6
The storm that had threatened to burst during Rosen’s hike to the castle now launched its assault upon the valley, lightning slashing the clouds purple, thunder rumbling the foothills.
She watched through the window glass as she scrubbed it clean, the rise and fall of the land and forest beyond buffeted as the wind gusted and tossed leaves high, swirling bouquets of red.
Ten windows done. She dropped the washrag in a bucket. Already her hand ached. She switched to her left elbow—it could push the rag over the glass but couldn’t reach high.
Feee…feee…
Rosen’s ears perked, and she twisted to look over her shoulder. The wispy sound came like a note from a flute, only no one was there.
Something red vanished around a corner.
Rosen dropped the rag again and crept toward the corner, her unquenchable curiosity awakened.
Reaching the corner, back pressed against the wall, she rounded it quickly with her chopping hand raised.
Red flickered and vanished…flickered and vanished…down the dark corridor beyond.
Lowering her hand, she followed, footsteps muffled under an expensive, dilapidated carpet stretching into the shadows.
Feee…
Rosen raced to catch up, squinting to keep the red glow in her sight, flickering like a firefly. It veered left, and she skidded, catching herself on a doorframe to which the red flicker had flown through.
She sucked in a breath then peeked inside, taking one cautious footstep at a time. The room was dim; she could make out the shape of a large canopy bed and some other furnishings. Heavy drapes and the bad weather outside made the dust-encrusted windows barriers to any sunlight. She should clean them up, then get a proper look at this room.
Red flickered in the corner of her eye, and she turned, coming face to face with a woman.
“Eek!” Rosen covered her mouth. A flash of lightning managed to glow through one window and reveal the gilded frame of a painting. The face was a painting—not real.
Rosen breathed. The fair woman seemed to be staring down at her, swathed in red ruffles and frills. Goosebumps crawled up Rosen’s arm.
The next painting over had a gentleman who seemed to watch her every move, his top hat and cane stately and somehow familiar. Had she seen him before, somewhere? The style reminded her of old photographs in books. In history books… Oh, that’s where she’d seen him!
That book about Freudendorf’s history had several gray-and-white photographs. And this man—though depicted much older here—had been in one of them. “Are these Varick’s relatives? They certainly look wealthy, a lord and lady.”
Could they be the family who’d once ruled the town, long ago, before that creepy Lord Kalt took over?
Fee-ee!
The red firefly hovered by the door now, and something metallic squealed in protest before a lamp burned to life on the wall. The red thing perched on the lamp’s knob, and Rosen blinked. It had the head of a red thistle flower, and spindly, sharp limbs made of thistle leaves. A line that was its mouth curled up, and glossy leaves for eyes watched her draw near.
“What are you?” she asked.
“Our resident pixit—a very mischievous species, I should warn you. You probably know them better as pixies.” Licht appeared in the doorway. “Need a break, Miss? I doubt Master meant that you should clean every single window in one evening. Eh…” He glanced about, “Especially not these windows. The master would throw more than a tantrum if anything were to be disturbed in his parents’ bedroom.”
“Are those his parents?” She pointed to the two paintings.
Licht shook his head, the flames of his ears swishing. “His grandparents. These,”—he strode over to the other wall—“are his parents.”
The single painting depicted an elegant couple, their hair the same luscious black as Varick’s, and skin just as pale. There between them, very small, was a young boy with silver eyes and a smile hovering on his lips. It had to be Varick, though the boy in this painting felt different: peaceful, enthusiastic and happy—as if the world had so much to offer, so much that he wanted to explore.
She felt a shudder. It reminded her of her childhood self, before cold reality of a lost mother and a useless father settled in. What cold reality had wiped off that peaceful smile from Varick?
“Dinner will be soon. We may as well give you a tour around the castle, beforehand.” Schatten’s purple smile glowed from out of the shadows to join them.
Fee, fe-ee!
“Must you tag along?” Schatten frowned as the pixit poked at his long purple ears, and he swatted his hand.
“Be nice, you two.” Licht pushed Schatten out the door and motioned to her. “Come, Miss Rosenrot.”
“Ouch! Don’t touch me!” Schatten turned in the corridor, trying to massage his back. “I told you not to touch me with those flaming hands!”
“Wrists, not hands. And I can’t help it—they don’t snuff out, you know.”
“You can control those flames, and you know it! Maybe I should keep a bucket of water on hand,” the shadow nymiad muttered.
Fee-heehee!
“Now that’s just mean,” said Licht. “Stop laughing, Fee.”
The pixit giggled, leaves rattling, and flew to land on Schatten’s shoulder.
“Ouch! Those thistle thorns hurt!”
Rosen followed them up the corridor, a piece of her reluctant to leave the painting and its ghost image of a once happy family behind.
The castle was a maze of narrow corridors, tall windows, wide rooms that led into rooms which then led into more rooms—and all decorated in the most lavish, gothic affair. Any bright colors, tapestries and fabrics had faded or worn, and the elegant dark-wood furnishings were layered in years’ worth of dust. The niches, rails, columns and ribbed ceilings were hidden in cobwebs. She touched a green glass vase, displayed on a corridor table, and balked at the layer of white stuck to her fingertip.
This place was more like an abandoned haunted mansion—the kind in grim fairytales—though the remnants underneath begged her to believe it wasn’t always so. She flinched as a floorboard creaked unstably under her weight.
The shadow nymiad waved here and there as they toured, announcing rooms and what they were used for: the kitchens, the boiler, the many guest corridors, the servants quarters, and so on and so on. “And this,” Schatten faced her before a set of doors, thistles and thorns carved decoratively about the wood, “is the library!”
Dust bunnies fled as the doors whooshed open.
Rosen’s jaw dropped and her feet carried her forward. “This is my happy place,” she whispered to the air, tilting back her head to stare at the rows upon rows upon rows of shelves and floor levels and spiral staircases reaching to the ceiling. A world of books, a wonderland of every form of literature ever to have graced the lands.
Rosen drew in a deep breath through her nose, the old sent of leather, fabric covers and paper filling her senses, her being.
This was paradise.
She could die happy now.
“I try keeping this place clean, but…well.” Licht blew the dust off a table and a book on display. “Flames don’t do well near paper, even if I can control them.” He waved his wrists and elbows.
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Schatten rolled his eyes. “Excuses. I told you I’d trade you the boiler room for this one. The boiler is much more your style.”
“I hate the boiler! It’s hot and unfriendly, not open and bright, like this.”
Massive windows ran up the floor levels, letting in more light than anywhere else in the castle. The fading storm outside had left the sky gray.
“So you force me to be stuck with it?” Schatten glowered. “That does it! I’m doing the library from now on!”
“No, Miss Rosen is.” Licht gestured toward her. “I think she’s already fallen under its enchantment.”
“Fine.” Schatten lifted his shoulders. “But you’re taking on the boiler room for two months!”
Licht’s translucent face made an exclamation.
Just then, a stomach growl echoed through the library. Rosen pinched her lips, face red. “Is it time for dinner yet?”
***
Thankfully the dining table, and most of the burgundy-themed dining room, had been cleaned. Licht ushered Rosen to the seat at the end of the table—Lord Varick already seated at the opposite end and brooding. He shot a glare across the space as she sat, then frowned down at the empty placemat.
“What is taking the chef so long?” His growl became a whine. “Did I march all the way in here just to sit before an empty table and stare at a crippled human?”
“Crippled?” Rosen’s hackles lifted.
“No, Master, of course not. I’m sure it’s on the way, any moment now,” Licht replied with a tremble in his voice.
“I may be missing half an arm, but that doesn’t make me a cripple,” she said leaning forward, and glared across the table, palm pressing on the wood.
“Doesn’t it?” He stared point-blank in return. “Don’t you find certain tasks difficult? Or can you wield that fork in your mouth while your hand uses the knife to cut?”
Rosen looked down at the silverware. It was a struggle to use a fork and knife at once.
Was this Varick really the same sweet, cheerful boy from the painting? That boy would never have been so rude and unfeeling!
The back doors swung open and in creaked Butler Sterbetod, with a rolling cart and trays. The cart bumped into the table before his popping wrists could stop it.
Varick pinched his brow between two fingers. “You’re giving me a headache, Sterbetod!”
“Yes, Master…sorry, Master…” The butler’s shoes shuffled along the carpet as he picked up the first tray and carried it over. The dishes rattled, and Rosen feared he might drop it, but somehow the zombie-like butler made it over and plopped the tray onto the polished table.
Sterbetod’s hands shook the platter of beef and giant bowl of soup as he filled their plates and bowls, contents barely managing not to spill over the sides. Varick frowned disdainfully, watching the process until his dinner was set on the placemat before him. He raised his knife and fork.
Sterbetod creaked and groaned back towards the tray, but Rosen rushed over and retrieved her dishes herself, sparing the elder man the effort. “Oh, Miss…you don’t have to…”
She waved it away, coming back to pick up her soup bowl.
Varick watched her as he sliced his slab of beef, using the knife a little too obviously, a ghost smirk in the crease of his lips.
She sat down harshly and picked up the knife with her hand, then pressed the fork’s handle with her dexterous elbow: pressing the fork into the beef, to keep it in place while she sliced. The knife wasn’t very sharp, but she sliced up the beef and then took the fork in hand to eat.
Varick regarded her utensil work, while he spooned down an orange colored soup.
Satisfied with her accomplishment, Rosen tasted the soup—pumpkin soup, of course. “You have a thing for pumpkin, don’t you?”
His glare shot back up, though he continued spooning down soup. “Do you have something against pumpkins?” he asked in a threatening tone.
She shrugged, “I like them just fine.”
His glare mellowed a fraction, and he looked away with a snort.
The pumpkin soup was delicious—then again, anything other than eggs and cheap bread was. She finished every scrap and crumb of dinner, even lifting the bowl to lick it clean—she’d never had such wonderful food in all her poverty-stricken life!
Disgust and approval warred on Varick’s features. He clapped his hands, and Sterbetod brought in dessert: slices of decadent pumpkin cake topped with icing. Oh my, she could eat like this every day! Maybe putting up with Varick was worth it—especially considering that library paradise.
“Ah, the weather is clearing up!” Schatten entered, taking up their finished plates, despite the butler’s protest that he could manage. “We didn’t show you the gardens yet, Miss Rosenrot,” he said, floating to the cart and setting the tray down. He half turned toward the lord, his hair moving as if touched by an unfelt breeze. “Perhaps Master would care to join us? Get a breath of fresh air, and show the miss how you’d like the plants to be trimmed?”
Varick shot him a withering look before wiping a napkin across his perfect lips. He rose and stomped towards the door, glossy hair jostling around his proud cheeks. “I might venture into the gardens, since I feel like it,” he stated without looking. “You should know, though: I’m picky about how I want the gardens to look.”
He donned a black velvet cape as he left.
Rosen stood and followed reluctantly, Schatten urging her on. Down the grand staircase, and through a corridor, a squeaky door led out onto a marble patio. From there, the gardens sprawled.
It was in the same sorry state as the front courtyard—gravel paths overgrown with thorny weeds and choking vines, hedges and bushes misshapen, twisted trees looking like gothic beings. She took a moment, head dizzy. How was she supposed to fix all of this?
Thunder rumbled, a faint echo as the storm retreated over the mountains, leaving behind an overcast sky that barely let evening light glow through.
“I should grow a pumpkin patch,” Lord Varick stated. He posed beside her, hand on his hip, surveying the gardens as if they were lush and not about to crumble into pieces.
“Uh-huh…” Rosen eyed him sidelong.
Nose high, Varick marched down the patio steps, spreading his arms wide before the gardens. “My beautiful domain. So many new vines have grown!”
Rosen cast a glance at Schatten, who shrugged blankly. She followed Varick into the overgrown, creepy paths.
Varick’s fingers caressed the tendrils of a mass of interwoven vines, which were smothering a stone bench and its companion angel statue. “Yes, so lovely,” he cooed.
Rosen tried not to let her face show what she was really thinking.
“A little trim on the dead ends should help them,” he told her, his focus on the vines. Next were the twisted, decorative trees. “Just enough pruning to keep them healthy and thriving—no changing their shapes, mind you.”
“So…you want a garden that’s made of vines, thistles, and misshapen flora?” she asked.
He shot a pouting look over his shoulder. “They’re beautiful. Can’t you feel the lonely, forgotten aura they give off? So distant and forlorn, it’s almost magical.”
He knelt to the patches of thistles filling in what should have been flower beds. “Thistles have the most exquisite shape, like twisted roses. Their alluring flowers draw you in, and their thorns steal your blood. Yet they do not last for long, no matter how hard they struggle to survive. They soon wither away and must leave this world behind. It’s truly romantic.”
Rosen made a face at his back, then quickly hid it when he turned. “Thistles are pretty, in their designated place,” she agreed, and touched the tip of a purple flower puff. “Roses are my favorite, though.”
“Hm, makes sense. It matches your name,” he said and moved on.
The way he described flowers and thorns—alluring yet dangerous—was almost poetic, she had to admit.
They reached rows of trellises: a few rose buds still blooming along the rafters despite the autumn chill. He touched one bud that was wilting black. “Such a fleeting life…” He stared at the petals, as if seeing through them to something in the past. His other hand went to the ruby rose necklace at his neck subconsciously.
Rosen wet her lips and asked, “Your ancestors, are they the ones who used to rule the town in the valley?” She nodded beyond the castle, where the steep foothill they were on dropped down toward the valley.
“Yes.” He seemed reluctant to say it.
“Do you ever think about buying the town back and becoming the governing force?” she asked. “The town could use someone new, someone more open to advancement.” She paused. Varick wasn’t exactly the picture-perfect lord for the job…but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“I want nothing to do with the outside world,” Varick snapped. “Lord Kalt is doing just fine.”
“Oh, so you know of him?”
“Of course I do. Why are you prying into my business?” His silver eyes glared darkly.
“I saw the painting—the one of your…parents.” She took a step back.
“That has nothing to do with you. Stay out of my business!” Varick stormed past her, cape swishing. “Human greed knows no bounds…” he muttered harshly.
Rosen turned after him. “Why do you keep referring to me as a human? You’re human too, aren’t you?”
Varick barked a laugh and halted.
Rosen clenched her hand. “Are you the one I saw, all those years ago? Wrapped in a cape, crying and screaming at the night sky?” she demanded to know, gathering her nerves. “Are you the one they call Nachzehrer, Beast of the Night?”
He turned so that one silver eye met hers. “And if I say that I am, what will you do? Scream in terror and flee? The Nachzehrer is a vampire beast, you know.”
Rosen pressed her shaking hand across her stomach. “The dead do not come back to life. Such things cannot exist.”
Varick turned all the way around until he faced her. “Is that so?” He drew one step nearer, a shaft of evening light appearing through the clouds and spilling over him, glinting off his eyes, his teeth. Off his perfectly twin set of fangs, masked previously by the castle’s darkness.
“Nobody bothered to inform me that I could not exist.” He pulled out a hidden knife from his jacket and sliced it across his arm. The cut bled, then healed itself before her.
Rosen started back with a sharp gasp, her hand catching herself on the wing of an angel statue. She moved to keep the statue between them. This couldn’t be real—vampires weren’t real! But what her mind thought and what her eyes were seeing contradicted. In a flurry of panic, Rosen ran.
She ran for the garden gate, metal squealing as her hips shoved through.
“Going somewhere?” Varick appeared off to the side, catching up with her in an instant.
She screamed and launched herself over a prickly hedge. Hitting the ground on the other side, jarringly, she rolled to her feet and bolted into the forest surrounding the castle.
The ground sloped before her. She could hear Varick leap over the hedge as she hurried across the leaf-strewn ground, twigs clawing at her skirt. The sun dipped below the tops of the mountains, plunging the forest into near darkness.
Her left foot missed ground, sinking through a depression made of piled rotting leaves, and she lost her balance—falling sideways, striking her side and tumbling down the steep decline.
The world became a flurry of soil and foliage as she rolled helplessly, her single hand useless to stop herself, falling down the side of the mountain.
Her right ribs crashed into something, and her falling halted. A wave of leaves smothered over her like an avalanche set loose.
And then, all was silent, but for a distant night bird.
She breathed, in and out, pain like fire in her side.
Well, at least this was better than being bled dry by some vampire. She could die happy in a forest, as long as no carnivore found her first.
If only it were daylight, though, so she could see the pretty forest colors. Autumn was the time for sorrow and morbid things—it would make a nice requiem for her death.
Rosen let her eyelids close.