Blue Rose and Raven: Chapter Nine

A Chapter by C.S. Williams

Marius learns more about the mysterious estate and opens up to the Beast.

It was a strange feeling, living in the Beast’s estate. Darkness filled every empty corner of the place, yet I felt no fear. There were nary any footsteps or sounds heard in those great empty halls, yet the servants were always waiting in the wings. And as for the perpetual night, the Beast’s advice on the adjusting of my sleep was half right: The manor appeared to have a scheduled “lights on” and “lights off” period. When the lanterns and ghost-lights were burning brightly, day. When the lights faded, “night” approached until the halls were dark until first light. I understood this a few times while wandering the halls. When the lights went out, my first instinct was to panic. It was so dark I could barely see my hands. But then I felt a tap on my shoulder and a lantern blazed to life. The servant with the lop-sided hat, whose name was Finley, was there with a few other servants to lead me back to my room. He also provided me with a tiny ghost-light of my own, specifically a candle that lit with a bright flame by blowing on the wick.

As for clothes, I decided to sample the various garments in the drawers. They were all in my size and fit very nicely. There were several comfortable button-down silken shirts and fine woolen trousers. The shirts were sewn with blue and purple threaded material that glinted in the ghost-lights. I wondered what I looked like, considering there were no mirrors anywhere in the manor. I wore whatever was comfortable to me at the time, as I preferred to dress.

My daily walks after breakfast with the Beast continued, per her request. I told her about my old life outside of Paris and my new life in Amersot. I told her about Mother and August and Connie and Elaine and Camille and Caesar. And I told her about Duchanne. She found it all very amusing, her laughter a noise between a croak and a caw. It was a strange sound, but one I came to enjoy. Curiously, whenever I asked her about her past, she merely replied with, “I do not wish to talk about myself. It is improper.” I asked what was improper about it. She then quickly changed the subject.

My explorations happened after our walk in the garden. The Beast politely excused herself and disappeared into the hallways. I did the same, simply choosing a direction and walking. Excursions through the many halls and rooms slowly revealed to me the important rooms of the manor: There was the garden to the north; There was the library to the south, near the entrance; A massive art gallery filled with paintings and what appeared to be the Beast’s personal art studio to the east; The main dining hall to the west; And at the center lay a massive atrium and ballroom with a raised stage at the center. Like Mother’s account, the ceiling of this atrium was set with an elaborate and detailed stained-glass display which depicted the four seasons. I imagined that when the sun shined, the colors of the glass would alight the floor and intermingle with one another in a beautiful way. On the raised stage sat a finely crafted and polished piano. From the thin layer of dust on it, the thing looked like it hadn’t been used in years. And yet it still looked like new. Strange, but that was the norm here.

I also took to exploring the grounds around the manor. I asked Finley, and he explained to me the boundaries of the manor. “Beyond the trees is the rest of the world. It’s best you stay within that, young sir. You see, the ways of the world don’t mind us the same way in this place.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“How to best explain this…” Finley muttered to himself. “You know when you leave your house and you know you’ve forgotten something, but leave anyway? And you know how that by the time you realize you’ve forgotten something, you’re already miles from your house?”

I processed his words for a moment, then answered, “Yes?”

“It’s like that. If you leave, then the memory of this place will fade quicker than other memories. It’s a condition of this place. That’s why no one has come here for many years.” Finley sighed. “Anyone who knew the way has forgotten.”

“That’s unfortunate.” I said.

“Quite.” Finley replied.

I investigated the massive structure beyond the garden. It was a good distance away from the manor and gave my snow boots a real sopping through. The dark of the night was thick like a blanket here, with only my ghost-light candle and the distant light of the manor letting me see. The structure rose high into the air, its top a faint outline in the low light. I ran my hands along the weathered stone and searched around the perimeter, trying to understand its purpose. A watchtower? A dungeon?

Or a belltower. The thought flashed through my head. That must be it. This was the belltower Elaine talked about. In fact, this place’s legendary status made so much sense from Finley’s explanation. The memory of this place would fade quickly, so that meant the only remnant of it would be bedtime stories and fables. I wondered how many people might’ve remembered this place, if they were even still alive that is.

In my wanderings, I noticed other things about the place. Namely, there were no mirrors. I must’ve poked my head into every room and every washroom possible in the manor and never found my reflection. I imagined it like lacking a part of myself if I could not see my face. But in truth, it merely made brushing my hair harder. Thankfully the servants were there for that, unseen but helpful as always. It was Finley who was always shadowing me, as it was his sonorous and proud voice I heard first whenever he was out of sight. He answered most of my questions about the place. Yet like his master, he remained tight-lipped about matters like the Beast’s past.

One time while I explored the atrium, my attention was again drawn to that piano. The instrument lay silent, dormant, as if waiting to be opened again like a treasure chest or ancient tomb. I strode over and opened the covering. The keys were polished and smooth, with no dust or blemishes of any kind. I gently brushed a finger over middle C, the white key cool to my touch. I was about to press down when Finley shouted “Stop!”

I turned around in shock. Finley was frozen in place, his arms outstretched and a desperate look on his face. I quickly shut the piano covering and darted away from it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to�"” I stammered.

“The fault is mine. It must’ve slipped my mind to tell you the piano is not meant to be touched by anyone except the Mistress,” he said apologetically. “At least, she should’ve told you that herself, but never mind that.” He muttered under his breath.

“The Beast�"The Mistress plays? Interesting.”

“Well, she used to. She hasn’t in a very, very long time. A shame. It was the most beautiful I’d ever heard.” He said wistfully. “But no matter. You weren’t informed, and now you know!”

“Why doesn’t she play anymore?”

“Uh…I’d rather not say. The Mistress would be furious if I did. Mistress…she keeps such matters close to the heart, as it were. And I am bound by my personal oath of service, as we all are. We must follow her commands, no matter how strange they may sound to normal folk.”

“What are you exactly? Are you a ghost? A faerie?”

“Close. I’m a daemon. We are the half siblings of nymphs and the second-removed cousins of ifrit! We journey the invisible pathways of the world in search of a place to call home. And we usually find it in the company of gods and kings alike!” Finley said proudly.

“Being unable to speak doesn’t seem like a fair deal.” I replied, remembering our servants in our old life. “It seems unfair to command such things.”

Finley laughed. “Daemons know what they agree to when choosing to serve. It’s what we enjoy doing it. It gives us something to do in the intervening centuries of our long lives. We don’t require food or drink or sleep. It’s the simple satisfaction of a good day’s work that matters most. I don’t think this place would be very clean if we didn’t believe that.”

“I don’t know if my opinion matters, but I greatly appreciate your service.” I said. “I just wish I could see you without you becoming a statue.”

“Alas, but that is the conditions of the spell on this place. The Mistress may not see us because our actions are best left out of sight, or so the enchantment proclaims. I’m not entirely sure why. I don’t try to think about it too hard.”

There it was again, this insinuation of a spell or enchantment on this place. I wondered what this place used to be like, or what happened to make it this way.

In between my explorations of the manor and meals with the Beast, I sat in my room by my easel. It, like my imagination, remained blank. I sat and sat with paintbrushes and paints ready. Yet nothing came to mind. Nearly a year without putting paint to canvas had blocked that canal of my brain. And the emotions I had affixed to this passion were so tangled and messy that creating felt like an arduous task. To assuage this, I walked the floors of the manor. It was as if I was searching the halls for my muse. But I found nothing except frustration.

It came one day, then, that I visited the library. The fireplace roared with brilliant warmth and light. I absentmindedly read the worn and weathered spines of the countless volumes lining the walls. Of course, my narrow attention neglected to notice I wasn’t alone.

“Something troubling you?” The Beast asked.

I jumped. I turned to see the Beast reading in her massive armchair by the fire, little spectacles balanced on her beak and an old book in her lap. “Oh God,” I said, holding my chest in relief. “You were so silent. I didn’t see you there.”

“I am very silent,” She replied drily, removing her glasses. “You’ve been wandering the halls like a lost kitten for a while. You are perturbed.”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve been watching you. And the servants told me. As I said, I am very silent.”

“Oh,” I said, unsettled. “Well, it’s about my painting again.” I rubbed my temples. “I’m having trouble beginning again.”

“Ah, the very worst feeling in the world,” The Beast tittered.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me!” I retorted.

“I was not laughing at you, Marius. I’m laughing at the feeling itself, or the absurdity of it. It’s a terrible feeling, yet so silly.” She said, amused.

“How so, exactly?” I said, confused.

She raised her hands. They were frightening, with long fingers terminating in long black talons and rough palms. I soon realized what she intended me to see: her left hand was normal, or as close to normal as a giant raven could be, with five fingers. Her right hand was the odd one, with four fingers spread awkwardly along her palm. “I was born with these hands, Marius, as I was born with a limp. I have lived my entire life and experienced what you feel now. Yet that never stopped me from pursuing what I desired. I was told I could never play piano, yet I learned to play regardless.”

“What do you mean by all of this?” I asked.

The Beast lowered her hands. “I mean this seeming inability to rediscover your muse is merely a moment that shall pass like so many seasons. It is not permanent, and it does you little good to dwell on it.”

I rubbed my neck. “You make it sound easy. But…there’s more to that. The past year for me and my family…it had been�"” My voice trailed off. “I shouldn’t. It’s not important.”

“If it’s judgement you fear, you will find none from me.” The Beast motioned to a nearby chair. “You may sit and speak whatever ails you.”

My eyes darted from the chair to the Beast. I had a desire to run away and hide in my room. For a change, I was no longer the one being confided in. But the thought of speaking a stranger about the recent past felt terrifying. Least of all, I would be speaking about myself.

I cautiously sat down and faced the Beast. She clasped her hands together and sat up straight like a proper lady, waiting patiently for me to begin.

“The past year has been difficult for me and my family.” I felt my pulse quickening at my words.

“Your kin fell from great status into squalor, as I have heard,” The Beast said. She turned her head to look at me. “Your mother mentioned it on our first meeting.”

“There’s more to it,” I said, hanging my head. “A week before Mother told us of her ships being lost at sea, my teacher passed away. Or rather, Mother told me of his passing.” The memory balled in my throat. I forced it down. “I was preparing to have a lesson with him that morning, like any other. And then�"” I waved my hand.

The Beast nodded. “He must’ve been very important to you.”

“He was the closest thing to a father I’d ever known, next to my brothers. He taught me everything I know about painting.”

“Where is your father?”

“He died when I was three.” My thoughts turned to Mother’s stern eyes turning watery with tears at a portrait painted of him in our old home. “Mother misses him most of all. I wish I could’ve known him.”

“My condolences.” The Beast said, bowing her head. “He must’ve been a good man. To lose something close to the heart is truly painful.”

“I think that’s why Mother was always adamant that she would raise us to be good men. Father was a good man, so we should follow suit. I’ve always been shy, but I never want to be mean or cruel. It’s not in my nature, you know? That’s why I found I liked to paint; it’s quiet, it’s personal, and I can express myself freely in a way I felt like I couldn’t normally. I had plenty of time to myself to think and ponder. Maybe that’s why my brothers confided me on personal matters. I think I was just there and didn’t say much so I was easy to talk to.”

“Or maybe it was because you were their brother and they trusted you.” The Beast asked. “Your family seems to love you very much.”

I shook my head. “I don’t deserve their love. I abandoned them because I thought they’d be better off without me.”

The Beast cocked her head in a curious bird-like way.

“We struggled to put food on the table for too long. My brothers worked hard to keep us afloat. Meanwhile I just wanted to find a way to paint again. I’m not smart like August or good with my hands like Connie. I can’t trade like Mother. I just wanted to paint, because then I would at least be able to express myself in some way. But I gave all that up when we had to leave the city.”

“Were you told to give it up?”

“No. It just seemed so…useless in the real world. What good was a painter of portraiture when you need to feed a struggling family?” I said glumly. “And Mother had to pay for my silly desire to paint again when she found this place, found you.” That singular paintbrush flashed in my mind. “So when the time came, I left in her place, and here I am. And yet�"” My eyes grew damp. “And yet, I wish I could see them again and tell them how much I miss them. And that I’m sorry for leaving them.”

The Beast sighed, removing her spectacles. At first, I thought she was frustrated with me. To me, my words sounded akin to a pampered young prince having to deal with being like one of the common people. But as she spoke, my thoughts changed. “I may not know your family, but I doubt they believe you useless.” The Beast’s bright eyes grew distant. “I have no family to miss. I only have this manor and my servants. To be missed is a terrible pain. But it is also a sign of love that few understand. When there is a hole in the heart, that means what was lost was valuable.” The Beast looked deeply into me. Her bright eyes shined. “If you miss them so much, then they must feel the same. They mean as much to you as you do to them. And that is more valuable than all the treasures of the world.” The Beast gently brushed a bit of dust off her beak. “As for your misfortune, I can only say that the loss of your teacher and your mother meeting me was not your fault. Our fates are partially our own yet altered in ways we cannot fully understand. There is little use dwelling on the past. It is foolish and deleterious to the spirit. Sometimes all we have is what we’re given and we make the best of it.”

We sat for a while. I pondered her words, sifting through the hidden wisdom she’d attempted to convey. Soon after many long minutes, I finally said, “Thank you,” I turned to the Beast and smiled. “Thank you, Madame Beast.” She gazed at me for a moment, her animal features unreadable. She then nodded in gratitude, and I left for my room.

I stared again at my blank canvas. Between my fingers I held the small brush that brought me here. In my hands I felt all that pain and guilt I’d realized I’d stuffed down inside me. It was boiling inside like hot oil, cooking my guts like fish. There is little use dwelling on the past, she’d said. It was doing me no good to do so.

I dipped the hair of the brush into a dollop of cerulean blue, enough to make a good mark, and began to paint again.

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