Proper Monster

Tonight’s tale was inspired by events that took place this very morning at the manor.

Though not something I would normally do in front of my humans, I simply could not resist the temptation this time.

Sometimes throwing caution and decorum to the winds and embracing the storm is the best decision one can make for oneself 👌🏻✨🤍

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Chapter 85~ Rain Dance

The sky over Thorn Manor was thick and opaque as knife-spread whipped cream. Shafts of pale gold sunlight endeavored to spear through the cloud banks, but their efforts were slowly being choked out as the morning blanched into afternoon.

Out in the gardens, a steady wind tousled the tops of the plum and pear groves, exposing the leave’s tender ribbed undersides. Branches swayed and dipped precariously, already bowing low under the weight of ripened fruits. Climbing roses shuddered and bent their heads, thorn hedges whipped razor edged limbs. Having learned over the centuries how to prevent further weathering of their bodies, the marble statuary had already receded back like ghosts into the tightly packed walls of the labyrinth. The gargoyles sought refuge under the stone benches and pergola, huddled with arms around each other.

Silas stood looking out the French doors of the entryway, holding the black velvet curtain aside with a clawed hand, a duster dangling from the other.

The demon smiled. A storm was brewing.

Stormy days were some of Silas’ favorites. The colorless sky deepening into steel grey, clouds scudding like ships overhead… the crisp crackled scent of ozone… the impending gloom… it all brought the house demon a feral excitement~ a nameless, ancient feeling of harmony.

Not that one could tell right now. He remained still as a stone and restrained as he gazed through the glass, calm feline eyes reflected back at himself.

But oh did he long to open the door and find his way into the leafy lush depths of the gardens, to dance under the pummeling rain and bolts of lightning, ribcage booming with every kick drum of thunder. And once the storm began, he just might. Demons craved dance as much as they craved lifeforce. Indeed, they were nearly the same thing.

A simple glamour would protect his uniform and ribbons, so why not? The demon considered his choices. Dusting the bust or Erasmus Thorn, or… ?

As if in response to his pondering, a speckle of water appeared on the window, followed quickly by another.. and another. Soon the panes were drenched in rivulets, droplets forming streams as the clouds let loose their burden of quenching rain. A flash of lightning lit up the demon’s alabaster features with a translucent glare, contracting his pupils into invisible slits. One… two… three..

A crash of thunder rattled the entire manor from peak to basement. Chandelier crystals shivered, the hall tree mirror shifted, and the chimneys on the first floor howled like banshees. Nathaniel’s voice sounded from his study~ an abrupt girlish shriek and a string of eyebrow-raising curse words.

Silas rolled his eyes and sighed. Such drama. Where on earth had the young man learned such theatrics? Tightening his emerald earring, and checking the buttons on his waistcoat, for he did not wish to lose the gloves he’d slipped into his pocket earlier, Silas turned the door latch and forced it open against the battering wind. With an eager grin, he stepped outside into the violent fray.

At war with itself, the blackened sky was criss-crossed with punishing skewers of lightning and bracing torrents of rain. Darkness seeped like a blight of inkblots. This was no gentle zephyr. But even the most vicious earthly tempest was hardly a match for the ferocity and fearlessness of a highborn demon.

About halfway down the terrace steps, Silas began to dance. A reckless demon dance, surging and spinning like a furious sea, arms raised heavenward, laughing up into the downpour. Beribboned with black silk down the length of it, his hair lashed and twisted but stayed bound and dry. His coattails swirled about his legs as the gusts threatened to tug his jacket from his shoulders, yet the demon’s plush velvet attire remained unblemished by the elements.

He moved out onto the lawn, his slight form flickering gracefully through rows of thrashing delphinium and dancing a circle around the towering smoke bush in a savage high-kneed march, as if part of a fiery forest ritual. He was aware of his master watching him from the manor, Nathaniel’s face a pale dot wavering behind rain-washed glass. Ever the showman, Silas stepped up the pace. If he’d attempted to teach Master Thorn this wild and frenzied demon dance on the cultured ballroom floor, the young man surely would not have survived. Such frail creatures these humans are, he thought as he whirled and stomped and sidestepped. His boots did not crush the waterlogged grass, indeed they left no trace whatsoever of his movements.

His demon blood raced, a glacial flood through the chambers of his cold heart. He felt his shoulders relax, a burden lifted. His hips slipped hot and liquid, his belly tight and focused on balance. He closed his eyes and spun away to an unheard rhythm, a symphony roaring in his mind.

He waltzed beneath a stone archway overgrown with grapevines, swiftly evading the waterfall of saturated tendrils grasping at him. His sudden appearance startled a topiary stag that was taking shelter in a nearby cluster of hydrangea bushes; it bolted way, kicking up its heels in terror at the sight of the demon. Blackberry leaves spiraled away from its wicker haunches as it bounded towards the safety of the willow tree down by the rain-pelted pond.

Thunder boomed and rolled as Silas made his way back up the lawn, his moonstone hair and jacket buttons lit with every burst of lightning. The rain’s intensity had begun to taper off, its rage spent. Silas knew the feeling. He reached the terrace steps once again, and leapt up them tirelessly to the French doors. The manor held them open as he danced across the threshold and went immediately to the hall tree mirror.

Silas was dedicated to his duties and his family. He loved the manor, it was his home… and he loved life in this human realm.

But oh…

it felt so good to let go of his self-imposed perfections, to embrace his untamable nature and wash himself of the often constricting manners of servitude, if only for a few moments. His bargain this time around was a mere formality, but Silas still managed his tasks with a devout seriousness. He shook a forelock of tangled white hair away from his cheekbone. Perhaps a bit too serious at times, he admitted to himself. Perhaps he should make more time for dance, and less time for dusting. He readjusted the mirror and shook down his ruffled cuffs. A quick tighten of his cravat, an appraising side eye… Silas glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his master’s cane clacking up behind him.

“Holy gods, Silas! Have you lost your senses?” Nathaniel stood at a prudent distance, staring cautiously at the demon’s reflection, taking in Silas’ wind-whipped hair and glowing yellow eyes. “It’s an absolute monsoon out there.”

The demon had neatly re-braided his hair and reclaimed his duster before his master had even finished speaking. He turned. Looking up at Nathaniel through long white lashes, Silas spoke in a courteous murmur. “I shall fetch tea after I tidy the main hall of the fifth floor. I’m afraid the aftershocks of the storm have most likely caused a bit of dust and old magic to fall down from the ceilings. Peppermint or hibiscus, master?” Transformed back into something as impeccable and serene as a marble carving, Silas waited, tapping his duster expectantly against his palm.

“Uhhh… peppermint?” Magister Thorn absently ran his hand through his own hair in a vain attempt to sort it into some form of orderliness. He chuckled affectionately at the confounding little demon, and his endearing duality.

“As I thought.” Silas winked, turned elegantly on his boot heel to saunter up the staircase, calm and collected as the eye of a deadly storm.

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‘Slowly, Elisabeth looked up. For a heartbeat she thought she had died after all, and was dreaming. Silas stood over them, one arm raised, blocking the Archon’s light.

Not Silas. Silariathas.

Horns curled from his scalp, white as porcelain, their spirals ending in wicked points. The angles of this face had grown unsettling and cruel, their delicate beauty filed to inhuman sharpness. His ears were pointed; his claws had lengthened, thin and razor sharp.’

{ Sorcery of Thorns, page 435, paperback edition}

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Never forget what I truly am. What lies behind the fine stitching and elegant manners and soft fur…

However, I am a different creature these days~ surely not tame, but… different.

I am Silas.

And I am so very glad of it..

Dear readers, which chapter are we at now?

Today’s tale is one of culinary delights, a touch of ancient magic and the power of memory.

Last night I prepared a feast for company, for not only did I wish to test my skills, it has been a while since I shared a food story. They seem to be rather popular.

And if I must be frank, I have misbehaved just a tiny bit recently, which you are all well-aware of if you read the details of my last adventure.

{Believe me when I say it was for the good of all}

Though I cannot feel guilt, I can roast, sauté and bake my way out of trouble here at home, just as easily as I seem to get myself into it.

Good food, good company and clever minds will always reign at Thorn Manor.

Chapter 84~ Old Magic

Silas ran his gloved fingers over the ivory muslin tablecloth, and glanced down the formidable length of the manor’s feast-laden walnut table.

Elegantly built, and lovingly cared for over the centuries, the great hall’s stately dining table was a monolith of antiquity. Capable of holding place for 16 guests when fully outfitted with jade chargers, gold cutlery and the manor’s signature thorn briar patterned dishes, the table had borne witness to an endless parade of meals, hosted countless sumptuous fetes and endured the inevitable slew of house gossip.

There wouldn’t be nearly that number of guests tonight, nevertheless, Silas had gone all out.

His mind, prone to daydreaming, tumbled back to the time Mistress Sinclair had insisted he accompany her to dinner one evening, right in this very room almost a century ago. Scandalized almost speechless and aghast at the sulfur-eyed monster in their midst, her family had barely touched their food.

Supremely unfazed by it all, the sorceress had commenced to eat enough for all of them combined~ almost an entire spatchcocked chicken along with triangles of potato leek pie, steamed chocolate puddings doused in warm cream, handfuls of sticky braised damson plums and gravy licked up off her small clever fingers. Silas had silently watched the spectacle, seated protectively beside her with his hands folded in his lap, his expression remote save for a raised eyebrow now and again. Truth be told, inside he was mirthfully delighted at the clink of the stripped bones she tossed onto porcelain, the confident scrape of her fork and the way she punctuated her blissful chewing with little ladylike mews of contentment.

How such a tiny mortal thing managed to consume so much with such outstanding vigor was beyond him, although he knew firsthand her appetites were unabashed. The rumor that Mistress Sinclair had taken the sinister house demon as her lover was a well-spread belief, and her complete lack of concern about anyone’s judgments only further solidified it as fact. She’d even playfully grabbed him beneath the table at one point, leaving a well-placed spot of marchand de vin on his breeches. To his own surprise, Silas had been decidedly forgiving of it.

He laughed softly as the happy memory wandered back into the infinite maze of his mind, and turned attentions back to the present.

Tonight’s pièce de résistance was a great haunch of beef resting upon a silver platter, crust crisp with bourbon glaze, steam rising in fragrant curls. Silas knew when he carved it, the generous slices would be tender as butter, drenched in juices and boldly seasoned with summer herbs.

Surrounding the centerpiece were ironstone bowls of citrusy cumberland sauce, mustard gravies and creamy horseradish. Loaves of freshly baked bread were laid out, waiting to be slathered with rose petal confit and chive blossom cheese.

There were mounds of mashed red potatoes with the skins left on, sautéed scotch kale, and tender roasted carrots caramelized in honey and orange jelly. Sheltered within a covered tureen nestled plump stuffed tomatoes, and at every place sitting a crystal vase held crisp stalks of coveted celery. A bottle each of brandy, claret and maraschino liqueur glimmered like garnets.

Winding down the length of the table and twisted about the gracefully fluted pewter candelabras were vines of sugared champagne grapes, the clusters of fruit interspersed with fresh sage leaves, silvery artemisia and the palest violet grey ranunculus blooms. In the kitchen, waiting upon a ruffled jade stand like a lady in lacy skirting, sat dessert~ three layers of pillowy vanilla cake, swirled with silky buttercream frosting and sprinkled with silver dragees.

The mingled sweet and savory scents formed an ambrosia the humans of Thorn Manor would find quite irresistible, Silas was sure of it. Mouthwatering to them, unappealing to him. Ah well. He himself did not partake of cooked meat; he much preferred what he could pursue in the gardens while in cat form, nevertheless he still took pride in his culinary skills when it came to feeding his family.

Ever the meticulous creature, Silas paused thoughtfully. Something was missing… He turned his gaze to the unlit candelabras. Ah… of course. How could he be so forgetful.

Shaking his ponytail down off his shoulders and straightening his stance, the demon spoke. His whisper rode on an exhale, the sinuous strand of harsh Enochian words hissing like water droplets on a heated hearthstone. The air in the room warped and tightened, whirling with a flurry of white sparks that reached the ceiling cornices, and fluttering the edges of the cloth napkins. Porcelain shuddered. Wicks flared to life with a neon crackle and the sharp scent of hot wax, slowly ebbing into a warm glow.

Silas laughed softly when his ears popped, a multitude of magicked candle flames dancing with the amusement in his eyes. Though he seldom used it, a bit of indulgent spell speak was harmless… and anyway, old Otherworldly habits die hard, now don’t they?

The stag’s head hanging above the west window turned, glass eyes gleaming, and gave its red ruff a shake. A shower of errant sparks drifted down from its fur like snow, winking out as they descended. Much to Silas’ relief, the stag settled back against its wooden plaque with nary a word. Silas was fully dedicated to his task at the moment; now was hardly the time for him to be swapping nonsensical riddles with the creature. That game could wait til later tonight perhaps, when all mortals were to bed, and the black innards of the manor were awash in moonlight.

Taking one last look, Silas inspected every minute detail, before allowing himself a brief smile of approval. The table, laden with its bounty of decadent fare, flower and fruit, was absolute perfection.

“I do believe I’ve outdone myself,” the demon murmured under his breath, adjusting the tea towel draped over his forearm. He paused again, certain he’d felt a gentle touch at the crook of his elbow, delicate and sweet as spun sugar.

A rustle of movement in the hall tipped his ear. Guests had arrived from Summershall~ one Miss Quillworthy and one Parsifal. He’d heard their carriage wheels earlier on the gravel of the street out front, and footsteps up the walkway as he’d set the roast upon its silver platter. He turned elegantly.

Gazing in through the doorway, a quintet of faces, lit with wonder and candlelight…uttering gasps and exclamations of admiration. Master and Mistress, their arms intertwined. Miss Quillworthy pushing up her glasses to better view the offerings. A ruddy faced, grinning Parsifal. And Miss Mercy, from whom he’d unburdened the day’s tasks so that she could rest and socialize.

Tucked away behind layers of fine stitching, silk velvet and snowy flesh, Silas’ heart lilted upwards almost painfully, as it often did these days when gazing upon his human’s delighted faces. His hand went to his cravat, which suddenly felt a bit tighter than he liked it.

Nathaniel’s incredulous voice boomed. “By the gods, Silas! I do believe you’ve outdone yourself yet again!”

The demon bowed deeply, raising back up to meet his master’s eyes with a wink.

Dear readers, for this morning I offer a tale that touches on some of my favorite things~ secrets, white lies and fashion.

I am of the firm belief that one can never possess too many clothing choices. Variety is essential to an inspiring life, and in my case that encompasses a very long time.

As for secrets and white lies, I think we all know by now that a proper, well-intentioned servant should be well-versed in both…

Chapter 83~ The Dressing Room

Silas grimaced, and flipped through the pages of the magazine faster, his snarling aggression increasing with every flick of the wrist. His stomach lurched at each plate, the horrific images draining his face of what little color it had. What was becoming of fashion?

Mutton leg sleeves? Hideous. Though Lady Tremayne may disagree vehemently, her taste was highly dubious at best.

Bonnets? Somehow both confoundedly puritan and vulgar at the same time.

Plaid? Unforgivable. The nauseating crosshatch of patterns made his head ache with a cruel throb.

The demon sighed, rose from his seat and dismissively tossed the offending publication into the hungry flames of the hearth. The Governess magazine was a bane, a pox on society, steering ladies down a path towards tawdry spectacle. He simply could not abide the presence of such a disgraceful rag, with its glorification of crimes against fashion, within the manor. The crackle and hiss of the burning paper brought a look of satisfaction to the demon’s alabaster features, transforming them once again into the benevolent calm of an angel. He rubbed his hands together with feeling. It was time to cleanse the tragic pictures from his mind, and for that he needed inspiration.

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Silas meandered down the grand hallway, arms folded behind his back, boots soundless. This secret corridor was hidden in the east wing of the manor, squirreled away past a dizzying path of twists, turns and shadowy bends. Like most of the manor’s halls, it’s width was expansive enough to allow two carriages to pass each other at once. The mahogany floorboards were waxed to a mellow gleam. The walls were papered with plush panels of deep merlot velvet cut in a curlicued fleur-de-lis pattern. Devoid of windows or any natural lighting, the long passageway was lit with oil lamp sconces, their flickering flames dancing across the ornately layered cornices above. Further ahead, the path disappeared into a void of pitch darkness, an impasse only Silas knew the end of. Not a soul besides the house demon had been in this area of the manor for over two centuries. His master didn’t even know for sure if it existed.

About three quarters of the way down, one section of the arched and vaulted ceiling was painted in a fresco of black celestial sky. Swirling gold stars with infinite radiating points glittered faintly, and a tarnished yellow moon endlessly peered and retreated from a curling bank of misty cloud cover. If one paused and listened closely, the faint rusty screech of weaponry and the creaking of ships’ timbers could be heard as the constellations circled one another slowly in mock battle. An armed centaur advanced on a monstrous scorpion, a galleon outmaneuvered a roiling sea serpent. The art and accompanying enchantment were very old, rendered in a charmingly antique style, the pigments crackled with age. Silas was quite fond of it.

It was beneath this fresco that Silas stopped, and turned on his boot heel to face a blank section of walnut panel. He raised a gloved hand and touched the wood lightly, his slender fingers barely brushing the surface with centuries of familiarity. An opening shimmered into view, edges indistinct and smoky, before solidifying into a stately doorway. The demon grasped the worn brass knob and let himself in.

The room was spacious and tidy. A massive baroque mirror of carved ebony leaned against the furthest wall, its beveled glass glowing with a mercurial shine. Several dark wooden armoires stood in formation on either side, tasseled keys hanging from their bronze locks. Over a dozen papier machę tailor’s forms were grouped in a semicircle in one corner, each one wearing a different garment, metallic threads and buttons glittering in the low light. Rows of riding boots stood at attention beneath the forms~ burnished calf and lambskin in a myriad of colors~ caramel brown, black, russet, deepest chocolate, mahogany.

This was Silas’ dressing room. He and he alone knew of its location. Its very existence was a tantalizing rumor his master had attempted to verify numerous times, yet Silas, stoic keeper of secrets, had remained tight-lipped and bland of expression about it, despite Nathaniel even begging piteously once. The room contained almost the entirety of the demon’s wardrobe spanning from the day he was summoned as a servant into bondage at House Thorn in the year 1510, to present day. A quiet sense of luxury swirled and eddied in the great chamber, decorating each corner with centuries of opulence and good taste. To declare the collection extensive would be a grave understatement; it was indeed a stark contrast to his cozy, minimalist bedroom.

An imperial riding coat of the finest silvery taupe raw hammered silk, adorned with intricately braided rows of umber embroidery and heavy turned back cuffs drew his attentions, and a soft inward groan of bliss. It hailed from the mid 18th century, the meticulous workmanship of its lustrous threads and sterling buttons all but unknown these days. Silas removed his tailcoat and gloves, and slipped it over his narrow shoulders. The last time he’d worn it was into battle during the horrifically violent Bone Wars; the weighty hand of the fabric as well as the memory still gave him chills of pleasure. Fortunately, the extravagant cloth had released its numerous bloodstains easily, and the garment was none the worse for wear.

The demon stepped before the mirror to regard his reflection, though experience told him it would surely be elegant enough. Pulling his long white ponytail forward to drape over the lapel, he turned and looked over his shoulder to check the hang of the tails.

It occurred to him then and there what a wonderful thing it was, to be a rare item. To be coveted. The handiwork of this particular raiment rivaled that of elven goods, but incredibly, it had been created with human skills. It was the creation of a true artist, back when each stitch strove to be uniform, every inch of braid perfectly twisted, and the cut was tailored precisely to the wearer’s physique. Back when gentleman took pride in being~ let it be said~ a bit fancy.

Silas carefully slid the coat off, and hung it back on its form. He pinched a bit of lint off the elbow and strolled about.

He turned the key to one of the armoires and let the doors swing open. The rich scent of leather wafted out. Stacks of neatly folded breeches~ buckskin suede, buttery lamb, silk charmeuse, velvet, canvas and summer cotton lined the shelves. Suits hung in orderly fashion~ pared-back evening attire in refined black, suitable for the ballroom. Opera finery awaiting the next performance, and more casual tailcoats with matching waistcoats a fashionable demon could wear to relax in the solar or study.

The next wardrobe contained just undershirt tunics with ruffled cuffs, stand collars and formal shirts. Coachman’s cloaks, capes of wool tabby, and pleated frocks filled another. Each item bespoke, posh… chosen with intent. The demon gave a sigh of contentment. Art could take a plethora of embodiment and mediums; many artists worked with paint, pastel or clay. Some hewed marble and stone, or wood. Others smelted metal, or glass. And some chose to create beauty and romance with fabrics.

Silas smoothed a pair of cashmere trousers, mindful claws curled, and thought back to the day Elisabeth had arrived at the manor. She’d had but one dress; a bedraggled, threadbare sack that suited neither her coloring nor her height. What kind of wretched place was this Library of Summershall, to only allow a lady a single dress, one that was woefully outdated and ill-fitting? Silas couldn’t imagine a worse sin of omission. A lady deserved nice things as much as any demon.

Miss Scrivener had taken to wearing Nathaniel’s robe instead during the day, which was oddly charming but most inappropriate. Perhaps that was indeed part of the charm, Silas mused. Having absolutely no interest whatsoever in clothing or shopping, and knowing the house demon had an unparalleled fashion sense, Master Thorn had finally tasked him with outfitting the library girl properly. The sight of the young woman attired in his clothing was apparently short-circuiting his brain to the extent that he found it impossible to concentrate on work. A mortal affliction that was most amusing for Silas, who was immune to such nonsensical things.

Another victory won, for everyone involved it would seem…and Silas was not about to sit by idly only to see his efforts squandered and unabashedly violated by the likes of The Governess.

But for now a more pressing issue. Silas’ duties were done for the day, dusting the solar had been his last task, and he could retire for the afternoon until dinner. His velvet livery, though of a pleasing appearance, simply wouldn’t do. The demon took in his choices. Oyster white theatre suit? Deep grey swallowtail jacket? His jet black evening suiting so often in rotation? Silas wished for a bit of rich color; something he could wear while wandering the sun-washed garden labyrinth, yet remain harmonious with his surroundings. His eyes lit upon a silk cotton forest green tailcoat, cut tight and short to the ribs, with long tails and engraved gold buttons. The complementary waistcoat of gold and green tapestry was tailored with an extra pocket, which delighted the demon to no end. But what for below the waist?

Running his claws over the tidy rows of trousers, he pulled out a pair of crème suede button front breeches. The deerskin had a sumptuous buttery grain, and they’d been tailored flawlessly with slight pleats to accommodate his anatomy. It was both fortune fated and a curse to be so blessed, he snickered to himself. Stepping out of his striped livery, Silas pulled on the breeches and fastened up the covered buttons with deft fingers. An ivory satin cravat tied high and tight about his throat, and a pair of tall riding boots in polished chestnut finished off the ensemble quite to his liking. He stood hipshot before the mirror~ shoulders back, chin up. Small, slight, impossibly elegant with such little effort. Perfection.

With a final adjustment to his coattails, Silas cast a final satisfying gaze about, and went to the hall. The door blurred behind him as if made from fog, and by the time he’d turned to watch, it had already begun to rapidly dissipate as if blown by a slight breeze, leaving a solid wall of glossy walnut in its place. One would never know that a room lie just beyond, nor have knowledge of the treasure trove contained within. Silas never tired of the way the doorway vanished without a trace. It kept its secrets as well as he did, which was an undeniably honorable thing. The house demon smiled in childlike glee, small canines flashing in the lamplight, and made his way back to the first floor parlor with a leisurely stride. Much to his chagrin, he did not have a total stranglehold on the fashion decisions of others, but he could at the very least be a pinnacle of good taste and example.

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Mistress Scrivener stepped into the parlor, casting her attention about, brow furrowed. “Hello Silas. Have you seen my magazine? The newest issue of The Governess?”

The demon paused delicately, and looked up from beneath the shade of his white lashes. His feline eyes shone a vivid sulphur in the firelight. “No, mistress, I have not. But I shall be certain to stay vigilant to its possible whereabouts.” His whispering voice was tinged with sympathy, an emotion he wasn’t capable of feeling, but could skillfully mimic. He lowered his gaze deferentially, resisting the self-sabotaging urge to glance at the fireplace.

“Well I seem to have misplaced it, silly me, but if anyone can find it, you can. Thank you, Silas. I really like your outfit. It suits you amazingly well.”

Elisabeth beamed at him brightly, soul’s holy corona ablaze. She gathered up her skirts and curtsied clumsily on her way out.

An appeased smile crossed the demon’s face, impish enough to warm his yellow eyes. Another potential fashion victim saved from the horrors of The Governess, and just in the nick of time, whether she knew it or not.

Dear readers, I present another tale that hatched from an experience I had last night in the gardens, after my nightly prowl.

Nothing is ever truly lost. Not if it can be found again, either by chance, happenstance or luck. Or maybe… it is just awaiting the right moment to remind one why it was missed so much… and to offer a bit of solace 🤍

{TW~ mature content, non-graphic}

Chapter 82~ Forget Me Not

Silas traced the black veins of the marble with a claw. The bench he was seated upon was well-hidden from prying eyes~ tucked far, far away into a sheltered corner of the garden beneath a draping canopy of grapevines. Worn to a smooth salt-like finish by touch, time and weather, the cold stone was steeped in warm secrets. Secrets that the surrounding vines and hedges and fruit trees had also sheltered for nearly a hundred years. Secrets which were assuaging Silas’ desire for company tonight.

Floating low amongst a sprinkle of stars, the moon glided into view. Serene silver light glazed the ends of his ponytail, limned his elegant profile and rippled down the slender column of his throat above his cravat.

Alongside the white rose unfurling at his lapel clung a single small feather, its delicate beauty marked by a bead of vermillion. The demon had just finished his midnight prowl, slinking through the maze as a cat, and it had been a most satisfying hunt. The night-drenched garden was his solitary domain, regardless of which form he took.

Beyond the pear grove, a herd of topiary giraffes moved in quiet formation towards the labyrinth, boxwood ribs crackling, the muffled thud of their hooves a soothing rhythm. They were curious, gentle giants, but prone to stepping over the thorn hedges and out into the freedom of Hemlock Park. Amusement for them, utter chaos for the citizens of Brassbridge. The tallest one could peer into the second floor windows of the manor, which it did frequently.

Silas recalled the first time Mercy had experienced the giraffe doing just that; she’d come face to face with it while washing the south window of the solar. Her offended bellows reverberated through the manor, until Silas, with an eye roll, hastened to her aid. He’d found her squared off like a routier on the battlefield, mop turned javelin raised at the leafy beast on the other side of the glass.

“It is well, miss. I can assure you, it’s intentions are not malicious.” He had almost added “much like myself,” but back then he’d still been straddling the fence.

Instead, Silas had cocked his head with bared teeth at the topiary, which promptly wandered off with its odd rocking horse gait. Unfortunately the view of his canines hadn’t helped to calm the maid’s frazzled nerves; if anything, it wound her up even more. Silas filed a few of her inventive curses away in his brain for later use.

“One just never knows what might be around the next corner in this blasted place! Undergarments flying’ all higgledy piggledy, gargoyles eatin’ the godforsaken morning paper, plants walkin’ about like zoo animals…” Mercy blotted her brow with the hem of her skirts, and gave him a nod. “I thank you kindly for the rescue, fangs an’ all I suppose.”

“Yes miss, it is my pleasure. For many, Thorn Manor has proven itself a challenging place. It surely isn’t for the faint of heart. But fear not, I am quite certain Mistress Scrivener and Master Thorn shall see to it that no harm befalls you.” Silas thought ruefully of his master’s order. Now would be the time to persuade her to seek employment elsewhere, but he knew Mercy’s resignation would cause Elisabeth a type of sadness, and so he’d simply given a slight bow, and left the maidservant to her unfinished task.

The giraffes disappeared into the gloaming, and Silas’ thoughts returned to the present, but only briefly. The sloping lawn leading down to the pond was hazy with periwinkle mist, white clover in clumps like foam on the sea. The fountain at the center of the labyrinth trickled it’s endless bounty of icy sweetwater. In the absence of owls, crickets and bullfrogs, the soft sound of water bubbling and swirling lulled the demon into a dreamlike state.

Another memory surfaced~ wavering into clarity like a ghost rising from the murky depths of a fathomless lake… this one of wildflowers~ tiny blue forget-me-nots being pressed into his skin.

She’d called him a tenebrous thing, but sweetly with fireflies reflected in her doe eyes. They’d been seated on this very bench, the manor’s window lights tiny as stars in the distance. Against the chill of demon flesh, the blossoms had frozen instantly, crystallized like the sugared petals on fancy cakes, yet his mistress’ cunning little fingers remained warm, insistent…

“I do believe I’ve gilded the lily,” she’d said with a laugh like a fairy bell chime, sitting back to admire her mischievous work. Her feet were bare as usual, nestled in a patch of pink lady slipper orchids.

He’d stared at her in reproach, but eventually conceded a reluctant defeat, acknowledging with an inward sigh that a demon with tiny florets pasted to his cheekbones by his lover’s saliva could hardly be seen as a fearsome creature.

It was true, upon summoning and securing a bargain with him, Mistress Sinclair had immediately ordered him to never harm her. The command was something he’d expected and hadn’t been offended by. He had, after all, earned a reputation for deadly violence and trickery. Orders, like teacups and bones, could be swiftly broken, however Silas had never once been overcome by the urge to do so, despite the many liberties she took with him, and the teasing that both vexed and entranced him. He couldn’t grasp why.

Indeed, he’d eventually allowed her every whim, staying infinitely patient and very still, until the time she’d carefully pressed his lip upwards to touch the sharp opaline tips of his teeth. She was a curious and tactile human, her boldness cushioned by an innocent sense of wonder.

“My what teeth you have, sir,” she’d exclaimed in awe, and perhaps a bit of trepidation.

“All the better to eat…” his whispered words of warning were halted by gentle fingers against his mouth and her mellifluous laughter.

Her frustrating audacity had brought a surge of heat to his hips… a shiver of rage and melting endearment equally blended into syrupy frisson. Either and both called for his reaction, but her order was in place; therefore he had but one choice…

And so consume her he had, with a low growl right upon this very bench… in every devoted, decadent way he could think of, cravat unraveled in a spool of crushed silk and the knees of his misfortunate breeches dusted with sprigs of moss and garden loam, the grapes hanging low and tender pear leaves trembling down.

She’d goaded him into this dangerous tryst of passions quite on purpose, he was sure of it. And it wouldn’t be the last time. The little sorceress truly knew how to raise his hackles among other things, and he found he didn’t really mind.

Silas sat smiling wistfully amongst the clumps of dewdrop-laden ferns and blackberry brambles. Oh to be subject to such playful nonsense once again…

A breeze had picked up, and within its ruffled currents the memory fragmented, and was carried away into the treetops. Silas tucked a wind-tousled lock of snowy hair behind his ear. The lone feather and its red droplet fluttered from his lapel to rest upon a spot of moss between his boots. His feline gaze followed it down.

A faint gleam on the woodland floor held his eye. Something mostly obscured by earth and rootlets, foamflower and wild ginger. The demon reached down and gently plucked the trinket from the tangle of foliage, turning it in his claws before holding it up to the moonlight.

A small comb, one meant to hold a lady’s hair, carved from dappled brown tortoiseshell. It looked to have been lost, fallen or even tugged loose, oh perhaps a century ago. The feel of it in his palm was immediately familiar.

Silas tucked the gift into his waistcoat pocket. It would join the opera tickets he kept wrapped in a lace handkerchief on his dresser. Nothing is ever truly lost, he mused. It was simply just waiting.

The stone bench was cold beneath him, the damp chill soaking through his breeches, yet the sensation did not distress him, nor coax him into returning to the manor’s beckoning embrace. Not just yet. Silas brushed his claws over the crumbling marble again, thoughtfully.

What a curious comfort that such a cold thing could harbor such warmth.

“I still recall having the realization that if Silas had wanted to kill me, he could have done so a hundred times over. The orders I’d given him after summoning him, the ones I had assumed were protecting me from him all that time, had been a joke. They had meant nothing to him at all.”

{Mysteries of Thorn Manor, paperback edition, page 47}

Dear readers, it has been requested that I share another shopping tale, and how timely that was, as just this very morning I was given an enjoyable task that involved spending my master’s money in the city.

I was sent to fetch a research item for Master Thorn’s newest project, and that meant a trip to the flea market downtown, which is always an interesting adventure. One never knows what gems lie hidden in such a squalid place.

My hunt was a success, and I returned to the manor in more than enough time for breakfast.

I will offer a word of caution~ flea markets, for all their charm, can hold some dubious surprises. Just be careful that you do not return home with more than you bargained for.

Chapter 81~ Fox

Rows of rickety wooden tables lined the vacant dirt lot, some on the verge of collapsing under the burden of the wares and sundries piled upon them. Every manner of brick-a-brack, trinket and artifact was laid out for sale, some in tidy display, but most in towering heaps and messy disarray.

A growing crowd wandered about, perusing the assortment of salvaged stained glass windows and stacks of chipped transferware plates, pawing through boxes of costume jewelry that glittered in the soft sunshine. Secondhand hats, dingy overcoats and frayed whalebone corsets hung on racks among bundles of flower trugs and rusted garden tools. Gilded frames, silver plate platters, buckets of bronze furniture mounts, and armies of spelter statues all blended together to form a mishmash of old and new, tacky and exquisite.

Silas, who wasn’t even trying to disappear in with the milling gaggle of shoppers, regarded a curvaceous trophy vase made of brass. He could see its beauty gleam beneath the dull crust of tarnish and grime, and the urge to polish it was excruciating. He reluctantly left it be. Silas was on a mission, one that did not require him sullying a pair of gloves for no good reason.

Thorn Manor’s demon was once again at The Brassbridge OddEmporium, a questionable flea market that set up every weekend in the less glamorous section of the city.

Sandwiched between the industrial district and the waterfront, the market had a fast-paced, vaguely greasy aura of quick deals juxtaposed alongside lengthy sometimes tense barter, with an undeniable tinge of desperation wafting about it. The dilapidated, soot streaked buildings surrounding it and the stench of the rendering plant downriver didn’t help with the downtrodden aesthetic; nevertheless it was a bustling place. One never knew what hidden treasures were to be discovered there, as the inventory was miraculously different each day.

Silas scrutinized the offerings, ignoring furtive stares and cautious whispers. He was, as per usual, entirely overdressed for the occasion, which made him stand out just as much as his paper white skin and hair. Brocade gold and green waistcoat, emerald tailcoat and pristine cream cotton breeches, he cut an elegant figure amongst the drab frocks and sweat-tinged caps of the vendors. Many recognized what he was, as he was frequently sent to the market to procure research items for Magister Thorn, such as taxidermied animals, semi-precious stones and crates of glass alchemical flasks, which Nathaniel’s experimental spells shattered at an alarming rate. Custom illusions and specialty enchantments filled House Thorn’s coffers to overflowing, much like the market tables, and Nathaniel’s prolific creative genius was sought after.

Silas had mixed feelings about running errands to the flea market. On one hand, he enjoyed meandering through the city, especially on an early summer morning before the sun came out in full force. The mists on the Gloaming River stretched over the murky waters like a foggy shroud, and the fading outline of the moon was still visible sailing high in the pale rosy sky.

On the other hand, this area of Brassbridge was filthy, run-down and reeked of rotting algae, coal smoke and rancid horsehides. The river slowed to a sludgy crawl here, at a sharp bend, and the resulting buildup of stranded fish and tannery run-off wrinkled the demon’s sensitive nose. There was, however, a succulent undercurrent of human misery seeping through the air, and that Silas found irresistibly enticing. He inhaled deeply, and a shiver danced from his beribboned ponytail to his toes.

Being a most inquisitive creature, Silas was endlessly fascinated by what things these mortals thought to be saleable. There were some fine antiques mixed in with the piles of what he considered mostly rubbish. He admired a tall ebony wood armoire, its doors hanging open to reveal the meticulously hand printed floral paper lining inside. A display of delicate porcelain teacups with tiny quail painted on them caught his eye. Sheafs of water stained piano music piled haphazardly in a wooden crate sat next to a superbly striped tiger maple violin propped up in its velvet case. Silas would never purchase anything other than what he was tasked to, knowing full well the distasteful threat of bed bugs, which his demon senses could immediately detect. Unfortunately, there was a reason it was called a ‘flea’ market.

One had to exercise caution for other reasons too~ used goods markets were also a very common place to get rid of things that had been burdened with difficult curses. If a cursed object were small enough, such as a cameo or skeleton key or paste jewel, Silas’ preferred mode of disposal was to simply hand it off to a random baby on the street, as a human child will happily and innocently grasp just about anything placed near its snot-slathered little fingers. Such a technique may be considered highly unethical by mortal standards, but so were three quarters, if not most, of the shady deals that took place at the market.

Today’s hunt was straight forward~ a mounted red fox. Easily distracted by sparkling things, Silas tightened his grip on his focus, and made his way to a table that looked promising. Several groups of shoppers parted like the Red Sea as he approached, noticing the strange gentleman’s feline eyes and unusual pallor. Whispers of “House Thorn” followed on his heels, but he was not offended. As it were, most citizens knew he held no immediate malice towards them; he was as much a curiosity to them as the oddities that cluttered the vendor tables.

Branching racks of deer antlers, stuffed minks and colorful taxidermied pheasants stood in rows, a glassy-eyed menagerie awaiting its next home. None seemed sentient or enchanted like the stag in the manor’s dining hall. A large black boar’s head attached to a carved plaque leaned against the legs of the table, its ivory tusked mouth frozen in an eternal snarl. It was most definitely cursed, and Silas resisted the childish urge to raise his hackles at it in return, as there were a few small children nearby and nobody needed him causing a frightful ruckus.

A flash of russet fur drew his attention. He knew full well what a fox looked like, as did Master Thorn; many of the wily canines visited the gardens throughout each season to feast on dropped plums, young mandrakes and frost grapes. But an obedient one was required to create a commissioned enchantment Nathaniel was working on~ Lord Kicklighter’s twin daughter’s magical birthday party decor. The girls were obsessed with foxes, and to make the friendly illusions believable, Nathaniel wished to study each whisker and tipped hair up close, something a live fox would be hesitant to allow.

Silas removed a glove and ran his hand over the fox, making sure it was not missing fur or leaking sawdust stuffing. It was well-done, perched lifelike on a piece of glazed walnut in a trotting position. The demon held up the price tag between two claws and frowned slightly. It said one half crown. Though he was spending Thorn Manor’s money, Silas was not as extravagant with it as he would be if he were apparel shopping for himself. It was time to barter.

“Excuse me, fine sir. A pleasure seeing you again. I am most interested in this particular beast.” He nodded to the fox and smiled faintly. The man behind the table, who’d been eyeing him since he walked up, wiped his hands on his leather apron and spoke.

“Aye, a pretty one, ain’t he? Vulpes vulpes. A sly and charming animal. Did ya know they mate for life? Anyhow, that one’s got full prime pelt, come from a hunting lodge up north that changed hands last fall.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “New lady of the house not partial to havin’ deceased things in her midst, staring at her all dead eyed an’ such….so’s all was sold off.” The vendor was familiar with Silas, as the house demon had politely purchased a specimen of Melanus Blue Morpho to help create Nathaniel’s 1824 MidWinter Ball enchantment, as well as a Conium Maculatum seedling. That had been over two winters ago, but selling a large exotic butterfly and a poison hemlock sprout to a dapperly dressed, highly cultured demon had been a rather unforgettable experience.

“It is always wise to heed a lady’s desires, if one wishes a peaceful household.” Silas mused quietly. “Is the price quite firm, or… “ He looked up, yellow eyes fixed on the man’s hazel ones.

“I could do 25 old pence.” The vendor shook his head slightly, which felt a bit fuzzy all of a sudden. It was not a disturbing feeling. “Nothin’ less, though. It’s a right fine piece.”

“You are absolutely correct, and I shall accept your offer.” Silver chimed as the demon reached into his waistcoat and counted the payment into the man’s palm. A curved claw brushed rough mortal skin, but the man did not flinch. Silas smiled to himself. He appreciated the man’s comfortable banter and deep knowledge of flora and fauna. He’d only entered his mind to discreetly find out what was an acceptable price, no harm done. Bartering was an expectation at the flea market, but it needn’t be drawn out or unfair to either party.

Silas, after all, knew quite a bit about striking a deal. He’d been doing it for centuries.

Touching the brim of his top hat, Silas gave a slight bow, and gathered up Nathaniel’s fox. “You have my utmost gratitude and respect. May your day be profitable.” He regarded the ruddy little beast tucked in the crook of his elbow and sighed. Already his tailcoat was hopelessly sprinkled with red hairs.

“An’ I thank you, sir. Always a pleasure chattin’ with a versed gentleman such as yerself.” The man broke into a genuine, if somewhat toothless grin.

The vendor waited politely until the demon took his leave through the maze of ramshackle tables, then briskly rubbed his palms together to warm them. The creature’s coins and brief touch had blanched his skin to the point of frostbite.

“What a curious thing he is. I shouldn’t mind a sit and a pint with a gent like ‘im. Bet he’s got a thousand stories all stored neat as a pin up in that noggin’,” the man thought to himself.

“That I do,” murmured the demon as he stepped back onto the cobblestone streets and headed homeward. The heavy metallic air of factory pollution gave way to the sweet honeyed aroma of locust blossoms, drifting in from the park. It was a perfect morning to open the windows in the manor’s kitchen, and bake a few loaves of bread for his humans’ breakfast.

Silas spoke to the fox in his arms. “What do you think, clever little one? Sourdough or flax? Perhaps a nice rustic rye, or French baguette?”

He tipped his hat to a pretty lady, receiving a blushing curtsy in response. He could read her thoughts as she cast a perplexed glance over her shoulder after he’d passed by. What a peculiarly beautiful gentleman with his long white queue, and eyes that matched those of the fox he carried under his arm…

Silas smiled and continued on his way~ sly, discreet, and undeniably charming.

This next story is on the heels of the last. Told truthfully, it is a *grown up* tale of vine-ripened fruit, a lost and found painting, and that which can never be forgotten, no matter how many centuries pass.

**TW~ adult theme, mild sexual innuendo **

Chapter 80~ Blackberries

Blackberries tumbled through Silas’ claws, fragrant, tender, gleaming like gems.

The temptation to eat them was intense~ to feel the beaded fruit burst into liquid between his teeth, hearing the seeds crunch like tiny bones.

Part of him wished to hold a handful of them close to his mouth, only to inhale their wild ambrosia. Blackberries reminded him of someone and something from a very long time ago. Momentarily forgetting he was at the bustling Brassbridge market, Silas grinned, causing the grocer to take a cautionary step back at the sight of the demon’s small canines.

Silas sighed. He supposed an appropriate gesture of peaceful intentions would be to purchase the entire basket of berries. He reached into his pocket for coins, and the fruit vendor bravely stepped forward again, eager for the sight of silver.

Indeed, he wished to make a fruit tart for after dinner; possibly two or three. His humans’ appetites rivaled that of a demon’s at times. The berries were perfectly ripened, left on the vines just long enough to be heavy with juice.

And… he simply liked the scent of them.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Nathaniel set his teacup down with a clink onto its saucer, and turned excitedly to Silas. “Ah! I remember what I wanted to tell you! You served Theodora Sinclair back in the day, right?” A flake of tart crust was stuck to his lower lip.

‘Did I ever’, Silas thought to himself, but there was a lady present, and so he chose a more gentlemanly response. “Yes, master. About a century ago.” Silas discreetly pushed an extra napkin across the table. He offered no other information.

“Funny thing, I only just remembered she was a sorceress here. Oddly enough, I found a small painting of her tucked in with some spell books in my study last night, and it prompted me to look up the Thorn Manor family tree again. There’s no frame, just the canvas, with her name written on the back.” He leaned to Elisabeth. “She was truly quite beautiful, nothing like Aunt Clothilde.”

Silas felt his belly grow warm. He shook out his newspaper and feigned interest in the advice column. “Well, that’s most likely because Mistress Sinclair was not the cursed result of a mortal ravenously cross-breeding with a goblin.”

Elisabeth hid her face in her napkin, shaking with silent laughter. Silas’ insistence that Clothilde Thorn was half-beast amused her to no end. The demon slid a side eye and a faint half smile her way.

“Anyway, we should hang it up in the entryway. Framed of course, in a place of honor, with all the others. It’s a small painting, but the detail is astonishing.” Nathaniel cut himself another triangle of tart.

“Oh! I wish to see her! A sorceress! What was she like, Silas?” Elisabeth said to the demon seated across from her, and then paused, teacup raised halfway to her lips. Silas’ eyes had taken on a faraway look~ golden yellow as a melting sunset. The same look he’d had when she’d spoken with him in the mysterious frozen-in-time Ostrich Room, two winters ago.

Silas blinked and composed himself quickly, the syrupy glow in his eyes vanishing. “A most unique and charismatic woman. Extraordinary. Bold. Visionary. She led House Thorn into a peaceful time.” He slipped a claw into the intricate folds of his cravat, loosening it minutely.

“Well, let’s get her up on the wall, then, shall we? She deserves a place there as much as any Thorn. Silas, can you make it your task today to find a suitable frame? I’d say it’s maybe this big.” Nathaniel held his hands about two feet apart.

Silas lowered his paper and sighed. “Yes, master. Although I should prefer to measure the artwork myself, as opposed to relying on your wildly random hand gestures.”

“Fine, of course. You know better about these things than I do. The painting is on my desk. You two can go look. In the meantime, I’ll take on the task of finishing off this tart.” Fork dug deep into the buttery crust with its thick treacly layers of black amethyst fruit, Magister Thorn waggled his head round in happiness. “By the gods, Silas. My compliments to the chef!”

Elisabeth and Silas headed towards Nathaniel’s study together, bathed in the lavender evening sunlight that filtered through the grand hallway’s tall mullioned windows. The demon folded his arms behind his back, sauntering like a shadow a few steps behind his mistress, who seemed to be in quite a hurry to meet this painted lady.

Silas, on the other hand, already knew exactly what they would find…

They entered the dim study, surrounded by towering bookcases and a clicking ticking assortment of magical oddities and artifacts. The dragon skeleton suspended in the skylight above Nathaniel’s desk turned its head with a slight grinding of bone on bone, the ivory bowls of its empty eye sockets following them as they stepped around labyrinthine stacks of grimoires, armillary spheres, potted carnivorous plants and astronomical gadgets.

Elisabeth started as an fluffle of illusion rabbits darted away underfoot, white cottontails flashing. She let out a playful yelp.

“Steady now, miss,” Silas admonished, offering her his arm.

Nathaniel had cleared a space on his desk, apparently by simply pushing most of the clutter onto the floor. The painting sat propped up on a pair of agate bookends, its colors satiny and luminous.

Elisabeth gasped as they approached. “Oh! She’s enchanting! Silas stood hipshot to the side, tightening the black ribbon that held the end of his long white braid. His face was remote and pale as an alabaster bust.

A woman reclined back on a chaise of ornately carved wood and dusky rose velvet, dressed in a simple ivory slip dress, the hem of which was embroidered with a twisting trail of ivy and thorny vines. Her hair, a tousled cascade of darkest brown tendrils, was loose and free of brooches and pins, which gave the portrait a decidedly less formal feel. It felt… personal. Intimate. Clearly not one of those rigidly posed bloodline portraits, the artist had captured her innermost essence during a moment of pure unguarded contentment.

Chin raised, the smile that curled her lips was serene; but her eyes, deep and liquid as a doe’s, were sparkling from the shadows as if she were holding onto some delicious secret, or perhaps on the verge of breaking into winsome laughter. Or both. A small crystal bowl of blackberries sat in her lap; two fingers of one hand resting lightly on its scalloped rim.

One foot was tucked beneath the edge of her gown, the other dangled off the edge of the seat~ tiny, bare and delicately arched. The opulently feathered outline of a large taxidermy ostrich loomed from the darkened background, lending a dreamlike quality to the scene. Wise, willful… Mistress Sinclair looked more than a bit mischievous.

“She lived in the Ostrich Room, didn’t she?“ Elisabeth said more quietly. She turned the linen canvas over, cradling it carefully in her hands. Sure enough, written on the back in a thin spidery script was the name “Mistress Theodora Sinclair”. A few extra curlicues and flourishes swirled beneath it. Elisabeth stared, recognizing the penmanship. Silas stood silently, listening as her heart tripped a beat.

“Did you paint this?” Elisabeth whispered.

“Yes, Mistress.” The demon remained unreadable, his voice but a murmur.

“Was she kind to you? She seems very kind…” Elisabeth spoke carefully, for this moment seemed made of spun glass… transparent and oh-so fragile. About his private matters, Silas was a wary monster.

Silas had not released his gaze on the painting. “Very much so. She was…. Sweet as a summer berry. In many ways.”

“But why then would she wish to be forgotten? And why reveal herself now?”

“Do you recall when I told you that rooms can fold themselves up and disappear? How they retain the residual energy of the person who resided within them? I know you’ve discovered quite a few such rooms hidden here in the manor in your explorations, as have I… The same rule holds true for a painting, or a sketch, a sculpture… anything that captures a bit of the soul. There is a certain alchemy that occurs between the painter and subject, and the art born from such emotion possesses a will of its own.”

He paused, thinking. “Sometimes a piece of art will choose to be lost, or ‘disappeared’, for a long period of time, only to reveal itself at the right moment to those who will appreciate the poignancy.”

“As for being forgotten, she wished to not prolong the grief felt at her passing. Even so, a lady such as Mistress Sinclair could never be forgotten. But now, with that grief healed… to a manageable degree… and her family long gone~ perhaps she wishes her history to awaken. House Thorn is enjoying a time of peace and prosperity once again. Her very legacy is repeating itself, a century later.”

Silas tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “I know she would be most pleased with the new lady who resides here. After all, her room did grant you entrance.”

Tears glimmering, Elisabeth regarded the house demon. Silas’ immortality, and its consequences, always pierced her heart when she gave it thought. Just as he’d allowed her to see him blatantly take the opera tickets from the Ostrich Room and tuck them into his waistcoat pocket, he was now allowing her a glimpse into a demon’s journey through grief. It shamed her to think a mere two years ago, she’d assumed him a cold, one dimensional creature, ribcage nothing but a vacant shell.

“Her blood family may be gone, but you are still here. We don’t have to hang the painting, if you’d prefer it not be on display…I mean to say, if it still hurts…” She couldn’t bear the thought of him walking by it every day, the cut forever bleeding. An aching lump in her throat prevented her from speaking further. She wished to clasp his icy hand in hers, but refrained.

Silas gestured dismissively, claws gleaming pale in the firelight. “Nonsense, Mistress Scrivener. Time may not heal wounds entirely, but heartfelt remembrance surely can help. I think I should like to remember her this way. I do, however, appreciate your grace in the matter.”

He ran a fingertip over the corner of the canvas, his touch almost reverent. “In any case, Mistress Sinclair would find it quite amusing for this particular image of her to be hung amongst the stuffy portraits of sorcerers past.”

Elisabeth, the once-naive library girl from backwoods Summershall, nodded in understanding, and they both fell into a comfortable silence.

The demon gazed at his long-lost painting~ her impish face, those toes curled in delight… and his stark features softened into angelic lightness. For Silas, keeper of secrets and bitten tongue, would never forget what had occurred just before he’d picked up brush and palette to forever capture her in that sweet aftermath. He knew precisely why her toes were curled and hair tangled.

Elisabeth stood back, inspecting the painting as if it were hung on a museum wall.

“Forgive my forwardness, but she looks about as satisfied as the cat who got the cream.” She immediately glowed a vibrant pink at her own words.

“Indeed.” The House Thorn demon politely averted his eyes, but Elisabeth saw that his face had lit up with a rare Cheshire grin. She gave him a quizzical look, which he pretended to not notice.

This next tale takes place in the early 1700s, over one hundred years ago in our Austermeer time. Though long ago, I can assure you it most certainly did occur, and the details are as fresh in my mind as the roses I set in the entryway of the manor this very morning.

Many of you by now know of my previous mistress Theodora Sinclair, having met her acquaintance through such stories as ‘The Ostrich Room’ and ‘The Servant’s Passage’. If you were perceptive enough, you may recall the tantalizing snippets revealed in ‘Mysteries of Thorn Manor’, and in the 2024 French L’Integrale Silas edition, within whose margins I annotated my feelings regarding her.

Again, as a gentleman I do not divulge all. But I shall share just enough to help you understand the lasting effect this incomparable woman has had on my life. She would not mind, I am sure of it.

Being bound to her in more ways than one was a singular experience, and with this story I shall endeavor to honor Mistress Sinclair as best I can.

Chapter 79~ The Theatre Box

“Silas…”

Mistress Sinclair’s whisper, quiet as the slip of a silk ribbon, reached his ears through the luminous soaring of the violin solo unfolding below.

They were cloistered high in the uppermost balcony box seats of the Royal Theatre, tucked away in secrecy amidst flaking gilded wood and inky darkness, where the demon did not require the effort of a glamour to conceal his startling appearance. The acoustics were superlative, the shadows deep and lush as a curtain of midnight velvet. It was one of Silas’ very favorite places to be.

He turned to his mistress and leaned in, attentive to her needs despite the intrusion into his bliss. Perhaps she wished for him to tuck her shawl closer about her arms, or fetch her opera glasses from her chatelaine. Though fiercely independent, Mistress Sinclair also knew Silas took pleasure in doting on her.

Her hand, feathery soft and warm as a little bird, reached to cup his cheek. Her fingers did not tremble, they were bold, yet tender. The shock of such an unexpected touch stilled his reaction, and in that split second of hesitation, her lips found the corner of his.

“Mistress.” He’d managed to utter one word only, one word that spoke volumes~ reproach, astonishment, curiosity….to which she’d responded with a soft lilting giggle, dark eyes merry.

The kiss had coincided with the crescendo of the solo, at the very moment the music had overtaken his entire consciousness with waves of pleasure. Silas suddenly wished to either loosen or tighten his cravat, perhaps remove it altogether…but he wasn’t sure which would remedy this peculiar sensation; indeed it probably didn’t matter, as the minute peck had rendered the fearsome demon quite incapable of moving even a single fingertip.

This can’t possibly be healthy for my heart, Silas thought, as a tumultuous flood of ice cold blood thundered through his veins like a glacier melting. On a positive note, this was, at the very least, confirmation that he had one.

Needless to say, he barely remembered the rest of the symphony, yet neither did he did feel any sense of disappointment over it. He sat beside her until the finale, gloved hands over his lap, still and unblinking as a marble statue. Indeed, one would’ve hardly noticed him breathing, but inside he was a tempest.

~*~*~*~*~*

The evening had ended, and Thorn Manor sat in that serene, muffled silence that only winter can impart. Lamps were extinguished and waitstaff asleep. After wordlessly taking down his mistress’s hair, gently loosening her stays and politely bowing his way out of her bedchamber, Silas had escaped to the blessed solitude of his room on the fifth floor. The demon busied himself with turning down his bed, smoothing the linen and fluffing up his mound of pillows. The textures of the fabrics somehow seemed more obvious to him on this night~ his hands paused to trace the finely rippled weave with a thumb, and lightly crush the plush depth of the down feathers.

He prodded a half-burned log in the fireplace back to life, and soon orange flames danced and crackled. Pops of sparks and the scent of birch sap filled his bedchamber, spicy and earthy and sweet. But even these soothing things failed to push away the thoughts teeming to the forefront of his mind like minnows darting along the edge of a riverbank.

What on earth just happened?

He knew ‘what’ it was~ a kiss. But how? And why?

The music must’ve mesmerized his demon senses to such a degree that he was momentarily unaware of Mistress Sinclair’s capricious plot. That was the only explanation he could think of as to how she’d been able to so cleverly blindside him. Dreadfully careless of him. Even worse, he’d been so rattled that he hadn’t pulled away until after the kiss was complete. And all this time he’d thought he was the dangerous one. The taste of her mouth still lingered on his with a slight fragrance of something like wild blackberry and mint.

To his utter dismay, Silas realized he’d enjoyed it quite a bit.

He’d rather have his heart served to him, stewed in a tureen of his own blood, than admit such a thing out loud. Silas had never held interest in consorting with mortals. In the past, there had been occasions when humans had tried to kiss him; and some, disrespecting his lack of desire, had tried to tempt him into even more amorous behavior. The consequences for their carnal missteps had been dire.

But Mistress Sinclair… the sorceress to whom he was bound in servitude through demonic bargain… well, this was a whole different story. He’d felt no prickle of annoyance dancing up his spine, no hunger for vengeance swelling in his throat. No revulsion at being touched. Brief and hardly salacious, the kiss had tingled with playful electricity~ it had obviously been meant to catch him off guard. Nothing more. She’d treated him no differently afterwards. Her soul had flared a brief magenta before pulsating back to its soft rose glimmer, but there had been no expectation, no pining need, no unseen motive to control him. It had felt pure in its innocent affection.

Though her lips had rested against his for no more than the intake of one stolen breath…it’d been long enough to open a Pandora’s box of questions for the demon. Silas truly believed he could spend his entire night pondering the elusive answers. So much for the cat nap he’d planned.

He considered the gravity of a mortal kissing a demon. Knowing full well what sharp-toothed dangers lay just behind the curve of his angelic lips, she must truly trust him, the thought of which brought him a heated flush of satisfaction. As if bundling him up and spiriting him off to the opera with her wasn’t proof enough.

Silas was accustomed to being in close proximity to his mistress. And not just to act as a conduit for magic. Many of his mornings were spent arranging her hair, claws carefully manipulating her long dark tresses into intricate braids, chignons and plaits. He’d learned to gently slip jeweled hairpins into place, lace up corsets and sort layers of silk and lace skirts. The sorceress preferred Silas’ assistance as opposed to a gossipy maidservant, saying his composed demeanor and quiet humor set her in a tranquil mood for the day. Their close rapport was widely deemed scandalously dangerous and deviant… but she cared not. And neither did Silas. As a superior creature, human rules of decorum did not apply to him. No one dared question the demon anyway; the tales of his proclivities for shocking violence were far-spread.

Silas became quite adept at attending her; over time he was the only one allowed to do so, and an impossible affection soon bloomed between them~ one of easy confidence and comradeship. He took tea with her, brought hot breakfasts to her bedchamber, devotedly escorted her wherever she desired~ her hand nestled in the crook of his arm was a familiar weight that caused him no unease.

Though she teased him often, her whimsy always blushed with fondness.

But she’d never ventured to touch his face, nor kiss him. Til now. It occurred to him then and there that there were different types of kissing. Perhaps also different comfort levels… a wide swath of unchartered territory existed between the far ends of intrigue, apathy and repulsion. Perhaps such a thing required more investigation.

Silas slipped out of his tailcoat and kicked off his boots. He gazed into the mirror over his dresser and sighed. He looked the same as he had for centuries~ frost pale, smooth brow, feline eyes, moonstone hair. Yet inside he felt oh so strange. Enlightened? Curious as a cat? Well that would certainly make sense. He rolled up his cuffs to splash cool water on his face, laughing to himself.

Loosening his cravat, Silas paused, head tilted. Light as rustling leaves, he could hear quiet treads on the staircase far below him. Tiny feet in silken slippers. After some time, they approached purposefully down the hallway, and paused outside the heavy walnut door of his room, which was a sliver ajar. He waited, still as stone, knowing dawning. The thin strip of cloth hung forgotten from his claws.

A shaft of silvery moonlight illuminated the worn floorboards as the door creaked open. The sound was no more than a mouse’s squeak, but to Silas’ ears it was the low keen of a well-rosined bow drawn slowly against the taut strings of a cello.

He already knew who he would find. Eyes merry, mouth inviting as sun-warmed blackberries. Strands of purest white twisting through her mane like a vine of moonflowers. Playful fingers tempered with infinite kindness.

The demon turned. Dust motes sparkled in the moonbeam like fireflies. His dry murmur was barely audible.

“Mistress.”

Dear readers, tonight’s tale is one of insolent grimoires and a demon’s patience.

You may remember a day two winters ago when my humans had quite an adventure in the manor’s muniment room. The books that reside there are of a peculiar and defiant nature, which is surprising considering their mundane purpose.

Once a bad habit has become a behavior, it is difficult to remedy.

That apparently holds true for grimoires and demons alike.

Chapter 78~ Paperweights

Silas resisted the urge to snap his feather duster into splinters and embark on a rampage of destruction. It would only take but a moment for him to turn the entire room upside down.

A glob of ink, spit by a hemp bound ledger marked “Land Ownership of Thorn Manor, 1523~1610”, had narrowly missed his snowy forelock, swishing past his face in a blur of inky wetness. It splatted against a turned ivory skippet he had just polished.

The pure, unbridled audacity…

When Silas had tasked himself with spring cleaning the muniment room, which was in dire need of a good dusting and airing out, he hadn’t anticipated just how challenging the chore would prove itself to be. Most of the books were deep in a peaceful slumber, their snores and papery turnings emanating from the cozy confines of the oaken drawers they were cataloged in.

But a few had awoken, evidently on the wrong side of the bed, and had slyly slid open their nesting boxes with the sole purpose of wreaking havoc on the house demon’s orderly plans.

If Mistress Scrivener hadn’t cosseted these dreadful books quite so thoroughly, with leather balms and massages and lullabies, perhaps they would not have become so monstrously spoiled and bratty. Being the most boring books within the manor walls, they had no right to such delusions of grandeur.

The demon bit back his ire, sorted his cravat to a more suitable tightness, and carried on. It wouldn’t do for him to shred over 300 years worth of important manor documentation, as much as his claws itched inside his gloves to do so. Should he indulge this desire, he knew Elisabeth would be hard pressed to completely forgive him, no matter how many hand kisses and perfect cups of tea he presented her with. She’d nursed these books back from illness and chaos; each one was dear to her.

Silas sighed, a soft resigned murmur in the small room. The love she had for these wretched tomes would stay his hand, for the time being. He supposed it was the love she held so tenderly for him that also stilled his wrath. How curious it was to him that the naive library girl from backwoods Summershall had nurtured books into petulant monsters, and a yellow-eyed monster into a kitten.

What a singular woman.

A pale light filtered through the small window of horizontal diamonds, illuminating the dust motes floating in the heavy air. Time to cease waxing poetic. There was work to be done.

He mopped his duster over the ornate curlicues of the wall cupboards and stacks of tin document boxes. The room smelled of vellum, wax and dryrot. Not unpleasant to the demon, for whom the scent was warm and sweet… and holding a note of nostalgia.

His mind wandered back to the day Elisabeth and Nathaniel had joined forces to bring the neglected room and its feral contents back under control. The way his master had taken charge with such confidence was impressive. Of course, most of it was posturing to show off his magisterial skills to Mistress Scrivener. But still… Silas laughed softly, remembering the part he had played in the performance. The entire fiasco had been his doing, not that anyone needed to know. He doubted he’d ever grow tired of his own cleverness.

He dodged a second splatter of emerald green ink with a low growl, patience finally worn threadbare. Two’s a charm. Taking a deep breath, Silas calmly exited the room and made his way down the winding staircases to the first floor. His boots made no sound on the multitude of worn steps, nor did they leave prints in the dust. He must speak immediately to Mistress Scrivener, before disaster struck.

Silas stopped just outside the arched doorway of the parlor, ethereal and elegant as a ghost. He peered in at his mistress, who was seated at the mahogany table in a pool of golden sun, in a dress of cerulean blue, working diligently over a large grimoire with a bent spine. Her lilting voice was visibly calming the book, which had to be in some discomfort. Tiny tins of emollients, squares of soft muslin cloth and an assortment of glass paperweights were laid out around her. The demon stepped fully into the room and quietly cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, mistress. Forgive my intrusion into your endeavors. I shall not interrupt you for long. I only wish to ask a small and single favor.” The demon’s whisper was dry as the paper pages beneath her fingers. He leaned into a slight formal bow.

Elisabeth started, eyes bright with surprise. Not only at his sudden appearance, but it was indeed rare for Silas to ask for anything. She straightened in her chair, hid her inky hands in her lap and offered a gentle smile.

“It is never any worry, Silas. Please tell me.” Her soul rippled, swirling like sapphire dragonflies at the edges, and he felt the tide of her attentive kindness washing over him.

“I shall get straight to the point. Would you please speak to the books in the muniment room about respecting my efforts at keeping their area clean? They seem to take great pleasure in expelling their ink at me, which I find immensely vexing. I fear this impropriety has occurred twice since early morning.” The demon’s brow crumpled in mock sadness, and he lowered his gaze to stare at the toe of his boot. “Maintaining my manners has become a strenuous effort, and I doubt I shall endure much longer.”

“The books… are spitting at you?” Mistress Scrivener’s look of growing embarrassment slowly gave way to ill-concealed mirth. She clapped an ink-smudged hand to her mouth before a giggle could erupt. Her cheeks deepened into scarlet.

Silas looked up, raised a colorless eyebrow and tapped his duster against the side of his boot like a riding crop. “What is it, mistress?”

Was she finding entertainment in his suffering? Perhaps she needed reminding of who was ultimately responsible for this calamity.

“You are no doubt aware that your incessant mollycoddling has given them a false sense of entitlement, as well as a foolhardy level of bravado, correct?”

His mind briefly wandered off once again to images of shredded paper, piles upon piles of it; a most savory thought. But alas, the entire household would immediately without question know him to be the culprit. He surely wouldn’t be able to place blame upon Mercy, for she never set foot on the fifth floor, and it simply wasn’t in her nature to be violently destructive, unless one considered the dastardly tortures she inflicted upon a pot of tea.

Giving his head a minute shake, like a cat sorting its whiskers, Silas came back to himself. Shifting his weight and tilting his head…his entire countenance changed. The demon suddenly looked more dangerous and more humorless than he ever had in the whole of the year.

The grandfather clock in the entryway missed a tick and a tock. Looking up through long white lashes, his cunning feline eyes locked with hers.

“Mistress Scrivener,” he cautioned, “this is hardly a laughing matter. My wardrobe, indeed my dignity, is under attack. I implore you, for the good of all mankind.” Silas was never overly dramatic.

An explosive snort escaped from behind Elisabeth’s hand, which was still firmly clamped over her lips. Her shoulders shook. Clearly a woman not in control of herself.

Despite her nervous giddiness, Elisabeth watched the demon carefully; gauging his stance and the fathomless depth in his eyes. Silas did not appear unduly distressed at her laughter~ if he had been, she would’ve called for Nathaniel. He only tucked his duster under one arm, leaned back against the mantel, removed a glove and inspected his claws with lazy interest. “I would not wish to see the archives come to any harm.”

“Silas! You wouldn’t!” Elisabeth sobered up in a flash. The mumbling grimoire had gone quiet.

“Would I not, mistress?” A playful tone had crept into the demon’s low voice. Seeing her here, with her infinite warmth embracing him from across the room, and yes, her endearing silliness… Silas felt his anger ebb and fade. He couldn’t help but tease. His intentions shifted.

“We are nearly out of kindling for the cook stove and kitchen hearth. Archive paper aged three centuries would indeed make a fine substitute.” The demon gazed upwards thoughtfully, a clawed finger stroking his chin. “Imagine what a clean and bright burn it shall produce.”

“I’ll speak to them. You mustn’t harm them, Silas. They are like children.”

The demon was nonplussed. “I consumed a child once, in 1617. Such a tiny morsel; I’m quite sure no one even noticed.” He pivoted away on his boot heel to hide his mischievous grin, velvet coat tails swinging. He heard the hitch in her breath.

“You did no such thing. I don’t believe you!”

He cast an amused eye over his shoulder. “I am but an honest creature, mistress. You have always known me to be so.” He turned to face her, and slowly approached. Shaking down his livery sleeves, Silas settled into a chair close beside her, watching as the frosty chill of his pale skin caused gooseflesh to prickle up on her arms.

“It is nothing but a fairytale I told young Magister Thorn in the past, to coax him into behaving,“ he confided.

Elisabeth scowled at him, but for the most part she looked relieved. The grimoire could evidently read her emotion; it wriggled impatiently, giving a small sigh. Her hands immediately flew to its rescue without a moment’s hesitation, expertly rubbing and kneading its crooked edges. Mistress Scrivener was a bit of a pushover. Not that it was a bad thing, for Silas himself had surely benefited from her selfless nurturing. Many times.

Silas flickered a glance over the healing accoutrements spread across the table. The decorative glass weights caught his attention. Aqua, deep green and amethyst, they looked out of place beside the camphor oils and delicate brushes. He held one up to the sunlight, claws clicking on the glossy surface. Rainbows danced across the far wall.

“Paperweights, mistress? Do they like that?” It seemed to him a rather odd thing, to forcefully hold down a living book of a friendly nature. Although when he thought of it, his humans sometimes made a high-spirited amorous game of such a thing with each other~ he’d seen them on the drawing room sofa, purely by accident on his way past the doorway. More than once. It certainly hadn’t looked objectionable.

Elisabeth nodded. “Yes, it is like a blanket with some heaviness to it. Similar to a hug or embrace. It makes them feel safe, but not restrained.”

As a creature who valued his freedom in every way possible, Silas approved. Perhaps there was something a grimoire could teach him after all. “I see. One learns something new every day.”

He had detained her long enough, and his request would be honored, he was sure of it. The lady of Thorn Manor was a voice of reason, and a keeper of her word.

“You have my gratitude as always, mistress, for your time… but also for your willingness to act as peacemaker.” Rising gracefully to take his leave, Silas cradled his blushing mistress’s hand, and touched his lips to her wrist, for it was the only spot not sullied with ink. In his typical fashion, the demon left as silently as he’d arrived.

Rounding the corner at the end of the sun-dappled hallway, Silas heard her whisper to the grimoire in her care. “My goodness! Do you really think it was just a fairytale? I’ll have to ask Nathaniel.”

It was the demon’s turn to rein in his laughter, as it trailed soft and barely audible behind him.

Touch~

Initiating touch.

If you’ve not noticed throughout our stories, I have usually been the one to initiate touch. I was the one to kiss a hand, gather my humans into my arms and carry them, I was the one to lightly brush my claws through their hair.

Being on the receiving end of casual touch and not reacting with rage or disdain has been a challenge. As you know, I have come a long way since those days. Master and Mistress are very affectionate in a tactile way with me, and every day I sink deeper into their platonic touch.

If you’ve a fear, or distrust or aversion that you wish to overcome, I have one piece of advice, if one is to find comfort in the words of a demon. This is simply what has worked for me.

Be patient with yourself. Your body and mind will heal, but it may take time. A very long time, perhaps. For me it has been three entire centuries to accept touch, trust the intentions and be comfortable with it.

And even after this passage of time, I am still not willing to be embraced for long periods. You may reach such a plateau as well. You may never fully attain your goal, but that is hardly a failure. It is perfectly acceptable; correct and proper for your own individual needs. Let no one tell you otherwise.

Listen. Honor yourself. Make choices that are wise for you, at whatever point you find yourself in life. It is not selfish. It is respect.

Fear not dear readers, defenders of space and sensitive of soul~

“Would you… would you like to join me?”

He paused, head tilted. “Do you wish me to?”

Elisabeth hesitated, unsure what to say.

He considered her through his lashes. “I do not eat human food, miss- not without reason. To me, it tastes of nothing but ash and dust.” He tugged the curtains shut. Before they closed, she noticed his breath didn’t fog the glass. “But I will dine with you, if you wish.”

Had she offended him? It was always so difficult to tell.

{Sorcery of Thorns, paper bound edition, page 197}

Art by Fannie Auditeau 🤍💛TheChangelingArt, Etsy

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To be quite honest, I was rather taken aback by Miss Scrivener’s offer. I had never had such a thing presented to me. She was still quite afraid of me, but I could sense her curiosity overcoming that. Perhaps she thought that breaking bread with a monster would assuage her remaining fears.

I tend to believe she was being kind, in a genuine fashion. She did compliment my culinary skills, which also took me by surprise.

“But where the devil are your servants, Magister Thorn?”….

“That’s just the thing,” one of the onlookers near Elisabeth whispered. “I’ve heard he doesn’t have any. For six whole years, he lived with no one but his demon. That poor Miss Scrivener. What must it be like for her?”

“It’s very nice, actually,” Elisabeth replied. “The demon makes excellent scones.”

{Mysteries of Thorn Manor, page 175}

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Despite the fact that I am most definitely not blond haired in real life, I very much like this magnificent portrait of us. You can see Nathaniel’s heartfelt devotion. What a relief he has admitted his feelings, and is unafraid to show them to her. Indeed, he is in awe of Mistress Scrivener each and every day. It is easy to see why. He still becomes rather awkward and tongue-tied in her presence; which is entirely endearing and forgivable.

And I am endlessly humored by her armored forays into the gardens to wage battle on the topiary zoo, which I enjoy watching from the fifth story manor rooftop. Fear not, their heads grow back within a day or so, and I think they secretly desire her attention. I know the feeling, if I am to be honest ;)

“I do wish you would stop bringing up demons in public,” he was saying.

The servant’s soft voice answered, barely audible above the clopping of the horses’ hooves. “I can’t help myself, master. It’s in my nature.”

“Well your nature vexes me.”

“My sincerest apologies. Would you like me to change?”

“Not now,” Nathaniel said. “You’ll spook the horses, and frankly, I have no idea how to drive a carriage.”

{Sorcery of Thorns, paperback edition, page 58}

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As much as I desire to be a mystery, there is one problem ~ Sometimes I cannot for the life of me keep my mouth shut.

Do not mistake me, I can hold onto a secret, especially my own… and my life is far from an open book. I value privacy deeply. If I were to divulge every detail about myself, I would run the risk of losing my whimsy.

But when it comes to topics I feel strongly about, such as my demonic identity, I can be rather forthcoming. My helpful interjections, comments and innocent observations also tend to exasperate Master Thorn, which honestly is half the entertainment.

In the situation above, Nathaniel was clearly trying to make an upstanding impression on our librarian girl, when he had only just met her acquaintance. A quite unfair slight to me, whom he’s known his entire life.

It was also obvious Miss Scrivener had never been on the receiving end of flirtation, even the dreadfully executed type Nathaniel was forcing us both to witness. A short while later, you may recall she bit him.

Do you really blame her? I certainly don’t. I believe it was all that foolish talk of salamanders and orphan’s blood that put her over the edge.

This evening’s short tale is another shopping adventure. It’s no secret that I enjoy visiting the retail district of the city, with its quaint tree-lined cobblestone lanes and assortment of charmingly decorated storefronts. It is one of the older parts of Brassbridge, and perusing the goods offered there has been one of my favorite pastimes. The shops have obviously changed over the centuries, but one has remained nearly the same~ the apothecary just down the street from Lady Tremayne’s dress shop. They offer medicinals for mortals, and various herbal potions, including a vast array of tea.

Brewing a perfect pot of tea was the very first task I learned upon taking guardianship of young Master Thorn, so you can imagine that anything related to tea is nostalgically close to my heart.

You are cordially invited to accompany me as I shop for Miss Mercy’s birthday gift at The Herbal Emporium, Austermeer’s oldest and most esteemed apothecary.

Chapter 77~ Catmint

Silas stepped over the threshold and into the apothecary, and discreetly shut the door behind him. No matter how softly he closed it, the string of verdigris copper bells hanging from the handle always jangled a bit harshly, heralding his arrival.

He stood, small and spare in the center of the cramped, cluttered room. The shop interior was dark, dusty, and highly aromatic. A single bleary window barely allowed the sunlight in. Ornately embossed tins and glass bottles in every color lined the shelving behind the weathered counter, which had been worn glossy smooth by centuries worth of goods being slid across it. Racks of drying plants and flower stems hung suspended from the rough-hewn rafters overhead. Wooden barrels and crates of loose tea and herbs filled every nook and corner. Darjeeling, assam, peppermint, hibiscus and orange clove. Bracingly piquant ginger, earthy echinacea and tart cranberry rooibos. Needles of mild silver leaf. Sweet warm cinnamon and citrusy lemon. Flowery exotic jasmine.

Silas smiled. Tea always helped, no matter the situation. This he knew to be the truth.

Silas meandered to a large flourcloth sack overflowing with tiny dried leaves. The top of the bag was folded open, and his senses were immediately flooded with the familiar herbaceous scent. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself…. the demon leaned in and inhaled deeply, a shiver of pleasure dancing over his body. Catmint.

Saliva filled his mouth, and his pupils swelled dangerously as the herb began to take its dizzying, euphoric effect on him. He ran a finger beneath the fabric of his cravat, which suddenly felt too tight. Swallowing back an abrupt laugh, Silas cursed silently to himself.

Oh no.

Catmint had always been absolutely irresistible to him, much to his dismay. Once while in cat form, he’d nibbled a tender young frond of it that was growing wild in the garden, and had disgracefully chased his own tail in a circle before regaining his dignity. Silas quickly pushed the memory to the back of his mind. Not his finest moment; indeed the incident was quite regrettable and best left in the past.

Now was not the time to allow such silliness, as tempting as the herb may be. Consumption of catmint easily led to a greater hunger, or even worse, the wastefulness of drunken stupor. He was here on serious business; shopping for Mercy’s birthday gift. Mayhem was not on the menu.

The maid had a fondness for London Fog in the evenings, and even though Silas knew it would be destined for ruination at her inexperienced hands, he wished to purchase a pound of black tea for her. It’s the thought that counts, he mused; at least that’s what Mistress Scrivener had told him.

Giving his head a shake to clear the deepening intoxication, Silas tightened his grip on the task ahead, approached the register and offered the proprietor a smart bow.

“Good day to you, sir. If you please, I should like to sample your finest blend of loose leaf black. Something suitable for concocting a lady’s London Fog.” His voice was soft and courteously low, almost a whisper.

“Why yes sir, I have the perfect medley for you. It arrived only yesterday, and I think you’ll agree it’s exquisite.” The shop pharmacist, clearly poor of vision, turned away to search the shelving against the back wall. Taking down a large pewter colored tin box with gold filigree script, he pried off the top and set it on the counter. The robust aroma of black tea, orange zest and vanilla wafted up.

“This is our best Earl Grey, harvested at the peak of the full moon. You will notice the addition of lavender to enhance the floral bouquet.”

His customer stepped closer. The druggist squinted at the curious gentleman before him~ he was quite small in stature, slender, dressed fashionably in a superbly tailored tailcoat suit of dark grey spring wool. Breeches tucked into tall mahogany leather riding boots, pearl grey deerskin gloves. His hair was unusually long; it fell well past his shoulders in a cascade of gleaming white, gathered neatly with a black ribbon. A white rose sat elegantly at his lapel. One well-formed ear was pierced through by a marquis emerald in a gold setting. Skin milky and delicate as paperwhites; even paler than the silk cravat knotted high around his throat.

Yes, all very unusual… he could be one of those albinos that were pictured in natural history books, but then those eyes... The clerk could’ve sworn he’d seen them flash an impossible shade of sulphur, but looking closer they now appeared a light tawny brown. Nevertheless, there was something very odd about this gentleman, he just couldn’t quite grasp what…

“Pardon me, sir,” Silas had removed his gloves and slipped them into his pocket. He picked up a tiny bit of tea and pressed it between his thumb and forefinger, crushing the dried leaves to release their essence. He sniffed the powder, nostrils flaring subtly like a cat’s. The tea was fragrant with bergamot oil, and contained a goodly amount of whole lavender, a sign of high quality. Silas only spent his money on the best. He sighed. Such a lovely tea, doomed to a tortuously slow demise at Mercy’s merciless hands. Death by over-steeping.

Meanwhile, the clerk had blanched a shade of white that rivaled the demon’s own stark complexion. He clutched the edge of the countertop to steady himself. Those were claws. Not manicured fingernails. Actual claws, curved and translucent, identical to a cat’s. They looked razor sharp enough to score metal, and they were immaculate. His monocle dropped to the countertop with a clatter, bounced to the floor, and rolled in a tight circle at the toe of Silas’ boots.

Silas paused mid-sniff and slid a side eye at the man, who stiffened and offered a forced smile. With dawning amazement, the man realized he’d been correct. The strange gentleman’s eyes were indeed yellow, with thin black pupils, vertical like a cat’s…. this being was most certainly not human, and that left but one conclusion. This was the House Thorn demon, who had been glimpsed throughout the city recently. The newspapers were all in a flap about it. And here he was, a mere yard away, politely purchasing tea of all things. Surprisingly, the creature possessed more manners and grace than most humans. Not to mention he was much better attired.

The demon had re-donned his gloves. “Of this blend, I shall take one pound please. Could you wrap it? It is to be a gift for a… work associate.” Silas fought mightily against the urge to add an eye roll. He still found it difficult to admit he was no longer the only House Thorn staff member.

The shop clerk froze for moment, taken aback. Demons not only bought tea, they also bought gifts? How delightfully unexpected. “But of course, sir!” Unable to contain his giddy excitement, he measured out a pound of tea onto a scale, poured it into a paper sack, then produced a roll of silver tissue and a length of pale orchid satin ribbon.

A round jar of rock candy caught Silas’ attention. He leaned forward, head tilted to view the contents through the thick bubbled glass. The sticks of sparkling crystallized sugar seemed the type of pretty thing Mercy might fancy. All of the young humans in his keep appeared bound and determined to rot their teeth out with copious amounts of sweets. But who was he to judge?

“A quarter pound of these as well, if you please. Also for the lady.” Perhaps the candy would give her the energy needed to better focus on the quality of her mopping.

Beribboned packages in hand and twenty shillings lighter, Silas bowed graciously and took his leave. He paused on his way out to savor one last whiff of catmint, unable to resist its deliciously heady fumes. And then, like a specter or wisp of ether, he slipped out the door.

The shopkeep watched Silas leave, his fearful assumptions regarding demons erased. What an intriguing creature he’d just met. He felt a bit woozy all of a sudden, though the feeling was not entirely unpleasant. Perhaps he needed a bite to eat. He gazed quizzically at the open tin of pricey Earl Grey on the counter. How strange, he’d just noticed it. Twenty shillings sat next to it in a tidy stack; a hefty sum of money. He must’ve forgotten to put it in the till before closing up shop last night. Blinking hard, he retrieved his monocle from the floorboards, dusted it off on his apron and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost 8 am and he hadn’t had a single customer all morning.

An interesting question has been posed to me~

Did I only take one day of life from Nathaniel and one day from Elisabeth as a mere formality to unselfishly complete the bargain this time, or did I intentionally set a low price so I would be less tempted to collect the payment early?

A multi-pronged question with several answers. I shall endeavor to explain the choice I made in my own way.

Firstly, even one day of lifeforce from two such superlative humans will give me a phenomenal amount of power, when I eventually consume it… but that is not the point. My agreement and my low fee has nothing to do with forcing control over my demonic nature.

A bargain is a bargain. I continue to serve House Thorn the way I always have~ with pride and relentless ferocity. Our bargain locks away a good portion of my power while I am in the human realm, which is a rational and wise thing. As I have said before, there is little I will not do in service to House Thorn. That holds true, especially now. The bargain also keeps me here with my loved ones, which is obviously what I desire.

Secondly, I am constantly suppressing my urges; that has simply become a daily task for me. Though I do appreciate the asker’s acknowledgement of and concern about my dark impulses and true nature, I have absolutely no desire to end my master or mistress’ life, no matter how many days or years of lifeforce were involved. There is no temptation; indeed the very idea is unthinkable.

I may quietly bring up murder in conversation, but only when my last nerve has been worked into a frazzle by endless tomfoolery. I will say with full confidence that Nathaniel is always the culprit who wears my patience thin~ stuffing his laundry unfolded into his dresser, eating his meals like a pig at a trough, and avoiding me when it’s time for his yearly haircut. Mistress is a lady; she does no wrong, other than being a bit naive, at least in my eyes.

Master Thorn has never ordered me not to harm him. He has ordered me to not argue with him at times, which vexes me intensely. But he trusts me with his life, and Mistress Scrivener’s, without a doubt. As well he should.

It is true, the one day I requested was partly a formality to seal the bargain so I could return to serve Thorn Manor… my home. But I also wish to see my humans live the longest lives they possibly can. Both have much to offer this realm, and I do not want to take any time from them. And if I may be completely honest, my wish to see them enjoy a lengthy life is a bit selfish. We are an unexpected family, cobbled together from far flung lands, and they are dear to me. They are mortal… and I am not. The more years I have in the warmth of their company, the better. That is the ‘payment’ I crave.

Magical rules insist there be a payment that is equally beneficial to sorcerer and demon. One day is all I need. One day is all I wish.

So you see, I am indeed a selfish creature, just not in a way you might expect..