Chapter Nine - The House of Death
CHAPTER NINE
The House of Death
HIS DARK HAIR was more tousled than usual; his high collared coat absent.
Instead, he wore a black undershirt which was untied at the neck revealing sharp white collarbones.
He held a rolled-up scroll in one hand as he approached the head of the table.
Whilst she had immediately tensed, the others in the room had carried on about their business without a curtsy or bow in sight.
Unimpressed and unbothered about the arrival of the prince.
“There’s been another report of a breach at the Shadow Gate,” said Dorian waving the scroll as he sat down in the dark ornate dining chair.
Corvin held a hand out for the scroll as Rowan placed a filled plate in front of the prince. As the old man read it over, Mrs Hawthorn bustled over with a cup of a steaming black liquid which Dorian took with, to her surprise, a soft ‘thank you’.
“I shall requisition the additional support from the crypts,” rasped Corvin as he tucked the scroll within his voluminous black robes.
“A breach?” asked Rosamund, unable to help her curiosity.
With a splutter into the mug Mrs Hawthorn had handed him, his eyes snapped up to meet hers, “Lady Rosamund.”
Now they all stopped, turning to look between them. The only sound that filled the room was Gnash’s furious sucking on the slice of orange.
“Good morning, Prince Dorian,” she said politely, “you mentioned a breach?”
“It’s none of your concern,” he said firmly, dropping his attention to the plate in front of him.
She grasped the knife a little tighter, “This is to be my home, is it not? What concerns you concerns me.”
He looked up and regarded her suspiciously as he took a bite of the bacon on his plate, washing it down with the black liquid that Mrs Hawthorn had given him.
She thought he was going to continue to ignore her when he stabbed another piece of bacon, “Only fools that think they can get past the black gate. No doubt agents of my brother. It will be dealt with.”
“Your brother?” she questioned, the grip on her knife tightening, “Prince Bastian?”
He considered this, “Perhaps. It could be any of them.”
“Why?” she said as Rowan and Mrs Hawthorn shared an unreadable look between them.
Dorian huffed a laugh, “Why do you think?”
“I don’t know,” she was growing frustrated and could feel her temper rising, “that’s why I’m asking.”
“You ask a lot of questions,” he growled, narrowing his eyes at her.
“And you’ve yet to answer them,” she leaned forward over the table towards him, “maybe I’m trying to get to know you.”
“Then don’t!”
Rowan flinched. Mrs Hawthorn rolled her eyes before returning to start loading her trolley up with the empty platters.
Rosamund sat back in her chair and dropped her gaze back to the plate in front of her.
They ate in silence, even Gnash had ceased his orange sucking, flicking his gaze between them both.
Eventually the prince broke it, clearing his throat, “If you want to know more then perhaps Rowan can give you a tour of the house.”
“I would be happy to my lady,” said Rowan, puffing his chest out.
“As I understand it, you haven’t seen much of it yet,” said Dorian, holding her gaze as he ripped the bread on his plate to dunk into the egg.
Rosamund ignored his jibe and turned to Rowan with a smile, “That would be great. I would love to see the grounds.”
“Absolutely not,” said Dorian firmly.
“What?!”
“Not without an escort,” he said.
“What is he,” she gestured to Rowan who shifted uncomfortably on his feet, “and him,” she gestured to Gnash who had frozen as he reached for another sausage from her plate.
“A proper escort. You can wait for Sir Wulf,” he said as he viciously dunked the bread into the egg.
“And when will he be back from imprisoning my aunts?” she snapped.
“What are you doing here?” he sighed as he threw down his knife on the table in exasperation.
“Having breakfast,” she said with forced sereneness as her body vibrated with anger.
“Finally decided to stop starving yourself then,” he sneered.
Her rage bubbled over as she slammed down the hilt of the knife on the table, “No I finally decided that I could stomach being around you without bringing any of it back up.”
He let out a sharp bark of a laugh, “Then I shall leave you to your breakfast in peace.”
“Perfect,” she said through gritted teeth.
With that he pushed back his chair, the wood scrapping along the black and white tiled floor and swept out of the room.
Rosamund flopped back into her chair and put her hands over her face.
She refused to cry, she would not cry. Not here.
She took a couple of deep breaths before slowly lowering her hands.
All of them were looking at her. Her face flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m…so sorry about that,” she said quietly.
Mrs Hawthorn tutted, and moved forward to fill her teacup, “Don’t you worry love, Dorian’s always been a little…” she searched for the right word.
“Rude,” suggested Rowan.
“Stubborn,” rasped Corvin.
“Mean,” squeaked Gnash.
“Challenging,” said Mrs Hawthorn with a glare to the rest of them, her face softening as she looked back at Rosamund, “he takes some getting used to, but I promise dear, it’s worth the effort.”
Rosamund only smiled back at her. She would never be used to this man.
Nor would she be putting in any effort. He was everything everyone said he was, and worse.
Though, something nagged at her, an irritating little memory of how respectfully he had lifted her cousins body.
How he had spoken to her aunts. How he had thanked Mrs Hawthorn. She pushed it to the side.
Even a monster can have their moments I suppose, she thought bitterly.
“Now, why don’t you finish this up,” she gestured to Rosamund’s plate, “and then Rowan can give you that tour.”
It did not take her long to finish, her appetite returning with full force now the prince had left the room. She did not know whether she reached for a second helping out of actual hunger, or spite at his words.
Both.
Following breakfast Rowan gave her the tour of Blackthorn Hall.
He led her down the winding black and white hallways, Gnash trailing behind them, still munching on an orange.
She was immediately glad that she had a guide as they traversed the labyrinthine house, certain that she would have become lost otherwise.
Rowan led her through room after room, most of them decorated in the same stark black and white as the rest of the house.
The longer the tour went on the more she came to realise that her room was the only one in Blackthorn Hall with any colour to it.
Even in the gallery, the landscapes that hung there had been done in charcoal.
There was only one portrait that hung tucked away into an alcove behind a black velvet curtain.
“Prince Dorian’s mother,” said Rowan reverentially.
She would have known that even if the valet had not told her.
There were clear similarities between the two.
Though there was a softness to her expression that she had not seen in the prince.
Her eyes, whilst the same shape, had a kindness to them, her cheekbones less pronounced, her posture open and inviting.
The portrait looked out of place amongst the blasted monochrome landscapes that surrounded her.
Hidden away where no one can see. Is he ashamed of her?
Rowan continued, leading her to the expansive, empty ballroom.
Square black and white tiles rolled across the wide floor towards a large dais where she supposed the orchestra would play.
Lining the walls on either side were large glass windows that opened out onto a veranda and the gardens below.
She only half listened to Rowan as he explained the intricate designs carved into the wooden panels and instead looked longingly out at the grounds.
As she stood by the window, she felt Gnash come to stand beside her.
She looked down at him only to see him staring back up at her with a wide grin.
He brought one of his stubby short fingers to his mouth in a ‘shushing’ gesture and then pointed to the window.
Realising what he meant, she broke out into a grin of her own and nodded, mouthing, ‘Thank you’.
He beamed back at her before skipping over to Rowan, “Gnash hungry! Want a snack!”
“Well we will be at the kitchens soon,” said Rowan as the goblin danced around him, “can you wait until then?”
Rosamund gently lifted the latch on the large window and, opening it just enough, slipped through the gap. As she carefully closed it behind her, she heard Gnash break out into one of his wails, “Gnash hungry noooooooow.”
Chuckling to herself and feeling a rush of exhilaration, she hurried down the steps towards the overgrown grounds that surrounded Blackthorn Hall.
When she had arrived, she had barely been able to see them in the green light that had bathed the house.
In the daylight, overcast as it was, she could see that the gardens had not seen a groundskeeper in a long time.
The grass, tall and sprawling, had to be waded through, and was a mix of green and brown as the strands further down struggled to get the light they needed.
The various flowerbeds had been left to run wild, and overflowed with weeds and dying petals.
Many were filled with the mulch of predecessors, gathering around the bases of dry brittle shrubberies and bushes.
The trees that lined the ground had lost any of their greenery, their trunks and branches as bone white as the house they surrounded.
Dried up, shrivelled vines wound their away along the sheer stone walls that surrounded the entire estate.
She looked up at the obsidian spikes at the top, knowing that if she were to use the vines to scale the walls, she would surely impale herself climbing over.
That rules out that escape route, she thought despondently.