He kicks the dirty clothes with his foot. “Remove this and follow me.”
I know I often look at people and see nothing worth liking. But this man? He doesn’t have a single redeeming quality.
As slowly as humanly possible, I comply and follow him into the room next door like a particularly tired sloth. To no one’s surprise, it looks exactly like what you would imagine an old washroom to look like. There are several large basins, buckets, and something that resembles a giant cauldron. It’s big enough to stew a full-sized adult in. But, how could a room this large be here? I was pretty sure to the left of the kitchen was a larder, and to the right was the door to the grounds.
“You wash everything there, then hang it here,” Bayard’s words pull me back. He points to a large crate already filled to the brim with dirty cloth. Then, as usual, he leaves without saying a word. He really is a particularly unpleasant person.
I look at the ridiculous pile of laundry, acutely aware that there’s no washing machine in sight. A small grin quirks my lips because I already know I’ll half-ass this task as much as I can. I’ve always hated doing my own laundry, and I have no particular interest in getting soaked and freezing again. I haven’t gotten thoroughly warm since arriving here, and I wonder if my body will one day just up and quit on me for letting it freeze for too long.
Of course, I start with my own clothes. I have no desire to continue walking around in this filthy uniform. By now, they’re so mud-stained and stiff, they could almost give Bayard a run for his money. Also, this way I hope they’ll have a chance to dry before nightfall.
When I’m done washing my livery, I fill the basins with the castle’s laundry, pour soap over it, and swish it around a bit with a stick. I might not know how to wash clothes the old-fashioned way, but I’m pretty sure that some soaking is involved. Then, instead of sitting here doing nothing, I decide to check on Abas.
If I run into Bayard, I’ll just tell him the wash has to soak. That sounds reasonable enough, right? After all, didn’t he say I could have short strolls?
Even though I’ve walked these endless corridors frequently since my arrival, this time, something feels off. The eerie silence that was so disconcerting before is strangely loud.
When I get to Abas’ chamber, I find it empty and the fireplace cold. To make sure I didn’t just miss him, I check the other rooms on his floor. I find the study and the bath quickly, both empty and dark. I wonder if he might have stayed in his secret room, so I head to the cellar to check that out, too. This time, I fetch a small stool I saw on my walks so I can open the passageway without clambering up the wall.
The moment I reach the cellar, I recoil in disgust. Unwashed bodies, rancid milk, and road kill seem to combine into a stench so repulsive, it makes my eyes water. I press my coat onto my face, hoping for some reprieve while I fumble to turn the stone.
Thankfully, the moment the secret passage’s wall closes, it leaves the festering smell behind. I exhale in relief and then realise I have no way of lighting the torches. I feel my way through the passage in complete darkness, scraping myself up more than I’d like to admit. But at least this time I’m wearing shoes, so my soles are spared from more damage. When I reach the end, I knock three times. I wait for what feels like too long and wonder if he might be asleep at this hour. I know Abas said he could walk in the sun, but maybe he still slept during the day? After all, I don’t actually know which so-called vampire rules are true and which aren’t.
Finally, I step in, but this room seems empty, too. A weak sun ray is fighting its way between the heavy velvet curtain, trying its best to push aside the shadows. When I open the drapes, I see everything exactly as it was yesterday. The fur blanket is still in the middle of the floor, the bed only slightly rumpled. The only difference is the hearth, with its wood completely reduced to ashes. I turn away, disappointed, until something new stops me in my tracks. The heavy wooden door is covered in intricate carvings. I step closer, tracing the geometric shapes with my fingers. There’s something strangely comforting about these cut edges, something I can’t quite explain. But still, even here, there is no sight of Abas.
With nothing else to do, I return to the laundry room and reluctantly pull the wet fabric out of the buckets and hang it up. Of course, I end up completely soaked and thoroughly chilled. Afterwards, I eat the gruel waiting for me in the kitchen and go back through all the rooms looking for Abas.
Three full days pass exactly the same way: I eat stale food, sleep restless nights. I look for Abas in the morning and in the evening, and in between, I continue to work through a seemingly never-ending pile of laundry. It’s not until the fourth day that something finally changes.
When I wake up that morning, I already know it’s going to be a bad day. There’s something about the too-bright sun cheerfully shining through my room that feels particularly annoying. A murder of crows joins with an unusually chipper song, yet there’s a thickness to the air that makes it harder to breathe.
After breakfast, Bayard takes me to the grounds and hands me a shovel. I watch him carefully, but his face betrays nothing. The sun is still mocking me with its brightness, and Bayard…well, Bayard, like a switch turned on, glares at me as if I were a stain on his otherwise spotless shoe.
“You know what to do,” he says bitterly, nearly turning away before facing me again. “Three this time,” he adds, thin fingers pointing to the sky. Then he turns around and walks away.
The soil is just as dry and dense as it’s always been, stubbornly gripping onto itself and refusing to yield to my shovel. The mouldering stench seems intensified in this heat, and I try my hardest not to inhale too deeply. Just as my sweat starts to stipple my skin, a cold wind attempts to dislodge my cap. I ignore it, but it only gets stronger, almost as if it’s offended that I paid it no attention. I drop the shovel, holding onto myself as the wind rustles through my clothes, dragging and tugging with breathless abandon. But the complete silence that suddenly falls around me makes me look up at the sky.
Now there are no more crows; even the howling wind is silent.
A wall of clouds, dark and menacing, sprawls over the horizon, unnaturally cutting the sky in half. The other side stretches pale blue above me with a stubbornly cheerful sun refusing to acknowledge the building storm’s existence.
Usually, I would welcome stormy weather, the cold breeze, and the fresh scent, always a reprieve from the usual city stench, only this one feels wrong, and I dig as quickly as I can.
But the storm never breaks, and the wall of clouds continues to loom oppressively in the distance. The silence stays firm; only the screaming of the shovel hitting rock penetrates it on occasion.
I spend the rest of the day shovelling dirt, already dreading tomorrow’s unavoidable soreness. I know I should feel bad that I’m digging graves. Hell, I should probably refuse to do it. Maybe even confront Bayard about his deeds. But instead, I’m more preoccupied with Abas than the people who will end up in these holes.
You’re completely obsessed with that man, get it together, Astaire.
It takes me hours to finish digging. When the sky is finally darkening and my dirty clothes hang heavy from my shoulders, I return to my room.
Exhausted limbs drag beneath me as I move through the familiar halls. I keep looking over my shoulder the entire way back, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. In the end, I choose ignorance over anxiety. My blistered hands try to keep me firmly here, but my mind only wants to return to last week, remembering what happened after I finished the same task, and think only of Abas.
I can’t help but worry. After all, I don’t actually know if he’s immortal like folklore says. Maybe he just got sick of me and is avoiding me altogether.
It’s the middle of the night, and the only light in my room is the full moon shining brightly through the window. I’m lying in bed, finding shapes in the marred wood of the ceiling beams. I’m not wearing my headphones because I’m trying to listen to the sounds of the night. Time passes frustratingly slow until I finally hear what I’ve been waiting for.
A dragging sound drifts up to my window, followed by a quickly muffled scream. I crawl over and scan the grounds thoroughly. Now that I know what I’m looking for, the dark figure moving along the castle walls is clearly identifiable as Bayard. His stiff movements and recognisable gait are unmistakable.
