Chapter Eight - Gnash
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gnash
THE FIRST MORNING that Rosamund woke in Blackthorn Hall she thought someone was attempting to suffocate her.
The bed she had eventually collapsed in had swallowed her into the mattress, the down pillows and expansive sheets wrapping around her.
She had kicked and punched at it until she was free, only aware that she had been screaming when Elira and Rowan came bursting into the room holding a candlestick and duster respectively.
Once they had ascertained that she was not in fact beset upon by assassins they had quickly absented themselves from the room.
Though not before attempting to ask if ‘M’lady’ would be coming down for breakfast. Rosamund had responded by throwing a pillow, which Rowan expertly dodged before gently closing the door behind him.
She would not come to breakfast.
She would not, could not eat with him. The pain still sat in her chest. She wanted to feel it, she needed to. If she did not then she would collapse like Aunt Beatrice, and she could not do that. Not if she was to survive. Not if she was to somehow avenge her cousin, her brother and her father.
So, she had locked herself in her tower and refused to see anyone.
She was a prisoner after all; she understood that now.
Same as her brothers. She even had her own tower.
She would stay up here, far away from the rest of the world where she could endure her grief alone.
For the most part the servants of the house respected that.
Elira had stopped attempting to speak to her and instead left the trays of food at the door, removing the half-eaten remnants once Rosamund had closed the door. She heard nothing from Dorian.
She slept. She screamed. She ate what she could. And she slept again.
When she woke up on the fifth day she felt a great weight on her chest. That was not unusual; mornings were the hardest part, when she woke from her dreams to realise that her world had changed.
She often felt like she could not breathe and the sadness began to overwhelm her.
However, this weight felt different. For starters, it felt like something was digging into her chest. Not only that but she could smell the hot, egg breath on her face.
Rosamund opened her eyes…and screamed.
The creature screamed back.
It was a bubbling, guttural sound, which resulted in an increased stench of egg breath that caused Rosamund to scrunch up her face.
The creature scampered off further down the bed, sliding off the bottom of it as Rosamund backed away towards the headboard.
She reached for anything to protect herself and grabbed the closest thing to her.
A pillow. The creature had hidden itself at the bottom of the bed, past where she could see, but she could hear it grunting and sniffling.
“Who are you?” she demanded, brandishing the pillow, “What do you want?”
A pair of stubby green hands with yellow nails reached up and grasped the end of the bed.
Very slowly two large pointed green ears rose up, followed by a shaggy mop of brown hair and two large mud brown eyes.
The eyes were watering. It did not respond to her, but she watched as it blinked slowly, the left eye a little quicker than the right.
She lifted the pillow and it flinched before letting out an almighty whine.
“Gnash just doing his job!” it shrieked, throwing its head back as blob-like tears rolled down his cheeks, “Wake the lady they said! Bring her to breakfast they said! Gnash just helping!”
“Hey, hey it’s okay,” said Rosamund, crawling forward towards the end of the bed.
Gnash immediately dropped down and pointed an accusing finger at Rosamund, “Put weapon down!”
She looked at the pillow still held in her hand and gently lowered it to the bed before raising her hands up, “There. Better?”
He peered over the end of the bed, and satisfied Rosamund’s deadly pillow was no longer in bashing reach, hauled himself up onto the bed and rolled to his feet.
He smoothed down his blue and green brocade doublet and delicately sorted the embroidered frills of his cuffs.
He then reached up with his short stubby green hands to sort the large white ruff around his neck.
Standing at his full height, he looked like he would barely reach her hip, even with his long spindly legs that were clad in green and blue breeches and little brown leather boots.
Clearing his throat, he reached behind him to take out a blue velvet cap with a peacock feather that was almost as long as him.
He carefully placed it on his head, before taking out an embroidered hanky to wipe at his eyes and blow its tiny, upturned button nose.
“You’re…you’re a goblin,” she said in hushed, awed tones.
“Lady is very perceptive,” said the goblin drily, narrowing its eyes at her.
“But, but you never come above ground,” she said, recalling the lessons from her father, “the sun would destroy you.”
“Lies, goblins love the sun,” said Gnash huffily, “Lady threatens Gnash with deadly weapon and now spreads lies about goblins. Hmpf. Very nice, very nice, indeed.”
She couldn’t help herself; she smiled. More than that, she could feel a laugh beginning to bubble up as her shoulders began to shake.
The goblin looked up at her, eyes widening and mouth opening revealing small rows of tiny, pointed teeth, “Lady is laughing at Gnash?! Laughing at insult to goblins?!”
“No, never,” she tried and failed to suppress the laugh, “forgive me, Gnash, is it?”
In one sweeping gesture the goblin removed the cap on his head, the long feather brushing Rosamund’s face tickling her nose, and bowed low to her, nearly toppling over in the process, “Lady is correct. I am Gnash, Lady’s companion.”
“Companion?”
Gnash nodded enthusiastically, “Yes Lady. Big promotion. Gnash very proud.”
He lifted his chin up as he carefully placed his cap back onto of his head.
“Well, thank you,” she said, inclining her head to him, “but I don’t think I need-.”
Gnash’s eyes widened and she watched in horror as they became watery once more, “Lady…lady…doesn’t…want…doesn’t want Gnash?!”
Once more he threw back his head and let out a wail, the sound of it echoing around the room and piercing her ears, “No, no-, I didn’t mean that, what I meant was…was…”
Gnash’s wails faded to blubbering sobs and hiccups as he awaited Rosamund’s response.
“I don’t need,” Gnash took a sharp intake of breath before Rosamund continued, “anyone else.”
Gnash let out a long sigh and once again produced a handkerchief to dab at his eyes and blow his nose with a honk, “Gnash is very glad to hear it,” he gave her a patronising look and patted her hand, “Lady did not have to make such a scene about it.”
Rosamund shook her head in frustration but could not help the laugh that burst through. Tucking the handkerchief back into the sleeve of his coat he hopped down from the bed, “Lady will come to breakfast now.”
Her shoulders tensed, and she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, “Lady-I mean, I, really don’t feel like breakfast today.”
Gnash spun round and looked up at her. She watched as he took a deep breath in preparation of another howl.
She dove forward, clasping a hand around his mouth.
He frowned at her, looking irritated that she had interrupted his hysterics, “Okay fine,” she said quickly, “I’ll come to breakfast. Just, just don’t cry okay-Argh!
” she withdrew her hand quickly, “...did you just lick my hand?!”
“Gnash did,” said the goblin, looking pleased with himself, “Gnash glad Lady is coming to breakfast, but Lady did not taste good,” the goblin leaned in and sniffed loudly a couple of times, “Lady will take bath, then Lady come to breakfast.”
Rosamund self-consciously raised one of her arms and winced.
She had yet to change out of the betrothal dress, only loosening the stays so that it was less constricting, but otherwise she had been stuck in it.
She had been holding on to the ridiculous hope that if she stayed in the dress, perhaps there was a way to go back and change that night.
Sadness threatened to overwhelm her again until she felt a small hand on her arm and turned to look into the big, brown-eyed stare of Gnash.
“Don’t be sad Lady. Gnash hate bath too, but dunk, dunk, clean, clean and come out shiny,” said the goblin with associated actions of dunking and cleaning.
She laughed, and nodded, “Very well.”
“Yippee,” said the goblin, jumping into the air and clicking his heels to the side, “Lady pick something to wear,” he gestured to the ornate oak wardrobe that rested against the wall, “Gnash open a window. Let Lady stink out.”
Rosamund rolled her eyes as the goblin skipped to the curtains and flung them open, revealing a large arched window that led out to a crescent moon balcony.
She squinted as the daylight poured into the room.
When her eyes adjusted, she saw that the walls had been painted a rich claret with intricate swirling vines in gold creeping up to a domed glass ceiling.
Metal shutters surrounded it that would plunge the room into darkness if she wished.
The curtains on both her wide arched window and around the four-poster bed were cobalt velvet with more golden vines embroidered into them.
The floorboards were dark mahogany with large sheepskin rugs on either side of the bed to keep the chill off her feet.
She was struck by how the decor reminded her so much of her own room back at Hartwood House.
Blue and Red were her house colours after all.
Had it always looked this way? Or had this been some attempt to win over her sister, the woman that should have been occupying this room.
Would Todric still be here if Evelyne had not run away? If she had not helped her sister?
“Elira!” shrieked the goblin, opening the door and calling down the stairs, “run the bath! Hot, hot, hot!”