The House for Lost Things - Part Nine

Hey guys! This is part nine of the House for Lost Things. We hope you enjoy it and would love to have your feedback. Please read it and pass it on!

IMPORTANT NOTE: As Christmas nears, there MAY be a short hiatus. Also, as this story draws to a close we are looking to you, the audience for more ideas for the next story. Please comment or email cherise.tess@gmail.com or nevermoreemergingflame@gmail.com with your ideas and feedback. Thanks!

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The countryside looks so different in the moonlight. The remaining snow glistens like piles of pearl necklaces here and there among the dark shadows of the land. Mist hangs above the mountains. All is still. All is peaceful.

Except inside of me.

My fingers curl against the windowsill. The inside of my soul must look no where near as lovely as the Outside of this place. Perhaps, that is what residing here does to you. Perhaps, there is a curse upon this Mansion to make everything within it dirty, evil, and fulls of cheaply sold lies.

I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the windowpane. My warm breath bounces off the window and warms my cheeks. The glass feels cold and damp against my skin.

How am I to understand this? It seems too much to grasp.

I sigh softly.

“That’s a heavy sigh,” Master’s voice is soft and mournful behind me.

I jump, startled and look toward the door. He has heaved it open and now stands inside. I turn back to the window then.

What do you want with me?

I hear the door shut tight and Master slowly approaches. His presence is heavy and dark to me as he kneels behind me.

“You asked me a question,” he said quietly. I sit down on the hard floor silently. “Would you allow me to answer it?”

I don’t speak, but I scoot around to half-face him and tuck my feet under my skirt. There is a leather-bound book in Master’s hands. His thumb rubs the cover and then he places it in my lap.

“What’s this?” I ask.

He gestures for me to open it and I do. The pages are rough and discolored, old. I flip through them single page by single page. Each page is a different drawing. Most of them are done in pencil or charcoal. Many of them are pictures of birds. Some birds, I’m nearly certain I’ve seen from the very window that I sit by.

“Did you draw these?” I ask, absently, each page drawing new attention to itself.

“A very long time ago,” Master fidgets and crosses his legs, resting his hands on his thighs.

One picture is of a spectacular looking eagle. The shading, even in black and white, gives it a certain sense of majesty. I run my fingers over the feathers of the right wing, only to jerk them back when I realize that I’ve smudged the charcoal.

I can feel Master’s quiet smile as I wipe my fingers off on the skirt of my dress.

Master likes birds.

“Were you a hunter?”

“Not for birds,” he answers.

I study the drawing again and my eyes are drawn to the signature smudged in the lower right hand corner. I hold the book up a bit to cast the moonlight on it.

Master stiffens some as I say his name: “Edward Brickell.”

Then, he nods. “That is my name,” he murmurs quietly.

Sighing through my nose, I shut the book with a light clap of the meeting of pages and covers. I rub a hand over the leather cover and hand the book back to him.

Master is trying to be kind to me, but I am still resentful. I cannot help it.

“It suits you,” is all I find myself able to say.

Master curls the book under his arm, nodding. It seems he senses my dismissal because he rises to his feet and heads for the door once more.  I come to my knees again, staring at the glass window. The door heaves open and I suddenly feel the urge to look back.

“Master?” I call to him.

“Yes?”

“Say I’d been able to go back through the Mirror to the Outside,” I look back then. His fingers are curled around the door and I see the knuckles turn white, knowing what’s coming next. “Would you have let me go?”

Master leans his temple against the door, as if he is about to embrace the wood. He licks his lips, watching me for a time.

At last he says, “Yes...but I would’ve asked you to stay.” He tries to smile. “It gets lonely in here when you’re all by yourself.”

I swallow hard. Then, like the ghostly spirit  of a castle haunt, he is gone without a word and the door shuts.

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