Chapter Nine - The House of Death #2
She had hoped for some life in the gardens, something to contrast the barrenness of Blackthorn Hall, but even here it seemed like all colour had been drained, any greenery consumed by its dying brethren.
There was no life here. A melancholy started to overcome her as she reached down to examine one of the flowerbeds, running her hands through the exposed soil.
She drew her fingers back quickly, lifting some for a closer look.
The dirt was rich and healthy. Digging her hand in deeper, she could see that the soil was perfect for growth.
These plants should be thriving.
Her gaze was drawn up to the North tower.
Out of the three towers that rose up from Blackthorn Hall, it was the tallest, spiralling towards the sky.
As she looked back to the dried up rose bush in front of her, she wondered if it was the Prince of Death’s proximity that caused the rot.
She had felt his magic that day at the betrothal ceremony, had felt her life force being drained away as decay coursed up her arm.
If she had not used her own power to protect herself, would she have ended up just like this rose bush?
With a sudden jolt she suddenly realised she was being watched.
Though far away, she could see a black clad figure looking down at her from the balcony of the North Tower.
Everything in her told her to run. She was not supposed to be here.
He had forbidden it. And yet, something within her held her back.
A river of stubbornness that coursed through her as she stared right back at him.
I won’t run. I will go where I please, she thought to herself, not truly feeling as defiant as she was telling herself.
She kept her pace steady and feigned interest elsewhere in the grounds.
What she had thought was an extremely dead skeleton of a bush, was in fact a large structure, protruding from the side of Blackthorn Hall.
Feeling his gaze on the back of her neck and ignoring the tingling sensation, she approached the strange looking building.
Dead vines covered it. A tree had attempted to sprout within the centre of it, rising through the broken roof, before it had succumbed to the same decay as the rest of the garden.
With effort, she made her way towards it, pulling at the vines to reach the door that hung loosely on its side.
She had reached for the handle when she heard a loud sucking noise.
Startled, Rosamund spun round, grasping the vines and coursing life through them to use as a weapon.
It felt good to practice, to flex that muscle.
The last few days she had been stagnating and it was a relief to be able to stretch her power, even if just a little, the same way she stretched her legs.
Gnash stood with wide eyes, another orange slice in his mouth, and pointed at the vines in surprise.
“Mhhmmrrrmmph,” he said through the orange slice before frowning and taking it out, “Lady turned it green!”
“No,” she lied, dropping the now very lush looking ivy, “no I didn’t.”
Gnash frowned at her, “Lady not lie to Gnash. Gnash saw. Lady turned it green!”
“It was already like that when I got here,” she tried instead, Gnash eyed her suspiciously and was about to speak again when Rosamund rushed forward and, grabbing the orange slice, put it back into his mouth, “Ok, maybe lady-I mean I did, but you can’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Mmmph,” said Gnash with a nod, and then took out the slice, “okay lady. Gnash won’t tell,” he grinned and held out his hand, “and maybe lady make more oranges.”
She smiled at him, relief washing over her despite the goblin’s ‘extortion, she nodded, “All the oranges you could ever want.”
“Yippee,” Gnash clicked his heels in delight, before spitting on his hand and holding it out to her, “it’s a deal.”
She chuckled, spat on her own hand and shook his, “Deal.”
Gnash regarded her with a disgusted expression, and quickly removed his hand and wiped, “Ew Lady, that’s gross.”
She rolled her eyes as Gnash raced ahead into the old derelict glass house. She began to clear away some of the debris so that she could get a better look at the place and found shelves, broken plant pots, what looked like might have been a pond, and even some old furniture.
“What is this place?” she asked quietly as she looked up at the broken ceiling.
“Greenhouse ma’am,” said a rough voice behind her, “or, conservatory I suppose. But the mistress used it as a greenhouse most of the time.”
She turned around to find the stablemaster standing in the broken doorway, a wheelbarrow in his hands, filled with gardening tools.
He had left off his thick leather coat and had rolled his white undershirt up to his sleeves revealing long thin scars along his dark brown arms. Without his wide brimmed hat, she saw his salt and pepper hair.
His dark brown face was as weathered as the rest of him.
Whilst his expression was serious, he did not look like he was about to drag her back to the main body of the house.
“The mistress?” she asked, her interest piqued.
“Lady Evelaine, the master’s mother,” said Tomas, with the same reverence Rowan had at her portrait earlier.
“This was hers?” she turned her attention away from Tomas, trying to imagine what this place once looked like, “I imagine it was beautiful.”
“It was,” he said softly, and then cleared his throat, she turned back to him, “he said you might want these,” he gestured to the tools in the wheelbarrow.
“He?” her attention snapping back to Tomas.
He smiled and shrugged, “Where do you want me to leave them?”
“Just there is fine,” she said, still confused, but gesturing to the space she had cleared already.
He nodded and moved the wheelbarrow to where she had directed. Once done he turned to her, “If you need anything else, just let me know ma’am. And if you need anything procured, you’ve just to see Corvin.”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, running her hands over the shelves, “I’ll need soil,” she looked around the room, “eventually.”
Tomas smiled, “Well, when you do, I can give you a hand.”
With a nod of thanks, she watched as he did not return to the stables but instead sat a little further off and took out a small book from his back pocket.
An escort after all, she thought bitterly.
However, her irritation did not last long as someone pulled at her skirts and held a pair of large shears, “Tidy up Lady!”
“Tidy up,” she echoed, taking the shears from the goblin.
As she began to slice at the dead vines, she could not help but feel determined.
So what if she had a spy watching her? It did not matter; she had found her place.
Something that would be her own. She may not be able to use her power, not with Tomas so close, but she had learned how to grow things long before that.
And by Liathern, there would be one small part of this house that would be filled with colour.