Chapter Twenty-Three - The North Tower
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The North Tower
ROSAMUND SPENT THE next three days in the East Tower preparing.
And lying. She had maintained the ruse that she had taken ill.
Through the closed door to her bedroom she had informed Elira that she was concerned she had picked up something at the ball and did not want to pass it on to anyone.
After Mrs Hawthorn and Rowan had also come to ascertain her well being, they were satisfied that this was not a repeat of her arrival to Blackthorn Hall.
Especially when she allowed them to send in Gnash.
The little goblin had looked up at her with a worried expression.
“Lady looks terrible,” he said in his usual blunt manner, “Gnash take care of you.”
She had felt wretched over what she needed to do. Her stomach turned at the thought of lying to them, stealing from them, but not nearly as much as when she thought of her brother’s bodies hanging. She had to do this. She had to do this. But that did not make it any easier.
It had certainly not been easy when Dorian had arrived at the other side of the door.
She knew it was him before the knock on the door.
She had recognised his steps on the winding stone stairs.
That firm gait, the soft click and creak of his boots.
Even as he knocked the door, the sound muffled slightly by the leather of his gloves.
The clearing of his throat before he spoke.
She knew it was him. She felt that it was him.
“Lady Rosamund?”
He had not waited until the morning. She melted to think of the concern he had shown for her and knew that she did not deserve it. Not given what she intended.
But was it him? Was it you Dorian? Did you betray my father?
She could not ignore Lord Darnwell’s words.
She could not deny the possibility that this man had a hand in her father’s death.
That this man could be responsible for all the misfortune in her life.
And what of the good? The people of The Veil that he protected, the servants he obviously cared for, the way he had protected her aunts.
The quick death he had given her cousin…
As the conflict roiled inside her, she pulled herself from the bed, Gnash still sound asleep in a ball at the bottom, gently snoring.
“I’m here,” she said softly as she leaned against the door, “I’m just a little ill.”
“I heard,” said Dorian, concern evident in his tone, she could picture the small creases on his forehead, “is there anything you need?”
She smiled sadly, “Not right now, thank you.”
“Hmm,” in her mind she saw the pursed lips the small nod of his head.
He did not move. She leaned closer to the door, pressing her face against it to listen, almost jumping when his voice sounded so close to her, as if he too was pressed against the other side.
“It is unusual for guests to become ill at my brother’s balls,” he said cautiously, “there is many a person that travels to Larkhill to take in the healing music and restorative stories of his theatres. So it would be out of the ordinary for someone to become ill there.”
She winced. Of course. A healer. The effect the music had on her, calming her nerves. She had to say something. He was waiting for her to say something, but her mind was racing with too many possibilities. Too many lies, to pick only one.
“Further to that,” he said more quietly, “it also came to mind that someone with regenerating abilities themselves might not hold an illness for too long.”
It was true, whilst her siblings had battled cold after cold Rosamund had barely caught a sniffle.
In time, she was able to use those very same abilities to help them recover.
Why did she not think Dorian would realise this?
She had been panicked and reached for the first lie she could think of.
Of course he had seen through it. And yet, there was no anger, no real accusation, he was giving her the space for the truth.
She had no words. Still, he waited.
Just as another lie rose to her lips he said, “Rosamund, if this is…if this is about what almost happened on the veranda-.”
“No,” she said quickly, firmly, hearing the pain in his voice.
She could not let him think it was that. The near miss of their kiss. She could not for one second allow him to think that it was that.
But isn’t it? Isn’t that part of it? You almost kissed him, the man that may have caused the death of your beloved father.
She pushed the thought to the side and yanked the door open.
He almost stumbled inside but quickly righted himself.
He had not even stopped to change from the ball, still wearing the ivory court coat, though with a few more creases and smudges on it.
Had he even taken the carriage home? The mud on his boots said otherwise.
His eyes took her in, dressed in her long shapeless crimson night dress with the scooped neckline, before he averted his gaze, clearing his throat.
“Apologies, I-”
“It has nothing to do with that.”
“I don’t want you to think that just because we are betrothed that you have to-.”
“Dorian,” she said firmly, hating the hesitancy in his voice, the resignation, “listen to me. It is nothing to do with that. I’m just, a little overwhelmed.”
That was true. Keep it just true enough.
The best lies are based in truth, isn’t that what he said?
“Bastian, the Queen, meeting your family, the dancing and the music,” she rambled, “it was a lot to take in one go. Even before I came to Aurelmere I’ve been isolated from all this.
It was just a lot, and I need a bit of time to make sense of it.
But it’s not you. You were one of the things I enjoyed the most this evening,” his eyes snapped up to meet hers, “do you hear me?”
He hesitated, but nodded, quickly looking away from her, “I apologise for disturbing your rest. Take as long as you need. I’ll see to it you have anything you require, and…should you need anything, should you need…me, then just call.”
“I will,” she said softly, holding his gaze as he glanced back at her.
With one last nod he turned and descended the stairs.
Without him, the turmoil returned. She had not even noticed it’s absence, like he had quelled it somehow with his presence. It returned with full force, and she found herself lunging for the vase.
“Can Lady vomit a little more quietly please,” grumbled Gnash as he rolled over on the bed, “Gnash is trying to sleep.”
The days passed, and she remained in the tower; devising plans and lies that could help her.
Lord Darnwell had impressed on her that there was not much time, that they would need to act quickly to save her brothers.
The longer she spent in her rooms planning, the more danger her brothers were in.
There was still part of her that did not trust Lord Darnwell.
How could she trust what he said was true?
She believed that he was an old friend of her father’s, she believed in his intentions to help.
But was this the right way? Were her brothers really in danger?
And what if he is right and you do nothing?
It was not worth the risk.
But how? How was she to retrieve what Lord Darnwell needed.
The plans he mentioned were almost certainly in the North Tower, the one place she was not allowed to go.
Then again, she was also told not to leave the house, not to enter The Veil and she had done both.
She thought again to the dance that she had shared with Dorian, the way he had followed her with such ease.
She could not ask him directly, but perhaps…
perhaps there was another way. Perhaps there was a way she could get Lord Darnwell what he needed and quell some of this turmoil within her.
As the sun set on the third day she called Elira to help her.
When she gave the young woman her request, her eyes had flown open, but she had nodded and immediately dived into the wardrobe in search of the garment.
It had been an old outfit of her sisters, one that had clung to Rosamund much more tightly than it did her sister.
Elira had offered to make a quick alteration to it, but Rosamund had shaken her head.
It would be perfect. After donning the scarlet lace dress Elira arranged her hair.
“Down please,” Rosamund had requested, “Something simple.”
The young maidservant had complied, brushing out the tangles and arranging it so that her long dark curls cascaded down her lace covered back. She had also opened a variety of jewellery boxes, but Rosamund had waved them away.
“You l-look b-b-b…beautiful, Lady Rosamund,” said Elira as she took a step back to admire her.
Rosamund returned the smile gratefully, giving the girls hand a squeeze before sweeping down the stairs. As she reached the bottom of the staircase there was a whistle from the foyer.
“Don’t you scrub up well,” said Sir Wulf fixing the strap on his gauntlet.
She grinned at him. If it had been anyone else, they would have received a withering glare, but Sir Wulf’s comments had only helped to bolster her.
“Feeling better?”
“Much,” she said as she turned to look at the staircase towards the North Tower.
Sir Wulf held out his arm, “joining us for dinner?”
She turned her attention back to him and shook her head, “not tonight. Tonight…we will have dinner in the North Tower, alone.”
There was the clatter of a tray. Rowan looked up at her, jaw dropped. Sir Wulf folded his arms in front of him and raised an eyebrow, “no one is allowed in the North Tower without Dorian’s permission.”
“He gave it.”
“Did he now?” said Sir Wulf with a grin as Rowan knelt to pick up the contents on the tray.
“He said if I needed anything, if I needed him, then I only had to call,” she gestured to the staircase, “so I am going to call.”
Sir Wulf barked a laugh, as Mrs Hawthorn came out of the dining room, “what is going on-Oh!...Lady Rosamund, you look lovely! Feeling better dear?”