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[Rough Draft] Chapter 65: A House of Broken Dreams
The third day of the ice witch’s slumber.
Sophya Turnbell enjoyed the quiet of her mornings. Since the Royal Hunt had ended, Viscount Gilwren and his servants seemed less frantic. The countryside Manor soon lulled into a calming monotonous repetition of late morning breakfast and early family dinners.
When Tilly, the maid assigned to Sophya by her grandfather, arrived to tap timidly on the bedroom door, Sophya was already seated before the large vanity mirror, slowly brushing through her vivacious red hair.
“Morning, my Lady,” Tilly greeted as she carried over the pitcher to fill a basin of water on the beside the table. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” Sophya replied as she lowered the brush and turned in her chair. “We’re there—any letters for me this morning?”
“The post isn’t in just yet, my Lady.”
Sophya nodded, then stood and turned to allow the maid to remove her robe.
“I’ll prepare your dress while you wash up, my Lady. Do you have a preference?”
Sophya glanced towards the wardrobe that Tilly held open and the handful of dresses inside. She had purchased these new dresses with the remainder of her inheritance in hopes of pleasing Viscount Rykard, her fastidious grandfather. ‘While the Viscount was kind enough to allow me to live at Gilwren permanently until I find a better situation—he has not given me an allowance for clothes or much else.’
“My Lady?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sophya replied with a dismissive wave of her hand, “The green one.”
Sophya left it to the maid to work out whether that meant the olive green or dark forest green gown. Like any other morning, she washed her face in the basin, using the strawberry-scented soap that Bromwell had gifted her.
Sophya had been simultaneously touched and offended by the gift. The delicately shaped soap carved and to resemble the flower of the fruit it was fragranced with was one of many new products of soap from the investor Frost.
‘Which, according to grandfather, is another one of Maura’s aliases.’
She tossed the sudsy soap back into its cup and rinsed her face vigorously before toweling it dry with care. Before her, the bedroom window presented a picturesque view of the grounds, where sheep and goats were permitted to graze throughout the day to keep the lawn trim.
With an unhurried sigh, Sophya draped the towel around her neck and shoulders and continued to watch the northeast corner of the grounds, where a clearly worn-out trail led into the hunting grounds. A short while later, her patience was rewarded by the sight of Bromwell returning from his morning ride, his disheveled ash-blonde hair and broad grin greeting the shepherds who shook their heads as the skilled rider wove his horse between their disorganized flocks.
“If Lord Bromwell has returned, that means breakfast will be ready shortly,” Tilly observed as she glanced through the window over the silent noble woman’s shoulder.
Sophya started and hastily pulled the curtain shut, though not before Bromwell looked up and waved in her direction. ‘How impertinent.’ She hurriedly moved over to the wardrobe where the maid had hung up the olive-green dress and nervously pulled her scarlet locks over her shoulder as Tilly unbuttoned the three buttons on the back of her nightgown.
“We should see about getting you a new dress, my Lady,” Tilly commented as she pulled the gown over Sophya’s bowed head. “Holy Saints Day is rapidly approaching. The whole capital will be dressed in their finest feathers, silks, and jewels to welcome the Pope.”
‘Is she trying to provoke me?’ Sophya slid her arms through the cotton chemise. ‘I suppose it is obvious how reliant I am upon the Viscount’s mercy, but still—’ She quickly shook the thought from her head as Tilly helped continue to get dressed and ready.
It wasn’t until after the pressure of winning the Viscount’s approval evaporated before her that Sophya had taken her first breath of freedom. Although Asher Winslet continued to hound her with pleading letters and gifts that Sophya firmly declined and returned, the days since her engagement had ended had been nothing short of blissful. It was as if the shadows that had hounded her constantly since as far back as Sophya could remember had suddenly been lifted.
The mornings in Gilwren were like a welcome breeze, blowing out the cobwebs of her old life. For the first time since Sophya had left Turnbell, she truly grieved the death of Lincoln and her mother. With an endless supply of time and an absurd lack of anything important to fill it with, Sophya spent her days in reflection, either quietly sitting in her room or—when Bromwell could convince her—walking the paths through the forest.
Gilwren offered her a chance to heal, to reflect, and for the first time in a very long time—to dream again.
The nightmares that had often plagued her childhood with a constant terror were gone. The pressure to marry Asher in order to appease her parents and then lift herself from poverty had been lifted. The expectations of Asher and Lady Florence no longer mattered.
“You look lovely, my Lady,” Tilly said as she fastened the last pearl earning to Sophya’s left ear.
Sophya’s gaze rose sharply to the maid’s reflection in the mirror, but she found neither scorn nor deception in the simple woman’s face. She dropped her eyes quickly and flushed, feeling foolish and guilty for clinging to such old habits.
‘Can I change? Am I allowed—to be happy, Brother?’
Her reflection stared back with Lincoln’s face and eyes. Sophya quietly looked away and left the mirror.
***
“Good morning, Cousin,” Bromwell greeted her in the hallway in a fresh change of clothes.
Sophya eyed his still damp blonde hair and nodded stiffly in reply. “Good morning, Lord Bromwell.”
He winced and offered her a coy smile of reproach. “We’re family, and we live together. Must we use titles?”
“I’ve—only known you for a short time,” Sophya protested and quickly turned towards the stairs. ‘And my family are all dead.’
She held the rail as she descended, conscious of his footsteps behind her. Tilly slipped silently past them both to open the dining-room door. Once inside, as he did every morning, Bromwell moved behind Sophya’s chair and held it out for her.
“Thank you, Lord—”
“Walter,” Bromwell interrupted. “Please call me Walter, Lady Sophya.”
Sophya jumped slightly as his voice came close to her ear. “Thank you, Lord Walter.”
He pushed her chair in quietly and circled the table to sit across from her with an amused smile. “Holy Saints Day is nearly upon us.”
Sophya nodded as two maids arranged three crystal glass cups before the three plated seats.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to the capital today with me to do some shopping?”
She turned towards him quickly in surprise. “S-shopping?”
Bromwell nodded with an amused smile. “I thought you might like to buy something special to wear for the opening festival, not to mention the Day of Prayer itself.”
“I—” Sophya caught herself quickly. “I’m afraid that is impossible.”
“Oh?”
Suddenly the silverware beside her seemed less than perfectly aligned. Sophya adjusted the second spoon carefully as she replied. “My—finances won’t allow me to purchase—anything.” Heavy embarrassment pressed down upon her chest as she removed her hand from the silverware and glanced at the door behind him. “I wonder what is keeping the Viscount?”
“Sophya?”
She quickly lowered her hands to her lap, where she clasped them together tightly before meeting his gaze.
“While I cannot presume to know the arrangements of your family household,” Bromwell began hesitantly as he studied her. “Here in Gilwren, all ladies of the house are taken care of by the men. I have made a promise to both Viscount Rykard and Duchess Kirsi that I would take care of your every need, whatever that may be. Dresses, shoes, and other apparel, jewels, and necessities—you have but to ask.”
‘Of course, whether it is here, Turnbell, or with the Winslet’s, I am reliant upon others to fulfill my needs. Unlike Maura.’ For a moment, the unsettling and familiar sensation of resentment coiled beneath the trembling hands pressed against her stomach. Sophya blinked and quickly shook her head as she raised her gaze with a smile.
“Thank you—Lord Walter. Then—if your offer still stands—I would be delighted to join you.”
‘There is no reason for me to be jealous of Maura. I have no head for figures or business. If I can have everything I need here with—my new family, then why should I want more?’
“Excellent,” Bromwell replied with a pleased smile. “Shall we head out after breakfast?”
Sophya nodded, unable to disguise her eagerness. Somehow, she doubted that shopping with Bromwell would be anywhere near as depressing as shopping with Lady Florence had been.
She quickly stood as Bromwell rose from his seat and turned to greet her grandfather, who appeared from his study directly behind her.
“Morning, my dear,” Rykard greeted with his usual half-smile as he finished adjusting his jacket. “Please, be seated. Bolton, let the cook know we are ready for breakfast.”
The butler nodded and left towards the servant’s corridor while the Viscount took his seat. “I heard something about shopping?”
“Yes. I am to take Sophya down to the capital after lunch. She is in need of something more appropriate for Holy Saint’s Day.”
“Ah, yes, that bloody festival.”
Sophya arched a brow at her grandfather’s usual disapproval for just about anything related to foreign influence.
“Yes, well, I’m sure you could use a day away from this drearier existence,” Rykard continued while adjusting the chain to his pocket watch. “It will do you good to get out among the young women your age. The both of you should settle down with suitable partners. The sooner, the better.”
“Sophya just broke off one engagement,” Bromwell protested as he flashed her a reassuring smile.
“Still, you won’t know what options you have if you remain shut up here.”
“Grandfather is right,” Sophya replied with a demure smile. “But I was hoping—”
The servant’s door opened, but instead of the butler or a kitchen staff member, a terrifying man appeared. His pale white hair and striking red eyes froze Sophya in her seat. She watched as if dreaming, as the intruder moved fluidly behind the Viscount, whose attentive gaze remained fixed on her. Bromwell jolted up from his chair as the albino opened Rykard’s throat with his dagger.
A scream ripped free from Sophya’s throat as her grandfather clasped helplessly at his throat. The white tablecloth with its blue and violet flowers turned red as Bromwell grabbed a dinner knife and charged. A burning sob filled Sophya’s throat as she pushed against the table, willing her frozen legs to move as she turned towards the door behind her, desperate to flee.
“Sophya, run!” Bromwell’s desperate plea, a growl mingled with pain, snapped her body from its immobile state.
Sophya barely noticed the sound of her chair toppling to the floor behind her as she darted towards the closed door.
‘Left leads to the front of the house. The right will take me towards the servant’s corridors and the stables.’
As her numb fingers clasped the handle, but the door burst inwards, throwing Sophya back towards the table. The corner of her fallen chair smacked against her ribs as she fell to the floor, winded and confused.
Sophya knew the man who had opened the door. His dark ebony eyes narrowed in on her as a sinister smile spread across his sun-kissed brown skin.
‘The slave boy? —But what-what is he doing here?’
His name tumbled from her lips in a whisper even as a strong hand seized her neck from behind and flung Sophya onto the table.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” The albino’s red eyes filled her spinning vision. Droplets of blood streaked across his cheeks and lips, which spread to reveal a nightmarish smile of razor-sharp teeth. “You’re still needed here, Lady Sophya Turnbell.”
Between the frantic bursts of air that barely filled her depleted lungs, Sophya felt the shattered plate and scattered silverware beneath her. Her trembling fingers wrapped around the dull dinner knife as tears of fear blurred her vision.
‘Why? Why is this happening to me again?’
The albino grip tightened as he dragged her from the table back to the floor. A dark laugh filled her ears as a hand twisted her arm and wrist and yanked the knife free. “Do you imagine you’ll do any better with that than he did?”
‘Please, Bromwell. Please be alive!’
The grip on her arm released as more boots appeared on the carpet before her. Sophya blinked numbly as she slowly raised her gaze back to the slave.
The cold, detached look of disgust that Gus offered terrified her far more than the young man and woman in scarlet armor who stood on either side of the slave.
“Lady Sophya,” Gus murmured, his tone almost doubtful but filled with loathing. “It’s been a while.”
‘Why? Why was he here? Why was this happening?’
“The last time I saw you—”
Sophya flinched as his impeccable velvet black boots moved closer. ‘How—does a slave even afford such boots?’
“—was the day your father nearly whipped me to death.”
The albino’s cold fingers slid through Sophya’s hair before he yanked it back, forcing her to meet Gus’s cold gaze through the blur, fearful tears.
“Do you remember?” Gus whispered as he leaned down towards her. “Who it was that set your father to the task?”
“J-Judith,” Sophya stammered out as she shook her head. “It was Judith who told me—”
“It’s pointless to lie now,” Gus snarled as he grabbed Sophya’s neck and pulled her towards him.
‘W-when had he become this strong? No—how did he even survive?’
Sophya whimpered as her useless knees dragged across the floor.
“I bet you never thought the day would come when you’d regret what you did to me,” Gus growled softly against her ears. “But I promise you—not a single day has passed that I haven’t thought about you and your family—and what I would do to you if I had the chance to get revenge.”
“T-they’re dead,” Sophya croaked out. “I-its just me and—”
“Maura,” Gus whispered with a cunning smile.
‘Wait. That was it. Because of Maura, Percy took Gus back with him. That’s how a useless slave managed to survive—but why was he with the witch hunters? And why—why does it look like he’s leading them?’
The albino stood silently to the side, as did the other two witch hunters in their startling scarlet armor. They watched and did nothing as Gus silently traced a finger down Sophya’s cheek.
“W-what will you do with me?” she whispered, unable to hide the terror in her voice.
Gus chuckled as he glanced towards the albino and then released her. Sophya dropped to her hands and knees, shaking as she took in her first unobstructed breath of air. “For now, you are useful to us.”
‘What does that mean?’
“You might even say we’re on the same side,” Gus continued as he pulled out an empty chair at the table and sat down.
Sophya wiped the tears from her cheek as she glanced up at the witch hunters. The young woman with golden-copper curls and violet-blue eyes glared down at her. Sophya hastily dropped her gaze to the carpet as boots crunched against broken glass.
“Vanya,” Gus called out from his seat. “Will you make sure they haven’t ruined our breakfast?”
“Yes, Master Gus.” The witch hunter moved swiftly around the table, past the albino, and pushed open the servant’s door. The faint sound of whimpering filtered through as it shut behind her.
‘Just how many are there? Enough to suppress Grandfather’s guards without being noticed.’ Sophya turned her head slowly in the direction Bromwell, and the albino had fought earlier. Her eyes glazed past her grandfather’s slumped body and the blood which dripped down the scarlet red tablecloth, to where Bromwell’s ash-blonde hair lay against the floor, his body unmoving.
Sophya was too numb to feel anything beyond fear. It was too much to hope for that Bromwell might be alive.
‘But why? Why would witch hunters attack the Viscount and his heir than leave me alive?’
The door in front of her opened, and another witch hunter appeared.
“We’ve eliminated the guard and guaranteed the staff in the barn, Commander.”
“And the infiltrators?” the albino asked sharply.
“We took down two water witches before they could escape to the river. The third managed to slip free—but not without a taste of xx poison.”
“Then let us hope the poison kills them before they can spread word of our arrival.”
The sharp snap of fingers from Gus’s direction proceeded the witch hunters who took Sophya’s arms and lifted her roughly to her feet. The slave boy smirked as he gestured towards the overturned chair behind her.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Lady Sophya. There’s no need for a delicate lady such as yourself to go hungry.”
‘He wants me to—eat with him?’
Sophya offered no word of protest as she was forced back into her chair and pushed towards the table. With her dinner knife somewhere out of sight, only two spoons and a small fork remained to defend her.
The albino picked up Bromwell’s fallen chair and took a seat across from her with a neutral expression. His attention appeared more focused on Gus than Sophya, which suited her just fine.
On the other hand, Gus continued to stare at her with an expression that sent cold sweat trickling down her neck and spine.
‘He—wants to hurt me. I know it.’
Sophya folded her trembling hands in her lap and tried to sit up straight as the room spun slightly around her. Gilwren’s forest painted walls, which once offered such peace and refuge, now closed in around her with certain doom.
‘Please—let me die quickly.’
Two more witch hunters entered the dining room and moved to the albino’s side. ‘Was that six or eight of them now?’ Even if Sophya could escape the dining room’s suffocating scent of death, she held little hope of escaping the Manor.
“Well, then Master, Gus. I’ll leave everything here in your care,” the albino said as he stood to leave. “I am needed in the capital.”
“Then the Pope has arrived?” Gus asked, showing not even the slightest hint of fear as he addressed the formidable man.
“Indeed. If you run into any trouble, let Vanya and Terik handle it for you. For now, your mission is to keep out of sight until his Holiness sends for you. How you spend your time—”
Sophya flinched as the albino’s red eyes returned to her.
“—is up to you. Just remember to keep her alive—at least for the meantime.”
Gus grunted and then leaned back to place his remarkably clean boots on the table. “So long as his Holiness keeps his word, I am content to play whatever role he deems appropriate.”
The albino nodded his approval and then turned to the witch hunters waiting behind him. “Teirk, get this place cleaned up the place and dispose of the bodies.”
“Yes, Commander.” The witch hunter with a scarlet eyepatch over his left eye bowed his head before he, in turn, gestured to the two hunters waiting beside him. The pair swiftly moved to lift Rykard’s corpse from his chair and carried it out of the room towards the back of the house. No sooner had they left than two other witch hunters entered to remove Bromwell’s body.
The scarlet stain of red that ran from Walter’s neck down his chest and side only emphasized the blank and empty expression in his eyes. Sophya turned her gaze away and clenched her eyes shut to hold back the tears that burned against them.
The arrival of breakfast nearly upended her empty stomach as Terik, Vanya, and Gus all dug in hungrily, ignoring the blood-splattered state of the table as they did so.
“Eat up, Lady Sophya,” Gus reiterated for perhaps the third or fourth time—Sophya was feeling far too delirious to keep track. “You can return to your rooms after you’ve finished your plate.”
“What—will you do with me?” She repeated, determined to meet her fate sooner rather than later.
Gus wiped a bit of grease from his lips as he studied her with a calculating smile. “Didn’t I say that we’re on the same side?”
“You and I are not allies,” Sophya replied through gritted teeth. “You just killed—”
“The death of the Viscount and your cousin was necessary,” Gus interrupted with a shake of his head. “How else were you to become Viscountess of Gilwren?”
‘W-what?’
“An important vote is coming up before the House of Lords,” Terik added between mouthfuls of sausage and boiled eggs. “A new Prime Minister will be selected based on the noble’s vote.”
“Your grandfather would have voted for Lord Percy Hawthorne,” Gus continued before he leaned across the table to pull the pitcher of sweat grape wine towards him and refill his glass. “The vote is too close to leave it up to chance.”
“So—you want me to—”
“Vote for Lord Percy’s opposition, Lord Coldwell,” Terik finished. “Vanya, the wine, please.”
The female witch hunter shot him an annoyed look but rose from her seat to carry the pitcher from Gus to her companion.
“But—surely the death of my grandfather and—Bromwell—”
“By the time the House of Lords assembles to count the vote, it won’t matter how they died,” Terik replied confidently as he held his empty glass out for Vanya to fill.
Sophya blinked, unable to think of a countering response, not that it mattered. For now, they seemed to have good reason to keep her alive. “And—after the vote?”
Terik shrugged as his single amber-brown eye turned towards the slave seated beside her. “That will depend on Master Gus.”
‘So, I’m dead either way.’ Sophya blinked slowly as a barely audible ring filtered through the muffled conversation of these uninvited guests. ‘And here I was dreaming that I might start over and live differently.’ She clenched her trembling jaw as tears continued to trail down her cheek, staining the blouse of her olive-green dress.
‘What was it Maura told me, back when we were children—before she pushed me down the stairs? That I was fated to die miserably no matter what I do.’
“You’re not eating, Lady Sophya.”
She flinched as Gus slid his fingers around the back of her neck but remained calm as she turned to meet the slave’s condemning gaze.
“I have no appetite—Master Gus.”