Chapter Twenty-Three - The North Tower #2
“I am, thank you,” she said with a warm smile to the housekeeper, “would you be so kind as to have dinner sent to the North Tower please? Dorian and I will dine there tonight.”
Without waiting for a response she strode towards the staircase.
“The North Tower?” she heard Mrs Hawthorn say in disbelief, “should we stop her?”
“She has permission,” said Sir Wulf, and she could picture the delighted grin on his face, “whether Dorian knows it or not.”
She climbed the staircase, the red lace of her train gliding along the stone behind her, the ruby beading weighing it down.
The stairs were of the same chequered pattern as the rest of the manor; however the higher she went the darker the white granite appeared.
When she reached the first door, Rosamund raised a hand to knock, smiled, and instead reached for the handle and let herself in.
She entered a round sitting room and library.
Dark black velvet armchairs were placed in front of a roaring fire.
The walls were lined with shelves of books which continued for many levels, the ladders stretching up to the higher levels to walkways between the shelves.
There was a circular dining table in the centre, no doubt where Dorian had been taking his meals when they did not eat together, with two dark wooded chairs with emerald cushions.
At the far end of the room was a large walnut desk behind which sat a surprised, and flustered Dorian.
He rose to his feet immediately, reaching for the discarded leather gloves on the table, shoving them on his hands, “what are you doing here?”
She moved away from the doorway towards him, pushing down her nerves, “you said if I needed you then I should call.”
He frowned, though she watched the way his eyes travelled over her.
It wasn’t her usual style. Evelyne had always favoured more form fitting dresses, and on Rosamund it was even tighter.
The bodice, the high collar, the long sleeves, every inch of her was covered, right down to the gloves.
Though, the way the opaque flesh toned fabric and scarlet lace clung left little to the imagination.
She smiled to see him so derailed at her appearance; it was another much-needed boost to her confidence. She would need it.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Wasn’t it?” said Rosamund as she moved towards one of the chairs around the dining table, “my mistake. Well, I do need you. Let’s have dinner.”
He watched as she pulled out one of the chairs and she laughed to see some inner automatic response within him kick in. He stalked forwards and took the chair from her, pulling it out and waiting for her to sit.
“Wait, you’re not supposed to be in here,” he said looming over her, and pushing the chair back in.
“Well I’m here now,” she said, raising her chin to look up at him, forcing herself to keep the same serene smile on her face, despite her pulse rushing.
She went to pull the chair out, but he held firm to it.
“You can’t be here,” he said, but this time she heard the pleading tone in his voice.
Slowly, she placed her hand on his where it rested on the chair, holding his gaze, “I can. And I am. You said if I needed you then I only had to call. Well, I think you need me too. And I’m here. Let me be here.”
She could see the conflict in his eyes, the urge to raise his walls, pull on the mask of the Prince of Death and chase her away.
This was his sanctuary, the place where he could retreat with his misery.
Where he could take the gloves off without fear of hurting anyone.
And she was invading it. She was pulling down those walls he had built for himself brick by brick.
She would not back down now.
Let me in.
Holding her gaze, he gripped the chair tighter and pulled it out for her.
Her shoulders relaxed and she took her seat, allowing him to push the chair in behind her.
He took a few steps away, watching her warily, like she might lash out or worse, laugh.
Was that what he feared? That if she were to see him, all of him, that under all those layers there would still be a monster.
Some unlovable creature to be abandoned and feared. Was that what he thought?
He’s not the monster.
She gestured to the chair beside her, “Sit, please. I’ve already let Mrs Hawthorn know that we will be dining here.”
He still looked unsure, but at her direction sunk down into the chair.
“What were you working on?” she asked in an attempt to distract him, gesturing to the desk.
He glanced back at it with a longing look, as if he wished for nothing more than to dive back behind it, “The Iron deposits are giving me concern. Bastian has made a rather large request and I’m trying to decide whether to agree to it.”
“Can I see?” she enquired, holding her hand out.
He jumped at the chance to escape the table and retrieve the request from his brother. He handed it over as he placed his hand on the chair and leaned against it, waiting for her response.
“Why would he need so much?”
“My thoughts too,” said Dorian and she saw his shoulders begin to relax.
“Then deny it,” she placed the paper to the side.
Dorian pulled a face, “he’s offering trade in return. There are goods there that would be useful for our craftsman. I know my brother does not always act it, but there is a shrewd brain in there.”
“It must be buried very deep then,” said Rosamund bitterly, which earned her a smile.
“You look…different,” he said quietly.
“I feel different.”
“In a good way,” he said quickly, “like you’re…stronger. It suits you.”
“Thank you,” she said her cheeks turning the same colour as her dress.
The doors opened and Mrs Hawthorn and Rowan appeared with trays of food.
Dorian sat down, this time more relaxed, as the two servants bustled around the table unloading the food.
Rosamund caught Sir Wulf peering around the door at them, his bearded face grinning from ear to ear whilst Gnash hovered around his feet.
When he winked at her she made a ‘shoo’ motion with her hands under the table, down where Dorian could not see.
She was still concerned he might suddenly panic and default to his previous inclination to chase her away.
When Rowan and Mrs Hawthorn departed the silence filled the room again, though the awkwardness from before was absent.
This was not the first time they had enjoyed each other’s company in silence.
She thought back to the many nights in the conservatory.
He had worked on his correspondence and she had read, the two of them occasionally exchanging thoughts on their respective readings.
But this felt different. The silence felt raw.
Not awkward, not comfortable, but expectant.
As if it was waiting to be shaped, waiting to be something new.
Waiting for them to be something new.
The silence was broken when they both reached for the decanter at the same time, her gloved fingers gently brushing his. He did not recoil, did not draw his hand back. Bit by bit he was becoming a little more comfortable with her touch.
“Allow me,” he said and lifted the decanter, refilling her glass with the claret.
“This is from my family vineyard,” she said softly as she took a sip.
He choked on the potato he had just taken a bite of, “it is? I’m sorry, I had no idea-.”
“You weren’t to know. Though, I can’t think who owns it now. But I remember the taste. Father was very proud of it.”
“He made his own wine?”
“One of his many hobbies,” she laughed, “of which there were many. Some that were just passing fancies, others like this,” she raised her glass.
As she took another sip he said, “my mother…liked to grow crystals.”
Rosamund looked up at him and saw the fond smile on his face.
He rose from the table, and for a moment she thought that might be all she got out of him.
However, after exploring the various stacks around the room he returned with a large wooden box.
He placed it reverentially on the table and opened it, revealing a glittering crystal treasure trove within.
“We would make them together,” he explained as he took out a few to put in Rosamund’s hand, “it’s how we discovered my power, to imbue them with a power of their own. Soon I could create them on command, but I still worked with her on these.”
She admired the glittering violet stone in her hand, “she sounds like an interesting woman.”
“She was.”
“Tell me about her.”
And he did. They each spent the rest of the dinner trading stories of their families.
She told him about the puppet shows she and her brother Roland would put on for the rest of the family.
He told her of the time he and Aurelian had borrowed one of Bastian’s horses only for the creature to send both tumbling into the Aurelcart.
She told him of how the housekeeper once caught Todric covering the flowerbeds with bed sheets in winter, because he had been concerned the roses would get cold.
He told her of the time he and Wulf had lost their way in the tunnels beneath the city, only to be found by the day workers the next morning by their drunken singing.
They moved from the dining table to stacks, browsing the books, occasionally pulling them from the shelf if he thought it was of interest to her. All the while still discussing the past. The good and the painful.