Chapter 5: Nightwalker

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  A strange, loud sound makes me jolt awake.

  It’s happening. They’re here. They’ve come back for me. The thought flashes through my brain over and over.

  Swiftly, I sit up in bed and fumble in the dark for my staff, but I can hardly tell up from down right now and end up knocking over something on the bedside table. The lamp, I realize as I search for it next. To Hell with it; with these trembling hands I won’t be able to light it anyway.

  Instead I crawl out of bed and make my way to the far wall on all fours, yanking one curtain aside to let in any sort of light inside. The moon is barely visible from this side of the house, but it’s enough to illuminate the room sufficiently.

  The doors are still closed. There are no intruders. Not in here, at least.

  Using the windowsill for support, I heave myself onto my feet and dare a glance outside. No signs of the slave traders there, either. And seemingly no commotion downstairs. Just… silence.

  Must have been my imagination. A mere nightmare.

  Wiping sweat from my forehead, I breathe deeply in relief and return to the bed. Judging by its state of disarray, I must have been thrashing around in my sleep. And the sheets are damp to the touch - the back of my nightgown as well. In fact, my skin appears cold and clammy all over, and my entire body feels uncomfortably heavy. I hadn’t noticed until now.

  I must have caught something. Perfect. It better not be a belated case of lockjaw. Or whatever it is the master of the mansion is dealing with.

  Once I’ve calmed down some, I grab the fire steel from the drawer and get a light going in the oil lamp. I soon find my crutch leaning against the wall beside the bed where I always leave it at bedtime - as a safety precaution. I snatch it before making my way downstairs as silently as I can so as not to rouse anyone.

  Halfway down the stairs I catch the faint sound of laughter from behind the door to the library. Right. For a moment, I forgot the oddly nocturnal master would be up this late - but it makes sense that someone who sleeps during the day would be awake at night. I’m not sure why Chiselle isn’t in her bed yet, however, awake by sunrise as she usually is. But at this rate the questions are piling up and the answers are frustratingly few, so I won’t even bother asking. They’re probably just screwing; there’s not much else to do out here for two people.

  The kitchen is still warm and dimly lit by the embers in the furn when I enter. Continuing on to the scullery, I find a wicker basket with extra firewood and cram a few pieces under my arm.

  As I pass the door to the larder on my way back, I hesitate for a moment. I’m still curious about the bucket of blood. A few seconds of investigating could possibly provide me with the answer I’d never get if I asked directly. Normally, I don’t think of myself as someone who meddles in other people’s business, but Chiselle was being weirdly secretive earlier - and clearly lying.

  At one point I suspected them of practicing alternative medicine, but the collecting of animal blood leads me to believe there might be some more ritualistic - perhaps even satanic - aspects to their nightly activities.

  A quick peek inside the larder will reveal if she actually kept it for food purposes despite her denying, or if it’s now gone, used for some strange purpose.

  There’s only one way to find out…

  Eyeing the door handle one last time, I shake my head and return to the kitchen instead.

  This does not concern me. I am not getting involved. The less I know about these people, the better. I can’t risk ‘disappearing’ because I stuck my nose too far.

  I add the wood to the furn and watch as fine tendrils of smoke emerge from where the embers slowly begin to eat away at the bark.

  How on Earth she manages to sneak up on me, I have no clue, but Chiselle is suddenly there. Arms crossed; waiting impatiently, like I did something I’m not supposed to. Thanks to some rare case of sense of self-preservation, I didn't. But at this point I think it's fair to assume they don't particularly like it when strangers roam around their house at night. Even so, at this point they also should know that my intentions are innocent.

  Once the fire is burning anew, I look around for a kettle. The redhead clears her throat.

  “Tea,” I say. “I’m feeling a bit unwell.”

  Growing up in a tavern, especially as a girl, has made me fairly used to unwelcome touches every now and then - and yet, the cool hand Chiselle unexpectedly presses to my forehead leaves me momentarily dumbfounded. Wrinkling her nose, she wipes her hand in her skirt.

  "I told you."

  Ignoring me, she procures a small kettle from one of the cabinets and fills it with water from a pitcher.

  "I can make my own tea, you know."

  Still, she ignores me. The kettle is placed on the stove, and a cup is plucked from another cabinet. Then she turns, back resting against the counter, and stares at me. And stares.

  "Alright, I can take a hint. I'll be in my room." I pick up my oil lamp and make my way to the doorway. "Oh, and not too sweet, please," I add.

  The redhead has one state of mind only, I conclude a bit later when finally sipping my sickeningly sweet, honey-drenched ginger-and-various-leaves tea: Spite. Just pure spite.

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  Before sunrise, my monthly bleeding arrives, and the tantrum my body has been throwing suddenly makes sense. The slugginess, the nausea, the general state of discomfort… I should have known. Evidently, the recent chaos has caused me to lose track of my cycle. And I am not particularly prepared.

  Staring at the bloodstained linens, I sigh tiredly, rub my eyes, and get to work.

  First, I change into a clean pair of braies from the dresser where Chiselle left me a bunch of spare clothes on my second day here. The dirty ones, as well as the linens, are brought with me to the bathing chamber and dumped into a bucket. I know I'll be washing it myself either way.

  Rummaging through the cabinets in the bathing chamber, I find an old cloth rag and give myself permission to tear it into strips. One of the strips I fold a few times and stuff into my braies. The fabric appears soft and thick and should absorb quite fine.

  As there is no point in going back to bed this close to daybreak, I instead get dressed and sneak downstairs to brew myself another cup of ginger tea before a certain someone wakes up and starts ordering me around.

  A few logs are enough to stoke the fire in the furn once more. I place the kettle on the stove and begin rummaging around for the teas and dried herbs. Perhaps they have some dried fennel as well, if I’m lucky.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Good morning,” sounds a deep, low voice.

  A gasp escapes me and I bump my head against the middle shelf in the kitchen cabinet I'm currently shoulder-deep inside. Dropping the unknown tin canisters I just found in the back, I pull out and look toward the door.

  “My apologies for frightening you,” the master says rather unconvincingly, his face blank and unmoving like a slab of marble. In his hands is a tray of used service.

  Flustering, I get to my feet and straighten my skirt.

  He looks me over coolly. “You are awake awfully early today.”

  “And you're up awfully late, my lord,” my traitor mouth says in the fraction of a second my brain forgets that I’m once again snooping around his house and ought to be far more apologetic about it.

  He breathes slowly, a deep inhalation that causes his nostrils to flare, and his expression flickers with something; it’s gone before I can identify it.

  “Tell me, girl,” he says, his long, silvery hair flowing lightly as he strides closer to me, “is it a compulsion of yours to sneak around other people’s homes at ungodly hours, or do you simply enjoy it?”

  His words catch me off guard. Surely, nothing about my tea making appears nefarious, even at this time of day, but I can't deny a pattern is starting to show.

  “I merely wanted a cup of tea,” I croak. “For my… cramps.”

  I feel my cheeks redden, perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps from the pressure of having to explain myself. Or perhaps his proximity. That aura…

  “I see,” he says, dark eyes glinting against the flames in the furn as he takes another step closer. I find myself taking one backward in response, and instantly my back meets the cabinet.

  He takes another, then stops.

  Without warning, a silhouette appears in the doorway.

  “Goodmorning, Chiselle,” the master says without turning around. “Kindly show our guest where we store the tea.”

  Even from this distance, I notice how the redhead stares daggers at her master’s back as he withdraws himself from my personal space and continues on to the scullery to discard the tray. Upon his immediate return, I watch in silence as Chiselle signs a longer sequence, her movements curt and quick, her face abnormally animated. I know next to nothing about sign language, but it’s clear even to me that she is upset.

  Without replying, the master simply walks past her and exits the kitchen area altogether, leaving Chiselle to seethe within.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can think of saying, although I still don’t get why they are acting this tense right now. Surely, me getting a cup of tea can’t be this problematic?

  Chiselle ignores my words and makes her way to the lone, wall-mounted cabinet close to the dining table. Its colorful mosaic facade portrays a bouquet of wildflowers, and behind it reside two rows of small glass jars with cork stoppers. She turns to me, seemingly awaiting further instructions.

  “Thank you,” I say almost guiltily. “I can take it from here. Really. You needn’t bother with something as trivial as this.”

  But, stubborn as a mule, Chiselle remains by the tea cabinet.

  “Fine,” I sigh. “Ginger and fennel, if you have it.”

  She nods and taps herself on her cheek a few times with a fist.

  “I don't know that one.”

  Gesturing to her lower abdomen, she points at me and then repeats her fist-to-cheek sign.

  “Ah, yes. It just arrived,” I reply. “It usually lasts three days at most, but the cramps are quite unpleasant. Certain teas take the edge off.”

  The redhead plucks a couple of jars from the cabinet and ushers me toward the door.

  “You want me to return to my room? Now? It's almost sunrise.”

  She nods and adds “three days” with a sign I recognize from earlier conversation.

  “If you say so.”

  This time, Chiselle brings me a tray with an entire pot of tea. The amount of honey in it could probably sedate a full-grown man.

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  As Chiselle promised, I get a few days of freedom - if being confined to your room counts as freedom, that is.

  At least my ankle is spared from any form of strain or exertion while I’m sitting propped up in bed. While it has undoubtedly healed over the past week, it doesn't take a physician to figure out that it would likely heal even faster if I wasn’t standing and walking around for hours on end every day.

  But that's the price of board and lodging. I cannot complain. Even less when meals and drinks are currently brought directly to my room, and my chamberpot is being emptied regularly. For once I’m not the one doing it for others.

  I’m not sure why Chiselle doesn’t want me working with her these days, however. Back at home, Mama would never consider period pains a valid excuse. But, whatever the reason, I certainly don’t mind a break from the tedious tasks.

  The only downside to this solitude is the deafening quietude surrounding me - and the sleep-inducing boredom that follows. When I'm not dozing off, my mind is wandering in all directions.

  It keeps returning to the mystical disappearance of the bucket of hare’s blood, and how Chiselle lied about it. I cannot help but wonder what they’re using it for. It has to be something strange or dangerous for them to want to keep it a secret. And the more I think about it, the more I begin to envision pentagrams and odd symbols painted in blood on floors and walls in the master’s private chamber beyond the library.

  Not to mention the fact that I cannot even venture to the kitchen on my own without them keeping an eye on me. In fact, even when working with Chiselle during the day, she's almost always within earshot. Only when she leaves to check her traps and snares am I truly alone for more than a moment. Unless I’m in here, of course.

  Ironically, their constant vigilance is the sole reason I know they're hiding something. Had they simply locked a few doors and acted naturally, I would never have suspected much. Now my curiosity is beginning to get to me - despite my brain telling me to leave it be.

  Even if I were stupid enough to actually try and investigate, my gut tells me I’m still being monitored to some degree. Somehow they always seem to know when I am somewhere I’m not meant to be - on my own, at least.

  So I stay put in my room, and I sleep, bleed, and ponder for hours on end.

  Around midday on the second day, Chiselle stops by with lunch, punctual as ever. This time, in addition to the tray in her hands, a wicker basket hangs from her arm.

  Entering my room, she frowns at the curtains drawn wide open, but doesn't comment. I assume she shares my sentiment that it would be strange to lie in complete darkness during the day, and a waste of oil to keep a lamp burning that long. Not that she - or the master for that matter - is the type to utilize nature’s greatest source of illumination, but still. Even their funds must run out at one point.

  The redhead places both tray and basket on the side of my bed, offering no explanation whatsoever before she continues her routine of checking the chamberpot, cracking a window open - and pulling the curtains slightly closer than before when she thinks I’m not looking - and lastly gathering my used service on the old tray. I offer her a somewhat confused ‘thank you’ as she leaves.

  The scent of sizzling hot strips of cured pork belly, freshly baked bread, and steamed veggies meets my nostrils, but the mysterious basket is the one to truly catch my attention. As soon as the door clicks shut, I begin to assess its contents: four books, a couple of bookmarks, and a flask of spare lamp oil.

  I recognize the blue-and-gold tome from the library. The other books are foreign to me; thinner and more simple, but still beautiful and most likely quite valuable.

  I stick a strip of pork in my mouth and chew absentmindedly.

  Books, bookmarks, lamp oil… Everything for a solid reading session - or twenty. A gift, evidently. For me.

  Chiselle must have noticed my interest when we were cleaning the library the other day, and asked the master if she could lend me a few books. Altruistic kindness from that strange, sour woman - who would have thought?

  But despite the thoughtfulness behind the gesture, I can't help but smile to myself at the irony. These people don't know me at all.

  In my field of work, it is not uncommon to receive unprompted gifts, especially as a young, unmarried woman serving table upon table of varyingly inebriated - and, as a result thereof, often randy - male patrons. As most of the gifts come with certain expectations, I’ve never accepted one. This is likely the first time I have been given one without ulterior motives, as far as I can tell. Which must be why the idea of declining and returning it earns me a feeling of guilt.

  Taking another bite of food, I begin to consider my options.

  I cannot accept the gift, as I am feeling rather indebted already, and any ties to these people must be cut before I leave. On the other hand, I can't reject it openly, either, as that could come across as rude. Which leaves two options: I ignore the gift, or I return it stealthily.

  Putting everything back, I move the basket to the floor and pull the tray of food close.

  At least I have a few days to figure out what to do.