My mother was the one who taught me that song. It was my lullaby. But as I grew older, and Joyce entered our lives, my father always told me to keep the things she taught me a secret.
“I suppose those sorts of old songs have a way of lingering in places like this.”
“I suppose so.” I grip the lute protectively. “Is it all right that I was singing it?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
I think back to Helen, my mother, and their scolding. Laura’s encouragement is weak by comparison. “I’m not a very good singer, or player.”
“I’m not sure who told you that, but they were lying. You’re exceptional.”
The air is still crisp and clear; my nose isn’t singed. He’s not lying. He really thinks I’m good. “Thank you.”
“Will you finish the song for me? It’s been a very long time since I heard that one performed,” he says softly. I can hear in his voice how unsure he is of asking. How hesitant. Maybe he feels bad for how he treated me last night.
“Only if you answer a question for me first.”
“Yes?”
“Last night… I heard screams. Well, one scream. It ended quickly… Is everything all right?”
His hesitation is horrible. “Is it possible you had a nightmare?”
“I know what I heard.”
“I didn’t scream last night.”
“I never said it was you.” I can’t stand his evasiveness. The way he’s speaking to me right now feels the same as when Joyce would talk down to me, tell me I was mistaken when I knew I wasn’t. Looking for any excuse to explain away or belittle how I thought or felt. “I went to investigate but couldn’t because the door was locked—”
“You tried to leave your quarters at night?” There’s almost a growl at the end of the question. Rage is a palpable thing and I can feel it radiating off of him. “There are explicit rules for your well-being.”
I want to glare at him. I want to look into his eyes and tell him how unreasonable it is to lock me up like an animal at night. “Maybe I wouldn’t have tried to leave if I hadn’t heard screams. I thought I was in danger.”
“That is precisely why you were told to disregard anything you heard. You are not in danger. The rest isn’t a concern to you.”
“But —”
“You are safe here.” Those words should be reassuring but the way he says them, filled with such anger, pain, and frustration… It almost sounds as though the safety he gives me is begrudging. As though it pains him to look after me. I truly am more ward than wife. The same burden I have always been.
“If I am safe then you don’t need to lock me in my wing.”
“Clearly I do, because you disregard simple instruction.”
“I am not your prisoner.”
“But you are my responsibility!” The outburst silences even the birds. I hear them take wing to avoid this awkward confrontation. “I made an oath to protect you. That is what I’m doing.”
I inhale through my nose and let it out as a sigh. My eyes flutter closed. If there’s one thing Joyce and my sisters have taught me, it’s how to let things go and move on. Bottling up anger only makes matters worse in the long run. Most of the time, I try and listen to my own advice.
“Please,” I say as plainly as possible. I try and pour every drop of invisible pain into that singular word. It is as close to begging as I ever would like to be. “I cannot feel like I am trapped. I swear to you, no matter what, I will not leave my quarters at night. So please do not lock the door.”
“How do I know you will keep your word?” He sounds skeptical. I can’t blame him. He did give me just four rules and I admitted to trying to break one last night.
I wish I could look at him. I wish I could see his expression—that I could meet his eyes and show him that I’m being sincere. How do I communicate those things when I can’t look upon the face of the person I’m speaking to?
“You’ll just have to trust me, I suppose.”
He scoffs softly. “Trust… Such a hard thing to give to your kind.”
“Has a woman burned you that badly?” I instantly cringe at my wording. For all I know, he’s had a wife before. Maybe she did burn him. Maybe his face is so horribly scarred that he won’t allow anyone to look at him. My back aches and I straighten my posture.
“Maybe that’s what I’m trying to protect myself from.”
The words still me. I hear the faint whisper of “stay out” and “stay away” dancing among them. I wonder who wounded him. A blow like he has endured—like I have—doesn’t need to leave physical scars; it is much deeper than flesh.
“The vow you took was that I would never be left wanting. I want the door unlocked.” I play my last card and wait, curious to see if it will work.
He lets out a dark chuckle. I can feel him wanting to resist and yet… “Fine. But know that the moment you leave those quarters at night I can no longer guarantee your safety.”
“Deal.” I can hear him move to leave. Leaves crunch under his light feet. I wonder what he was doing out here to begin with. It couldn’t be checking on me. “Wait.”
“What now?”
“You never heard the rest of the song.” I adjust the lute in my lap and still avoid looking at him. “Would you like to?”
“Yes.” That word is wrapped up in somber yearning. I wonder what this old folksong means to him as I adjust my grip and begin to play once more.
When the last note has faded among the trees I know he is long gone.
Chapter 5
There are still noises in the night, but I’ve grown better at ignoring them. Fortunately, in the week that has passed, there have been no more screams. One night I heard faint music accented by bells right when I was on the edge of sleep, as if drifting to me from a faraway place. Another night I heard heavy thuds and grunting that rumbled the door to the main hall. A different night, I heard laughter echoing from a faraway portion of the manor.
It’s funny how quickly you can grow accustomed to something. Now, I hardly wake up anymore at the strange sounds. The first night after Lord Fenwood and I spoke, I checked the door to my quarters. The handle turned. He did as I asked, so I kept my word and did not open it. After that, I’ve never slept better.
For a week, I find a strange sort of peace to the repetition of my days. It is nice not to be ordered around or have expectations from sunup to sundown. I can walk through the brush and strum in my glade with not a care in the world. Once or twice, I swear I sense the presence of Lord Fenwood listening again. But if he’s there, he doesn’t make himself known as an audience.
Then, the peace fades into monotony.
Today, on the seventh day since my arrival, I wake up and lie in bed and don’t have the energy to do anything more than stare up at the ceiling. What is the point of getting out of bed when there’s nothing to do? At least back home I had a goal. Every day there was something to be done, some necessary upkeep that I would busy my hands with and would make me feel accomplished at the end of the day. At the very least, I’d have Misty to tend to and ride.