The House for Lost Things - Part Four

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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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