The House for Lost Things - Part Five

Hey, guys! Here's part five of The House for Lost Things. Please share, comment, let us know what you think. We really appreciate your feedback!

NOTE: All pictures here are strictly for viewer's pleasure. Those of any people may or may not be the writer's idea of what a character looks like and were chosen to reflect the mood of the scene or an attribute or emotion of the individual, rather than the character.

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My body feels chilled when I open my eyes the next morning. I am lying in my bed with a blanket tucked around me and my head pillowed on Master’s coat. I do not remember coming to bed. Master must have moved me from the couch during the night.

Squinting around in the dimly lit chamber, I stretch and sit up, wiggling my toes. My slippers are not beside the bed. That means that I did not come here on my own. I yawn and move aside the blanket.

I stand up beside the bed. The cold stone floor seems to almost turn my feet to blocks of ice on contact. Standing on my tiptoes, I make the small bed up, folding the blanket. Then, I slip Master’s coat on over the dress I’m still wearing and head for the stairs.

I tiptoe down the stairs, past Master’s closed door and toward the kitchen. I use a dish to see my reflection in order that I might straighten my mussed hair. I shake out the folds of my dress and then set about preparing tea.

The kettle is hissing with the effort of boiling water for Master’s tea when I hear his voice and footsteps coming down the hall.

“Good morning, young Mister Andrew,” he says.

“Good morning, Sir,” I hear the new young man reply.

Something in my chest tightens with excitement and raw fear. Picking up a cloth and doubling it over, I lift the kettle off of the fire and set it on the counter, fetching the tea tray.

We’ve a new person among us now. Things will change, but in what manner?

I suppose we all fear the unknown, but after one has been locked away in a Mansion for eight years...anything out of the ordinary is exciting. But it is also something to be feared and kept at a distance. Master’s footsteps continue down toward the place he always takes his tea.

“Are you thirsty, Andrew? Would you like some morning tea? Esme makes the best tea you’ve ever had.”

I could almost hear the grimace in Andrew’s voice as he replied, “No thank you, Sir. I’m not one to take tea in the morning.”

Master’s voice remains amiable, “Very well then. Follow me to the study. I’ll have my tea and then Esme and I will show you about before we begin our work for the day.”

“Work?”

I pour the tea water in the teapot, adding spices from the jars in the cabinet above. The sweet scents fill my nostrils as they disappear into the water. I place the lid back on the teapot and steam begins to drift, like tendrils of smoke, from the spout.

Setting the teapot on the tray, I pick it up and hurry out of the kitchen to join them on their way to the study. Master doesn’t seem to notice me as I fall into step behind him. He is busy informing Andrew of our “work” for the Mirror and the people of Wales.

Andrew turns his head, upon hearing my footsteps. His look is neither pleased nor displeased, but very serious and uneasy. I smile grimly and slow, coming up close to Master. We make it all the way to the study before Master notices me.

“Good morning, Esme,” he smiles and moves aside so I can take his tea to the desk.

“Good morning, Master,” I smile back a little and take the tray over to the desk.

After leaving the tray on the desk, I go to the window and pull open the curtains for them. Master’s chair squeaks against the floor as he pulls it back to sit. The sound of its scraping hurts my ears.

No sooner have I poured his cup of tea, then Master invites Andrew over and the two begin to talk

Andrew

again. Andrew does not seem pleased.

“So when do I get to go home?” he asks Master after a time.

For a moment, the three of us are silent. I stand, facing Master, near his side, twisting my hands in the skirt of my dress.

None of us get to go home.

“You don’t,” Master shrugs. “Only the Mirror may send us back. Unfortunately, it would seem that people are the only thing that never leave this place.”

Andrew’s eyes spark angrily and he exclaims, “But I must leave this place! I am to be married soon and I will be missed.”

Master leans back in his chair, setting down his cup. It clatters lightly against its saucer.  Master’s jaw tightens a little and his smile, along with anything content or jovial in his expression, vanishes.

“Well, Mister Andrew,” Master replies crisply. “I’m afraid your bride will be long dead before you see her again.”

I glance Andrew’s way. His brow is furrowed and his eyes have narrowed slightly. His shoulders quake a little and his hands have folded into milky fists. Biting my lip, I turn myself away from him.

It is our lot.  

The morning and the introduction to the Mansion grounds pass by in a rather tense manner. I cleaned up Master’s tea things and tagged along with them as Master and Andrew combed through the magnificent but cold house we call “home”.

After a short while, I merely leave Master and Andrew alone and go to the front room to begin piling our new found treasures into piles of like things. There seemed to be much more than usual today, so much so that I could hardly see the stone floor.

I glanced toward the Mirror, still, reflecting the room about me.

Stay away from it, I warned myself.

I continue to make piles here and there. Piles of books, piles of household items, piles of clothing, piles of things I don’t even recognize. I’ve nearly finished when Master and Andrew come in. Many of my piles reach halfway up the walls and are nearly as wide as they are tall.

Andrew looks around himself and Master agrees, “You wouldn’t believe some of the things that people lose.”

The two of them enter the room and Andrew looks toward the Mirror.

“Is that it?” he asks, pointing a finger at the obvious reflector.

Master nods, “A beautiful creation in its own.” Andrew starts toward it. I jump at the loud clapping sound of Master’s hand, seizing Andrew’s arm. He shakes his head and warns, “Careful, boy. It would be wise for you to stay away from the Mirror.”

“Why?” Andrew’s eyes narrow and he looks from Master to the Mirror.

“If you aren’t careful, you could be sucked into someone else’s side of the Mirror,” Master tells him. “And that would be worse than being stuck here.”

“Why?” Andrew repeats, frowning deeply.

“Because no one has ever made it all the way back,” Master shrugs.

I know he is fibbing. No one knows what happens to those who get sucked into the Mirror. Not Master, not I, and certainly not Andrew. Only the Mirror itself would know that.

I shiver and turn away from them to hear Andrew say, “The only way things can get through is if someone is looking for them?”

“In the exact spot they were lost,” Master affirms.

“But there’s no way for us to get out?”

“None,” Master answers.

Andrew shakes his head in disgust as I pick up a stack of children’s books and take them to Master. Master smiles grimly at me and lifts the weight from my arms.

“Why does the Mirror trap people within it?” Andrew’s voice is filled with disgust.

Master doesn’t say anything, but heads toward the Mirror. When he doesn’t answer Andrew, I hesitate. Andrew looks down at me, frowning still.

“Perhaps,” I say softly. “It is angry with us or afraid of us.”

“Why would a Mirror have feelings?” Andrew snorts.

Shrugging, I go to get more books for Master and tell him, “Well, someone must have lost the Mirror, too. Perhaps, it wants us to understand itself?”

Andrew crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head again. Master stops and looks back at me. I lift my head and look  back at him. His gaze is filled with an expression I’ve not seen before. Something between suspicion and admiration.

Then, he turns away.

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The House for Lost Things - Part Four

Hey, guys! Here's part four of The House for Lost Things. Please share, comment, let us know what you think. We really appreciate your feedback!

NOTE: All pictures here are strictly for viewer's pleasure. Those of any people may or may not be the writer's idea of what a character looks like and were chosen to reflect the mood of the scene or an attribute or emotion of the individual, rather than the character.

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The fire crackled across the small study. Master reclined on a couch before the fireplace, watching the golden flames dance their nightly lullaby, flinging sparks playfully at them. I sit beside the couch, leaning against it. My skirts spreads out and I tuck my feet up under it after kicking off my slippers.

The edge of the couch digs into my side and I fidget to get comfortable. Master tucks his arm around a pillow and lays his head on it, staring into the fire. The fabric of his pants scrapes against the couch surface abrasively as he settles with an enormous sigh.

Already, his eyelids are drooping. Laying my arm on the seat of the couch near his chest, I settle my head on my arm and we sit in relative silence together. We listen to the songs that dance through the air around us, to the crackling dance of the flames in the fireplace that warm our bodies, to the soft tiptoe of snowflakes tapping against the windows.

Just as I think he’s fallen asleep, Master stirs. His hand brushes over my loose hair, spread out over my arm. He brushes his fingers through it, grazing my neck lightly. I close my eyes, trying not to disturb him. Master only acts this way when his mind is lost in the open, incoherent hills of thought that roll far beyond any other person’s reach.

“Stupid Mirror,” he murmured at last.

I held my breath waiting for him to go on, wondering if I dare question. When he says nothing more and the only noise is the sound of our breathing mixing with the musical deviations of the nature about us, I speak up.

“Master?”

“Mm?”

“Why do you hate the Mirror so?” I ask. “The Mirror keeps us alive.”

“The Mirror keeps us,” he acknowledged. I feel his fingers curl tight in my hair. “Caught here in this place.”

At least we’re not here alone.

“It keeps us from dying,” he murmured. “Can’t die if no one finds us, if no one remembers we’re even alive still.” I nod and he sighs. “Do you know what it’s like to be thirty-two for almost fifty years?”

I shake my head.

Master still remembers how long he’s been here.

“How long have I been twenty?” I ask him, turning my body a little so I can see his face.

His lips purse briefly before he relaxes again, hand resting on top of my head.

“Eight,” he answers.

Were there others here before me? No. Otherwise, they’d still be here.

“That’s a long time to be alone,” I say in return.

“Yes,” Master says. “But now you’re here.”

He smiles a little, curling his fingers against the pillow in his arms.  Master adjusts the pillow under his neck to get more comfortable, lifting himself up on his elbow.  I turn, tucking my knees under the edge of the couch to face him.

“I enjoy the company,” Master tells me. “Having noise around makes this life much more bearable.”

“Maybe someone will lose a cat one day,” I smile up at him and he smiles back, eyes sparkling.

“A cat might be nice,” Master’s voice hides a laugh.

I scoot as close as the couch will allow and beg, “What was it like Outside when you lived there?”

“Outside?” he asks a little absently, looking toward the fire.

I nod once more.

“Well,” he begins the story slowly. “It was 1459 and our country was in the middle of a war. The War of Roses they called it.”

“Roses?” I lifted my head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “They were fighting over flowers?”

Master presses a finger to my lips, “Let me finish, Esme.”  I shut my mouth tight and lower my head once more to let him continue.

“England was in war, broken up between two factions of its throne,  Lancaster and York. Mainly,” he frowned a little. “I’d say the war was caused mostly because of social clashes and financial problems due to a previous war--” I open my mouth to ask but he answers before I can, “The Hundred Years war.”

Satisfied, I close my mouth.

Why the roses then?

“The English used our men to fight their war for them. Yes, some of them fighted, but it was mainly the Welsh people who fought their war.” I frown with him. “So our beloved Wales was in a state of dire peril, to say the least. We were fighting, brother against brother, father against son.”

Master’s eyes narrowed slightly and his expression became one of strong distaste, as though he were tasting soup with too much garlic in it.

“Did the war end?” I ask after a moment of long, thoughtful silence.

Master removes his hand from my hair and curls both around his pillow, moving it under his chin.

“Not while I was there,” he replies. “Perhaps, now though. If either of us would know, it would be you, not I.” I nod sheepishly. To soothe my embarrassment he adds, “Maybe one day we’ll get a book that will tell us.”

“Did we get to keep any books today?” I ask softly.

He shakes his head and answers, looking toward the fire again, “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

One of Master’s favorite things is new books. Maybe because it’s his only tie to the world beyond this one. The world where no one bows to the Mirror, but every man chooses instead to whom he will bow. Perhaps, in his mind, reading books gives Master the freedom to do that.

“Though,” Master states turning onto his back. “I would almost rather have the cat.”

I smile into my arm. “Why, Sir?”

He shrugs a little and replies, “Wouldn’t you rather be surrounded by living things?”

I close my eyes and nod again.

I would...I would love to be Outside.

“It’d help lighten the workload, too,” Master said playfully.

I laugh under my breath, “Yes, it would.”

Master stretches and lets out a small growl while doing so. He yawns, reaching a hand to scratch at his jaw and neck, tipping his head back like a cat begging to be scratched.  I put both elbows on the couch, watching him silently.

He really is such an odd thing, I think to myself.

“Would you like a blanket, Master?” I ask him.

“Perhaps, that would be--”

Master stops, freezing.

What? What is it?

I instantly look down at myself, wondering if he’s looking at me again. But he isn’t, I soon realize. His eyes have widened and he slowly sits up. I turn to look toward the door near the fireplace.

In the doorway stands a tall young man, maybe just a little younger than myself. His clothing is similar to Master’s but tan rather than black. He had soft looking light brown hair and serious green eyes.

A person? Is it real?

I rise up on my knees, turning to fully face the door. Master and I both stand and I move a few steps behind him as Master takes one long step forward. I remain in his shadow.

“Hello,” the young man says in an accent that doesn’t match ours. It’s thicker but somehow sweeter.

“Well, good evening,” Master says. The young man looks between the two of us before he meets Master’s gaze. Master smiles in greeting and tells him, “Welcome to the Mansion.”

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The House for Lost Things - Part Three

Hey, guys! Here's part three of The House for Lost Things. Please share, comment, let us know what you think. We really appreciate your feedback!

NOTE: All pictures here are strictly for viewer's pleasure. Those of any people may or may not be the writer's idea of what a character looks like and were chosen to reflect the mood of the scene or an attribute or emotion of the individual, rather than the character.

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A number of hours after lunch, Master and I were still busy in the front room, emptying out the store of treasures which had appeared overnight to grace the stone floor in giant heaps. We’d waded through piles of the troves all morning, breaking only to eat a small noon meal.

It’s amazing sometimes the things that people will lose, I thought, awed by the sheer diversity of the artifacts still remaining.

Master and I had managed to get the mountain of items down to a few piles, some needing to be transferred to rooms for safe keeping, others still to be “checked”.

My new dress is a simple cream gown that buttons up the front to the middle of my chest, just covering my cleavage. It hands down around my ankles. The material is soft and lightweight. The gown gives me a freedom of range of motion that the larger, blue gown did not.

At least I won’t trip anymore.

My once neatly fixed hair now hangs around my shoulders in messy curls. They brush my cheeks and cause me to constantly pull them back over my shoulder and push them out of my face.

I pause, holding up a set of golden candlesticks into the light, squinting. Master peeks at me over his shoulder, holding a little doll, as he ventures once again toward the mirror. He smiles at me;I blush and look away.

The Master’s face changes. His attention is gone from me and the many artifacts around him, that bring him so much joy. It is focused on the Mirror. The heavy gilded mirror has hung upon the south wall of this room long before I arrived in the Mansion. Perhaps, even before Master came to the Mansion. The candlesticks are cold and hard in my hands, but nothing looks as cold and distant as Master’s face when he approaches the mirror. His eyes have darkened and his jaw is tight.

Why does he hold so much hate for the thing that is our hope?

The Mirror allows us to see outside the Mansion. Standing in front of it, the Mirror allows us to see if the owners of whatever item we hold are searching for it. If they are, and they look in the place where they last left it, the item may pass through the mirror back into the world, back to its owner.

I wring my hands around the candlesticks, watching Master’s back. Many times, I have dreamed of walking up and looking into the Mirror. Then, maybe I would know if my family was searching for me still.

But Master will not let me.

I am not allowed near the Mirror. Only Master may approach it.

Master stands before the Mirror. The glass shimmers and then ripples, almost like a pool of water. When the reflection stills, I can see what appears to be a child’s bedroom. The walls are covered in paper but are wood. The floors are made of wood. This is not a fortress, not a castle, this is a simple home. Toys are scattered on the floor and a rumpled bed stands in the room.

A small female child with red hair is running around, throwing open cabinets and drawers, searching for the doll in Master’s hands. I swallow hard.

That is how I looked for my doll.

The child keeps looking, finally crawling under the bed and disappearing almost entirely. All I can see are her stockinged-legs. The edges of the Mirror ripple to indicate that the doll may pass through, back to the girl’s arms.

Without a word, Master holds out the doll and the Mirror absorbs it. He quickly turns and moves away as the Mirror ripples. When the ripples still once more, I see the reflection of the front room. The keyhole to the outside has been closed until Master brings to it another item.

I turn my attention to Master. His jaw is working as he comes to me. There are wrinkles at the sides of his eyes and his eyebrows are lowered and drawn. He draws in a long breath through his nose, taking the candlesticks from my hands. I look up at him, watching his face as he studies them.

“These are in superb condition for their age,” Master says. “From the craftsmanship I would say these are from the early fourteen-hundreds, late thirteen-hundreds.” Master holds it out and then begins to describe the intricate detailed carvings in the gold candlesticks. “Likely, these came from a monastery. Perhaps, in France or Spain.”

I reach out and take them back from him. As we continue to work, Master launches into one of his speeches about the cultures of the many lands outside of Wales. I listen, content to let him share his knowledge.

Perhaps, it will clue me in to Master’s life. Perhaps, something he says will explain the mystery of the man I call ‘Master’. Then again, what words could describe such an enigma?

As Master goes back and forth, showing items to the Mirror and hurriedly then removing himself from its presence, I watch him closely. His quick steps in retreat and his stiff form do not reveal something as cold as hate any longer. They reveal something much more deep and true, something that Master shields from his gaze and his voice when he speaks to me, but something that is there, lurking underneath. I feel it. My stomach twists and my breath heaves with the weight of it.

Master is afraid.

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The House for Lost Things - Part Two

Hey, guys! Here's part two of The House for Lost Things. Please share, comment, let us know what you think. We really appreciate your feedback!

NOTE: All pictures here are strictly for viewer's pleasure. Those of any people may or may not be the writer's idea of what a character looks like and were chosen to reflect the mood of the scene or an attribute or emotion of the individual, rather than the character.

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As I bend over near the fireplace in the library where Master will take his morning meal, sparks jump out, reaching for my too long skirts. I frown and stoke the fire before I edge away from the heat and straighten from my hunched position. Dark brown, almost black ringlets are formed into a bun on the back of my head, but some of them have come loose and swipe at my cheeks, irritating the pale skin. I pull my shawl up closer around my body, as it has slipped down my shoulders.

The little sparks pop in the fireplace and the flames crackle softly as I back away. Going to the far side of the room, I open the curtains from the windows, revealing sunlight that steals through the frosty glass. The sun is still pale and only provides a little light.

But any light is better than none, especially sunlight.

The large stone walled room is still chilly, and I shiver as I make my way out of the library and into the hall to the small table outside the door. I pick up the gold tray that sits atop it and the delicate white china set rattles with every wracking shiver of my body.

I could see the shape of my face in the tea plate as I set the platter on the desk. I checked the setting on the tea tray, looking for spots on the napkin or smudges on the silverware. I was so engrossed in trying to make the setting pleasing to the eye, I didn’t hear Master walk into the room.

“Esme, you’re breathing on my breakfast,” his voice seemed pleasant and teasing.

I startled, like a dog caught about to steal a bite to eat off the table. Scooting back from the desk, I smiled weakly. My master walked into the room, past the desk, and to the window. This window, like the one in the Tower, looked over the villages and to the mountains beyond it.

“A beautiful morning,” he said, the traces of a Welsh accent delicate and airy in his voice, clearing his throat.

Master wore a suit as always, today’s selection in black rather than color. He turned and walked to the desk, pulling out the high-backed chair and taking a seat. I turned to look at him once more. Before I can offer, he picks up the teapot and pours his own tea.

“Did you sleep well, Esme?” he asks me then.

I wrap my arms around myself and answer, “Yes, Master.”

He looks up at me from pouring his tea, face not amused, but tender and happy. His brown eyes smile some and hold an expression of fondness. Master sets down the teapot.

“I’m glad,” he replies. “Have you eaten yet?” I shake my head and open my mouth to make an excuse about how I was waiting but once again, I’m not given time. Master shakes his head and lifts a small white tea cup in his large hands as he muses, “Staring out that window again, are we?”

I feel my cheeks pinkening. Master’s eyes laugh and then he takes a sip of tea, looking away.

“Hmm,” the sound comes out on a nasal sigh. Master’s throat bobbing as he swallows. “You make wonderful tea, Esme,” he says.

His eyes look through me, rather than at me.

“Thank you,” I come a few steps closer to him.

Master rubs the wooden arm of the chair with his fingertips, and then leans back in his chair. He tips his head back and looks up at me as I open my mouth to speak.

“Have you checked the front room?” he interrupts once more.

I clamp my mouth shut once more and shake my head.

Must he always interrupt? I suppose, it is his nature to have both the first word and the last.

“Righto,” his lips press into a slight smile. “I’ll finish my tea and we’ll get on it. We’ll see what treasures have been lost over night.”

He takes another long sip of tea, eyes running over me and then stopping at my feet. I frown and look down, hoping to see what negative thing he must be seeing. Master clears his throat and takes another small sip.

Then he continues, “Perhaps we’ll find you a better fitting dress.”

I realize suddenly what he is seeing and take a small step backward, lifting the hem of my skirt from underfoot.

“Perhaps,” I agree softly.

Master stands, tipping his cup back and draining the hot liquid from it. He sets the teacup back on the silver tray where it settles with a slight click, and I hurry around the front of the desk to remove the tray.

He removes his coat, revealing a light blue button down beneath it. Then, he unbuttons his cuffs and begins to roll up his sleeves as he strides past me towards the door. I pick up the tray, moving his teacup onto the small plate. The cup is still warm and burns my fingertips. I shiver, enjoying the feeling of warmth left by Master’s unknowing presence.

“Esme?” Master stops in the doorway.

“Yes, Master?” I turn, lifting the tray to follow.

His wide, joyful smile has returned and his eyes sparkle tenderly again as he asks, “Have I ever told you that you look lovely in blue?” A smile presses it’s way across my face and I bite my lip. Master laughs and then he is gone.

How very odd Master is.

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