Chapter 12: Before

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  During my first week here at the mansion, I had thought Chiselle to be a strangely cold and brooding woman. Now that I have awoken her jealousy, she is ruthless and icy in comparison. I could ignore it before, when she just disliked me in general. Open hostility, however, is something else entirely. Now her every action screams that she wants me to leave of my own volition. She seems to have forgotten that it's not that easy, the mansion being this isolated and all.

  Besides, I intend to finish my tutoring. One spiteful hag can't stop me.

  With a bowlful of horribly unseasoned frumenty in my belly and the notebook in my hand, I enter the library.

  The sun has barely risen, and Seth is lounging comfortably in one of the relocated armchairs, a book in hand and a half-empty glass of red wine by his side.

  “Good morning,” I greet him with a polite smile. “Or is it ‘good evening’ to you? I’m not sure which one makes more sense.”

  The book in Seth’s hand snaps shut, and the pale man inclines his head to me. “‘Good morning’ is sufficient, thank you,” he says and stands up. “And to you too, Kia. Chiselle.”

  I feel a shoulder bump into mine deliberately as the redhead walks past me. My fault for stopping right in front of the doorway, I suppose - although she could have slipped by easily if she had wanted to.

  I can see in Seth’s face that he is well aware what game his housekeeper is playing, and how it is evolving, but he cares not to address it. At least not while I’m here.

  “I added a few things to our alphabet before bedtime. Would you care to take a look?” I say as I sit down in the same chair as yesterday.

  “Certainly.”

  Seth pours us both a glass of water and takes the seat next to me. The rhythm of my heart quickens as his fingers work the strap around the notebook.

  “I hope I did well,” I say, interlacing my restless fingers in my lap. And I don’t mean the additions to the alphabet.

  The bindings come undone, and Seth unfolds the loose sheet I’ve moved to the front page. Angling the paper with one hand, he blocks Chiselle’s view of the book as he lifts the segment of loose pages and peeks into the core to confirm the bottle is there - and that it's not empty.

  Nodding his approval, he smoothens the alphabet flat against the table.

  “Everything appears to be in order,” he says, eyes still assessing. “Except…” He taps an inky doodle from last night. “What is this?”

  I cannot tell if his question is rhetorical or not. Like his face, the tone of his voice is generally difficult to decode.

  I wonder what kind of reading is harder to learn: written words or him?

  “A pheasant,” I reply, pointing to the letter above. “‘F’ for pheasant.”

  “I see,” he says. Dipping the quill in ink, he crosses out the bird.

  A pang of offense hits me instantly, and I fist my hand around a bit of gathered skirt material. “We can’t all be artists like you, you know,” I say, trying to suppress the heat in my cheeks.

  “One could hardly claim me to be.” He taps the pheasant again. “While it may sound like an ‘f’, ‘pheasant’ is actually spelled with a ‘ph’. Deceptive and difficult to distinguish.”

  “Three d’s,” I murmur to myself before I can help it.

  Seth turns to look at me, a glint of surprise - or is it confusion? - in his deep sea eyes. Then a light chuckle takes him.

  “Three d’s indeed.” He takes a sip of the wine he brought with him. “You are an adept learner.”

  A mixture of shame and pride blooms in my chest. It does nothing to vanquish the redness in my face.

  “Interesting as it may be, let us save the topic of alliteration for another time.” He offers me the pen. “Now that you know the fundamentals of the written word, would you perhaps try spelling your own name?”

  I twirl the feather a bit, staring hard at the alphabet. I go through the various letters one at a time and finally scribble my suggestion on a blank page in my notebook.

  ‘C-E-A’.

  Before Seth can comment, I add another possible solution:

  ‘K-E-A’.

  “It's one of those,” I say with more hope than actual conviction. “But it would have been easier to guess if ‘c’ and ‘k’ didn't sound so similar.”

  “You are right. ‘C’ is a trickster, simulating either ‘k’ or ‘s’ depending on the word. In your case, however,” he says, pointing to my second guess, “I would assume ‘k’ is the correct answer.”

  I draw a thick, straight line through ‘C-E-A’.

  “And, if I were to take an educated guess, I would say ‘e’ is also incorrect. Is there another letter - a vowel - that could make a similar sound?”

  Frowning, I check the alphabet again, now focusing on the so-called vowels that we marked with tiny stars. I go through them two times.

  “I’m not sure,” I breathe. “None of them fits the sound precisely.”

  Seth plucks the pen from my grasp and dips it in the inkwell.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Perhaps our alphabet is still incomplete. Allow me to make an addition…”

  Underneath the letter ‘i’ he draws some kind of gridded half-circle with a nose.

  “I–... I have no idea what that is,” I say somewhat sheepishly.

  “I beg your pardon?” He turns to stare at me. “Do you find my artwork to be inadequate? It is nothing short of a masterpiece in the eyes of a true artist.”

  Taken aback, I blink a few times, unsure of what to reply. How did I offend him? Does he genuinely pride himself on his creative displays despite his dismissive modesty earlier?

  “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to be rude,” I mutter.

  Seth’s face softens infinitesimally, a smile blooming at the corners of his mouth. “You need not apologise, Kia,” he says. “It was an attempt at humor. A jest, simply. It is my fault for being too vague.”

  Oh. I nod awkwardly.

  “The fact that you have been able to decode the vast majority of my pictograms thus far is impressive and speaks more of your wit than my artistry.” He puts the quill back in the inkwell and folds his hands on the wooden table top. “Painting never was my strong suit; I was always partial to music. And literature.”

  I look at his long, slender fingers, so casually interlaced. It's easy to imagine them working magic on a piano.

  And other places.

  The thought, lewd and entirely uncalled for, takes me by surprise, and I shiver in disgust at the implication.

  At once, Seth turns to look past my back, to the armchairs in the corner.

  “Chiselle, would you be so kind as to stoke the fire and bring tea?”

  The redhead glares at us for a moment before pushing herself up from the chair ever so slowly.

  “Oh, and please bring the quilt here while you are at it.”

  I cannot tell if he is testing her obedience or temper, or if this is the usual dynamic between them. I can tell, however, that Chiselle would rather stab herself in the eye than serve and pamper me like that.

  “No need. I’m fine,” I add.

  “Nonsense,” Seth avers. “I seem to have misjudged the temperature. Allow me to make adjustments for your comfort.”

  In two swift movements, Chiselle jerks the quilted blanket off of the backrest of one of the armchairs and tosses it to me, barely within my range. I’m halfway slipping off the chair as I reach out to snatch it before it lands on the floor.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  Seth signs a short sentence, his face stoic - if not a tad stern - and his housekeeper continues to the fireplace without a word. She drops a log from the woven basket of firewood onto the fire, sending sparks flying carelessly. Then she exits the library, leaving the door wide open, allowing the heat to seep out.

  “As I was about to say,” the man continues as his attention returns to me, “there is a version of ‘i’ that could be a match for your name.”

  He suddenly pauses to listen, until noises of clanging from the kitchen can be heard across the entrance hall, revealing that tea is now being prepared, although with a bold level of aggression an unwillingness.

  Without further delay, he parts the notebook fully and takes in the sight of my blood, leisurely and undisturbed.

  I didn't think it possible, but his eyes seem to grow even darker, his stare even more intense. Almost as if he were entranced; as if he were beholding a grand treasure, all for him to claim.

  Almost gingerly, he plucks the tiny bottle from the compartment and twirls it between his fingers. I think he even forgets to breathe for a heartbeat or two.

  Knowing how much of an effect the mere sight of my blood has on him makes me feel uncomfortable. If he is this desperate for human blood, what is stopping him from simply slitting my throat and indulging?

  I swallow, suppressing another shudder.

  Seth blinks and closes his fingers around the glass, seemingly returning to his good senses at last.

  Quickly, he slips the bottle into a pocket in his trousers and snaps the book back to the front page, concealing the secret compartment once again.

  “The payment is accepted,” he whispers and clears his throat softly. With a finger, he redirects our attention back to his latest doodle. “‘Igloo’ is the word I was going for.”

  It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts and return to the lesson.

  I study the inked dome again, but it still bears no familiarity to me. “I don't know what that is,” I say, daring another frank response.

  “Igloos are ice huts typically constructed in the northernmost parts of the world. It is one of the few words beginning with an ‘i’ that sounds like ‘ee’.” He tilts his head slightly as he looks at me very directly, his eyes glittering against the rekindled flames. “Another word utilizing that particular ‘i’ is ‘curiosity’. A trait you have shown to be rather acquainted with, if I may be so bold.”

  That again now? He really does not like me roaming around his mansion. I get it. To my defense, I have not wandered unsupervised since I was caught in the library four days ago. And despite what they probably think of me, I never did it out of curiosity.

  But I have to admit that all this secrecy is beginning to awaken my interest. And alarm. In equal measure.

  “Curiosity,” I repeat slowly while holding his strangely intense gaze. “Two ‘i’s?”

  “Correct,” he says, offering me a mild smile. “Would you care to guess the first letter?”

  “Not really,” I reply with a smile of my own. Much to my surprise, my casual impertinence earns Seth’s approval; he throws his head back and laughs heartily, his Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically in his throat.

  For a nobleman - or whatever it is he truly is - he seems to enjoy my small acts of rebellion and cheekiness weirdly much. One would expect a man of his stature to demand - and enjoy - complete obedience, but he seems different. Sure, he has a housekeeper he orders around every now and then, but she is insolence incarnated when she wants to, and she avoids punishment entirely. Even when I broke the one rule, all I got was an offer.

  Not to mention the fact that they seem to employ no servants at all at the estate. What good is rank when you have next to nobody to exercise it over?

  Perhaps he simply doesn't care about power. Perhaps his only desire is company - and a bit of human blood.

  Nodding thoughtfully, I grab the quill and write ‘K-I-A’ underneath my previous guesses.

  “There you have it. Your name.” Seth sounds almost proud as he leans back in his seat. “A person’s most treasured possession.”

  It makes sense for a nobleman to perceive names as such, especially when an inheritance consisting of a mansion and a considerably-sized wealth on the side is tied to the name in question. Not that I can complain, personally; I, too, have an inheritance to claim one day, if I decide to. If this whole ordeal doesn’t work out for me. However, the difference is that my parents, and their parents before them, worked hard their entire lives to create something, whereas I doubt Seth has done a single thing to deserve all of this.

  “I like the sentiment,” I simply say.

  “Now that you have constructed your first word, it is time to deconstruct. To read.” Seth grabs one of the unknown books on the table and opens it to the first page. “Begin with the first word, letter for letter.”

  ‘B-E-F-O-R-E’, it says. Using our alphabet, I identify each letter and use the drawings as pronunciation guide:

  Book - Ear - Fire - Oak - Rain - Ear.

  I mutter the sounds of the initial letters to myself, one at a time. When Seth encourages me with a nod, I repeat them, this time faster. With a few phonetic adjustments, the pieces finally click into place.

  “‘Before’,” I read.

  “‘Before’,” Seth confirms. “You are doing incredibly well, Kia.”

  By the time Chiselle returns with a steaming pot of tea and a murderous scowl, I am four words in.