Proper Monster

I was asked today if I missed the Otherworld. If I wish to return, if I am homesick for it.

Quite simply, no. Although the answer is simple, the facts are rather complicated. Please allow me to explain.

Firstly, I am not exactly welcome there, as you are all well aware. I betrayed my own kind by joining master and mistress in their fight to save the human realm. Humiliating the Archon by banishing him and soundly thrashing him in battle, I have made myself a stranger to the demon world. I will say the subsequent threat to destroy me was, obviously, a bluff. Rest assured, I am alive and well, living quite richly in every sense, and quite unbothered.

Do I miss the fetes, the dances, the foods and other luxuries? At times, yes. The Otherworld is a fantastically beautiful land, visually stunning in its decadence. But… it is ruled by violence, greed, lust for power and heartlessness. Emotion, aside from rage, does not exist there. Do not mistake me~ my demonic urges are still intact. I cannot be any different than the way I was made. I will never be inherently good, I don’t think…but I have manners, and willpower, and desire. I have choices. So perhaps the struggle to behave will grow easier for me.

The human world is my home now. Not because of necessity, or desire to form bargains. It is my home because I belong here. Amongst my humans. The ones who taught me all about unconditional love, caring { ugh } regret, devotion, sacrifice….Emotions that fill one’s heart to overflowing. Friendship. Vulnerability. Empathy. Trust. I have found it all here.

Feelings I never knew I could experience, or believe a human could have for me. Some things I still cannot feel, but that does not mean I cannot strive for them. I am very self-aware, I know what I am.. but I am constantly discovering some new facet of myself. That is the beauty of simply being, and also of evolving.

Not to mention the sheer beauty of this mortal world itself. The way the sun sets beyond the manor gardens, gilding the pond and labyrinth in a blaze of molten gold. The way the stars sing, and the constellations lean close when I am standing atop the clocktower spire, 9 stories up and flooded with memories at midnight. The gardens themselves, filled with blooming whimsy and all manner of magical things which delight the eyes. The city of Brassbridge and the dozens of streets I have meandered thousands of times, and the deep dark Gloaming River. The Royal Theatre; a balm to all my ills. The wildness of the BlackWald forest through which I chased mistress and ruined my boots during her escape attempt years past. { Still a vibrant memory for both of us }. I have never tired of any of it.

Equally if not more important ~ the way the manor embraces me when I return from an outing, and step over the threshold into its welcoming warmth. My tidy, cozy kitchen, where quite a bit of magic takes place. The dining hall, where we all sit together; where the conversation and laughter is just as nurturing as the food. Nathaniel’s disgracefully messy study. My room on the fifth floor with its quiet solitude and magnificent views, when I require time alone. My napping spot~ the solar. The ballroom…Each and every room holds space for me in some way.

I am not entirely comfortable with touch, unless I initiate it, but I am learning. My master and mistress’ love is a constant sweet liqueur in the air, surrounding me in a way I never dreamt possible. To love a demon. It seemed a foolish concept to me, but I can admit begrudgingly that they have proven me wrong… and I am so very glad of it. They do not try to change me; they simply love me as I go about changing myself. They love me in every form, even when I am difficult, petty and cruel. Which does still happen, as you know.

There is something about the scent of new clothing, is there not? Especially if it is tailored specifically for you, using time honored skill, and attention to detail. This is one of the few fashion related topics Lady Annabelle and I can agree on without hostility.

I think it is no secret that I am quite fashion-forward. If only everyone at the manor shared my enthusiasm. Sigh.

Shopping and acquiring new items for my wardrobe is a great mood lifter, and having a saunter through the city to people-watch is quite pleasurable too.

Today’s tale is about one of my recent shopping adventures at the high end tailor. Department stores and their dismal offerings are encroaching on slow fashion, which is a pity.

Always seek out quality over quantity, dear readers. Not just in attire, but in friendships, relationships and material things. Discernment and self-value are worth every penny👌🏻

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Chapter 75~ Always On Top

Silas ran his slender fingers around the top hat, claws lightly caressing the glossy black brim. It was beautifully crafted, elegant in its simple, spare style; and the demon was savoring the idea of owning it.

He’d been borrowing Nathaniel’s as of late, or rather he’d commandeered it {‘stolen’ according to his master} but it had become a bit tatty due to barely surviving a series of spectacular shenanigans~ having been dropped off the five-story manor roof more than twice, accidentally struck by his master’s lightning spell, and chewed by one of the garden’s topiary giraffes, who mistook it for a Black Forest cake. Unlike Nathaniel, Silas was not in the habit of permitting shabby attire on his body, and so the time had come for him to have a pristine new top hat of his very own.

Perhaps two. After all, today’s bill was being sent to House Thorn.

Silas stood in front of the hat display, one arm folded behind his back, dressed smartly in a deep charcoal swallowtail suit and a cranberry silk cravat. A matching ribbon tied back his white hair. He was once again at the Brassbridge Gentleman’s Shop, and already he was feeling pleasantly intoxicated by the scent of fine textiles, buttery leather and the shop staff’s syrupy sweet fear. The mouth-watering aroma made it difficult for the demon to concentrate; he found himself slipping precariously into darker thoughts. Pushing them away, he strove to tighten his grip on the task ahead.

He wished to enjoy the entire shopping experience in all its glory, for this high-end atelier was indeed one of his favorite places in the city. It was not a ‘slop-shop’ as his seamstress associate Lady Tremayne called the stores that sold ill-fitting, mass produced clothing. The tailor and drapers knew him quite well by now, and treated him with the utmost respect. In return, Silas always maintained his patience, as well as his manners. It simply wouldn’t be polite to lose one or the other… spending Master Thorn’s money while inhaling a dizzying bouquet of human dread was undoubtedly satisfying; but enduring the undignified, tiresome sound of mortal terror was absolutely not on today’s agenda.

A shopkeep lingered at a wary distance behind him, staying close to the door in case he needed a quick escape. The House Thorn demon was impeccably turned out, soft-spoken and cultured as always, but the creature had a fearsomely violent reputation. Rumor had it he’d saved not only Brassbridge, but all of Austermeer and the entire human realm itself from a diabolical destruction; even so, one could never be too prudent when dealing with magical beings of a demonic persuasion.

Silas could feel him staring at his long white ponytail and colorless skin. The draper’s hands twisted nervously, heartbeat galloping. Silas waited patiently for him to gather courage. Finally, the young man cleared his throat and spoke up, his voice a tremulous tenor.

“That is beaver, sir. Only the finest pelts are used to create our hats. As a matter of integrity, we never utilize mercury, and our hats are painstakingly hand-molded. I’m sure a gentleman of a refined nature such as yourself is already aware...” His words trailed off as the demon cast an eye at him over his shoulder. A spot of sun settled directly onto Silas’ cheekbone, contracting one feline pupil into a fine line, and causing the yellow iris to glow like molten glass. The shopkeep gasped. Silas turned to face him fully, and gave a brief bow.

“My sincerest apologies. I did not intend to startle you, my good sir.”

{Yes, he certainly had}

“I quite agree, the felt is of exceptional quality, as is the stitching. I should like to see if this particular hat suits me, if you please.” The demon offered a benevolent, fang-free smile. Humans were such sensitive beings, and so easily overstimulated… especially by the sight of a creature they could not understand, exploit or dominate.

Silas shifted his unnerving gaze politely, sizing up the other wares as the hat was removed from its stand and placed cautiously in his claws. Every corner of the shop was overflowing with such distracting temptations~ rows of riding boots in calfskin and quilted velvet, a rack of sleek fitted buckskin breeches, opera trousers with braided trim, carriage cloaks in weighty worsted wool tabby. An exquisite grooming kit carved from whale ivory and sterling, similar to the one he’d received as a gift from Mistress Scrivener during the winter holiday, sat locked inside a glass case.

Maybe he would acquire a white cravat~ his last one had been irreparably stained with blood the other night. And another in black as well; he’d noticed a particularly captivating one embroidered with a subtle motif of thorns and roses along its edges. He gave a little shiver of pleasure. Black conceals one’s transgressions much better than white.

With some amount of difficulty, Silas pulled himself away from these haberdashery treasures, and turned his attentions back to the narrow baroque mirror leaning against the wall in front of him. He smoothed his queue back so it hung between his shoulder blades, and elegantly laid the top hat upon his head. He turned and stood hipshot, sending his reflection a scorching side eye. Pressing the brim upwards, he touched two fingers to it gracefully, as if greeting a fair lady. Bowing, he tipped it rakishly and caught it in his hand. The hat, without a doubt, suited Silas. A more perfect match could not possibly exist. The shopkeep seemed to agree, looking on silently with a look of shy enchantment on his face. Silas, typically reserved, knew how to put on a show when he was so inclined.

“Yes, I do think so,” he murmured. Turning to his audience, he said, “Sir, I shall wish to order two of this style. One in fur pelt, one in silk plush, both black. May I ask to see embroidery samples? I require several cravats as well.”

The next half hour was spent perusing cloth samples and embellishments. Silas favored the quiet elegance of small details and delicate flourishes as opposed to flashy decadence. Appreciating the muted aesthetic of tone-on-tone embroidery, this was what he chose for his neckties.

At long last, every swatch considered and choices made, the demon was satiated.

The shopkeep opened his client ledger and flipped through the sections. “Silas… no last name given. Ah, here you are. And we have not only your measurements but also a billing address on file for you. Wonderful. That always expedites things along quickly, doesn’t it? As a courtesy I would be more than happy to re-check your sizing if you feel it may be necessary.” He paused expectantly, quivering hand resting on the tailor’s tape that hung around his neck.

Silas sighed inwardly. Being immortal, and unchanging {at least in the physical sense} his measurements hadn’t altered even a millimeter in over 300 years.

“I’m quite confident the figures you have are still accurate. Though I appreciate your diligence.” He didn’t think he could tolerate having his inseam taken yet again this year by an apprehensive mortal with trembling fingers.

The shopkeep gave a cheerful customer service smile. “As you wish, sir. Now for the fine print…As you know, all of our attire is bespoke and handmade specifically to your personal requests and unique physique. You will receive delivery of your purchases within 2 weeks, at, uh… Thorn Manor on Hemlock Park, is that correct?”

Silas inclined his head. “Precisely.” This was getting tedious.

“If I may be bold, you have the most outstanding coiffure. As a memento of our thanks, would sir like to choose a ribbon, free from charge today?” The shopkeep gestured to a display of ribbons in an assortment of colors and fabrics.

A flicker of renewed interest passed over the demon’s carven alabaster features. Silas loved free items. For him, ‘free’ usually meant he had pinched it, filched it, or otherwise stolen it; but today it was being gladly offered. He leaned close and pondered the jewel-like array laid out before him. Garnet embossed satin, lustrous topaz taffeta, darkly gothic amethyst silk, a richly ribbed chocolate grosgrain, a frothy warm ivory lace. All such covetable choices. He finally laid a manicured claw atop a wide strip of ebony watered silk. “This one, I believe, shall best suit my needs. I am truly in gratitude of your generosity.” One could never have too many black ribbons.

The ribbon wrapped in crisp tissue and safely tucked into his waistcoat pocket, Silas opened the door to take his leave. He bowed once again on his way out, the small brass bell chiming softly overhead. A spring shower had begun, the rain sprinkling in a cool shimmering mist. He stepped across the threshold and onto the wet sidewalk, leaving a faint scent of ozone and pine sap and danger in his wake. His suit and hair remained untouched by the falling rain.

The shopkeep exhaled, a flustered blush brightening his cheeks. The demon was stylishly haute, skillfully charming… and undeniably beautiful in a most unexpected way. Their entire interaction had felt surreal, and already seemed a distant memory. How odd. Upon rising from his low bow, the man could’ve sworn the demon had shuttered one eye in a teasing wink. But it was probably just an illusion caused by silver raindrops sparkling through golden sunbeams. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking. Surely demons were not playful creatures… or were they?

Silas laughed softly to himself as he strolled beneath the lush canopy of brilliant green elms that lined the shopping district. Not only was he in possession of a genuinely free ribbon, but also universal appeal. The shopkeep’s hidden thoughts had been clear as uncut crystal to the demon. Humans… so easily they are drawn into yearning desire for the strange, the treacherous, the ‘forbidden’.

In any matter, an armful of black calla lilies and crème roses would add a touch of magnificence to the manor entryway. He could envision how well they would compliment the duality of the marble flooring. He always returned to the manor with a gift in hand for someone. Feeling quite pleased with himself, Silas thought he might even visit the sweet shop on his way home for a packet of licorice, one of the few confectionery treats he fancied. He turned left and headed down a sloping cobblestone curve towards the florist.

Dear readers, this past Thursday was a somewhat eye-opening adventure. As you all know, the hours of 1:00 to 3:00 every Thursday afternoon are reserved for my weekly tea meets with Lady Annabelle Tremayne. Though we agree on less than nothing, and the tea could easily be considered a criminal offense, I look forward to these two hours of bickering and teasing with a certain infallible anticipation.

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Chapter 74~ The Pink Ribbon Revisited

Silas sighed. This was most undignified, and he had no idea why he’d agreed to it. Perhaps a momentary lapse of judgment, so unlike him, had allowed this to happen. The demon distracted himself from the blistering regret, as well as the breath-stealing miasma of violet scented perfume, with a sip of his ashy tea.

Lady Tremayne trilled with the bliss of accomplishment, and stepped around to face him. Placing a silverplate mirror in his hand, she gently pulled his long white ponytail forward and laid its glistening length over his lapel for him to admire. Wrapped and tied opulently around the silvery strands was a satin bow of the palest blush pink, its loops and tails drooping with a languid elegance.

“Oh darling! It’s your color! I just knew it!” She clapped his shoulder roughly, her excitement tipping into her working class roots.

Silas stared at his reflection, wordless. The tea remained in his mouth unswallowed. His mind raced to calculate the odds of his impeccable manners faltering, and the tea being vehemently spat back out.

Pink. The color he swore would never be part of his wardrobe. Festooning his hair, of all things. His source of much pride and joy.

“See? See how it livens up your complexion? No more mistaking you for a cadaver! Trying a small accent piece in a new color is always a good idea, but truly darling, I can imagine you in a full tailcoat of this…” Annabelle had tears in her eyes. Coaxing the stubborn demon into such a drastic concession had been a hard-fought battle. Her victory had taken years.

Silas reached up and gingerly touched the ribbon, fully expecting to see curls of brimstone smoke rising from his claws. His pupils dilated as he inspected the strip of fabric twisted about his queue. He tilted the mirror this way, then that. He raised his chin and looked down his nose at himself. He brought the mirror close, then drew it far away. It was…

Not entirely terrible.

Silas swallowed his cold mouthful of tea with a slight grimace. “Please do try to temper your enthusiasm, Lady,” he whispered softly.

This was a rather uncomfortable predicament. For years he’d resisted, pushed away, and refused Annabelle’s attempts to alter his attire. A few times he’d even resorted to baring his canines to fend her off, which was rudely unrefined but extremely effective. The only other person who had suggested he wear a ribbon in such a color palette had met with a calamitous accident soon thereafter. But now, it would seem, Lady Tremayne had had a point the whole time. He peered tentatively at himself again.

Stark white pallor. Brilliant yellow eyes, a bit wide with lingering surprise. Elegantly high cheekbones, small yet aquiline nose. Full lips in a slight frown, showing the faintest color as if lightly bitten. Ears like little curved seashells. An emerald dangling from one, facets catching the light. Pale smooth throat encircled snugly by an equally white hammered silk cravat, the intricate folds of the fabric pierced and held tight by a yellow diamond pin. Thick cascade of moonstone white hair. All seemed normal. Against all odds, the rosy strip of cloth had not transformed him into some horrific unrecognizable goblin. Gods what now?

Lady Tremayne was grinning at him like a love-sopped fool. She sniffed her nose loudly, took a hearty swig of tea, and smacked her lips. Success was apparently thirsty work. “How do you feel, Silas? Are you well?” As long as she’d known him, the demon had never been at a loss for words. He had always been more than happy to share his endless thoughts and firm convictions about fashion, which were often at odds with hers. In fact, just last week she’d crossly referred to him as a ‘yap.’

“There is a possibility I may be able to endure this. If it pleases you.” Silas placed the mirror facedown on her desk, and sat stiffly with his hands folded in his lap. The dastardly pink ribbon was almost touching his neck. He could see it from the corner of his eye. The demon was at an impasse. He wore the deep emerald green of House Thorn with pride, and he had purchased a crimson jacket for the winter holidays, so perhaps broadening his horizons even further past the somber tones of dark grey, merlot, black and white was not such a bad thing. Admitting this out loud to Lady Annabelle Tremayne was the difficult part.

Annabelle laughed, and refilled his cup. “You don’t have to say it. I can tell you fancy it. Now about that tailcoat. I just received a bolt of the most exquisite silk taffeta in Lusty Gallant.” She winked. “Quite a name for a color, wouldn’t you say? You’ll be beating the ladies away with a stick. A few gents too, I imagine…” Annabelle danced upon the fine thin line of Silas’ patience frequently.

Silas sighed again. His lip twitched. Lusty Gallant sounded like a streetwalker’s moniker. Not an association he wished for. “Let us begin with the ribbon for now. I am not sure the unsuspecting citizens of Brassbridge are ready for more than that, myself included.” The demon had absolutely no intention of going full-on pink, even if the situation proved itself to be life-or-death. He’d rather be dipped in hot oil and flung off the manor roof.

His claws brushed the ribbon again. A wisp of a smile touched his lip. The color was rather similar to tinted buttercream, or rose petal tea. The way it reflected in the silver white of his hair was… quite pleasant. Would his master have something obscenely saucy to say about it? Undoubtedly. Would Mistress Scrivener be utterly enchanted? He was sure of it.

The demon met Annabelle’s merry green eyes. A simple ribbon, his simple acquiesce had brought her such satisfaction. In turn, he felt his spirits rise a touch. Perhaps that was the key to friendships and new experiences alike. They both required an open mind, a give and take of expectations, and above all, trust.

“Lusty Gallant, you say. What a most unfortunate name. It conjures forth rather ribald images I dare not speak of, for fear of scandalizing the lady seated before me. You mortals never cease to confound me with your poor taste,” Silas murmured into his teacup, one eyebrow raised.

Annabelle burst into booming laughter and slapped her knee. A ring of swatches fell off her desk, awakening a dozing measuring tape which promptly fled the boisterous scene, swimming through the air like a snake in water. Silas smiled mischievously and took another sip of his wretched tea. What are friends for, if not to share a laugh?

Tonight’s tale is one of mind games, talking heads and days that defy their own existence.

I do love to sharpen my wits as much as my claws; indeed, both are essential to me…

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Chapter 74~ Tomorrow

With a subtle shift, the demon’s expressionless face transformed~ what was once starkly unreadable became overwrought by emotion… eyes shining the pale gold of heavenly light, smooth marble brow softened in a velvet crumple of sorrow. He gazed up at his master beseechingly, white eyelashes glimmering with droplets of wetness, a tremble upon his lip.

Nathaniel stared, transfixed. His mind had gone blank, shaken off course by Silas’ clever play. Such an exquisite sadness had settled across the demon’s features, the likes of which humanity had never borne witness to. A hollow aching grief began to well up within him; he would give anything, promise anything, even tear out his own heart to save this angelic creature from its misery… a far off weeping echoed in his ears. Could it be the sound of souls crying?

Nathaniel’s cane fell to the floor with a clatter, breaking the web and jolting the young man out of his trance. The whispering, overlapping sighs in his head spiraled away with a faint scream. The magister shook a wavy black lock out of his eyes and steadied himself with a hand on his desk inkblotter. “By the gods, Silas. That one was damned effective.”

He’d almost fallen for the manipulation again. It was nearly impossible not to, even after months of fending it off. It seeped in, slipped in so insidiously….treading so sweetly on silent cat’s paws. He let out a shaky breath. Gods the demon was fiercely cunning.

The air surrounding them warped in a swoosh as the crafted glamour evaporated, and Silas breathed a low petulant hiss, raised hackles revealing canines like tiny opals. He hadn’t even been trying very hard; to him this was all just a little game, a bit of playful trickery. On occasion he tested his master in this manner, not only to check Nathaniel’s resilience, but to also see how much he needed to tighten his own grip. His illusions were without flaw, mesmerizing. They fed on emotional impact. Of this, Silas was an expert. His frightening snarl faded like smoke, replaced by a beatifically calm smile.

Despite his own wry grin and a cocked eyebrow, Nathaniel’s heart was beating like a hammer to an anvil. “Little scoundrel,” he chuckled affectionately.

Silas loved him so.

The demon approached and busied himself with adjusting his master’s emerald waistcoat, claws clicking on the mother of pearl buttons and smoothing the embroidered fabric around them. As he spoke his yellow eyes shone with amusement. “Well done, master. It would seem you need only a small measure more of practice. Invasion and trespass can occur not only on the battlefront, but within the mind as well. Training your will to resist today is paramount, for tomorrow is but a figment.”

It was true. Sorcerers must remain vigilant to any form of magical intrusion, and the use of psychic attacks had always been an effective tactic. Though Austermeer was enjoying a time of peace, an era steeped in golden light, it was wise to keep one’s defense skills up to par.

“I will admit parrying with one such as I puts any mortal, even you, at a rather dismal disadvantage.” Done fussing with the buttons, Silas stepped back and leaned against a bookcase, one boot braced on the glazed walnut plinth. He regarded his master thoughtfully. The young man was often unguarded, an open book. He was so trusting, so eager to learn. In all honesty, Silas envied this vulnerability, to a degree. Perhaps someday, in a perfect world, these things would come more easily for him as well.

“I believe you are in need of a rest. Perchance some sustenance would do you good. A lungful or two of fresh air surely wouldn’t hurt either.”

Nathaniel nodded. The study was cozy, but a bit stuffy; the chimney smelled of ash and the mullioned window was sooty. Silas had come to tidy it, as spring cleaning was on today’s agenda, but they’d soon become distracted by one another. Feather duster waylaid amongst the magical knick knacks, the demon decided he could clean while his humans were asleep tonight. Games were much more entertaining, but they served a broader purpose.

Since Silas had engaged Nathaniel in strengthening of the mind, the sorcerer had not suffered a single nightmare. No cries from the fourth floor summoning him in the midnight gloom, no medication administered. Mistress Scrivener still kept a pouch of salt rounds by the bedside table, as a precaution, but they’d remained unneeded for many months now. The manor walls no longer wept blood.

His night terrors had affected everyone, from Elisabeth to Silas, Mercy too. Even the garden gargoyles huddled together on the rooftop, arms clutched around each other in despair, whenever Nathaniel had an episode.

“I won’t bother arguing with you. Is there any of that strawberry cake left from last night? I could really go for some right about now.” Silas’ strawberry angel cake~ delicate, impossibly airy and fluffy soft, layered with fresh fruit, was a house favorite this time of year.

“Unless Mistress has polished it off, there should be.” On more than one occasion, Silas had walked into his kitchen and caught the lady of the manor blissfully licking crumbs off an empty plate after hours like some sort of uncivilized barbarian. “Extra cream, as usual? I shall join you on the garden terrace momentarily.” The demon knew Nathaniel preferred his desserts drowned in glossy peaks of whipped cream.

“Uh huh. Um, I mean yes please,” Nathaniel said. It was wise to remember one’s manners around such a crafty creature; especially one that was handling your food.

Silas gave a slight bow and headed to the kitchen. His boot heels made no sound on the squares of satiny marble as he crossed the vast checkerboard floor entryway. Pausing at the hall tree mirror to check the drape of his coat tails, he nodded in satisfaction, and glanced into the dining room on his way by. The stag’s head mounted on the wall above the south window gave a miffed snort, and turned away to stare haughtily at the ceiling cornice.

Silas rolled his eyes. The stag had resided at the manor almost as long as the house demon, having been taken as a hunting trophy in 1535. It was unusual in that not only could it speak, it spoke only in riddles, which could be quite distracting during formal dinners. It also had an attitude, becoming easily offended if its puzzles were solved too readily, or if it failed to answer one properly. This very thing had happened last night.

Silas, having had a long-standing relationship with the stag, often sat with it at midnight in the moonlit dining hall, and exchanged conundrums. Admittedly a good intellectual match, their battle of wits often lasted until the sky blushed with the pink watercolor of dawn. Last night, towards the end of their cordial competition, Silas had reclined back smugly, and posed this~

“I never was but always am to be; None ever saw, you may never see, And yet I am the confidence of all who live and breathe on this terrestrial ball.”

The stag hemmed, it pondered, it stopped and started anew. The grandfather clock tick tocked away the minutes, yet the clever beast was unable to answer. It had finally fallen quiet, a frustrated glare in its glassy eye, until Silas had bowed politely { but with a toothy smile } and bid it a pleasant goodnight, without providing the solution. Silas was irritatingly mischievous that way.

Seeing the silent treatment was still in effect this morning, Silas strolled into his kitchen unbothered. The riddle’s answer was clear as day to the demon, but he wasn’t about to share it with the stag, until it adjusted its attitude. He was a clever beast too, and two could play this game. Who knew a stag’s head could possess a flair for drama, and a peevish temperament. Silas wondered where it had possibly learned such behaviours over the centuries. A mystery, to be sure.

Setting the kettle upon the fire, Silas fetched the cake from under its glass dome. Cutting a slice onto a plate, he dressed it with mounds of thickly swirled cream, placed a few strawberries on top just so, and dusted the entire treat with sparkling sugar. Silas enjoyed being decadent with desserts. His humans were always as generous with the compliments as he was with the extra care and cream. Folding a tea towel over his forearm, Silas sauntered with his tray through the French doors and out onto the garden terrace where Nathaniel awaited him in a patch of sunbeams.

Tonight he would visit the stag and endeavor to cause less mischief. Silas had learned much diplomacy in the two years that had passed since his return to House Thorn. Strengthening and exercising the mind was important, but so was ensuring both parties enjoyed themselves. One could do battle without sacrificing the entertainment. He believed it was called compromise, or empathy…or perhaps simply a healthy balance, which was another human concept Silas was curious about.

Tonight’s very short tale may surprise you, but isn’t that a certain pleasure in and of itself?

Prowling the manor grounds after hours is one of my favorite pastimes. My nightly excursions ensure the security of House Thorn, as is my duty, but they serve a dual purpose. There are many simple things that take on a certain magic when done beneath the darkness of the night sky.

Chapter 73~ Sweetwater

Water droplets sparkled in the moonlight like a string of crystals. Silas stood by the manor garden fountain, stretching upwards on the toes of his boots, leaning forward to drink from one of the thin streams that spouted from the spigots. He’d braced himself against the filigreed edge of the basin, claws pressed into a patch of moss, his pale throat moving with each quenching swallow. If not for this slight, languorous motion, Silas, with his alabaster flesh could easily be mistaken for part of the fountain itself.

In spite of the late hour, the stone pegasus that stood atop the fountain was engaged in a graceful piaff, legs moving rhythmically to some celestial melody, perhaps the singing of the stars, which Silas could hear through the passing clouds. Its wings were unfurled, casting an angelic shadow beside the demon slaking his thirst. Every so often it would shake its cropped mane, silvery moonlight glazing the muscles of its crested neck.

Silas would never do such a thing in front of his humans, but at this time of night, he was not concerned with being discovered. His master and mistress had been tucked snugly into bed several hours ago, velvet curtains drawn over their starlit window, giggles shushed and oil lamp extinguished.

Recently he’d been more forthcoming with his less-than-human traits, yet he still wished to shelter his humans to a degree, and maintain his aura of refinement. Drinking unabashedly from a moss covered garden bowl like a field laborer was not in keeping with his usual elegant countenance, but the water was so very tempting~ ice cold, pure and sweet…he hadn’t been able to resist.

Since his return to the manor, Silas was a different creature in many ways. A bit more impish, a touch more curious. He had discovered the deliciousness of fountain water quite by accident one day. And oh what a wonderful surprise, for most food and drink in this realm had previously only tasted of dust to him.

Silas did share evening cordials on occasion with his master in the parlor, but they tasted as though they’d been distilled from Nathaniel’s old socks, and so it was not something he agreed to often.

He may down a goblet or two of claret at the breakfast table, but it was mostly to amuse his master, who always seemed joyfully scandalized when he saw Silas partake of mortal foodstuffs. Claret was such a disappointment. Its juicy garnet red color, so reminiscent of heart’s blood, promised an exquisite palate, yet once again it was only ash.

His Thursday tea meets with Lady Tremayne at her shop consisted of, well, tea…or at least that’s what she called the highly questionable liquid she served him. She used filtered river water provided by the city municipality of Brassbridge, and that was, Silas was convinced, the crux of the problem. He knew what secrets lie at the bottom of the Gloaming River, having placed a few there himself. But it was brewed with the earnest love of friendship, which made it wretchedly tolerable, and so he endured.

Sweetwater, flowing icy fresh from the enchanted fountain and quickened under moonbeams… well that was another story. Satiated, the demon took one long last swallow and lowered himself, licking a stray drop from his lip before it fell into the ruffled depths of his cravat. He sighed, as soft as the cattails rustling at the edge of the pond. Not a cricket chirped, not a frog droned; not even a cicada chirr could be heard down the rolling fog-glimmered path to the willow tree. Silas’ presence cloaked them all in silence; they remained hidden in their burrows until his danger would pass. This did not distress or offend him, it was simply just the way things were.

A cloud swirled its misty cape about the moon, casting both demon and garden into brief darkness. Silas closed his eyes, and when he opened them they shone with a phosphorescence, glowing softly like the lights that lined the bridge to the city. A slight breeze teased his ponytail and tugged the tails of his coat. It brought with it the cloying scent of fading lilacs. He shivered, not from the chill, but from the beauty of it all~ the glistening black leaves of the yew hedges, the pegasus turned bright cobalt in the night gloom, the spiderwebs beaded with dew, even the faint slushy sound his boots made in the damp grass. The night spring garden was every bit as entrancing as it was during a balmy summer day, or a rusting autumn evening. Perhaps he would set the breakfast table with a vase of lilac boughs, lush and dripping nectar. Daybreak was hours away, but Silas was always thinking ahead of ways to delight his humans.

He meandered towards the fencerow, wading through pools of fog to where a copse of the purple flowers flourished in thick clumps. His belly was full, his senses alive. The manor’s inhabitants were slumbering peacefully, his night prowl having assured their safety. He was all alone, yet he’d never felt more needed….

What a fortunate creature I am, he thought.

A reminder I have a Spotify playlist that my humans have compiled for your listening pleasure.

As you know, music is a big part of my life. It soothes my demon nature. Which in turn makes this realm a safer place. If you have any suggestions as to a song I may wish to add to the list, please engage me by message.

My utmost gratitude and admiration for the charming art contained within the French L’Integrale edition. Here I am captured {ah but only momentarily} in two of my forms by the ever-enchanting Noemie Chevalier.

Dear readers, I have finally put pen to paper and written my experience of Mistress Scrivener’s very first morning at the manor. This was directly following the fiend attack on our carriage. The two of us had a rather emotional exchange in her bedchamber, also called The Lilac Room, and her attitude, I’m afraid to say, was not very gracious… but under the circumstances I do understand. It is difficult to see past the fears and stereotypes which one has been taught throughout their life.

Please keep in mind this day occurred several years ago, well before she and I had come to know the deep affectionate love we now share for one another.

Our conversation was a bit, shall I say it, combative and at moments quite unpleasant. Each of us had shameful prejudices to overcome, but fortunately we were also both willing and determined to learn about and from one another. It is a day I shall never cease to hold in fond memory. It is good, bad, and ugly.

This tale is told from my point of view, and is therefore much more accurate and ‘mature’ than how it was depicted in the novel. You all know by now I am an honest creature, and forthcoming with my true nature, and so I must include a few warnings, which I have kindly listed below.

On a final note, this is a longer story. I do try to keep my tales short and to the point, as I am not overly fond of flowery speech, and I am also aware the human attention span is equal to, if not lesser than that of a gnat’s. There was simply much to cover, and I make no apologies for my liberties.

{TW~ MATURE CONTENT: adult themes, blood, brief non-graphic descriptions of violence and death, male anger, psychological fear and fear of physical harm}

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Chapter 72~ The Epiphany

“Do you take sugar in your tea, miss?” Silas already knew the answer~ Miss Scrivener’s peppermint tea, steeped 5 minutes and 12 seconds, with milk added afterwards, required one and one half teaspoons of sugar. He only asked in order to distract her from her incoming hysterics.

He replaced the cover of the sugar tin, pressing it down with a pop, and inhaled the ambrosia of her blind panic before turning to face her.

This part was always so tedious and dramatic. The part when humans discovered he was not one of them.

Florid spots of color flared on the girl’s pallid cheeks, her face equally terrified and confused. Miss Scrivener had scrambled to the far end of the bed, in an attempt to put as much distance between herself and the demon. The carved walnut headboard quivered as she pressed into it, rattling the wall behind and causing the bed springs to creak in alarm. Her nightgown had slipped off one shoulder, exposing a bloodstained bandage on her arm, but the throes of terror rendered her unaware. Her hair, which Silas had diligently washed and untangled the night before, was a wild chestnut mane of snaps and snarls and frowzy ropes.

The demon sighed. All that effort undone in a matter of minutes. Just wait til she discovers she’s also had a much-needed bath. Then we shall see some fireworks. He pushed down his rising hunger at the scent of her horror filling the room. For him, it was like warm frosted cinnamon rolls, or spiced sausages crackling in their own fat… tantalizing. He shook his head to clear the aroma. No need to add more fuel to the fire. Master was trusting him to caretake her, not slake his thirst.

She’d armed herself with a chamberstick from the side table~ a well crafted baroque sterling piece which Silas knew was solid silver and quite heavy, as he’d polished it just the week before~ and she was holding it over her shoulder like a whaler about to launch a harpoon. Her white knuckled deathgrip on it was no doubt ruining the mirror shine he’d worked so meticulously to achieve. Silas sighed inwardly again. This was going about as well as expected. Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, he crossed the room and set the tea tray down on the rumpled quilt at the foot of the bed. He rose and stood hipshot, arms folded benignly behind his back.

“Attempting to brain me with a candlestick won’t do you any good. Though I will thank you for the courtesy of not screaming. Human are such reactive creatures. Do not mistake me, I find a cinematic opera performance quite enjoyable, but only as a ticket holder at the Royal Theatre.”

The sound of his soft articulate voice seemed to bring her back to her senses. She shakily lowered the candlestick and finally dropped it onto the bed covers. The china jingled and a pillow fell to the floor with a soft downy plop. He could almost hear the gears grinding in her head as she pondered her predicament. She laughed abruptly, a half-choked squeak.

“Miss?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve never met a demon before. I thought you’d be.. you know…” Silas heard her unspoken words, “something else.”

“Quite understandable, given your limited education on the matter. As a highborn demon, I am able to take on several forms; the one you see now is the one Master Thorn is most fond of. I can also appear as a cat, which Nathaniel also finds appealing. My true Otherworld form is, as you suspect, ‘something else’.” He stepped around to the side of the bed, into a shaft of morning sunlight, and stood silently, inviting her critique.

She stared in cautious wonder at him, taking in his snowy skin~ youthful, poreless and unblemished as marble. He waited, unblinking, as her eyes searched the yellow irises of his own, and his white eyelashes. She looked him up and down, inspecting every detail, from the golden fringed epaulets of his velvet tailcoat, and the opulent lace cravat, to his precisely tailored breeches and immaculately burnished riding boots. Her eyes lingered on his white gloves and the faceted emerald that dangled from his ear. Patiently, he pulled his long ponytail forward, draping it over his jacket lapel so she could see the white moonstone gleam of it.

“He’s beautiful.” Silas heard the thought clear as crystal in her mind. Once again, a lump of emotion was aching in her throat. It was an innocent, impulsive response, but Silas smiled nonetheless. Yes, he was beautiful. So much so he was often mistaken for an angel. Though he was quite short in stature and slender, the demon radiated an ancient formidable spirit. Mortal reactions to his strange aesthetic were quite predictable~ initially terror, then fascination… if they survived long enough.

But even an angel’s patience could wear thin. The tea was steaming hot, aromatic and sweet, and Silas wished for her to taste it. Tea helped. Tea somehow made everything better.

“Please, miss. Won’t you try your tea?” he coaxed.

Her eyes remained fixed upon him as she lifted the cup to her lips. One sip. “Oh! It’s good!” Elisabeth took another mouthful, and looked down into the liquid. Breathing in the steam should’ve been a comfort, but she jerked back, placing the cup back on its saucer with a rattle. Gooseflesh rose on her skin, and she clutched her arms about herself. Her mind was flashing with chaotic images and sensations of the night before.

Silas could see them too, like the pages of a picture book flipping~ her boots slipping on the uneven cobblestones. A hand rough on her neck, the thumb pressing into the base of her skull. A knife blade glittering in the dark. The steam from a man’s hot breath dampening the hair at her nape. His sudden scream of pain…then silence…why had he screamed? It had been such a terrifyingly primal sound. What on earth had happened to him?

Elisabeth glanced up at Silas, wordless. He was still as a carven statue, face serene with the benevolence of an angel.

“I killed him, miss.”

He said this so softly his lips barely moved. What he did not divulge was how, or where the man had met his violent end. She did not need to know Silas had “detained” him, taking him deep into the moldy soot-grimed basement of the manor, far below the pretty lilac papered room they were both in now. She did not need to know Silas had spent a long leisurely time, and then some, to finish the bloody task. Tonight Silas would fill the man’s pockets with river stones, and slip what was left of him into the black depths of the Gloaming. She surely needn’t know this. And neither did Nathaniel.

Saliva pooled around his tongue. The demon shifted his stance as the memory brought a pleasurable heat to his hips. He turned away under the guise of retrieving the fallen pillow. He may not crave human flesh, but the spilling of blood, especially combined with the energies of mortal anguish, was always highly arousing for him. Silas raised an eyebrow at the poor timing of his body’s reactions.

The demon tightened his grip on his focus, willing himself to think of something else. Master Thorn would never forgive him if Miss Scrivener were to see him in such a state. He smoothed his breeches and turned back to her.

“Killed him? How did you know what I was thinking?” she was asking, her voice strangled. “You can read my mind?”

“Not exactly. Humans are rather predictable. After three centuries of living in this realm, I’ve grown quite adept at accurately guessing the next move. The same goes for the thoughts that form in your head. My sincere apologies if this offends you. It is merely the truth.” He gave a slight bow.

“Three centuries?”

Silas reached past her and took a newspaper off the nightstand, and placed it before her, politely ignoring her flinch. “Your hearing has been called off. The papers are having quite a time announcing it. The Chancellor himself has asked to see you. Magister Thorn will be delivering you to Ashcroft Manor as soon as your health allows. In the meantime, you are to stay here and recuperate sufficiently.”

“What? Why? Why do I have to see the Chancellor? Can’t I just stay here? At least for a bit?” She was twisting a corner of the bed quilt in her hands. Her thoughts had turned to Master Thorn.

“I know not, miss. The reason was not shared with me.” Silas found this worrisome, and he had an ominous feeling about the plan. The man he’d butchered in the basement had been Ashcroft’s hired lackey.

“Perhaps you’d like to get dressed, and come downstairs. I can assist you, if needed.”

“No, no… I can manage. I have my dress...” She looked down at herself, seeing the nightgown, its silken fabric laced about her primly. She pushed the bed linens away, her mind calculating the equation. Her sapphire eyes blazed anew at him, matching the holy fire of her soul.

Ah, yes. Here it comes, the demon mused. The righteous indignation. He debated offering a faint smile of reassurance, then thought better of it. Showing his canines at the wrong moments usually made things worse. The grandfather clock ticked softly in the foyer three stories below, spooling out the seconds as her shock turned to dread.

“Did you undress me?!”

The clock chimed the hour, and the demon tilted his head. Honesty was the best policy. “Yes, I have decades of experience…” Silas paused as a deep scarlet blush spread across her face. He gave a bow and continued more gently.

“My apologies, miss. I should’ve explained myself sooner. I can assure you I have no interest whatsoever in your body, at least not in the way you are concerned about. You were bathed, which was necessary I’m afraid. You were unconscious, and you’d been injured,” he flicked his eyes to her wounded arm. Fresh blood spots bloomed like roses on the neatly laid dressing.

She’d also stunk like a raggedy back alley strumpet, having been saturated in ditchwater, fiend blood, mud and sweat. But Silas kept that to himself, because above all else, Silas was a gentleman.

“You expect me to believe that? Demons are horrid creatures. Evil and wicked! I’ve read about it in books. You eat humans. You feast on our flesh. Especially the entrails of maidens! It sickens me to imagine what else you might wish to force upon me!” She wrenched her nightgown sleeve back onto her shoulder with a disgusted huff.

Silas regarded her. A prickle of rage had begun to claw its way up his spine. This foolish, presumptuous mortal. Maiden’s entrails? Miss Scrivener was once again dancing upon the razor edge of folly. First the chase she’d led him on through the Blackwald Forest, which had ruined his travel boots, then the bramble bush she’d pushed him into at the tavern. There was still at least one thorn imbedded in his…

Resisting the urge to bare his teeth at her, Silas instead leaned in close, and spoke in a low arrogant growl. “I am a highborn demon. I do not stoop to such base and vulgar acts. I am surprised you did not learn of this in that library of yours, though I should not be, as it would seem lies, bigotry and backwoods superstition are the only things taught in the classrooms there.”

She recoiled from him, and he brazenly inspected her. “I suggest you humble yourself, miss. If sullying your virtue were my intention, you would most assuredly know by now. You think I wish to force you beneath me in a carnal sense, yet you humans are beneath me in EVERY sense. The one thing you possess that I could possibly desire is a soul, and I only have that once I’ve bargained for it. Everything else…” he gestured at her with a dismissive flourish of his gloved hand, “is irrelevant.” He raised his chin and held her gaze, yellow eyes brilliantly hard and sharp as glass shards.

Elisabeth was chewing her lip nervously. He could hear her thundering heart calming to a steady rhythm as his words sunk in and began to alchemize fear into reason. It was true, Silas had felt nothing but a sense of duty as he’d bathed her naked skin. It had been no different to him than laundering one of Nathaniel’s undershirts, or washing down the scullery table. His motives had been, ironically enough for a demon, pure as snow. Being accused of lying meant nothing to him. Being accused of indecent conduct undeservedly was intensely offensive. Silas was a proper monster. Her prejudice was inexcusable.

“Now, miss, are you quite sure you do not require my assistance?”

“I’m fine. But thank you,” she answered contritely. It wasn’t every day one was firmly admonished by a highborn demon. She reached for her tea.

Silas bowed himself out. Once the latch clicked shut behind him, he leaned back against the door and closed his eyes, quelling the last of his anger. Gods she was uncommon~ bold and feisty for a library apprentice. It was fortunate for her that Master Thorn trusted him, for he’d never been spoken to in such a rude manner, especially so early in the morning. He shook down his sleeves, adjusted his ruffled cuffs and wandered down the hall to wait.

Silas couldn’t help but be inquisitive about Miss Scrivener. Her pluck and courage, though woefully unrefined, drew his attention, not to mention the delightfully maniacal way she swung a crowbar. Almost a decade had passed since the manor had felt the unparalleled grace of a lady’s presence. Nathaniel’s mother had been the last, eight years ago.

Silas had sensed a definite shift in the house’s energy this morning, just a few hours after Elisabeth’s arrival~ a peculiar vibrancy glowing within the dark walnut panel walls. Doorways to rooms long vanished had begun to briefly materialize, their outlines fading in and out, warping the air around them. Each window in the manor was glazed with a silvery lightness, even the one in Silas’ bedroom. He could see the phenomena now; the diamond panes of glass in the hallway were shimmering despite being in pools of shadow. Silas removed a glove and placed his hand on the gilt striped wallpaper. Yes, there was a definite warmth radiating from within, a low thrumming coming from under the waxed mahogany floorboards too, vibrating up through his boots. It was as if the manor were rousting itself from a deep slumber. He couldn’t say for sure this awakening was Elisabeth’s doing, but he had his suspicions.

Nathaniel was in a rush to shuttle her off, but the reason behind that hurry was plain as day to Silas. Master Thorn had tripped and fallen last night~ deeply into the relentless tides of love. A place he claimed denial of, yet was most resolute to escape from. As much as his master wanted Miss Scrivener gone, Silas was determined to keep her.

Nathaniel desperately needed this, whether he knew it or not. Silas heard the door of the Lilac Room tentatively snick open. Miss Scrivener, audacious book speaker and slayer of fiends, was dressed and ready to explore the manor.

Their journey was just beginning.

✨🫖✨

Even though I am a solitary creature for the most part, I do on occasion like to ‘put my two cents in’ as it is said.

Being in the possession of extraordinary auditory abilities, I cannot avoid hearing each little thing that happens within the cozy confines of the manor walls, and even at times the manor grounds. Sometimes the conversations that take place between my humans warrant my interception. At times the nonsense is of such a profound degree I simply cannot ignore it. A sly side eye only goes so far.

Master calls it being nosy, which I find to be a vexingly confounding term. Airing my opinion hardly involves my nose.

In any case, many a foolish plan and doom-fated magical spell has been diverted thanks to my input. I do try to be diplomatic in my efforts to gently steer him away from disaster. But even I can admit at times I am more than a little firm in my advice. I only do this because I care {*shudder*}

Upstairs, Silas led her down the hall, toward a door at the end. As he unlocked it, she noticed that he had on the same white gloves as that morning. But there wasn’t a speck of dirt on them, even though he’d spent all day handling the carriage’s reins.

“Wait,” she said, when he turned to leave. “Silas, I…”

He paused. “Yes?”

Her head pounded. There was something important she’d forgotten. Something she needed to know. “What color are your eyes?” she asked.

“They are brown, miss,” he said softly, and she believed him.

The lock clicked behind her.

{Sorcery of Thorns, page 64, hardback edition}

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

It was indeed for the best that our brave and intuitive library girl not know the truth; at least, not this early in the game. I fear Master Thorn was a bit uptight about my demonic identity…which amuses me, since his is quite, shall we say, broad-minded.

Even so, you can imagine the pains I took to keep them both satisfactorily in the light~ miss believing me to be a common servant boy, and master relieved to be avoiding the histrionics of her discovering the reality of her situation.

Which did finally occur within a couple days. I had grown weary of the illusions, which had ceased to entertain me. I knew she would be staying at the manor for an extended length of time, even if Nathaniel’s plan involved moving her along as quickly as possible. She deserved to know, if I were to be her acquaintance.

It was inevitable, and though she strove to insult me by insinuating I consume maiden’s entrails (vulgar and rude) and almost threw a candlestick at me (can you imagine?) she actually accepted the knowledge quite well, all things considered.

I did thank her for not screaming. It was the polite thing to do, and I meant it.

“Please, miss,” he said quietly. “It’s for the best. Dreadful things roam the shadows while the human world sleeps. I wouldn’t like to see you harmed.”

Concern and sorrow transformed his features into those of an angel, easing her fears. No one so beautiful, so full of sadness, could have anything but her best interests at heart. She stepped forward as though hypnotized. “What sort of dreadful things?”she whispered.

Without any effort, Silas lifted her into his arms. “It is better if you do not know,” he murmured, almost too softly for her to hear.

{Sorcery of Thorns, page 62, hardback edition}

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Would you follow danger, if it looked upon you gently?

It has often intrigued me how some of you mortals dance so very willingly with that which is monstrous, and unknown to you.

It is as if all sense of self-preservation has fled your mind. Is it a wish to be ravaged, a perversion of attraction? Is it foolhardiness, or innocent trust?

Perhaps they are all one and the same.

Ignorance is bliss… or maybe blind hope drives you to it? The belief that goodness lies within each living creature is no doubt a tempting concept, even for myself.

In any matter, some of you will most likely die attempting to pet a demon.

Do not fancy yourself ‘peaceful’ unless you are capable of violence.

If you are not capable of violence, you are not peaceful.

You are merely harmless…

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Please do not mistake me. No matter my tender intentions, I shall never be harmless.

Think upon it, dear readers. Did it not take acts of violence for me to defeat the armies of the Otherworld, in order to save your mortal one? I can assure you, it was enjoyable for me, but still..

I have found that if I pretend I’m erasing evidence of a murder when cleaning the manor, it makes the task so much more enjoyable.

I also do a better job of it.

And if I may be honest, there have been several occasions when I was not pretending 🤭 😉

Dear readers~ have you ever had a memory, safely tucked away in the back of your mind, spring forth unexpectedly at the mention of a single word, an image, a scent? Well this is not merely a human phenomenon. Demons experience this too, apparently. Such an occurrence took place yesterday while I was witnessing the travesty of my master’s breakfast table manners.

It was not his eating habits that triggered the memory for me (that is more of what I would consider a nightmare)… it was the mention of a simple, small and seemingly insignificant place on the manor grounds.

The servant’s passage that runs along the left side wing of the house has seen centuries of discreet traffic, mostly for the transference of delivered packages and goods. It was used for another, less traditional and more veiled purpose, long ago.. and this is the story, or at least a taste of it. I have kept most of the details to myself, as they are quite sacred, but perhaps someday, I shall divulge a bit more. (To better understand the unique relationship mentioned in this tale, please feel free to read Chapter 45~ The Ostrich Room.)

I present to you Chapter 71~ The Servant’s Passage

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Chapter 71~ The Servant’s Passage

“Right dandy for a butler, isn’t he? Imagine takin’ ice delivery all fancied up like that!” The iceman said to the newsboy at the curb. It was his first day on the job, and Thorn Manor was the last stop on his route along Hemlock Park.

Silas sighed and politely ignored the comment. The man’s mustache was woefully unkempt, which helped to explain his dismal lack of decorum. Poor hygiene and questionable manners were known to travel together, Silas had noticed.

The young newsie, dressed in shabby knickers and a face freckled with ink smudges, shifted his heavy satchel of newspapers to the other shoulder. He piped up.

“That not be the butler, sir. That’s the House Thorn demon. I seen him lots, out ‘n’ about in town. Even bought a paper right offn’ me just now. Tips real grand too.” The lad jingled the coins in his pocket.

Silas was bending to lift one of the ice blocks from the pile the iceman had left on the brick walkway of the servant’s passage. Overhearing the street urchin’s reply, he paused, and slowly turned his head. It was never too early in the morning for the demon to cause a bit of mischief.

The glamour he’d donned out of courtesy melted away like running wax, revealing stark white skin and yellow eyes. He smiled faintly and winked, flashing just enough canine to send the shocked iceman scurrying back to his carriage sled. The paperboy doubled over with laughter, holding tight to his hat, and scampered off as well, just in case the demon was feeling peckish.

Silas’ sinister past was well-known throughout the city of Brassbridge, and provided plenty of fodder for the local gossips. Citizens nowadays were mostly cautiously curious, respectful. The vendors in the shopping district~ the tailor, the sweet shop, the florist and the apothecary, were becoming more accustomed to seeing him as he was, without a disguise. As was the Royal Theatre. Silas was the pinnacle of politeness and cultured class during his outings, but there would always be a handful who clung steadfastly to their fears. In a way, Silas approved, for he knew full well a meticulously tied cravat and perfect etiquette were no proof of a saintly life.

Silas knocked the gravel off his boot heels on the marble threshold, and finished bringing the ice in, neatly stacking the glistening 50 lb blocks into the pantry. The laborious chore, which would’ve been impossible for Mercy, took him no effort. He brushed frost off his sleeves, smoothed his immaculate ponytail and meandered into the kitchen.

Though the spring morning was gilded and soft, with pale lavender clouds, there was a decided bite in the air. The kitchen was toasty warm, fragrant with cut herbs and the floury aroma of baked bread. Four loaves, butter tender with crisp golden crusts, sat cooling in the center of the table. Several bundles of young green chives, nestled within a wooden garden trug, and a large bouquet of lemon yellow daffodils accompanied them.

Silas had been up before the dawn, setting dough to rise and gathering spring flowers in the dewy darkness. He loved wandering the awakening gardens before the sun rose~ the sound of water gently bubbling in the fountain once again, the nectar sweet scent of night-blooming moonflowers, and the stars winking out as the deep purple sky faded to gold, had always brought a certain tranquility to the demon’s soul.

Nathaniel had seated himself at the pub table beside the kitchen hearth, taking his tea by the fire. Shirt open at the neck and shoeless, he still managed to radiate a regal aura of magisterial power. His soul rippled rhythmically, glowing green at the edges. A black lacquered cane leaned against the wall behind him. Elisabeth had chosen it, with Silas’ help, as a birthday gift for him. The handgrip was set with emerald cabochons, and a carved vine of thorns wound its way up the length of it.

“Morning, Silas. As entertaining as it is for you, I do wish you’d refrain from scaring the pants off the delivery couriers. That’s the third new iceman I’ve seen in the past six months. Isn’t that odd? Any ideas why?”

Silas, unbothered by the insinuation (because it was true), gave a slight bow and handed him a copy of the Brassbridge Inquirer. Though the paper was literally hot off the press, Silas’ gloves bore no trace of the fresh ink.

He had been terrorizing delivery men and messengers for the past few centuries, and had no intention of stopping anytime soon. It was, admittedly, base entertainment, but harmless enough. The crocodiles that once filled the manor’s moat had been less feared than him. The moat had been vanished long ago, along with its reptilian inhabitants, but Silas remained.

“And a good morning to you, master. The gentleman’s trousers, though dreadfully out of fashion, were positively buttoned securely about him as he departed. In any case, I cannot take responsibility for the high turnover of employees in the ice trade. One can only guess as to the reason. Perhaps it is due to the hideous plaid uniform.” Silas wrinkled his nose like an offended cat. He despised plaid with a fervent passion. “Perhaps the labor laws require a further revolution.”

Nathaniel snorted, slurped his tea, and opened the paper. Silas noticed he went straight to the comics section every morning, disregarding the front page until he’d been fortified with a hot breakfast.

Labor laws were unnecessary for Silas’ particular situation; he could most assuredly fend for himself. Demonic bargains were quite clear cut, all details negotiated within the summoning circle, and agreements bound with a kiss. He knew well the atrocities and betrayals humans committed against each other regardless of contract; one only had to walk a short distance into the soot-streaked industrial district to witness the abject poverty, and shameful abuses that greedy companies inflicted upon their workers. Lady Tremayne had told him stories of her youth spent laboring in the textile mills. None of the cruelties she spoke of shocked him, for they were tame compared to the things demons do, yet he found it curious that a species would be so dead set on its own destruction.

Despite the flaws of society, Silas never for a minute regretted saving this world, but then again, he hadn’t done it for the ragged masses. He took down a plate from the cupboard, and a knife from the drawer by the sink. Cutting thick slabs of steaming bread, the demon glanced sideways at Nathaniel, who’d always been a champion for the rights of all beings.

Whereas House Thorn was once infamous for stirring up dark chaos across the land, Nathaniel was the type of Thorn who could set this realm on its feet again. He’d been raised proper. Silas’ sulfurous eyes settled on the white tendril of hair that wove through his master’s dark locks, and a deep current of emotion surged behind his calm feline gaze~ pride, admiration, devotion, love… he firmly pushed it all aside for now. House Thorn may be on a kinder path, but its demon still had a fierce reputation to maintain. And breakfast to serve.

Silas placed the plateful of bread on the table, along with a crock of salted butter and a small jar of marmalade, and sat down across from his master.

“Oh that smells incredible!” Nathaniel grabbed two slices, immediately stuffing one in his mouth. “By the gods, Silas,” he groaned around a mouthful, eyes rolling upwards in bliss. Chewing, he slathered the other slice with thick layers of jam, smearing a shirtsleeve with butter in the process. Silas watched him with a mixture of patient amusement and mild horror. Despite Silas’ best efforts, his master’s table etiquette had not improved since childhood. The demon considered it one of his own greatest failures.

“You are most welcome. It is a pleasure, master, to bear witness to the spectacle of such an appreciative appetite. And such enviable manners as well.” Silas looked up through his long lashes at Nathaniel, who gave him a lopsided grin. The young Magister promptly grabbed a cloth napkin, snapped it out and folded it over his lap.

“Speaking of deliveries, it may be time to replace the walkway in the servant’s passage. Those bricks are in a rather sorry state.”

Indeed, the bricks were in dire need of repair; they’d shifted with time, heaved with the frost and begun to crumble in places.

“How old would you say they are? Maybe a couple centuries? Anyway, we’ll have to get the stonemason here once the rains stop, maybe lay down some nice white marble…”

Nathaniel paused and looked at Silas, whose face had taken on a faraway daydreamy expression. His otherworldly features were softened in the warm embrace of nostalgia, memories crowding to the forefront of his mind like moths to a flame. His eyes were hazy and distant. The demon was clearly lost in his own thoughts, and to see him this unguarded was a rare thing indeed.

In the summer months, a lush canopy of wisteria shaded the servant’s passage, for as long as Silas could remember. The trailing flowers hung low, some even dusting the flagstones by the end of the season. It was a secluded spot, romantic in its unexpected beauty, offering a cool sanctuary from the heat. Silas had placed a chair beside the doorway for Miss Mercy, who often took her tea or a glass of cold lemonade beneath the fragrant blossoms. Their truce was still holding firm, and more than once last summer Silas had joined her there in the shade, in his cat form.

But it was now early spring, and the narrow passage was crisscrossed overhead with twisted ropes of withered vines, the drifts of last autumn’s fallen leaves crisp underfoot. A pale sun filtered through, casting dapples on the ground, and a slight breeze moved the rustling leaf piles from one side of the walkway to the other. The lack of color, the damp mossy stone walls and the unswept bricks lent the hidden passage an aura of drab melancholy, a certain gothic hush that Silas appreciated. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the faint tingling he felt in the space, a spark of leftover energies prickling his skin… the imprint of a ghost.

Simple and covert, the servant’s passage was a discreet way for staff to carry parcels into the manor without disturbing the other inhabitants. The masters and ladies of the house never used this corridor, except for one….

Theodora Sinclair, House Thorn sorceress, owner of the Ostrich Room.

“Hello, Mistress,” he murmured to himself, smiling at the sudden memory of her. Even a demon’s recollections would crumble to dust over the ages if they didn’t pull themselves forth from time to time. Silas’ consciousness tumbled back to the past, the sound of Nathaniel’s voice fading away.

He’d served her a hundred years ago, bound together by formal pact, but over the course of her lifetime they’d forged a curiously close bond. She had been the one to introduce him to the theatre, with its gilt trappings, vibrant colors and fantastical displays. His love of opera and plays had flourished unfettered high in the balcony, seated beside her wearing a glamour and his finest attire. Although Theodora had rebelled against the rules of acceptable magical society by asking the demon to accompany her, thereby causing quite a ruckus within the stately walls of House Thorn, the manor itself didn’t seem to mind, and had offered up a way to avoid the wearying drama~ the servant’s passage.

They would meet in the tenebrous secrecy of the passageway, and spirit away to the Royal Theatre for a long night of symphony concerts and lavish opera performances.

Memories flooded back, richly detailed and wistful as a star spangled night sky. Silas could recall the glimmer of her ruby satin gown as he stepped into the gloam to escort her. He could still hear her delicate laugh, like a tiny bell chiming, and the soft sugary crunch of her French heeled shoes on the worn bricks. A mischievous smile lighting up her face, eyes liquid and dark as damson plums… the way she took his arm, her touch lighter than air as he led her down the shadowed path to the carriage awaiting them at the curb.

She’d suffered no fear of him, only a healthy respect, and her trust was a new experience for him. It had made his cold demon heart soar almost as high as the crescendos at the opera, though it was only recently he’d been able to comprehend these feelings. Those innocent yet forbidden outings they’d shared, lost so long ago to the mortal passage of time, had given Silas a sense of belonging, a feeling of freedom he’d never known with any of his masters, save for Nathaniel. Mistress Sinclair was a nonconformist, a free spirit~ brash yet whimsical, elegant…and Silas had been utterly, fiercely devoted to her. To say he felt grief at her passing would be a vast understatement. Her lifeforce, when he’d consumed it, was somehow both fiery and quenching, warming him to his very bones and soothing the loss. Her final gift to him.

Silas slowly returned to himself, fragments of his brief, bittersweet reverie swirling back into the depths of his mind like honey stirred into tea. He blinked, and gave a little shiver the way a cat would. Nathaniel peered at him over his newspaper, one eyebrow raised quizzically, but wisely asked no questions. He could see the demon was not distressed, and he knew how private Silas was with his personal affairs.

“To be honest, master, I find myself rather partial to the old brick. Perhaps it only needs a bit of care, and for someone to remember how grand it once was,” Silas spoke in a thoughtful whisper. He was not just a practical creature, but also a sentimental one.

Mending the walkway would be an enjoyable task for the two of them to delve into as the days grew warmer. Nathaniel could use the fresh air; he’d been studying so much lately the scent of aetherial combustion seemed permanently set into his hair and skin. He needed a good airing out. And Silas liked the idea of bringing the passage back to its former mystique… leaving the lush, convoluted secrets of its history safely intact.

Nathaniel gave him a long empathetic look. Now was not the time to tease or argue with the demon. “Ok, yes… we can do that instead,” he said kindly. Maybe someday Silas would tell him the story he was reminiscing about.

What doesn’t kill me had better run…

This is most likely the view Mistress Scrivener has of me, from the altitude of her lofty height. Master Thorn as well, though he is not quite as tall as her.

I have heard readers refer to me as “pocket-sized”, which is a bit off-putting. Just remember~

…”This is absurd. Since when do you care about the welfare of a human being?”

“I am not the one who cares,” Silas said softly.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You care about her, master, more than I have seen you care about anything in years. Don’t attempt to deny it,” he added when Nathaniel opened his mouth. “There is no other reason why you should wish so fervently for her to leave.”

{Sorcery of Thorns, page 179, paperback edition}

You mortals are not complicated, yet you are a rather odd species. You allow your fears to push away the very things you need.

It is a fortunate thing that I persisted in my insistence that Miss Scrivener stay at the manor. I saw the way Master Thorn’s entire person changed when he was near her~ the softness in his eyes, the way he carried himself, the very tone of his voice. He was a bit of a blithering idiot { and still is, if I may be permitted a moment of brutal honesty } but given how hard and fast he fell, that human fallibility is forgivable. He even miraculously learned to drive a carriage while under the spell of her mere presence. That is how inspirational our Miss Scrivener is.

How could I not encourage such a such an attraction? All it took was a bit of forced proximity for the romance to blossom.

And I know how you all enjoy that particular trope 👌🏻😉🥀

For a demonic servant, receiving an order is akin to facing the guillotine; a suffocating loss of freedom. A reminder that the master holds the reins, and maintains a small yet rather vexing fragment of control. If that sounds dramatic, then you know me well.

This next tale takes place fairly soon after my return to Thorn Manor, and before my conversation with Mistress Scrivener in the Ostrich Room, as she is fond of calling it. That is an important detail, as I had not yet forged a truce with Miss Mercy, who’s life was the justification for the order I received.

Don’t sharpen your claws on the hideous tapestry in the scullery hall. Don’t throw the garden gargoyles off the roof. Don’t murder the maid. Sigh. A house demon’s life is not as carefree and charmed as one may think.

Master Thorn rarely burdens me with orders, and I am glad of it. When he does, I make sure to cause him regret. Truthfully, he’s only given me one order in the past two years, and I must admit it was probably for the best, for many reasons. This is a lengthy read, but I wish for you to understand how certain events are connected, and how new passions can arise from the ashes of disappointment.

✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨🫖✨

Chapter 70~ The Order

“Silas?”

“Yes Master. I am here.”

Silas had appeared, as if conjured out of thin air, in front of Nathaniel. He was dressed smartly in his green velvet tailcoat, black and gold striped breeches, and tall gaiters buttoned over his riding boots. His hair was tied back and beribboned, the silvery white length of it cascading to the small of his back. He looked up mildly at Nathaniel with a faint smile.

Silas knew exactly what this meeting was about, for he’d read the thought forming in Nathaniel’s mind earlier that morning. In preparation, the demon had slipped into his best behavior, as well as his best uniform, and spent extra time grooming his impeccable appearance.

“Silas, I need to speak to you about Mercy.”

Silas tilted his head innocently. He suddenly looked for all the world a kitten, his stark otherworldly features softened into angelic warmth, yellow eyes liquid bright and curious beneath long white lashes.

“Mercy as in divine grace, or Miss Mercy, the cobby shanked maidservant currently wrecking havoc on a perfectly good pot of tea in MY kitchen?”

Nathaniel rubbed his brow and looked away. His dapper little murderous house demon was skilled in visual manipulations, and his humor was on point, but this was rather serious business.

“Silas, don’t. Let me get straight to the crux of the matter. I’ve seen the way you look at her and…”

Silas held up a silencing hand. “Master as you’re well aware, I harbor no interest in such affairs…especially involving your dear Miss Mercy. And even if I did, it would only lead to my imminent heartbreak, as I do not believe she favors boys, of any species.” He shrugged in mock sympathy and beamed a cherubic smile at his master. It was true, he had noticed Mercy spending quite a bit of time with Dr. Godfrey’s assistant Beatrice, and what they shared was clearly not a simple friendship by far.

“Silas, seriously just stop. You know what I mean. It’s got me a bit concerned. I know how chafed you get about having other servants around~ your history speaks for itself I’m afraid. She’s not here to take over your job. She’s here to assist.”

Nathaniel enunciated the last word, and fiddled with his pearl cuff links. Putting on a Magisterial face, he sternly met Silas’ gaze, which had no discernible effect on the demon.

Silas gave a tiny shiver of satisfaction knowing he had successfully baited his master. In fact he relished this type of thing; this game, the convoluted back and forth, this delicious push and pull of power that always seemed to happen whenever Nathaniel felt the need to curb his antics. The combative energy between them was addictive.. sweet and refreshing as lifeforce itself.

Silas countered. “I do not require assistance, master. Are you implying that I am incapable? I surely hope not.” He murmured softly, his voice a breath of icy air in the spacious entryway. He stepped closer and stood a bit taller in his boots. To his dismay, Silas found this only brought him closer to Nathaniel’s cravat, which bore the crumbly remnants of the morning’s breakfast scones.

Gods. His temper flared. His face remained coquettish.

Nathaniel sighed. “You do realize she is Scrivener’s friend.“ He was speaking as if to a child. “You can’t just go around eliminating anyone you feel is a threat or perceived competition.” He tried a different route. “It’s quite impolite, Silas.”

Did he just call her ‘Scrivener’ again? “If you wish to see impolite, please check your reflection in the hall tree mirror. I do believe I’ve counted the remains of a half dozen scones within the folds of your cravat. Extremely vexing for me, knowing my culinary efforts are being squandered on the daily.”

Silas had removed his gloves, and was inspecting his gleaming claws. “On another note, is that not one of my duties master? To defend the honor and integrity of House Thorn?”

“Silas, really. Don’t talk me in circles. I really hate to do this; you know I hate giving you orders, but in this case I feel it’s my only option…” Magister Thorn absently brushed at his necktie.

Silas stood back and waited expectantly, feline eyes smoldering and unblinking. The coyly kittenish facade had evaporated, save for the tips of canines showing from his slightly parted lips. Stroking his ponytail with one hand, Silas now resembled a lion, calmly waiting for its prey to come within range.

“I … uh…hmmm… I order you to not murder or cause any physical harm to our new maid Mercy. Oh and emotional harm too. She’s already terrified enough of you, and understandably so. This order stands in place from this moment on, as long as she is to be employed here. Um… and thereafter too.” Nathaniel added quickly. He looked triumphant. Silas could tell he’d rehearsed the lines.

Indeed, Nathaniel was wise to be very specific with his wording, as he knew how cunning the demon was. Silas was very adept at finding loopholes to slip through. If one word was left ambiguous, or he saw room for misinterpretation, he would surely take advantage of it.

A true Magister, Silas thought to himself. He hasn’t forgotten any of my tricks. So far.

He paused, lips pursed as if contemplating a choice. Human rules were so wearisome and stifling, but beneath the heat of his anger he supposed he could try harder to be good. Especially since Nathaniel had brought Mistress Scrivener’s name into the conversation. That had been shameless, and unfair. Where had the young man learned such ruthless tactics?

The game was over. Silas stepped back and gave a deep bow, his unnerving stare now respectfully averted. When he raised back up, he was once again himself~ serene and saintly as an angel carved from alabaster. “As you wish, master. Is there anything else? Shall I fetch you some properly brewed tea?”

Nathaniel exhaled the breath he’d been holding and ran a hand through the wavy mop of his hair. The demon just couldn’t help himself.. he had to make everything so damned difficult, eerie and dramatic. Perhaps Silas was simply playing, the way a cat toys with a mouse. He’d always been a mischievous one.

“That would be nice, actually. Speaking of murder, that last pot Mercy made for me just about did me in,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Perhaps she is the true danger. Could you give her a few pointers?”

“Indeed, master. I shall bring it to you shortly, in the drawing room if you desire. The winter sun is shining into that particular room quite spectacularly at the moment. I believe you will enjoy seeing the way it illuminates the gilding in the wallpaper, as well as the mirror over the mantel.” Silas was a romantic creature, able to see beauty everywhere he looked, or at least the opportunity to improve upon it. Sharing the poetic things he noticed was one of his love languages.

With that, Silas retreated to the warm comfort of his kitchen. Mercy had taken her tea up to her room, but Silas could still smell the lavender cream she used for her hands lingering on the kettle handle. His kettle. He set the water on the hot coals to boil, and cast an eye around. Everything else seemed in order; he inspected his silver tray for fingerprints but found none. Even so, he still felt his hackles rise at the idea of an infiltrator in his space.

Silas opened the pantry and took down a tin of tea. He inhaled the peppery scent of the leaves, usually a calming ritual for him, but it did little to quell the disappointment he felt over his ruined plans. He’d known the order was coming; Nathaniel had noticed him gazing intently at Mercy as she bustled about. Apparently he wasn’t concealing his emotions as well anymore. How dreadfully human of him.

Silas was indeed a different creature since his return to Thorn Manor. While his pettiness and humor remained fully intact, he was, much to his relief as well as the rest of the household’s, far less prone to fits of violence. Even so, he was still a demon. His sometimes shockingly dark urges made perfect sense {to him} to indulge in. Such as disposing of a maid he saw no need for.

Silas sighed. He understood. The spoken order would ensure that his desires were kept in check, in the event he could not control himself. He loved Nathaniel, but he hated the order. It felt as if a chain were tightening about his throat. He slid a clawed finger beneath his cravat to loosen it, as his mind wandered backwards to the many Thorns he’d served.

Charlotte Thorn, Nathaniel’s mother, had been much more skilled at handling him than any of his masters. She’d been trusting, thoughtful and kindly firm towards him during her brief time as his mistress. In turn, Silas had been quietly devoted to her, and he’d obeyed her every decision. He’d endeavored to be a perfect gentleman in her presence~ never dodging her requests or purposely prolonging an argument the way he did with Nathaniel. Such a singular woman. It was no small wonder Alistair had lost his mind at her death.

After her passing, Master Thorn’s bond with Silas deepened, in a way that eclipsed the formal terms of their bargain. Their relationship had grown into something much more intense… an intoxicating dance of danger, love and co-dependency. Nathaniel had inherited her all-encompassing compassion, an affection Silas was incapable of expressing. Yet he knew well of its warmth.

He removed his tailcoat, sat down at the hearth table, and gazed out the window. A yearning twinge prickled in his chest. Elisabeth Scrivener shared much in common with Charlotte Thorn, and he wished fervently the two women could’ve met. But alas, fated fortune had decided otherwise.

A sugary snow had begun to fall, sifting down in powdery layers. White on white, soft as kitten fur. The demon found the swirling snowflakes soothing, grounding.

It was high time Charlotte Thorn’s son sorted his love life. A stellar mortal such as Miss Scrivener would surely not tolerate a poorly executed courtship, nor be left adrift waiting for a commitment. The time for gentle prodding was over.

The whistle of the kettle brought him back to himself. Breathing in the plumes of steam, Silas felt his focus shift. After tea, he would venture into the basement, where the manor’s wards thrummed and vibrated. Perhaps shared confinement and a mystery to unravel would help things along, for all of them. It may be inconvenient, but so was receiving an order. Silas smiled and measured out spoonfuls of tea, contemplating his new plans. Murder would have to take a back seat for now.