I’m not entirely sure if it’s a study or a library. Bookcases line the walls, and a large desk stands in the centre. Reflections from a giant fireplace dance and shimmer on the dark wooden surfaces of the furniture. Even though I’ve never cared much for reading, I still want to take a closer look. Despite the fire, the room feels empty. Bleak. At least it’s a bit warmer than the rest of this freezing castle.
The surface of the desk is stacked with random notebooks and loose pieces of paper, making me wonder if this is the place where Bayard writes the daily tasks.
Uninterested in the desk and Bayard’s possible workplace, I move toward the window. I can’t see much in the dark without artificial lights anywhere. Only the eerie shadows of clouds moving over the inky forest surrounding the castle’s grounds.
“Do you like the woods?” a smooth, silken voice asks.
I turn, startled. I hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room. A man is leaning against a bookcase, dressed all in black, face not visible in the dim firelight.
“Uhm…I dunno,” is all I manage to say, too surprised to be able to formulate a real answer.
The man steps forward, and the moment the light hits his face, my breath hitches. He’s unusually striking, and I can’t help but stare. From here, his eyes look completely black, but his large nose and full mouth make him look wild and breathless. His features are too much at once. Dramatic. Unbalanced. Overwhelming. Black wavy hair falls to his shoulders, the strands reflecting the light from the fire just as much as his silken waistcoat.
He approaches with confident steps, getting larger the closer he gets. I feel like I’m shrinking or, in a way, like I’m being trapped without my consent. He strides through the room until he stops next to me, not close enough to touch, but enough to notice just how much larger than me he is.
“You ever long to become one with it?” he says, his voice as soft as velvet. The sound does something to my brain.
“What?”
“With the darkness. Just sink in until nothing remains,” he explains quietly, almost a whisper.
I follow his gaze outside. I know exactly what he means, but before I can say anything I hear shouting from the door.
“Get out! Get—” Bayard hollers, entering the room.
I flinch at the sudden noise, and realise he’s addressing me. The man in black turns, and I could swear with just the power of his gaze, he suspends Bayard mid-sentence just above floor level. The old man lets out a pathetic squeak, almost like someone was cutting off his air supply. As quickly as it all began, Bayard is back on his feet, catching himself gasping, red-faced. He takes big gulps of air while bowing deeply, mumbling apologetically. As soon as he’s able, he rushes out.
Before I can start to process any of it, the man turns to me again.
“How arrogant of you to assume I would speak to someone like you,” he says between his teeth, almost like a hiss.
“What?” I say, so utterly confused that my entire vocabulary shrinks to just that one word.
“Do not dare creep about my castle again,” he warns, moving closer.
I want to step back, but I can feel the cold glass of the window pushing at my back. He looms over me, his body blocking out the light coming from the fireplace. My thoughts rush through my mind, trying to understand what exactly is going on. But all I see are images of Bayard’s eyes bulging out as he clutches his throat.
Wait, did he just say “mycastle”? That would make him…
“Do you understand?” he says, clipped and short, the menace of the words apparent.
“Yes,” I nod.
He narrows his eyes at me, and for a moment, I think I see them flashing red. As soon as he strides out of the room, I recognise the cadence of his steps. Slow, deliberate, and charged with barely restrained anger. Abas. My employer. The same man who screamed in my face only yesterday.
III
When I walk into the kitchen the next morning, I’m surprised to see a stranger standing at the range.
“Hello,” I say to the young woman wearing old-fashioned chef’s clothes.
She jumps back, the spoon clattering to the floor. Thick ribbons of white gloop spill across the tiles.
“Oh,” she gasps, clutching her chest, “You must be Mister Bloom.”
“Yeah, you can call me Astaire,” I introduce myself.
“I’m Pepper. I cook,” she replies.
