In the end, the task of delivering letters was even easier than I had imagined. As instructed, I entered the grounds of my own accord by way of a small port gate left open to me. From there, it was a simple matter to make my way across the curtilage where I would find the groundkeeper's house. There, waiting for me an old bread basket within the derelict building's kitchen, I found my parcel, addressed and ready to be delivered.

As I went to leave, I let my gaze wander to that of the mansion itself. It, like the groundkeeper's house, looked all but abandoned. It seemed evident that there was a groundskeeper, given how well maintained the lawn and shrubbery were, and that the chiseled stone path was kept clear of debris. Yet wherever they were, they left no sign of themselves, and the only light in the mansion was that of a small flicker in the window on the second floor.

A strange feeling crept over me as I progressed back across the way, and I got the tell-tale feeling one gets when they know they're being watched. Another cursory look around, however, revealed nothing and all at once I quickened my pace. True it was that I had every right to be there. I was, after all, under the employ of the owner of the establishment, and surely she would vouch for me, but all the same, I still felt in some strange way like an intruder.

I was out of breath when I finally reached the gate, and I stopped to lean inside of it. It was moist, likely from a rain spell that had moved in at some point that morning, but I hardly minded at that point. Instead, I turned my head to look one more time at the mansion, and when I did, I felt my blood turn to ice.

There, staring out a window on the third floor of the east wing, stood a man. He was tall and slight, dressed in a black suit. It was difficult to tell his features from a distance, though I could tell he was scanning the courtyard.

I wondered anxiously to myself why I felt the need to hide from this man's sight. Had I not just convinced myself that I had reason to be where I was? Yet there I was, firmly pressed against the inside of the port gate, clutching my bag tightly against my chest. I should have wanted nothing more than to duck out of the other side, but in doing so, surely he would notice, and so I stayed where I was, frozen.

Then, it happened. His gaze settled on the port gate. On me. I could feel my breathing slow as if somehow he could have heard it from so far away. I couldn't see his eyes, but somehow I knew where they were looking, what part of the gate they were focused on.

They stopped. He was staring straight at me, piercing the veil of shadow that hid me. I gasped and shut my own eyes as tight as I could, shrinking back as far as my body would go against the wet brick wall of the gate. I found a sensation of pressure growing all around me as if the very walls had come alive to try and crush me betwixt them.

I ran. I flung myself from the gate and into the street beyond. I didn't look back. No force on earth or in heaven could have made me look back, and at that moment, I almost believed that I would never return to that place; that I should drop the letter right there in the street and take flight until I was home.

Yet with the sudden urgency of all that had transpired, I quickly found myself winded and sought refuge in a small part on the corner of the street several blocks away. Here sat a single apple tree, surrounded on three sides by wrought iron benches. I took one of these for myself and plopped down in a way that was rudely unceremonious, and thus quite out of character for me.

The anxiety had faded, but I was still quite out of breath from the mad dash from the gate. Luckily, I had the presence of mind to pack my canteen, and I withdrew it from my satchel before quickly swallowing a cheekful of the cold mountain spring water.

The effects were instantaneous, and I felt my breathing return. My heart, too, which up until that point I could feel beating in my throat, had calmed to a gentle pitter-pat, and regardless of how 'ladylike' it might have been to do so, I instinctively fell back into the arms of the bench.

My mind, however, was still a blur, and I struggled to find a tangible thought to cling to. Yet all I could think about was the intensity of his stare, the ferocity of those hazel eyes, the--

I stopped. Hazel eyes? How could I possibly have known that he had hazel eyes? There was easily over a hundred feet of ground between the mansion and the wall. Yet I could see them; even from such a distance, I knew. In fact, I was quite certain of it. Bright, sullen hazel-blue eyes, like those of a week-old kitten, pressed into a young, chiseled face. Why, he must've been my age, or at the very least, under thirty years. There wasn't an off mark or wrinkle on him, and the way his tan lips hooked made it look as though he were smiling, even when he wasn't.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I shook myself. This was, quite simply, impossible. Surely my own imagination was galavanting around inside of my head, and it would only be quelled by force of will.

I stood from the bench and attended to my person, wiping a spot of dirt from off the ridge of my leggings, and doing my best to pat the wet spots of my shirt. It could not fully tear my mind from the thoughts I was dwelling upon, but it was enough to at the very least bring me back to reality.

I looked at the package in my satchel, wondering once again at whether or not I should go through with its delivery. Certainly, I couldn't return it; I was not at all ready to brave the estate grounds again, at least so soon.

I sighed. My conscience wouldn't allow me to leave the job unfinished, even after the strange day I was having. Thus, I stuffed the package back into the satchel and started off.

As I said, the task of delivering the parcel was of no real difficulty. The address was plainly marked, and having spent ample time perusing maps the few nights before, I had hardly any trouble making my destination before the last rays of the sun fell to a deep purple hue from over the mountains. And in even less time, I was once again at the door to my apartment.

Would that I could say that that was the end of it, then surely this already unusual tale would now come to a close and I might have gotten on with my life just the way it was. But such a thing, I think, would not have even been worth writing about.

Thus you can imagine, despite my anxiety over my first night working for Lady Eizenstrauss, I did return the next day, though this time I'd managed to slip in and out without so much as catching a glimpse of the fearsome warden of the household.

In fact, several more days went by much the same, and again several more days after that, till eventually, I began to wonder whether the whole incident had even truly happened at all, or if, as I had initially suspected, my own anxiety had bewitched me.

I would like to think that I am not one to usually give in to my frustrations. A cool head prevails where a mired one sinks instead of sails. My father's quote, and not a very articulate one I should think, but one that nonetheless makes a remarkable amount of sense if one considers it.

Thus I can only blame a moment of weakness in what drove me to what I would do next; a decision that would change my life, for better or for worse, I still cannot yet say.

It was evening, just a few hours after I'd returned home from a delivery. I'd opted to spend the rest of my evening in front of my canvas. Much as I often do, I began by simply putting the brush to the page and drawing shapes until a larger design began to reveal itself to me. I often find such practices therapeutic: a way for me to sift through the continual thoughts that plague my mind and make sense of things I might otherwise have difficulty with.

As I went, I began to notice that something was indeed beginning to form in the painting. It was a distinctly human-looking shape, a portrait, to be more specific, and as I directed conscious effort into honing the form, the more unsettled I became.

One stroke of the brush followed another, and soon I was swiping at the canvas with an almost cruel sense of purpose. The angular features were the first to show themselves, and then the short, dark brown hair, followed by the sharp jaw. I could feel my lips chapping as the result of my mouth hanging lax, but I couldn't be bothered to wet them. Doing so would require that I cease my fury, and I wasn't about to be done with it as of yet.

Another wild slash, a quick flick, a pecking gouge. My brush danced through the air like a fencer's sword until suddenly, I stopped. My shoulders sank, my hands fell to my sides, and I let out such a breath that one might have thought I'd been holding it for several minutes.

There, staring at me from the canvas just as he'd done from the window, was the strange man of the Eizenstrauss estate, and in grand detail, as if I had been inches from him, peering at every sculpted portion of his porcelain demeanor. I'd somehow even managed to capture the intensity of his gaze, and how his brow knitted together as he peered from his once far-away vantage.

I stared back in utter disbelief. I could not possibly have recalled so much detail. No one could! It was simply too far away. Yet as I looked at the painting before me, I was inexorably certain of my accuracy.

I studied it, then, taking it upon myself to conjure some personality to fit the face that I had drawn. Dutiful. Pragmatic. Sensible. Melancholy. This man carried a heavy sorrow, or at least I thought so, like that of one who has lost the will to live for themselves and instead lives over for the benefit of someone else.

I suppose I must have lost myself to staring at that painting, for before long, I heard the distant bell towers chime the top of the tenth hour, and I should be off to bed without even remembering to fix myself a supper.

I looked back at the painting. What was it about this regal, yet doleful individual that dominated my mind so? Was it perhaps still the curious notion that I was able to clearly define him in a way that felt simply impossible? Or was it the gentle mystique of him--he, who seemed so very alone in that gigantic mansion, locked away from the world like a prisoner forever shut away in his cell?

I had to know. I had to understand.