Chapter 4: A Tale of Hares and Foxes

  ?? ? ?︵?? ? ??︵? ? ??

  We don’t talk about him. The master of the residence. Technically, we don’t talk much at all. The entirety of our communication consists of me asking questions about practical matters at hand and Chiselle answering them with simplified gestures and a few hand signs that I’m slowly learning to interpret.

  I hardly ever see the master, either. He keeps to himself and - as far as my senses tell me - seems to be sleeping most of the day and some of the night. He does, however, take his supper in the library every evening around sunset, usually with Chiselle as company. I’ve sneaked a peek once from the top of the staircase when the redhead was carrying in the usual tray of mystery food that I’m not allowed to help prepare or cook, but I didn’t see much.

  Every day it's the same: We clean the house from morning to evening, then cook for two, eat in silence at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, scrub the kitchen and scullery down, and lastly I'm dismissed for the day. And when I’ve gone upstairs, she gets to work on the master's supper. For all I know, she could be the one making him sick; poisoning him, slowly sending him to his grave. Or they could be dabbling in alternative medicine, wanting to hide it from the church - and people who might tell on them. Not that I personally care much. I may be staying here for the time being, but I’m not getting involved. In fact, I intend to forget all of this once I return to my normal life.

  It will still be a while before I am ready to leave, though. In the five days I’ve been here, healing has been slow. The swelling of my ankle has subsided, but I can’t put my full weight on it yet. I’m still sitting down when doing most of my daily chores.

  This particular activity, however, will most likely require me to stand.

  With a finger on her lips, Chiselle reminds me to stay quiet, then opens the door to the sizable private library that I, on account of the master's order, haven't entered since my first night here. Unsure of why the redhead has decided to have me break said rule now, I follow her inside. At least the master is sleeping this time of day.

  The library is as I remember it: dark and chilly. Great walnut bookcases, finely carved with floral designs, line the walls from floor to ceiling, storing books and tomes in a variety of colors and sizes. A seating arrangement takes up the middle of the room, the two upholstered armchairs loosely flanking a small, low-legged table with a few books and trinkets on top. Above it hangs a small chandelier, currently unlit - as is the stone fireplace centered in the one stretch of bare wall the room has to offer.

  Without warning, Chiselle hands me her candelabra, the lights flickering vividly at the movement, and begins to unhook the rope holding the chandelier in place. Once it has been lowered enough and temporarily anchored, she plucks a candle from the candelabra and lights the ones in the chandelier.

  I point to the fireplace, but she simply shakes her head. I won’t bother asking about the window as well, because I already know the answer. One would think these people are scared of a little sunlight. And heat in general. There is only ever just enough light to see what you are doing, and enough logs in the fireplace to avoid frost on the inside of the window panes. I dare not imagine how cold the mansion gets in the winter. Lucky for me, I will never know.

  Moving as silently as I can with my crutch, I cross the room and light the sconce right by the closed door, eyes darting to the dark panel of wood several times. Dead silence meets me from behind it. A part of me expects the master to come barging out any minute, and I’m not sure what the consequences will be if he finds us - me - in here. At least he will see that his own housekeeper encouraged it.

  With all light sources in order and the room sufficiently lit, the redhead retrieves the prepared bucket of soapy water and a few cleaning rags. Blowing out the candles, I leave the candelabra on the table, careful not to drip wax on the few books there, and then wring out a cloth.

  Taking a deep breath, I look around the room once more in search of a place to begin, but instead feeling any shred of enthusiasm starting to waver - and we’ve only just passed noon, I believe. Books upon books - definitely several hundreds of them, perhaps even a thousand - have been crammed into the numerous shelves in what most people would consider to be an enormous and highly impressive collection for a private household, even a wealthy one like this one. And each and every one of those books needs to be moved, dusted, and then put back again in the right order once the shelf itself has been wiped thoroughly. I’d rather clean the stables and the outhouse back at home ten times in a row, but I happen to be here, not in Trefield.

  So I breathe deeply once more and go to war.

  Hours pass by as we work our way through the ranks in complete silence. Never before have I beheld so many shades of brown, dusting one leather-bound tome after the other, with only the occasional dyed canvas peppering the mass.

  I seem to have entered some sort of trance-like state, when suddenly Chiselle waves a hand in front of me. Blinking in confusion, I turn toward her. “Tea,” she signs. I offer her a faint smile and a nod, and she slips out into the entrance hall, seemingly as eager for a break as I am.

  Watching the door to the master’s private chamber closely for any sign of activity, I carefully take a seat in one of the elegant armchairs. When nothing happens, I let myself sink into the cushion and lean back. The heat from the flames all around us and our bodies has warmed the room somewhat, but it’s still too cool for my liking, so I begin to rub my hands, hoping to get rid of the stiffness that has settled in my finger joints. Hopefully, the tea will help soon enough.

  Both chairs are angled to partly face the great fireplace, and I naturally find myself beholding it with casual interest as I’m waiting for the redhead. Built into the wall, the stone and wood structure stands tall, almost as tall as me. The black metal grate is wrought into elegant shapes, perhaps made to fit the bookcases - or the other way around. But the thing that truly catches my attention is the curious display of glass jars on the dark wooden beam on top. I count a score of jars precisely, each of them containing a dozen colored glass marbles - except for the one to the far right, which seems to hold only nine. A most unique decoration, that’s for sure.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Before long, I catch the faint sounds of creaking floorboards and teacups rattling on their saucers, announcing Chiselle’s return. The small table in the middle offers barely enough space for a tray if cleared a bit, so I move the candelabra and brush the books and trinkets aside, careful not to tip over the inkwell in the process. The book on top - a thin volume wrapped in waxed, black leather - topples over the edge instead and splays open against the rug, its uneven, inky scribbles exposed almost violently. Some sort of diary or journal, it would appear. I hurry up and snatch it off the floor before Chiselle catches me being clumsy or accuses me of prying. I move to put it back, but find myself unexpectedly entranced as I spot the book that was beneath it. A solid tome, wrapped in canvas dyed the most brilliant shade of cerulean blue I've ever seen. Switching the books, I carefully run my fingers over the shallow grooves of the gold embossing. A title, large and in elegantly curved letters, adorns the front, and beneath it is the profile view of a young woman, her luscious curls melting into what appears to be raging waves at the bottom of the cover. Everything is gold, gleaming in the flickering lights above me as I turn the mystery book in my hand. A fairytale, perhaps, like the ones my grandmother used to tell me on the iciest winter nights as we huddled together on the bear pelt in front of the fireplace.

  The mental image dissipates the second a tray is placed before me, and I put the book down almost guiltily. Chiselle simply quirks a brow at me and sits down, then pours tea for both of us. We drink in silence.

  ?? ? ?︵?? ? ??︵? ? ??

  I’m beginning to understand how the master’s voice has gotten so hoarse. Life here is so God-damned still that even the sound of my own speech begins to seem loud and foreign to me. If this continues, I'm afraid I will lose the ability entirely before long, and who is then going to tell Bryard that he looks particularly scary today or Jorn that he has donned a mismatched pair of boots again?

  Everything about this place and its people is a stark contrast to what I am used to. I miss the bustling of life and laughter, the constant chattering whether at home or at work. At least the food itself is quite enjoyable, even when the company is a tad… lackluster.

  I’ll simply have to make the best of it while I am stuck here.

  I’m done scraping the potatoes and carrots by the time Chiselle comes back inside with a fully grown hare in her hand, seemingly unfazed by its squealing and writhing as it desperately tries to break free from her grasp. She meets my gaze and points to a small bucket on a shelf near me. Gliding off the stool, I grab it and hump over to the countertop along the far wall, where she begins her work.

  In one swift movement, she grabs the hare by its head and breaks its neck; the spine pops once, and then the creature goes limp. The sound takes me back to my flight through the forest and the fall that landed me here. Something must be showing on my face at the memory, because Chiselle looks at me for a second, a smirk pulling her lips askew ever so slightly. Then she starts tying the hare’s hinds legs together, the amusement lingering for a short moment only. I hand her the bucket without comment and watch as she loops the other end of the rope around a metal hook fastened to the ceiling. One well-placed slice of a knife leaves the animal to be drained.

  Before disappearing again out the door to the courtyard, Chiselle signs something to me - "chop", I've learned - and indicates the size. Not that she needed to - I'm fairly certain we are cooking the same dish we did a few nights ago, now with hare instead of pigeon. I guess there is a limit to variation when you don’t have immediate access to shops and vendors and only grow a few edibles yourself. At least Chiselle appears to be quite resourceful, bringing in small game almost daily from the traps and snares she sets up in the overgrown meadow and the forest surrounding the mansion grounds.

  Dutifully, I chop the root vegetables and add them to the lidded clay pot next to me, then dice the lump of cured, salted pork belly we got from the larder.

  Moments later, the redhead returns with a basket of rosemary, thyme, and garlic that she’s plucked from the herb planters hiding somewhere in the sea of nearly hip-high grass behind the house. She sets the basket on the countertop and brushes off her skirt still marked by her crossing of the stone wall around the courtyard.

  “Have you ever considered tearing down that fence?” I say, needing to clear my throat halfway to revive my dwindling voice. “Or make an opening, at least.”

  Wiping her hands in a wet cloth, Chiselle simply shrugs and gets back to work on the hare, now exsanguinated and ready to be carved up. Swinging the meat cleaver with impressive precision, she delimbs and beheads the animal in mere seconds, then moves on to skinning.

  I won’t let her have her way this time. Just because she can’t speak doesn’t mean we cannot have a conversation.

  “How come we never use the blood?” I ask again, watching her rip off the pelt in nearly one go. “Isn’t it a waste of good ingredients?”

  Although she appears determined to ignore my question, something about her posture shifts; her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly, her jaw tensing. Then she seems to notice her own reaction and simply shakes her head.

  “You don’t like it?”

  Another shake.

  “And the master?”

  Turning to me, hare now clean and ready in her hand, she meets my gaze firmly. Her face is pulled in a strange, dishonest smile, and I immediately regret pushing the topic. She gets a tad pissy rather easily, I’ve come to understand, and I’ve gotten the impression that she doesn’t particularly like me. She probably prefers to work alone, which I assume she’s done all the time the master has been ill - and perhaps even before that.

  She slams the hare on top of the vegetables in the pot with an air of finality, then shoves the basket of herbs close to me, points at the pot, and proceeds into the kitchen.

  Conversation over.

  Staring at the animal, its raw, dark-ish meat glinting softly in the dancing lights from the nearby sconces, I can’t help but shake my head to myself. That certainly went well. But I am not giving up yet.

  I know what she wants me to do, so I finish the preparations, pop on the lid, and bring the pot to where she is making sure the fire is running hot in the furn.

  “I’ll scrub the scullery down,” I inform her, expecting no reply. And I get none.

  The late afternoon weather is exactly as exhilarating as it has been every time I have ventured outside this past week; solid clouds of lead slumber lowly in the sky, pregnant with enough rain to turn land into sea at a moment’s notice. Moisture thickens the air and makes sure the mud never dries out entirely. At least the courtyard is paved nicely.

  My eyes are glued to the gravel path the entire time I’m working the water pump. As it turns out, being assaulted twice in a row leaves someone a bit on edge. Only when I’ve slipped back inside and locked the door do I relax again.

  Quickly, Chiselle emerges from the cellar and returns to the kitchen once more, hands empty and face blank.

  Minding my own business, I heave the bucket onto the table and add a few shavings of soap, then dunk a rag into the water. As I begin scrubbing the countertop and gathering the innards and scraps from the hare to toss outside to the foxes, I realize the bucket of blood is gone.

  For a moment, I debate asking her why she kept the blood anyway, but I have a distinct feeling that I won’t get an answer.