I am half expecting her to barge into the room, lash in hand, for my tardiness.
It is then I notice a small jar of salve resting on the bedside table. No note. The manor must have left it for me.
After carefully dabbing the salve onto my back and chest, I push to my feet. It is strange, falling asleep in a proper-sized bed, in a proper-sized room. It reminds me that I was once worthy of this, in my youth. These days, I am only good enough for a broom cupboard.
When I peek behind a wooden partition in the corner of the room, I discover a large tub, complete with soap and towel. After peeling the filthy clothes from my skin, I step into the scalding water, sink into its heat with a gratified sigh. The pile of garments vanishes moments later.
Washing doesn’t take long. I braid my hair and don the blue dress, black stockings, and undergarments that have appeared, neatly folded on a nearby chair. The dress is a tad long, but that can’t be helped. At least it is clean, without holes.
A strip of parchment flutters in my periphery, drawing my attention toward the desk. I peer down at the scrawled message, frowning.
You have the day to complete your work. I expect an update when I return.
A thread of vexation pulls taut in my gut, and I flip the message over.
Neither please nor thank you. As it is, nothing could force me back into that boat.
And anyway, the poisons must steep. Excuses?
Perhaps. But no one is here to scold me.
With the East Wind’s absence, this might be my only opportunity to explore the manor thoroughly.
Wherever his ax is hidden, I will find it.
Snatching a quill and pot of ink, I pen a message.
The East Wind took me. I know where his weapon is hidden. The estate has not been sold, has it? Send word by courier bird.
My hand trembles. Ink slips from the quill’s sharpened tip and blots out hidden.
Should I rewrite it? No, it is legible, if a blatant lie.
Lady Clarisse never has to know. By the time I receive a response, I will have hopefully found the East Wind’s weapon.
It is my only leverage if I am to purchase the estate.
“Could you please show me how to get to the aviary from here?” I ask the manor.
Something plucks the note from my fingers, waving it before my nose. I snatch it back and tuck it safely into my dress pocket. “It’s a message,” I whisper, “for my family. I… don’t want them to worry.” Surely an enchanted manor cannot discern the falsehood in my voice?
The door eases open, as though the manor is satisfied by my answer.
I follow the flickering wall sconces down the spiraling stairwell.
One of the oil paintings to my left wiggles on its hook.
My mouth curves, and I follow the manor’s clever communications, around a corner into a hallway paneled in dark, polished wood.
Here, the art is varied and intentionally curated: canvases depicting pastoral scenes in oil, busts shaped from glazed marble balanced on pedestals.
The more I study the manor, the more I get a sense of her character, those varying shades.
Gray, certainly, for there is much stone, but some walls are covered in wallpaper, some wood, and the rugs are plentiful.
She—the manor—is cultured, refined, if a bit eclectic, shabby around the edges.
The manor directs me through an open doorway. I’m too busy absorbing the sights to pay much attention until the door clicks shut behind me.
“This isn’t the aviary,” I mutter in confusion.
The window curtains flutter, but the door does not reopen. Clearly, she wants me to explore the room.
The rug underfoot muffles my footsteps as I approach the massive oak desk. To my surprise, I find only a blank sheet of parchment and a clean quill resting along its edge. Seems rather sparsely furnished for a study. For that is what this is, I realize. The East Wind’s study.
With a slow spin, I survey the space with fresh eyes. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are organized by size, with the largest tomes on the lower shelves, the smaller volumes on the upper. The room smells of yellowing parchment and something darker that I recognize as the god’s own scent.
Something flaps near the window: an oil painting, though the canvas has been slashed beyond recognition. I peer closer. Four men are seated around a large fountain in a city square. Curiously, only one of the men has wings.
Despite searching high and low, I find no sign of any weapon, ax or otherwise. I sincerely doubt he would leave it out in the open, though I question why a god would not carry his prized weapon on his person.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where the East Wind has hidden his ax,” I ask the manor, “would you?”
I receive no response. It is as I thought.
I slip back into the dimly lit corridor, its walls papered in faded yellow silk.
I explore each room on the second level, every dining room, sitting room, powder room, washroom, laundry room, bedroom—all eight of them—and library.
Many of the rooms house impressive collections of oil paintings, enough that I wonder if the East Wind doesn’t have a partiality for the medium.
Only one door is locked. His bedroom? I will need to find another way in.
The manor then directs me outside. Wide, stone steps descend down a sloping lawn, its grass withered, likely due to its proximity to the sea. I hurry across an overgrown pathway leading to an old wooden door set into a high stone wall. Inside, I find the aviary.
One of the birds glides down to me as though having been summoned. I tie the message onto its leg, saying, “Deliver this to Lady Clarisse in St. Laurent.” Then, because I am not quite sure if it understands me: “Thank you.”
The bird spreads its wings. Air stirs at its departure, and I watch until it is swallowed by the distant horizon.
At midday, hunger forces me into the kitchen.
It is spacious and well-stocked, the clay tiles underfoot providing a much-needed warmth.
A table draped in a thread-worn tablecloth is joined by four mismatched chairs.
The window above the sink frames the island’s crags and cliffs.
When I run a hand along the wooden countertop, it comes away clean.
“Do you by chance have fresh bread?” I ask the manor. St. Laurent is known for its breads, pastries, and cakes. It is something I sorely miss.
A subtle wind rattles a narrow door behind the kitchen table: the pantry. Grains and preserved fruits and hunks of aged cheese. There—a baguette wrapped in parchment paper. I pull it down with a soft crinkle. It’s still warm.
A pang hits, as does a memory. I sit at the kitchen table of the estate, my legs too short to reach the floor.
Nan, dressed in a lavender blouse, tears pieces from the baguette we bought in town.
There is butter, preserves, honey, all stored in porcelain bowls.
My grandmother always gave me the crusty heel, along with a forehead kiss and a hearty, Eat up.
“Is there jam?” I murmur to the manor.
A small glass jar slides to the front of the shelf. After locating a knife, I cut into the warm bread and spread strawberry jam into its soft crannies, consuming the chunk in three bites.
A white linen napkin materializes on the countertop. I wipe my fingers, eyeing the bowl of fruit near the sink. After some consideration, I select a peach for myself.
“What are you doing?”
I startle and whirl around, the peach slipping from my grasp. It hits the tile with a soft thump and rolls, striking the toe of a large, scuffed boot.
The East Wind dominates the doorway, the tattered ends of his black cloak fluttering around his calves. The air shifts, shedding softened ease for something decidedly more deadly. I can all but feel it bend and waver around him in palpable fury.
“I w-w-was getting s-s-something to eat,” I manage, retreating behind the table.
He picks the peach off the floor, strides toward the counter.
The slow fall of his footsteps rattles the kitchen window.
“If you’re hungry,” he snaps out, “ask the manor to make you something. Don’t touch things that do not belong to you.
” He then begins rearranging the bowl of fruit.
He removes the apricots, apples, and tangerines, carefully tucking each one back into its proper place, with the peach balanced on top.
That done, his gaze sweeps the countertops. There, the torn baguette. And beside it, strawberry preserves coating the knife in a glisten of red sweetness. A low growl sounds, and he’s across the room, wiping down the counters and replacing everything as it was.
“I d-d-did ask,” I say to him, voice quavering. “I th-think the manor w-w-wanted me to find the kitchen myself.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He rinses his hands in the sink, wipes them dry with a rag. “Did you receive my note this morning?”
“Y-y-you mean the one t-telling me to get to work?” How could I forget?