Ophelia

I hurry out without a reply, focused only on getting out of there, and never seeing that thing again, who I can hardly call a man. The sun is rising, I sneak into my house quietly and to my room, knowing Mother must still be at the pigsty. Breeding and selling piglets are our primary source of income now, except I have now begun working as a maid in Silvercrest which is the town for rich people. Apparently, cleaning up after entitles nobles is the height of career aspirations these days.

Closing my bedroom door with a sigh of relief, I find myself face-to-face with my younger sister, Seraphina. She sits cross-legged on the bed, her golden curls framing a face full of mischief.

Great, just what I need after a night of supernatural encounters- an interrogation from my pint-sized inquisitor.

“Where have you been, Ophelia!” Seraphina cries, in a modest imitation of our mother's voice.

I, catching on, play along, “I’m sorry, mama. I meant no harm”

“You shall not be forgiven for this treacherous act,” Seraphina declares, raising to her feet. “We shall have you hanged.”

I burst out laughing, tackling her onto the bed, “Oh? And how do you plan to manage that, little one?”

“Well… I don’t know that yet,” Seraphina giggles, giving up. “But I shall plot a method soon enough!”

We both fib down on the bed facing the tops, “Would you believe what I saw today?” I ask, my voice hushed.

“What?” Seraphina whispers excitedly.

“A man with pointed elven ears,” I confide. “His skin was pale as moonlight, with hair spun silver.”

She gasps. I half expect her to ask if he sparkled in the sunlight too

“For a moment it seemed like he was beaming,” I continue, recalling the man—the being I encountered earlier today. “Nothing like an ordinary man.”

“Who was he? Where did you encounter such a man?” She shells me with questions I don’t plan on answering. “Did he harm you?”

The last question brings my mind back to the library, the dagger at my throat, a mere inches away from hurting me, those impossibly blue eyes mere inches from my own. For a heartbeat, I had felt like I was in some sort of trance just peering into the very sky itself.

(Note to self: Next time a magical being threatens you with a dagger, try not to get lost in their eyes. It’s not very conducive to survival.)

“Can I meet him?” Seraphina’s eager voice breaks through my reverie, pulling me back to the present—to my bed.

“No,” I say quickly, avoiding any further discussion. “He was a dangerous man.”

Shaking off the memory, I sit up, “Come now, we must rise. Mama must be waiting for us. But before we leave this room–”

“I know, I know,” she cuts me off, waving her hand. “I shall not breathe a word to Mama about your sneaking in and out.”

“Do you promise?”

“Only if you allow me to name the newborn piglet.” Seraphina bargains. Ah, yes. The age-old currency of siblings- secrets for piglet-naming rights.

A smile spread across my face. “And what name have you chosen?”

“Rune.”

“Rune?” I echo. “Why such a name?”

“Do you not recall Mama’s bedtime tales of magic? She spoke of a man named Rune who held secrets of the arcane arts,” She elucidates, looking at the ceiling, recalling the memories. When Papa had just died, we all three slept together for a few years. “ And when I visited the pigsty with Mama the other day and gazed upon the newborn, I felt he was something special.”

Recalling those memories and Mama’s bedtime story makes me chuckle. “Very well. Rune it shall be.”

Mother is busy preparing porridge for our breakfast. Since Father’s passing, she has been shouldering the burden of managing the household, paying rent, raising us both, and running a pigsty, all on her own.

“Seraphina!” Mother cried out. “Put that bread down this instant!” Her sharp eyes have caught Seraphina sneaking a morsel behind her back, as always.

“It makes no difference if we partake of the bread before the rest of the meal or consume it all together,” Seraphina protests, sounding like a tiny philosopher.

“It’s a matter of proper conduct,” Mother retorts, always going on about proper etiquette. “We dine together, at the table. Now, set that loaf down, and assist your sister with the platters.”

Seraphina lets out an exaggerated groan before settling down on her chair, not helping me, might I add. Sisterly love. So heartwarming.

“Mama,” I call out. “I heard Grimshaw paid a visit the other day.” I saw him coming out of our house when returning from Silvercrest the other day.

“What does that old curmudgeon want now?” Seraphina asks.

“Ah, yes,” Mother recollects with a sigh. “He declared that if we fail to render his rent, we shall have to seek housing elsewhere.”

“What do you plan to do now?” I inquire, concern evident in my voice, knowing how Grimshaw has treated us for the past few months for the rent.

“Ophelia,” Mother’s voice softens as she sits beside me taking my hand, and I know what’s coming next. “I believe you should–”

“Absolutely not!” I interject before she could finish. “Mama, we’ve been over this conversation before.”

“Ophelia, listen to me,” Mother pleads. “You’ve come of age. And Lord Greystone is a man of means and noble birth.” Except that, he has no nobility in him. Unless you count being a world-class creep as a noble pursuit.

“I will not wed Tobias!” I declare one last time, just like all the other times. “Mama, you do not know him as I do. He is not a good man.”

“For goodness sake, child.”Mother chides. “Show some respect to the man’s name, he is to be your husband.”

“I never agreed to such an arrangement.”

“Just think of it with a clear mind,” she urged. “If you marry a man of his standing, we’d no longer need to fret over the rent.”

No matter how much I despise the idea of wedding Tobias Greystone, I know Mother is right, we need the money. At eighteen, I have reached the age when most girls are expected to wed. Because apparently, the moment you turn eighteen, you transform into a walking, talking marriage contract. How delightful.

Tobias Greystone is the man for whom me and my friend work in Silvercrest—an old and hideous man, and the very last man I could bring myself to marry.

“He came in person to request your hand,” Mother continues. “Do you realize how few many men from Silvercrest would deign to step foot in Willowbrook for such a purpose?”

“None,” Seraphina chimes in, mouth stuffed with bread. I give her a pointed stare. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“Precisely,” Mother nods. “He seems to hold you in high regard.”

“He holds every young girl in town in high regard, Mama.” I retort bitterly, recalling how every girl in his household has been his victim at least once. That man’s ‘high regard’ is about as selective as a starving dog in a meat market.

“Then why did he single you out for his proposal?”

Unwilling to continue this argument with Mother, I rise and prepare to leave for work. I meet Elena, a fellow Willowbrook resident who works in the same household. Elena, too, has suffered at Greystone’s hands.

We both have to traverse a forest of willows to reach Silvercrest. My petticoat is soon six inches deep in mud, my cloak concealing most of my features. A dagger lay tucked into a discreet sheath at the back of my leather belt. The dagger which has almost taken my life earlier today. Nothing like a near-death experience to start your day off right.

As we finally reach Silvercrest, I confide in Elena. “Can you believe that scoundrel had the audacity to ask Mama for my hand?”

“Lord Greystone?” Elena echoes quietly.

“Who else but that reprobate.” I scoff.

“How did your mother respond?” she asks. “I hope she refused.”

“She couldn’t bring herself to, El,” I sigh, “And I cannot fault her entirely. She does not know what sort of man Tobias is. Moreover, what we require most is money, and Tobias has it in abundance.”

“But Ophelia,” She presses, and I can just read her eyes and how much she fears Tobias, “Did you not inform her of Tobias’s misdeeds—against you, myself, and countless other girls in town?”

“I couldn’t muster the courage to tell her,” I admit, averting her gaze as we commend our day’s labour.

Soon, the hour I dreaded the most arrives—the time to serve Lord Greystone his meal. This task never fails to restore memories of my first days in this household, when I was but a naïve girl, ignorant of Greystone’s demeanour.

As I approach Lord Greystone’s chambers, a tray of steaming victuals balanced carefully in my hands, my heart quickens its pace. Deep breaths, Ophelia. It’s just another day of dodging grabby hands and obscene comments. You’ve got this.

I recall vividly that first day, when the Lord had requested I serve him personally, noting my newness to the household as a reason for special instruction.

“Come closer, girl,” Lord Greystone had commanded, his voice thick with false generosity. “Let me show you the proper way to pour the wine.”

Innocently, I stepped forward, as I leaned to fill his goblet, his hand had snaked out, grasping my wrist with surprising strength for a man of his years.

“My, what soft skin you have,” he had murmured, his covetous eyes roving over my form in a manner that made my skin crawl. “Tell me, child, do you know how a young maid might best please her master?”

I had frozen, my mind recoiling in horror, as his grip tightened, pulling me closer. His other hand reached for my waist, fingers splaying possessively across my hip. I felt a wave of revulsion wash over me, my skin crawling at his touch. I was trapped, unable to move or escape, as he held me in a grip that was both suffocating and violating. His touch was like a stain, a dirty mark that I couldn't scrub off. I felt dirty, tainted by his proximity.

His eyes seemed to gleam with a sickening intensity, and I felt a scream building in my throat, but it was stuck, unable to escape. I was paralyzed, unable to move or speak, as he held me in his grasp, his fingers digging into my skin like claws.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he breathed, the stench of wine heavy on his breath. “I think you and I shall get along splendidly.”

My heart hammered in my chest as I tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron. Panic rose in my throat as I realized how truly trapped I was.

“My lord, please,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t–”

“Hush now,” he interrupted, his face drawing nearer. “There’s no need for words between us.”

I felt tears of fear pricking at my eyes, and a sharp voice came from the doorway.

“My lord,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Holloway, called. “I fear I must borrow young lady. There’s been an accident in the kitchen that requires immediate attention.” Bless you, Mrs. Holloway, and your impeccable timing. I owe you my firstborn… or at least a really nice fruit basket.

Lord Greystone released me, but his expression darkened with frustration. “Very well,” he grumbled. “But do send her back once the matter is resolved. We have much yet to… discuss.”

I rushed from the room, relief flooding my veins, I caught the knowing look in Mrs. Holloway’s eyes—of shared experiences, of the silent solidarity among the women of the household.

Now, months later, I brace myself as I knock on Lord Greystone’s chamber door. I have learned much since the first day—how to deflect unwanted attention, how to serve quickly and efficiently while maintaining a safe distance.

The rest of our day passed with serving, cleaning, and doing our kitchen duties. Except for the moment, when I served Lord Greystone, I had not-so-accidentally spilled hot soup on him, causing him to cry out in pain. But I escaped punishment easily when I proclaimed it an accident and that I meant no harm, only that I did mean harm.

I have decided to treat Greystone as poorly as I dare, hoping it would alter his decision to wed me. Greystone made several attempts to have a private audience with me, but after months of his employ, I have mastered the ways to evade his immoral schemes effortlessly.

As we draw to a close, me and Elena finish our last task of fetching the water from the well and inform Mrs. Holloway of our departure.

We make our way to the village through the forest of the willows, Elena broachs the subject, “The spilling of the hot soup was no accident, was it?”

“What do you suppose?” I reply, my tone making the truth evident as I navigate through the willow branches.

“Do exercise caution,” Elena warns. “You do not wish to incur his wrath.”

“Oh, but I do wish to be on his ill graces.” That’s the only way I can alter his decision

As we near our destination, I decide to go by the brook. “You go on without me. I have a matter to attend to.”

The setting sun beckons me to admire it in solitude, by the brook on the other side of Willowbrook, and to seek out the medicinal herbs, for the finest plants in all of Willowbrook grew by that very brook.

This has been my purpose since Father’s passing—researching medicinal herbs and inventing cures and syrups for various illnesses. A decade past, a mysterious disease had taken Father’s life, its nature still unknown. I am determined to uncover its secrets and find cures for all the world’s ills, lest I lose another loved one.

The gentle sound of the water flowing over stones soothes my troubled mind. I long to stay here forever, far from all the worries and hardships. The herbs and plants appear all so splendid in the light of the setting sun and shimmering water.

Yet, despite the solace I find near the brook, crossing it is forbidden. All have warned here of the dangers beyond, but what possible danger could be there? The scene before me is one of utter serenity.

My gaze falls upon a Meadowsweet plant. I recall reading in one of the books in the library, that Meadowsweet possesses pain-relieving properties and is used in treatments of headaches, fevers and digestive complaints.

The only difficulty lay in its location on the opposite bank. How may I obtain it without crossing the brook? A thought occurs to me—nobody would know if I just crossed the brook, plucked the Meadowsweet and returned straightaway. As far as my eyes can see, no danger lurks across the brook. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? I get eaten by a bear? Ha! As if.

I carefully make my way through the gentle current of water, hovering myself. Graceful as a swan, I am. A very clumsy swan with two left feet perhaps.

Just as I reach for the herb, my footing still unstable, I grasp too forcefully, causing me to lose balance and slip. Oh, brilliant. Death by herb-picking. What a legacy.

A firm grip on my waist prevents my fall. I look up to find it is a hand belonging to a man with those strange blue eyes—

“You!” I exclaim. “The man with the peculiar ears.”

“And you,” the man replies. “The lady who cannot wield a dagger properly.”

“I assure you, I am quite capable of slitting your throat with that very dagger,” I retort.

“Do you refer to this dagger?” he inquires, holding the dagger—my dagger and examining it with curiosity in one hand, the other still supporting me.

I ask with wide eyes in utter shock. “How did you–” Great. Not only is he magical, he’s also a pickpocket. What’s next, juggling fireballs?

Before I can find the words, he steadies me and loses his grip on my waist.

“Next time, ensure you hide it more effectively,” he advised, returning my dagger. This damn man—thing has the audacity to advise me after literally stealing my dagger. The nerve!

“But how did you–” I struggle with my words again, as he helps me get out of the brook. I clear my throat, trying to sound a bit polite despite the anger building in me. “What business brings you here? How come you aid me at such a fortunate moment?”

“How about one question at a time,” he suggests, again. “But first, catch your breath.”

I didn’t realise my laboured breathing. Oh, I'm sorry. Is my near-drowning experience inconveniencing you? But as I open my mouth to speak again, to ask another question, a sudden, powerful roar shatters the serenity.

The sound, low and rumbling, vibrates through the air with a ferocity that sends chills down my spine. My eyes widen in shock as I spin around to face the direction of the noise. From behind the trees, a massive bear emerges, its eyes locked onto us as it roars again, louder this time, shaking the very ground beneath our feet. Well, this is just great.

I think I just made my fantasy of getting eaten by a bear true.

(Note to self: Be more careful what you joke about. The universe clearly has a twisted sense of humour.)

My breath catches in my throat, fear paralysing my limbs. Before I can react, my vision blurs and the world around me fades into darkness. The last thing I see is the man with pointy ears moving swiftly to catch me, again, as my legs give away.