Chapter 5
Previously: The Rose of Whitby – Chapter 4
For lack of anything else to do, Arthur returns to the castle, decides to explore it some more- from the way Llew was talking, they can stay here now, and he said the wards would protect them from his father. Arthur still thinks there has to be a catch to this, especially what with Llew admitting he’s fey, and brought them there to protect it- from, Arthur guesses, the things the wards don’t protect it from?
In any stories he’s ever heard, the fey are usually tricky and not nice. But then, who knows how accurate those stories are? They certainly don’t get mages right. So… so he guesses he’ll accept this opportunity for now, and if it goes terribly wrong… he’ll have to deal with it. And it’s not like he has any other options, really.
Inside, he wanders along more corridors, winds his way down to the cellar- where there’s actual cells. Like, an actual dungeon! But at least they’re empty, and clean, like they haven’t been used in a long time. For which he’s very glad.
There’s also a wooden door beautifully carved with vines that doesn’t open when he tries, and a wine cellar. And behind the wine cellar, door tucked away and hidden in shadows, is another room- one with a big table and a chair, a desk and shelves. The light from the candlestick he found upstairs and brought with him on this exploration doesn’t reach into all the corners, but he can tell the walls are the grey stone of the castle, and there are cobwebs in the corners and dust all over the floor and surfaces. Arthur studies it- and kind of likes it. It’s hidden away and out of the way. It feels safe, and he wonders whether he could maybe make it his hide-out.
He returns upstairs, and tries to figure out at least the main layout and corridors, and as he does, the faint dust under his feet floats up and vanishes as the carpet ripples in a wave from one end of the corridor to the other, repairing itself at the same time as the cobwebs on the walls vanish. Startled, he looks around, to find everything fresher, cleaner, the faint patina of neglect and abandonment over everything gone.
Magic, clearly- fey magic?
He doesn’t know nearly enough about fey and their magic, he thinks, and he wishes he had a way to find out more.
And oddly enough, as he makes a circuit of the ground floor, he finds two big double doors, and when he cracks one open and sticks his head through, he finds- the library.
That, he is utterly unable to resist, slips in, closes the door behind his back with a quiet snick while his eyes take in the shelves and shelves of books, climbing up the walls and jutting into the room, and then there’s a gallery and another story of walls covered in books.
It’s like a dream. He’s read about libraries, but he’s never been in one like this. Trying to take in how many books there must be, he wanders slowly along the open space in the middle- it has to be thousands of books, he thinks. Thousands and thousands.
So it takes him a moment to realize that Darcy is already in the room, seated at a big table that’s on the other end from the door, where several tall windows let in a flood of light. He’s not sure whether she’s noticed him, she’s glaring at… her wrist? That’s what it looks like to him. She’s wearing a pretty golden bracelet, and he’s not sure whether she’s had it before or not, or why it would be something to glare at.
In either case, he makes his escape into the stacks to find out what kinds of books there are here- part of him wants to leave all together now that he saw he’s not alone, but… all of these books, he just can’t bring himself to put off exploring them.
~~~~
What Arthur hadn’t seen at the distance is the tabby cat hidden behind the book on vampires Darcy is reading. There had been one about dhampirs, too, but frankly, she doesn’t feel ready to even consider that. In all honesty, she hadn’t felt ready to even consider vampires, but when she had run into the garden, she found this very friendly brown cat. She likes animals, always has, she spent hours in her window hoping to catch a glimpse of any birds or dogs and cats down on the street.
She named the cat Pretty, felt a little better after talking to it, petting it, fur feels so nice she thinks, and the cat had let her carry it around. She needed that support when she went back into the castle, because what else could she have done, and found Eluned waiting on her. The friendly demeanor earlier must have been a ruse because she seems like a different person. Not that it matters, Darcy knows she’s trapped, she didn’t need Eluned to point out that she and the boys had accepted their hospitality, she knows how fey act in the stories. She didn’t want to, but she signed the contract for the castle, the magic castle, hers to defend from humans and other intruders for the reward of being a real baroness now. She never thought the dream of being a princess coming true could taste so bitter. Never thought a beautiful bracelet could feel like a shackle, a terrible reminder of the contract, of signing her freedom away.
If she ever had any freedom to begin with. Once she was done with Eluned, the cat was still sitting in front of the door and she’s so glad about that, she needs to get her mind off this fairytale being all twisted. So she picked it up again, sought shelter in where she always found it, in books. She put her cat Pretty on her lap so she could read to it, then she didn’t have to deal with the scary knowledge that maybe she’s a monster rather than sick by herself, then she has a friend supporting her. Her only friend here in this horrid place with these boys she hates! One of them had to come into the library. She pointedly ignores him and thankfully, he vanishes around a bookshelf in mere moments but reappears a while later with a pile of books that seems dangerously tall to carry.
He wobbles a bit but manages, takes a seat at a respectful distance to her, at least he has some manners! And, he likes books, clearly, she likes books, too. Maybe he’s not so bad? It is a bit silly that she can’t talk to anybody… Maybe she can find a way to do this without being improper? Oh, that might work! She is just about to get up to look around for something to write with when she startles as pen and paper appear on the table next to her. For a moment, she glares at that, right, the house spirit, she saw that in that disgusting contract the fey made her sign. But that’s not the house spirit’s fault, so she politely thanks it and then takes the materials to write a letter to, oh dear, she doesn’t even really know his name. This is going to be very rude, she fears, so she leaves it at a formal introduction for the moment before asking her cat if it could bring the letter over, she’s read in her books that the heroine’s animal companion can be useful for things like that. And indeed, the cat takes her letter and delivers it, oh, how droll, Darcy has to restrain herself from clapping her hands in delight, that wouldn’t do in front of the strange man.
He’s so absorbed in the book that the cat has to nudge him before he takes the letter. One quick confused look later he realises what must go on, nice, at least he has a brain, and he has some manners, he must be of a better class than the other one, clearly! He looks so unsure though, glances at her shyly, then nearly jumps as the house spirit also delivers letter writing materials and some books to him. She decides she’ll have to explain that in the next letter, for now feigns to politely ignore him. He doesn’t start writing right away, anyway, rather turns back to his books that he seems to more devour than read. From a glimpse she catches of a cover, they are etiquette books.
Having ended up actually reading her own book, she looks up when her cat holds an answer letter in his mouth. She pets him as thanks and tries not to be too excited. A letter. To her! She has somebody to actually write her letters! Papa so often can’t answer her letters, he’s always out for so long, has to travel so much for work and he doesn’t always manage to write back… and okay, sometimes his letters get lost because the postal office cannot decipher the address. His handwriting isn’t that bad, at least Darcy doesn’t think so, after all, he’s her papa! It’s those postal people’s fault, definitely.
Anyway, she has a letter from Master Arthur Lancaster. Oh, this is delightful, so she gets right to it to answer back, explaining about the house spirit and that he doesn’t need to worry about it, it’s part of this, she nearly wrote something rude, well, part of this castle and it’s here to help. Thinking it only polite she enquires about his favourite books as he clearly is a man of reading.
~~~~
They pass the rest of the afternoon reading and writing letters, and while Arthur still feels terribly self-conscious, at least this way, he can think about his words before he puts them down. Yes, he actually prefers this to talking, he thinks, and it’s the first time he’s writing letters to anyone- it’s kind of fun? Maybe the girl, Darcy, isn’t quite as scary as he thought.
And it’s not like he got to discuss books with anyone before, either- she loves travelogues rather than adventure stories, but she doesn’t think they’re so different, and he has to agree. Clearly, they both like reading about far-away places. She also very much loves fairytales, which he has to admit he isn’t very familiar with, so she writes about those- and they’re both agreed that Treasure Island is a lovely book.
~~~~
The awkwardness returns, at least where he’s concerned, when it comes to dinner- his head is swimming with all the etiquette rules he’s read over the last few hours, and there are so many of them! Still, he tries his best to follow them- and still completely misses that Darcy is trying to talk to him when she for some reason gets a fan from the house spirit and waves it and holds it in different ways.
He feels very stupid when the house pops a dictionary on fan language up next to him, finally, and he’s sure Gregory, from where he’s acting the server for some reason, is smirking at him.
But at least with the dictionary, he knows what Darcy is trying to communicate to him.
Still- these high society manners are like a maze, and he wishes they could just cut through them and talk like normal people. Which, of course, no doubt shows his own lack of breeding, and he has no doubt that it’s blatantly obvious to Darcy that he isn’t of any fancy status, that he makes mistakes with every look and movement and bite of his dinner. There isn’t really anything he can do about it, though, except try his hardest to remember everything he read about how he’s supposed to behave.
~~~~
Contrary to Arthur’s fears, Darcy is too busy being worried about her own manners to judge him for his. She’s only ever dined with her papa and that was a completely different situation! She’s had training, of course, and she knows rules are there to protect you but there are so many and it feels very different actually using them. She hopes she’s not completely embarrassing herself, clearly she made a mistake trying for the fan codes, she must have used the wrong ones and now Arthur must think her uppity or stupid. She can’t wait for this to be over so she can hide from having to be social with strangers. Well, maybe stranger because that horrid other boy is at least not sitting at the table but serving them. Maybe he’s Master Lancaster’s servant? That would make a bit of sense at least, but he’s still way too close and she’s glad when nobody reprimands her as she skips desserts.
~~~~
After dinner, they all retire to their rooms- Arthur supposes it’s really his room now, if they’re staying here. It still doesn’t look any more personal than before, but when he peeks into the wardrobe, he finds actual clothes in there- fresh shirts and things, and even several suits like the one he’s wearing. And there are now books on some of the shelves- Treasure Island included.
It must be that house spirit, he decides. It also seems to think he needs Scotch and heavy glass tumblers in one cupboard- he supposes that’s the sort of thing you find in a gentleman’s room?
He doesn’t feel much like a gentleman as he dares to sink down on the edge of the bed, finds his hands shaking as the whirlwind of the day catches up with him- this morning he was still at home, in his own room! That feels a million miles away now.
He kind of wishes he’d never gone to the prison. Then his father would still be locked up- well, or would have to find a different way to break out.
And he’d still be at home, in a place he knows, where he knows the rules and doesn’t have to pretend to be something he isn’t.
Also a place where he’s not at all sure how they’ll survive the winter once more… Though now Gregory has powers.
If he’s Gregory.
He still doesn’t know. He doesn’t know whether he’ll ever know.
Is it Gregory or is it a demon pretending to be Gregory?
Gregory said the demon was dead, the one time they talked about it, a few days after it happened. When Arthur argued that he’d felt it, the size, the power, Gregory said it’d been like a whale- a dead one. Still big and heavy, but dead.
Arthur… has no way of knowing whether he’s telling the truth or not.
He wants to believe Gregory so badly. He wants to believe Gregory is alive again, and is still his best friend, and that he didn’t fuck up, that he didn’t do something horrible to him.
And because he wants to believe it so badly, he knows he can’t trust himself, can’t trust his own assessment. What if he’s fooling himself? What if he’s blind to any changes because he’s too close?
Or what if the demon is just really good at pretending? He doesn’t know much about demons, but by reputation they’re very smart and cunning. He’s just a fifteen-year-old boy- what does he know?
And now they’re in a magical castle, and he wants to feel safe, but if he’s learned one thing in life it’s that if something looks too good to be true- it’s because it’s a con.
Still. What choice does he have? At least he’s warm and there’s food. And if he can fake being anything but a low-class, poor pick-pocket and son of a necromancer from the East End, maybe he won’t get arrested and thrown into prison.
Or hanged.
Or captured by his father.
Or cursed by him.
He shudders- he remembers the stories about how the baker died far too well. Boils and rot and two weeks of agony.
Of course, that is the point Gregory chooses to yank open the door and all but bounce inside, gushing about “how cool is this, Artie?!”: A magic castle, and apparently it’s stocked his room with beer- and a cat bed in addition to his regular one!
It takes him a few monosyllabic replies from Arthur before he notices his enthusiasm isn’t shared.
Not that Arthur’s sure he wanted him to notice- again, he’d so like to believe the concerned look Gregory is giving him, the consoling expression and hand on his shoulder.
But he can’t, not fully.
Is it Gregory he’s talking to, or something pretending to be Gregory for its own ends?
But it’s not like there’s any point in talking to Gregory about that, so instead he admits to his worry about his father… and that leads to remembering the prison break, and all the murdered guards, the blood and the smell of wet stone, the sewage smell of death.
Maybe they were scary men, and probably not nice, either, but they were also just doing their jobs and probably they had families, who’re now without income, maybe without someone they loved…
The thought makes him shiver, bite back a sob- he hates people dying. He remembers too well what it felt like when Gregory died.
As he fights not to cry, not to curl up into a tiny ball and sob like the child he feels like, Gregory bounces back up, declares he’ll get something to help, hold on!, and rushes out the room.
Arthur can’t help a sense of relief together with another stab of pain. If he was sure it was Gregory, he’d let himself cry, he’d let himself be hugged.
But he isn’t, and so he doesn’t.
When Gregory returns with a cup of tea, he hasn’t really managed to pull himself back together- rather, keep himself teetering on the edge of being overwhelmed by the terror of the day rather than falling over it.
So he doesn’t argue when Gregory urges him to get into bed and presses a steaming cup of tea at him.
Tea sounds good, as does sleep. Forgetting for a few hours. Hopefully to feel better in the morning.
He does take the time to put his fancy suit carefully over the back of the chair by the room’s small writing desk- he’s never owned anything so nice and pricey, he’s not sure how to make sure it stays that way.
And since it still feels wrong to make these clean sheets dirty, he switches to a clean shirt, too. Wearing a clean shirt to sleep in is strange, but… there are half a dozen in the wardrobe, all sparkling white.
The sheets are thick and warm quickly, and the duvet is heavy on top of him. The mattress and the pillows are incredibly soft.
So he drinks the tea, decides not to question the sweet tang to it that doesn’t taste like honey, curls up in all this clean, nice-smelling softness, and is asleep, deep and heavy and dreamless almost before he registers the light weight of Gregory’s cat body settling on top of the duvet.
~~~~
Darcy in her room, meanwhile, feels rather better, kind of feels she dealt with her nerves earlier. Now there’s nothing more to do than to just do her best as a twisted fairytale princess so she decides to rather investigate her room, which was her mother’s room, who seems to also have read a lot. Maybe she can learn something about her mother? Yes, she can alright. Deeply red in the face Darcy stuffs the book quickly back where she found it, buries her face in her hands and silently squeals in embarrassment about her mother clearly being a harlot! Now if she could just fall asleep to get over that embarrassment! She had put the nasty vases of empty dirt outside the room, thinking it must be the smell but now the house is insisting on putting them back. Just about to get out of bed to get rid again of them she yawns, falls back and is asleep a moment later.