“I think I’d quite like your mother. I have a proclivity for women who own strange birds.”
We fall into a companionable silence as we finish our breakfasts. Something I haven’t done with another person since Harriet’s passing. The sting of her memory hits me less ferociously than it typically does, though the pain still lingers. I suppose it will never go away fully. Perhaps with my mind otherwise occupied on the fair Ms. Peppins, I might have a chance of happiness I’d scarcely thought possible.
“Well, thank you Mr. Blackford, for the company this morning.”
“Please call me, Barrett.” She gives me a smile that’s entrenched with sadness. It tugs at my heart, making me want to wipe it from her face somehow. She stalks out of the nook, before I can say anything, leaving me with her scent and dreams of what can never be. I have nothing to offer her but a broken mess of a man. Filled with darkness and demons that plague my every waking hour, and seep into the folds of my dreams.
Rubbing the healed skin under my wrist, I trace the raised burn marks feeling the familiar tug of the flame’s pull. Wanting to erase these tortured thoughts, if only for a moment.
It’s only after she leaves that I realize, not a drop of tea was spilled when she held it dangling from her pinkie. I shake my head at the impossibility. I must still be delusional from the fever.
* * *
“Now children.I’m going to read you a story that’s one of my absolute favorites.” Ms. Peppins voice echoes from the open nursery door down into the stairwell. I lean on my doorframe, straining to listen. I’d napped most of the day away and it was already bedtime for the children.
Her melodic voice begins to read aloud quieting the protesting coos from Sarah and what sounds like the banging of blocks from Royland. They’re just as enraptured as I am with the way she articulates her words, listening intently as she weaves a tale I’ve never heard before. One of a princess forced to wander the world searching for a cure for a wicked curse.
She travels from house to house, draining the inhabitants of their blood which she drinks upon a full moon in the depths of the woods, naked and alone crying out to the Goddess of the Moon to release her from her plight. My eyebrows raise at that. Must be one of those Grimm Brothers fairy tales, they always have the most disturbing details packed into them.
“What happened to the lady?” Royland’s small voice asks.
“No one knows. You see she needed to fulfill this ritual otherwise she would never be free, and legend says she’s still out there trying to break the curse.”
“But it doesn’t work.”
“True, that is why she tries something new every time. For the art of magic is fickle and one must have all the right ingredients to make a spell such as this to work.”
“So, what is she missing?”
“The right people.”
“And do they… die? Like Mummy?”
“No, dear one. They do not die. They live on, forgetting the woman ever existed. For such is the nature of her curse.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is indeed, but sometimes life can be sad. That’s why it’s important to have stories that show the reality. However, I do love a good fairytale. What’s your favorite?”
I head back into my chambers as the two of them chat away. It’s lovely to hear the children getting on so well with her, which is a huge weight off my mind. Though, I wonder why such a dark story is one of her favorites. Sarah can be heard cooing happily as I move further into my room, while Royland’s laugh penetrates my heart. A sound that’s been all too infrequent as of late. Maybe Ms. Peppins will last around here. I don’t know why that thought fills me with longing and perhaps a bit of hope.
MARIGOLD
To break a curse, one might think it requires true loves kiss. Or perhaps an elixir of some sort. But such is not the case formycurse. I have the unique misfortune of being shackled to the whims of the wind. Always needing to move on from place to place. Never able to settle for eternity. Or, until I found the one thing that would liberate me from this endless plight. One person really. A person whose love is pure and untainted and wholly devoted to me. Then and only then, after I drink their blood, will I be free.
Naturally, a child is the closest one is able to come to pure, untainted love. Being in such close proximity to them allows them time to give that kind of love to me. So, I’ve spent my days coaxing children with my magic, flitting them away on remarkable excursions, and weaving tales of wonder in their minds. But try as I may, none have given over their love before I was forced away to a new position, new house, and new children. All that effort, for nothing. Years of my life spent living this repetitive cycle. Feeling that each time will be the one to break me from my chains, only to have my hope dashed in spectacular fashion yet again.
Had I known of the dreaded curse that was about to befall me before slitting my father’s throat, I might have considered halting my blade.
The moment of his death plays over in my mind more times than I’d like to admit. The spray of his blood against my face. The sound of him gurgling for breath. The look of surprise in his beady black eyes. The way he slumped, belly first, before smacking into the marble flooring with a sickening thump. He lay there lifeless for a moment before the wind whipped around me so fiercely, I could barely see. The weight of the curse settling around my shoulders as the white carpet became stained a deep crimson.
In an instant, I changed everything with a flick of my wrist. Our house shook so fiercely that the candles toppled over, setting the rooms ablaze as the heat licked up the long tapestries and spread over the ceiling. I barely escaped with the clothes on my back as my father’s corpse was engulfed by the raging inferno. The fire that consumed our house lasted for three whole days before being vanquished by the rain. Our once stately abode reduced to a pile of ash and embers. It looked better that way, I thought. No longer was it a constant reminder of what I’d endured. I picked up my skirts and never looked back.
Feeling Alfred’s familiar presence floating above me, I snap myself out of the past and focus on the crowded road ahead. Smoke from the chimneys hangs like a blanket in the sky as I walk down the uneven street. Clouds blacken out the sun as the soot fills the air with the smell of ashen coals. Carriages rush past in the muddied streets spraying those unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
The spot I’m looking for is not far, but it’s not one that is found by most. Tucked in a towering alley between a bread shop and a tobacconist, sits my most favorite place in all of London.
I step inside and take a deep breath of the hibiscus scented air. It feels like coming home every time I walk through those familiar doors. Alfred is not far behind me, perching on an empty table, fluffing his feathers to rid himself of the damp air that clings to his black feathers. He can be so terribly dramatic and picky, but I wouldn’t change him for all the candy floss in the world.
