Chapter 6
The house was all riches and shadow, dark wood gleaming in the dim light, the silence of vast rooms too empty to echo with life. His wealth was obscene beside the famine outside.
A line of servants stood waiting in the entrance hall. Lord Halverton didn’t acknowledge them. Aoife looked away as Halverton addressed her, taking it all in.
“Welcome to Blackthorn Hall,” he said, standing aside so she could take in the wide expanse of the entrance hall, the sweeping staircase, the ornate carvings, and the larger-than-life portraits of plump Eldrossi men and women.
The silence stretched. He was expecting her to speak. “It’s stunning,” she said at last.
He beamed. “I am glad you like it. It will be your home now. Soon you will find yourself as much a fixture of this house as the chandeliers.”
Aoife looked up. Two enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which might have been at the level of the roof it was so high. She didn’t have time to count the candles before Halverton was drawing her attention away to the portraits.
“His Imperial Majesty Aldebrand. I’m sure you’ve never had occasion to see his likeness before.”
The emperor and the empress beside him looked ridiculous to her, hung in silks and dripping with jewellery, but she only replied, “No, my lord.”
He indicated another portrait. “Lord Cadny, you know of course.”
When she gave no answer, he went on, “the prefect before me.”
She shook her head.
“Clearly he didn’t make an impression. No wonder the empire moved him along.”
As Halverton went on about Lord Cadny’s failings, Aoife found her attention drifting to the servants, still standing along one side of the hall. Halverton hadn’t even glanced their way. How long would they stand there? What if he forgot about them altogether? Would they stand there all day?
They kept their eyes averted. What must they be thinking about this stranger coming into their house? A stranger they’re expected to serve. They would be the key to understanding this place, what was expected of her, and Lord Halverton himself.
There were about two dozen of them, all impeccably dressed. Their cheeks were full; their skin healthy. They looked as her neighbours had a year ago, before the hunger set in. The sight left her torn between anger and a faint, shameful flicker of anticipation at the thought of food.
At a gesture from Halverton, a man stepped forward to take his hat and gloves. His face was scarred worse than Halverton’s, one eye gone, the socket empty. He moved with an uneven gait, but his posture when he stood was perfect.
The man’s hands were steady in their service, but two of the fingers on his right hand were twisted and appeared to never straighten.
“Thank you, Alton,” Halverton said. Alton returned to the line of servants.
At Halverton’s signal, a maid stepped forward next. Her wrists were thicker than Aoife’s and her frame stronger. She carried herself with practised stillness, perfectly trained to be invisible, to move quietly, to anticipate but never intrude. She couldn’t be much older than Aoife.
“This is Clara. She’ll serve as your lady’s maid for now. I know most ladies like to choose their own maids. That can be arranged in time.”
“I’m sorry,” Aoife said, looking at Clara. “I don’t know what a lady’s maid is, and I don’t think I’ll need one.”
“Of course you need one. She will assist you with dressing and undressing, maintain and repair your clothing, style your hair, that sort of thing.”
Aoife hadn’t been dressed by anyone since she was a small child, and she couldn’t imagine why she’d need help with it now.
“Once we put meat on your bones, and with Clara’s attentions, you’ll soon be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.”
She was sure he meant it as a compliment.
“There was no time to procure new things,” he went on. “But I have a few items of ladies’ clothing you can use until then. Clara will adjust them for you. I have ordered silks for dresses. I selected an emerald that I think will particularly suit you. Wouldn’t you agree, Clara?”
“Yes, my lord.” Clara hadn’t looked up from the floor the whole time she’d been standing there.
Halverton waved a hand, and she stepped back into line. An older man and woman came forward next.
“This is Mr Lanyon, the butler,” Halverton said, “and Mrs Harrow, the housekeeper.”
He turned to her. “And this is Eva.”
“Aoife. Ee-fa.” she corrected gently.
He frowned. “Is that not what I said?”
“Not quite.”
He smiled faintly. “Does it matter, Aoife? Eva? What’s the difference? Pretty all the same.”
“Yes,” she said. “It matters. It’s my name.”
Halverton turned to the butler and housekeeper, issuing instructions in brisk tones. Mrs Harrow murmured that the room prepared for Aoife was ready, and he nodded his approval.
Aoife only half-listened. She was watching the other servants. Most wore the same blank, careful expression, but one young man shifted under her gaze when he caught her looking. She looked away quickly.
Lord Halverton dismissed the staff with a wave, and they filed out of the hallway, leaving two young men in identical uniforms standing at attention in perfect symmetry on either side of the hall. Aoife was surprised he hadn’t introduced her to the rest of the staff.
“Shouldn’t I know their names?” she asked.
He looked puzzled. “Why would you? You will not be interacting with most of them.”
“It’s polite,” she said. “To know the names of the people who work here.”
He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “You would like to be introduced to the scullery maid? The gardeners?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her, genuinely surprised, then said, “That would not be appropriate. Come, I will show you to your room.”
Aoife turned to follow, Halverton grabbing her satchel off her before she could protest.
“Dispose of this,” he held it out to one of the young men on the staff, touching it with only two fingers as though it might infect him.
“No,” Aoife cried.
“You shall have new clothes.”
“It’s not just clothes,” she said, trying to snatch it away from him.
Halverton held it out of her reach. Aoife remembered her father’s words and relented, taking a step back. He studied her for a moment, then lowered the bag. Opening it, he pulled out her mother’s book, turning it over in his hand. “You can read?”
Aoife had to swallow her anger at his patronising tone. “Yes, I can read.”
Halverton tilted his head to the side, looking at her as if she’d grown another head. He smiled. “I knew I was right to choose you.” He handed her the book and looked into the bag again, pulling out the pine marten and passing it over without a word.
“There’s nothing else here you need.” He handed it off to the man: her bag, her clothes, her medicinal herbs, tinctures, and her pestle and mortar. She brought with her all she owned in the world, and he’d taken most of it away. She despaired watching it all go.
“There is something I want to show you.” He strode off without waiting for her reply.
She hesitated, then followed. He led her across the great hall and down a long corridor.
As they passed an open door, she spotted Clara and Alton.
She, with an arm full of fabric, he kneeling to pick a piece of shimmery blue cloth off the floor.
When Alton stood, his movements were less stiff for a moment, and his face softened.
As he passed the item to Clara, she smiled and quickly looked away shyly.
Aoife smiled. There was life here, after all, hidden behind masks of obedience.
Aoife took a few quick steps to catch up with Halverton.
“Alton,” Aoife said. “What’s his role?”
Halverton raised an eyebrow, as if surprised she’d remembered the name. “Alton is my valet. Manservant would be a better title. He is my right-hand man. I rely on him for everything.”
“Do you mind my asking,” Aoife almost changed her mind but went on, “about his injuries?”
“What about them?”
How could she say she was surprised he, of all people, had a manservant who would struggle to pour a glass of wine?
“I was wondering how he manages.”
“He does admirably well. The tasks he can not do, he gets a footman to assist him with. Loyalty is worth far more than skill.”
He stopped in front of a heavy door and turned to look at her directly.
“Alton pulled me out of a fire. He saved my life, and I saved his in return by giving him a job. He owes me everything, and he knows it. A man like that would never even think of disloyalty. That is why he is the perfect manservant.”
“Now,” he went on, laying a hand on the large metal doorknob. “Close your eyes.”
She was reluctant to do so. She barely knew this man, had no idea what he might consider a pleasant surprise. It could be anything behind the door, from an elegant dining room to a pack of wailing banshees.
“Close your eyes.” His tone brokered no argument, and she obeyed.
His hand settled on her lower back as he guided her forward. The hinges creaked; the air beyond the threshold was cooler, thick with the smell of old paper and beeswax. Not banshees, at least.
“Now, look.”
She opened her eyes and caught her breath.
The library rose around her in quiet splendour, shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. A tall window admitted weak northern light, but the corners were shadowed.
He watched her reaction with satisfaction. “You like it.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said honestly.
“Most of it was here before my time,” he said. “I can not claim to have curated it. Still, it is… impressive, is it not?”
He led her toward a side alcove. “These are the books Florence—” He caught himself, but not soon enough. “The books women prefer. Light reading. Romances, mostly.” Aoife burned to ask who Florence was, but she could tell from the way he acted that he didn’t want her to ask.
He leant over to read the titles and gently tugged one out. His smile as he looked at it pulled at the scars on the side of his face. He held it out to her.
She took the proffered book and turned it in her hands. It was pale blue with the title embossed.
“Sit. Read. Enjoy. I will send Mrs Harrow in shortly to show you to your room.” With that, he left.
Aoife sat down and flicked open the book he handed her. Within a page, she let out a breath, almost a laugh.
Of course. A romance with a heroine described as possessing beauty “deserving the word,” fluent in music, languages, and art, possessed of ineffable charm. A creature sculpted for admiration.
Aoife rubbed her thumb along the gilt edge. So that’s what he wants. That’s the version of me he’s already building in his head.
Cormac’s words returned, sharper this time. She’d dismissed them as anger and fear, and exaggeration. But Halverton had placed this book in her lap like a gift. Or a guide.
She leaned back in the chair; the page blurring. She could play along, let him think she was willing to become this ideal. It might buy her time. But how much of herself was she willing to let this place smooth away? How much could she pretend before the pretending became real?