Chapter Text
The wind howls through the rolling grey hills and the clouded darkening sky of the moorlands. And the moisture thickened through the fog is enough to overtake the breath and chill one right down to the lungs. The scarce and misshapen trees of the moor twist their leafless branches as they stir against the merciless howls. And the cold grey waters of the North Eldian Sea twist and turn as they crash against the cragg and whip themselves into a churn.
As the air grows foggier and chillier with evening approaching the late autumn sky, a gentleman, bent over his thick black cloak, steers his horse down a worn and cobbled road as he comes up to its famous fork. Surveilling the old and worn sign up above his head, his eyes trail slowly over each directional mark.
Nedlay, North.
Calenth, Northwest.
Mitras, Southeast.
Stohess, South, the way he came.
For the man is a southern gentleman, with wide brown eyes, short brown hair, and skin as dark as the night. And to be here, so far up north and away from home; he might as well be on an entirely different planet from that back home.
Shivering from the damp cold of the moor, even under his thick cloak, he shudders with a chill as he pulls out a rolled map hidden within his thick sable coat. Unfurling it, he glances it over, quickly catching sight of the matching fork. Letting his gloved finger trail over it slowly, he lets it glide north and northwest as he’s been told; northwest to a symbol of a manor, the place he needs to go.
Grey Hill Manor. Ehrmich County. About five miles northeast and one mile off the coast of Paradis Island
A small and insignificant manor that sits on a parcel of large and undeveloped land. Just the place’s he’d be heading if he could see through the growing fog. Nevertheless, he must go; he can smell the unmistakable scent of a rain on the horizon with night fast approaching. And with his faded map, the man can see the estate of Highcliffe Hall is further off and the nearest town of Nedlay well over 10 miles away.
No. He’ll have to go to Grey Hill and he’ll have to go there quick; even now he can hear a muffled thunder up ahead.
Shoving his map in his satchel with a heavy pant and a swift kick, his horse whinnies high as it gallops ahead; thankful to have a cobblestoned path to keep travelling along as the fog begins to thicken. Panting as he rides, the man checks his pocket watch all over again.
6 o’clock. No callers after dinner time. He’ll be lucky if they even let him in.
But then again, he’s heard some troubling things about his destination; propriety and manner seems all but forgotten where he’s headed.
Suddenly, with a low and heavy rumble of thunder, the sky opens up and a cold and hard rain pellets the man’s exposed neck mercilessly. It sends utter shuddering shivers through his frigidly damp body like barely-warmed ice on his skin. Feeling the cold seeping right into his bones, he curses himself for having come this far; for not bothering to stop for supper and for a bed and and now he’s too far gone to turn and go back.
The only mercy to him as he keeps galloping through the dreary moors is that the rain douses the fog; lifting enough of a view for him to see where he’s even going. The land, this land of the Paradisan flatlands, it’s wetter than he could imagine with its soggy peat and water-logged fields that turn to ice with the cold. Perhaps, in summertime, it’s a lovely place in its own right. But now with the winds of coming winter howling in his ears, even the dreariness of its beauty seems all but lost on him.
The moors of northern Paradis, within the county of Ehrmich. The last glimpse of civilization before one gets lost in the craggy cliffs and the towering mountains that snow well into the spring. And Nedlay is Paradis’ last bastion of humanity; with houses and distilleries and factories popping up every few acres as they lead into town. Indeed, the man can see some factories rising in the distance as he rides on; their smoking stacked chimneys towering over the low rolling hills and the glen just ahead.
But turning his head back to the road, he almost has to yank his horse to stop it as he comes up to his destination; the iron gates of Grey Hill.
It’s an incredible sight for him to see; a parcel of misty land just beyond the old and worn gates as wide and as far as the eye can see. And just a few yards from behind the gate, there stands a small gatekeeper's lodge though it seems dark and uninhabited. So it's all but thankful, at least for him, that the gates are unlocked and accessible to the outside.
But perhaps, maybe that’s because he’s to be expected. This place hardly comes across like it welcomes many visitors if any at all.
Pushing the loud and creaking gate open just enough to slip in, the dark-skinned man keeps riding and passes the lodge as he does; thankful to know his destination is just up ahead. But as his time stretches from 1 minute to 3 and 3 to 5, he’s shocked at just how big this property stretches back. Finally, at the 7 minute mark and with a visible pant of relief that catches on the chilled air, he finally sees sight of an old and grey manor on the horizon.
Thank God.
No more of this madness tonight.
With unbounded relief to soon be free from this weather, the man presses in his legs to coax his weary horse into a gallop; hearing it snort in growing exhaustion from the wind and the cold and the rain. And yet coming up close to the manor, his relief uneasily shatters to see the once-stately manor looking like it’s seen better days.
This farmhouse, this Grey Hill Manor, well into its 160th year, looks uncharitably like its age. There’s no two ways about it. Many of the shutters are missing and those that aren’t hang off their hinges. The grey-brick stone of the siding is worn for wear. The black tiled roof looks spotty and open to the elements in places. And the second floor seems entirely out of use with its blackened windows, many of which seem cobwebbed and some even seem open to the wind.
For such a stately house on such a valuable plot of land, you’d think Grey Hill Manor would be better taken care of than this.
Shivering from the cold unwelcomeness, the man draws his soaked cloak further to his skin; almost debating just how much more he’s willing to ride for an inn in town with a nice warm bed. But another deep roll of thunder stiffens any further debate and draws the man to quickly dismount. Rushing up to the door with reins in hand, he eyes the big letters spelling out 'WIEDER' carved above the entrance just as he frantically knocks on the great knocker, thankfully still intact.
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
“Hello?! Hello?!” the man bellows to be heard above the wind. “For God’s sake, let me in!”
A moment passes without a sound of life and he loudly knocks again.
“HELLO?!”
With an arduous click and a creaking stir, the door sluggishly opens to reveal an old man’s ruddy and unwelcoming face within the dark; his eyes puffed with age and his short hair and beard blindingly white against the black.
“Who’re you?” he calls out coarsely with the reek of wine upon his breath.
“Mr. Onyakapon Akuoko! Solicitor and estate agent from the south!” the man calls back.
“Not for sale,” the older man gruffly replies and sluggishly moves to shut the door in Onyankopon’s face.
But he’s younger and faster in his step and moves his foot in to stop the door in its path. “I’m here on behalf of your master’s call,” he pants with a chilled breath. “He’s been in correspondence with me for weeks now.”
The old man gruffly narrows his eyes in open suspicion. “My master would never send for someone like you.”
“Well, he did. I have correspondence to prove it,” Onyankopon says as he quickly digs inside his coat to produce a letter and a card and hand them through the crack. “He asked me to come here forthwith. On account of his estate sale.”
Looking the letter over slowly, the old man scoffs. “I can’t read this fancy city dribble—”
“Be that as it may, he did summon me here,” the agent shivers in chill and frustration. “Now would you kindly let me in? I’m afraid I might freeze if I stand here another moment.”
“Fine. Come in—”
“And can you summon someone to take my horse? I saw no hitching post—”
“Tch, where do ya think ya are? The Summer Palace on the sea?” the old man mockingly guffaws. “We’ve got no servants for horses ‘round here. You take it ‘round to the barn and come in through the back.”
With that, he promptly shuts the door; being sure to roundly lock it to the solicitor and the wind. And with a huff of frustrated breath, he pulls his reins to coax his horse around the stretch of manor to head around the back. And out there in that lonely stretch of dreary moor, he rushes quickly up to a worn-through sight of the empty stables and an attached barn at its side.
Breathing in relief, he gives his horse a measure of warmth within the barn with its straw-strewn floor and its closure from the rain. Shaking out as he pats his flank, Onyankopon gazes uneasily at the back of Grey Hill, debating whether he’d be happier to just sleep out here for the night.
But a need for further warmth and a sense of curiosity draw him back out into the rain and with rushed feet and a desperation, he cuts back to the back door. Throwing it open, he steps inside and shivers from his chill, only to be met with the relieving warmth of a deep kitchen’s fire. Sighing as he turns around, he gazes at the dimly-light stone and spacious kitchen with its big fireplace, a simple table, and its outdated wood-burning stove; a surprisingly spare kitchen for such a stately place.
But what catches Onyankopon's eyes the most is the sight of two unfamiliar women sitting before the fireplace with woolen shawls wrapped tight around their shoulders. Hearing the raggedness in his breath to little reaction, they both turn to glance at him in silence.
The older woman has a gentle face but a weariness that’s set deep within her wrinkles and ridges. And with a tight and high bun of grey-black hair, so proper and prim, she carries herself with the servile air of a well-seasoned housekeeper; a perplexing sight for a place like this. The younger woman, sitting next to her, is also a surprising sight. She seems more relaxed, too relaxed for a servant, with her youthful posture under her tartan dress and her wild and free hair. Her loose ringlets with their unnatural warmth in such a cold and damp place. Made of bronze copper, fiery dark auburn against the fire, that frames a markedly beautiful face.
And her pretty eyes, staring at him; they’re enough to catch his breath. Glowing with a slight vibrance, a stormy blueish-violet that almost rings as grey as the clouds overhead.
There’s a beauty to her unlike any other; indeed, she’d be a beauty anywhere—
“Ahhh, looked over yer letter with a magnifyin’ glass,” the old man says as he comes through the swinging wooden door. “Ya didn’t say you were here for Mr. Oliver when you arrived.”
Blinking in surprise to be brought back to the present, Onyakapon hums in confusion. “Mr. Oliver? You mean the Duke? Lord Galliard, himself?”
“Pffft, do yourself a favour. Don’t mention that name ‘round ‘ere,” the old man chuckles as he shuffles up to the agent to hand him back his note. “We call him Oliver; best you do the same.”
“Mr. Galliard wouldn’t mind?”
“Mr. Oliver knows not to make trouble for himself when he’s on this land; ain’t that right, Miss Lucy?”
The young girl nearby only hums with a nod of a reply.
“Ohh… I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t bother to catch your name,” Onyankapon blinks as he eyes the girl once again. “You’re the master of the house, I presume? You’re Mr. Jaeger himself?”
“Me? Mr. Eren?” the old man scoffs with a crooked smile. “Please. I’m only the bloody butler.”
“Butler? You said there were no servants here.”
“There are servants here, sir…” the old woman interjects as she moves to stiffly stand. “Servants being me and Mr. Hannes, here. And what he means to say is that he used to be the butler; now he's just the groundskeeper.”
“Oh, I see… my apologies,” Onyankapon says with a nod of his head. “And your name, madam?”
“Tybur,” she says as she steps close with a raised hand and keys hanging from her waist. “Mrs. Lara Tybur; I’m the housekeeper to Grey Hill.”
“Oh… Mr. Onyankapon Akuoko… I’m a solicitor; acting as estate agent for the time.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Akuoko,” she bows with a small but not unpleasant smile. “Although I would have told you you’ve come to Greyacre at the greyest of times.”
“Aye. Would've told you to come in the spring and summer,” Hannes says with a grudging nod. “You did yourselves no favours comin’ up here at the end of October. You’ll be lucky if you’re not snowed in.”
“Yes, believe me,” the agent chuckles uneasily. “I’m quite anxious to get this all taken care of so I can be on my way.”
“On your way back south you mean?” Hannes’ old hazel eyes narrow suspiciously.
“Ahh, yes, I hail from Stohess… my office and home is set up there.”
“Tch, course he outsourced a bloody agent from the south,” the groundskeeper says as Mrs. Tybur eyes him coolly. “Everywhere I look, there’s agents of the south.”
“Agents of the south?”
Lara offers the solicitor a small and apologetic smile. “We’re northerners, sir; old ones at that. We’ve seen many southern influences take over Greyacre over the last few decades; some of us have taken to change better than others.”
“I just pray I’m dead in my bed before the next big one hits,” Hannes says gruffly. “You a man of God, Mr. Akuoko?”
“I am, sir.”
“Good, makes you better than most of ‘em.”
An abrupt creaking of the door ends all conversation and Onyakapon turns his head. Catching sight, he sees a young man pant as he shakes his drenched coat and steps in with something small and furry slung on his back.
“Bloody hell,” he pants as he shakes the rain from his wolfish dark brown hair. “It’s fucking cold out—”
“Language, Oliver.”
“Right… sorry, Lara…” the young man sniffs, rubs his drenched and handsome face before straightening his back; his broadening shoulders squaring under his thick pelt. Eyes turning to the outsider, Onyankapon catches a flash of sea-green blue; the young man’s eyes mirroring those of the silent girl nearby.
“Ahh, Mr. Galli—Mr. Oliver, sir, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Aye… and same to you…” Oliver says cautiously. “Who might you be?”
“Oh, sorry—I’m very weary from my travels. Mr. Akuoku; the estate agent from Reeves Firm & Estates—”
“Oh, right, good to meet you. Oliver’s just fine,” the young man quickly cheers up; his warmed glove shoving informally into Onyakaon’s for a firm handshake. “Glad to see you made it up here in one piece.”
“Yes, I did and thankfully before the rain turned into sleet as I see…” he sighs as he turns to eye the wet snow sliding down in streaks on the glass.
“I told ‘im it was fool’s work comin’ up here in the late of fall,” Hannes mutters disapprovingly as he eyes the outside. “What kinda fool calls on a southerner to brave such weather as this.”
“Forgive me, Hannes, it couldn’t be helped,” Oliver says with a roll of his teal-green eyes as he drops dead rabbits on the table to Lara’s wary eye. “What was I to do? This needs to be done—”
“It shouldn’t be done at all.”
“Forgive me, sir, I hate to overstep my bounds,” the estate agent says with a hint of reluctance as he eyes the men. “You don’t seem like a duke—you seem as much beholden to your servants as they are to you.”
“Pfft, ya mean he doesn’t lord over us like a duke?” Hannes scoffs as he leans over the stove to gaze out the darkening window.
“Well, it’s nothin’, really, Mr. Akuoko,” Oliver shrugs with a slightly proud and boyish beam to his cheerful and handsome face. “I’m a northern duke—northern born and bred. I was raised on the moor just as much as in the manor. “
“Much good it did ya.”
“Forgive him of his grouchery,” Oliver smiles a little warily at the old butler. “Hannes is a true born northman of an older sort; they don’t make the best for sunshine and cheer.”
“You think I’m bad,” Hannes laughs as he uncorks a bottle for a swig. “Wait till ya see the old master.”
“Yes, where is he, Oliver?” Mrs. Tybur sighs as she brushes down her worn and weathered apron and pulls a knife from the table to begin skinning the rabbit. “He’s the one bringin’ us back dinner for tomorrow—what else did you two catch?”
“Uhh, caught two more rabbits on top of this one; the baby led us to its mum’s den,” the young duke shrugs uncommittally. “Too windy for duck and pheasant.”
“Then rabbit, it is,” Mrs. Tybur sighs as Lucy comes to pull Onyankapon’s cape from his shoulders and gestures him forward. “Right, go sit and dry yourself by the fire with Lucy. I know this frigid weather does no good with your southern constitutions. I’ll make you a cup of tea to warm you up.”
Heeding her words, Onyankapon settles himself in the housekeeper’s chair. Nodding his thanks to her, the chilled agent turns his eye to the girl before him; undoubtedly, the most silent of the bunch. “Hello…” he says with a small and gentle voice befitting the young woman’s delicate composure. “You must be Lucy…”
“Galliard,” she replies meekly.
“Galliard?” Onyankapon blinks as he turns to Oliver. “I see; I could tell there’s a familial resemblance. Are you two related?”
“Cousins, sir…” the housemaid says firmly from the table. “They’re first-cousins.”
“Oh. I would’ve taken you for brother and sister, myself.”
Glancing at the averting eyes of Lucy, Oliver shifts uncomfortably as he sets his second rabbit on the table; visibly swallowing as his jaw sets in unease. “Lara? You want me to skin this one?”
Lara sighs as she looks it over. “No, lemme put it in the cellar once I’m done. You’ve got business with this man.”
“Right, I’ll do that quickly before he comes in,” Oliver sighs as he steps clear of the table to grab a stool and come warm himself by his solicitor’s side. “I trust you have the documents on hand, Mr. Akuoku?”
“I do, sir,” Onyakapon clears his dry throat as he pulls his leather satchel from his side and pats it gently. “Transfer of ownership and appeal documents all here; all the master needs to do is sign.”
“Well, as I wrote to inform your employer, I’ve not quite convinced him yet,” the young duke sighs in a hard-pressed reply. “I’m hoping against hope that with your presence, maybe he’ll finally be swayed. Your agency said you were one of the best”
“Yes, I’ll do all I can, sir,” the solicitor chuckles confidently. “I’ve had my fair share of difficult clients before.”
“You’ve had none such as this, sir. He’ll make you run for the hil—”
A sudden and loud swing of the door abruptly stops young Oliver in his breath and he and his agent turn to see a tall and lean man step in; his shoulders broad and toned even under his own thick black wool coat. Panting with a heavily ragged breath, he’s unquestionably handsome even with his grimy ruggedness; his long dark hair falling down past his shoulders as he rubs his grown-in whiskers shadowing his questionably sun-kissed skin.
“Fuck’s sake, it’s cold out there,” his thick and deep voice mutters out as he stalks in. “We’re in for a clipper.”
“Ohh, dear… here I thought I’d catch the train tomorrow morn’,” Lara sighs as he drops his rabbit kills carelessly on the table before her. “Seems like Greyacre’s not one to let me leave, Eren.”
“You left it once, Tybur. Never agai—” the man’s voice cuts out as he eyes the stranger sitting before him in one of his chairs. Sharply, his eyes narrow in quick hostility as he stares at the man. “Who the hell are you?”
Taken aback by his instant rancor, Onyankapon eyes a silent Oliver before they both arise. Seeing the master of the house before him now, the solicitor’s tongue immediately falters. For the man’s much taller than he’d reckoned, well above 6 feet and towering with his broad shoulders and harsh glare. His handsomeness, now in the light of the fire, is unquestionable but shows signs of age. His hair, wild and unrefined in its deep brown ember hue and his eyes, sharp, and vibrantly verdant; almost like the green eyes of a serpentine predator.
“Hey. I said who the hell are you?” the man named Eren says once again; outwardly refusing him any grace.
“I’m—uhh, sorry, Mr. Jaeger—” Onyakapon replies with a flushed falter; quickly reaching in his jacket pocket to present him with a card. “My—my name is Mr. Onyankapon Akuoku… I’m a solicitor from the south.”
“A solicitor?” the man’s suspicious green eyes sharpen. “What’re you doing here, Mr. Akuoku? I’m surprised you’d choose a storm such as this to go wandering on my land…”
“I’m sorry…” the solicitor swallows a gulp; his eyes darting over to Mrs. Tybur as she keeps to her work and skins the rabbits on the table without reply. “I, uhh, I had some trouble finding my way to you on the moor; I dare say I got lost a few times…”
Mr. Jaeger doesn’t speak or even mutter a response. His eyes remain sharp and suspicious as he turns his eyes to the young man on his shoulder. “Is this your doing, boy?”
Oliver shifts under his eyes yet squares his shoulders nevertheless. “It is, sir. I thought we could discuss the great matter of Grey Hill’s purchase with you again—”
“Not interested,” Mr. Jaeger mutters as he trudges past the table. “You best be on your way; Nedlay’s three miles north. You’ll be lucky to make it by 9 at this rate.”
“Bu—I—” Onyankapon flusters in disbelief as he stares out at the howling dark. “I can’t go out there! It’s a storm. Perhaps you can guide me to Nedlay—”
“I will not.”
Shifting as he steps up to Jaeger, Oliver clears his gruff throat. “I can lead him into town for the night—”
“You can lead him to hell for all I care,” Jaeger says as he strides to the kitchen door to make his leave.
“But—Mr. Jaeger, please! If you will not allow me a guide, I shall have to sleep here for the night.”
Jaeger eyes him with cold indifference. “I don’t keep accommodations for strangers. Be on your way.”
With that, he thrusts the door open to fade into the dark, leaving the solicitor flushed and utterly baffled as he turns to his host. “What… am I…”
Oliver only sighs in resignation and pats him on the shoulder. “Stay in the kitchen tonight. We’ll speak with him tomorrow. Like I said, he’s a run-for-the-hills client. Lara?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make sure he’s well-fed. I’ll take my stew in my room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The kitchen?” Onyankapon blinks as Oliver moves to stalk out the door too. “I’m to sleep in this kitchen for the night?”
“Trust me. It’s best if he don’t see you before the morn.”
With his last utterance, the young duke also slips through into the darkness, leaving his solicitor in complete bewilderment. All while Hannes sits down to gruffly shuffle some cards and Lara tosses rabbit meat into a hard black pot along with carrots, potatoes, and stock, and brings it to hang it over the kitchen fire.
“Sit down, Mr. Akuoku, it’ll be a long night.”
Flushing as he stands dumbfounded before the fire, Onyankapon sinks weakly into a chair at the table to stare distantly at the blackness overtaking the windows before him. For an hour, he says barely a word; stricken quiet by his surroundings and his luck–or lack thereof. Every once in a while, Lara offers him more warm tea or Hannes begrudgingly offers him a cigarette, but otherwise, there’s little in the way of words between the two men and the two women in that old stone kitchen.
Lucy, Lady Lucy, is as silent as ever; turning her head to stare blankly into the fire as if it was her only entertainment for the night. Lara, busy and refined, as she keeps to her work. Hannes, old and curmudgeon, as he pulls out his worn bible.
*BOOOOOOOM*
Suddenly, the room brightens with a blinding white lightning; a calamitous clap of thunder abruptly breaks the silence loud enough to startle the solicitor from his seat.
“Good God!” he exclaims as he clutches his bag to his chest. “That was loud enough to wake the dead!”
“It’s the moor,” Lara murmurs as she shuffles over to the pot and stir it methodically. “Flatness of Greyacre and little in the way of tall buildings and trees around here to dampen the sound. You get used to it. I imagine you sleep quite well through thunderstorms back where you’re from.”
“I sleep well enough…” Onyaknapon swallows a shuddered gulp of lingering fear before he eases so slightly back into his seat.
“Settle down. I’ve got your soup here,” Lara sighs as she brings a bowl back to place before him. “Eat up. Here’s some bread.” Silently, the woman set plates for the three of them; slipping a loaf of bread in the centre with some slices of cheese and what seems to be the last of some jellied concoction at the bottom of a mason jar. Settling into her seat, she passes out bread just as the groundskeeper grumbles.
“Ahh, hold on,” Hannes says as he sluggishly stands up. “Let us say our prayers.”
“Oh of course. Lead us through, Hannes,” Lara says and clears her throat with an expectant eye to Lucy who shifts from her chair to move for the first time since the solicitor got here.
With a poised grace, she glides across the kitchen to sit down, much to his surprise. And with Hannes making the sign of the cross, he says the Lord’s Prayer in gruff but crisp Latin as Lara, Lucy, and Onyakapon bow their heads.
“Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi, per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”
“Amen,” the three murmur in unison as they cross themselves in response.
Glancing up as he brings a slow spoon of stew up to his lips, the solicitor eyes the shaggy groundskeeper in bewilderment. Indeed the trio around him seems so completely random now that he’s got to know them a bit.
Hannes, the grouchy and drunken servant.
Lara, the gentle and matronly housekeeper.
Lucy, a young lady of refinement, and yet so silent and reserved.
“Forgive me, sir,” Onyakapon finds himself clearing his throat, out of curiosity and a need for conversation. “But I didn’t take you to know Latin… it’s rather a dying language, is it not?”
“Mmm… my brother was a priest. I went to Mass every Sunday, got baptized and confirmed, same as everyone else,” Hannes mutters as he slurps from his spoon.
“Hannes has been our resident priest here in Greyacre,” Lara smiles at him with a warmth of proud familiarity. “Always has been, as long as I’ve been here—he’s quite the pious friend to keep.”
“Ohh, forgive me, Mrs. Tybur. I assumed you two were married.”
Hannes and Lara eye each other and chuckles and snorts and shakes of the head. “Hardly. I’m not married, sir.”
“You’re not? But you go by ‘Mrs’...”
“For propriety and respect of my station of course…” Lara smiles.
“And how long have you been here, Mrs. Tybur?”
“Ohh… I would like to say…” she muses with a furrowed brow, “I came here in ‘42… that would be about 45 years? Hannes has been here for well over 55.”
Onyakapon blinks in surprise as Lucy sips quietly next to him. “You’ve been housekeeper here for 45 years?”
The older woman chuckles blithely; a rare glint of youthfulness flashing through her weathered eye. “I wasn’t always a housekeeper, Mr. Akuoku. I came here to Greyacre as a lady’s maid.”
“Ahh… I see. Forgive me, but I sensed a great refinement to your character—more than I would’ve expected in a place such as this.”
“Well, I’d been trained well for my position over in my hometown of Calenth,” Lara beams in reflection. “I was brought here to serve the lady of the house, God rest her. She was with child at the time.”
“She was quite a lady, God rest her,” Hannes mutters over his spoon with an agreeable nod. “A Reiss-born lady; never a more refined spirit walked through these halls.”
“Here, here…”
“A Reiss?” Onyankapon blinks in surprise; almost to the point of blatant disbelief. “A Reiss Reiss?”
“Is there any other kind?” the groundskeeper chews his bread with a raised brow.
“No, of course not… I just… you don’t mean the royal Reisses? Surely.”
“Hmm…” Lara chuckles at the man’s open skepticism. “Might surprise you to hear this but this house was once in a much better place than this. It was once the seat of the Wieders of Greyacre. That used to mean something. If you don’t mind me asking, where do you hail from, sir?”
“Oh… I’m from Stohess where I have a wife and two sons. But I spent my boyhood on the fish harbours of Shiganshina.”
“Ahh… I thought I recognized some Shiganshina in that accent…” Lara smiles in recognition. “The master was originally from there before he came to Greyacre.”
“Little rascal of a runt from the south, he was—still is,” Hannes adds with an air of grudgery.
“Ahh, I thought I recognized a faint southerness to his voice,” Onyankapon smiles a little unsteadily. “But forgive me, Mrs. Tybur, you’ve brought up this Greyacre several times… what is a greyacre?”
Lara and Hannes smile and she sighs. “Nevermind. It’s not here now. Best not reflect too much on the past; especially in a place like this.”
After supper, Hannes steps out to trudge through the rain to his small stone lodge while Mrs. Tybur sets up the chair by the fireplace with a thick wool blanket. Lucy, quiet as a mouse, simply watches on; her bright and brilliant eyes taking Onyankapon in.
“Here you are, sir,” Lara sighs as she pats the chair. “Nice warm place before the fire as good as any.”
“Don’t you have servants’ quarters?” Onyankapon blinks as he stares at a door over her sagged shoulder. “Couldn’t I sleep there instead?”
“Only room back there that’s any good is mine,” she says. “The rest of the rooms have leaky ceilings; I doubt you’d like to be rained on in your bed.”
“Mmm, fair enough,” he says before he shifts to slip in the chair and settle under the cover she’s provided.
“Lucy? Off to bed, girl. It’s long after bedtime.”
“I know. Let me finish my tea first, Lara…”
“Fine but be quick about it…” she murmurs before offering the solicitor a small and gracious smile as she pulls her keys from her belt to set on the table for the night. “Good rest to you, Mr. Akuoku. We’ll see you, come morning.”
“Right, thank you very much, Mrs. Tybur. Good night.”
Watching the old housekeeper shuffle behind the door, Onyankapon sighs as he tries and settles in for the night. He shuts his eyes, tries to savor the fire; but the lightning strikes keep blinding his eyelids with the thunder loudly clashing several times. It would be one thing if the weather was fair, but between the storm and the stiffness of his chair, the solicitor struggles to relax a wink.
After several minutes and remembering he’s not alone, he opens his eyes to see Lady Lucy staring at him with those doll-like stormy violet blue eyes. In this silence, they’re almost unsettling and he wishes she’d look away.
“Forgive me…” he sighs with an apologetic smile. “It’s quite hard to sleep as I am; especially with a lady such as yourself present.”
“Mmm… you can sleep upstairs if you’d like…”
“What??” he blinks. “I can??”
“Here, follow me,” Lucy says as she grabs Lara’s housekeys from the table next to her. “There’s a room upstairs that nobody uses.”
Standing up, she gestures casually for him to follow, and Onyankapon’s so taken aback that he gets to his feet almost immediately. With a soft hand, Lucy opens the swinging door and the solicitor grabs his warmed coat to follow as the two step into a black shroud of dark only momentarily lit through clashes of light brightening the old house. Onyankapon swallows in unease to pass worn paintings of refined gentlemen with peeling paint coming off the walls underneath. And the grand staircase, so loud and creaking, he’s surprised it’s drowned by thunder as they ascend the stairs.
Coming up to a black and chilled hall, Lucy offers him a smile and a hushed breath. “It’s colder up here; the heaters don’t reach up here half as well as they should.”
“It’s alright. So long as I’m in a room with a blanket and an intact roof, I’ll manage well enough.”
Trailing down the long corridor, past closed and opened bedrooms of varying decay, the two stop before a single door, the very last on this side of the manor. Sorting methodically through the keys, Lucy slips one in and opens it with a click.
“Are you allowed to open this door?” the man asks cautiously.
“No,” the young woman shrugs an indifferent shoulder. “No one really is. He doesn’t allow it—if you’d like, you can go back to your chair.”
Swallowing uneasily, weighing his options, the solicitor eyes the door and the way he came. But the prospect of a potentially warm and cozy bed is too much to resist and so he nods a little instead.
“I will be as silent as the grave.”
“Be sure you are…” Lucy smiles coyly as she offers him a candlestick for him to step inside. With a soft giggle, she offers him a small wave—small and yet impishly playful in a way that deeply unsettles him. “Good night, Mr. Solicitor.”
With that, the creaking door is shut, leaving Onyakapon to stand in the dark around him. Breathing in shakily, he turns to take in his new surroundings with a slightly anxious breath. The room is decently sized, if not a little on the smaller side. It’s warmer here or at least insulated enough with its intact ceiling and window that he knows he will not freeze tonight. And with a raise of his candle to dimly illuminate the room, he catches the sight of a small, four-poster bed resting right under the window with a shadow of one sole tree brushing across its latticed glass.
Stepping up to the bedside table, he passes his candle flame into another, lighting it with a soft glow. Mercifully, with a third and fourth candle lit, the bedroom begins to take full shape against the dim. The bedroom seems to be that of a woman’s, if not a girl’s, with its pink floral wallpaper; peeled in some places but otherwise well-kept and delicately pretty. An old trunk sits against the foot of the bed with long-dried-out heather laying on its lid. There’s sheer buttery cloth of a pretty floral pattern, worn and torn in pieces, as it hangs like a ghostly shroud over the beams of the bed; almost blowing in a still and imaginary breeze.
Coming up to the bed, Onyakapon moves the cloth away to slide slowly on the bed that feels almost stiff from its disuse. Yes, indeed, despite the prettiness to the room, there’s a sheen of dust on everything; enough for the man to tell it’s rarely, if ever, visited. Which is strange to behold, considering it seems arguably to be the best kept room in Grey Hill Manor that he’s seen so far; as if it’s been deliberately protected from the decay of the rest of the aging house.
A loud skittering sound stirs the solicitor to the sight of the window again, to see the branches of the perceptibly dead tree brushing against the glass. Like fingers, they look to him in the dark, and indeed, he almost shudders in the shadow of them. Shifting forward to reach for the old and dusty sheer curtains, he leans his hand on the oak window seat; only to immediately recoil in repulsion at the layer of dust that coats his palm. Pulling it back to wipe it away, Onyakapon blinks to see the faint trace of a carving in the oak; some strange makings of ‘YUR’.
With a blow of breath and a swipe of his riding glove, he sees the carvings to make out words; crude and childlike and repeated all over the seat.
‘YURIE’
‘EREN’
‘YURIE + EREN’
“Y+E… Eren...” the man murmurs in curiosity as he trails his candle over them. And then with a glint of his sideward glimpse, he catches a streak of red paint in the wall next to him. Turning his candle to it, he takes a closer look at the headboard of his temporary bed. More of these same strange carvings of ‘Y’ and ‘E’s interwoven with the occasional heart.
But it’s what’s above the bed that causes him to gasp out so softly, he almost startles himself.
For there, hanging from the wall, sits a small and framed sketched portrait of a female face so pretty and beautiful and serene. She looks almost to be a nymph; a beauty not made from this world. She would be enough to take his breath away just from that but there’s the added red streak of watercolour of her hair, small rosy dots for her cheeks and her little mouth. And those eyes, those same doll-like eyes, wide and pretty and blue. As blue as the skies of the south of Onyakapon’s childhood on the sea.
And as if to tie the sketch together with its slyphlike beauty, there’s a pressed flower within the glass; dried pink petals that the sketched lock of red hair almost seem to rest on in eternal luxury.
A nymph, a sprite of fantasy, no doubt.
Shifting a little with a blush under her gaze, the solicitor swallows as he lays his coat over his body to settle in for the night. Laying down slowly to the creak of the bed, he nestles into the feather pillow and breathes in the faint scent of lavender; a scent still present after what must be years at this point.
No doubt, it must have been hers.
And with his warm sable coat laid over his shoulder, Onyankapon settles in enough to burrow in; breathing in that soft scent that lulls him into a deep sleep as if he were sleeping in a field of lavender. For a stretch of time, he doesn’t know how long, he sleeps in that lavender field and swears he dreams of her.
*BOOOOOOOOM*
The sound of a hard clap of thunder and crashing glass breaks through Onyankapon’s sleep and breaks him from his spell. With a startled breath, he flies up to see spindly tree branches have pushed forward with such force to have broken through the window glass. With the howling wind now roaring through the still room, the torn cloth shakes all around him and brushes against his face as he moves to push the branches back out.
He groans and shifts in his weight, and with some give, his arms push them through against the lightning; only to feel the clamminess of wet, ice-cold hands grasp at his skin. Gasping in horror, he draws them back in; his eyes widening to see them so delicate and white as they hold onto him.
“Let me in…” the soft and frightened voice of a woman calls from beyond the broken glass. “Please let me in…”
Shaking as the lightning crashes just beyond his eyes, Onyanakapon stares up in terror; only to see the ghostly white visage of the woman with red hair staring at him with glowing blue to her doll-like eyes.
“Please… let me in…” she says again; her cold hands squeezing in tight enough to send a chilling shiver up his spine. And with a hissing sound of an old black cat emerging from the shadows, it’s enough to send the poor solicitor over the edge.
“Who—who are you?!”
“Yurie Galliard…” she whimpers out, “I’m lost on the moor… I've lost my children… please, let me in…”
“AHHHHHHHHH!!!”