Author's Note: Updates might be a little slower for a while. Real life just won't leave me alone lately. But I'll try to keep no more than three weeks between chapters if possible. Also, you guys make me blush with your comments. I appreciate you all. Fanfic readers are seriously the best. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different. Mwah!
Chapter Seven:
"He wants to see you again," Mr. Kaplan mentions as we pass each other in the second floor corridor. She's in a rush, as always, and doesn't waste time stopping. I nod, unsurprised and headed in that direction anyway. The "he" she refers to is Reddington.
He had left the schoolroom so abruptly that day he talked to me about his family. And afterwards, he seemed upset that he'd shared anything at all. So I had thought he would avoid my company in the future.
But he's asked for me a number of times in the past few weeks. I'm not sure if it's because I'm a new addition to the household or because of his former connection with my uncle. He still hasn't revealed that connection with any detail, despite the number of conversations he's drawn me into over the better part of the past month. They knew each other, they were once as close as brothers—that's all I know. He refuses to divulge more.
Sometimes I think he asks for me because he needs distraction from his darker thoughts. He's nearly said it plainly once or twice before, "Entertain me, Miss Keen. I'm in a foul mood this evening."
I would think that Dembe or Luli or Mr. Kaplan might be better suited to the task, having known him longer, but, for whatever reason, he continues to ask for me.
His manner is as strange as ever but I find myself perfectly content to be his distraction, if that's what this is. Part of me knows there's danger in this, but I don't care. I've been alone for so long that to have someone, anyone, to talk to is…well, it's something that I haven't had in a very long time.
He mostly just asks me questions about my life at Lowood or about teaching Agnès, or tells me stories about his travels. He's been all over the world and it's fascinating to hear him talk about fiery volcanos in South America, endless deserts of the Arabian Peninsula and the Russian winters in Moscow and St. Petersburg. His voice is made for story-telling and on those evenings when he's in the mood for it, I'm happy to be his audience.
Like tonight, as I sit across from him by the crackling fire, and he tells me about a ship wreck off Antigua and the rowboat that he and Dembe had to cobble together from bits of brandy crates to make it back to shore. I get lost in his smooth voice easily enough. I find myself studying his features and wondering…
"You study me, Miss Keen," he says with that same smirk as always. He's finished his story without me noticing. I'm lost in thought, heedless perhaps, until his next words jar me alert. He teases, "Do you find me handsome?"
"No, sir," I respond immediately, quickly…perhaps a little defensively. I have little time to think of a more diplomatic answer as I'm busy forcing the flush on my cheeks not to bloom. My God, I should be used to these sorts of comments by now.
He laughs robustly, perhaps more than I've seen him laugh before.
"That's a very direct answer, Lizzie," he replies, rising from his chair to retrieve a bottle of wine from a rack on the opposite side of the room. He brings back two glasses, holding them expertly in one hand, stems crossed, as he pours from the bottle in the other.
"I—I apologize, sir. I didn't mean to be so…," I can't find the word I'm looking for. Dishonest? False? Come the wholly ill-advised suggestions in my head. But the words are accurate enough.
False is perhaps not strong enough as Raymond Reddington's a very attractive man, in his way. I was aware of it that first day, on the icy road where we met. I'm more aware of it now, sitting in his library, taking the glass of wine he offers me.
It's those damn eyes, I swear. Blue-green and fathomless like the sea. They can make a woman feel like she's the only person alive, the only person that matters. He's older than me, well-traveled and far more worldly. Any girl sitting across from him would find him handsome. And what's more, he knows it.
But I don't give him the satisfaction of appealing to his vanity, doubling down on my original answer as I continue, very seriously, "I should have said beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or…that it matters more who we are and what we do, rather than how we may appear."
He gives me a look that says I'm being far too philosophical as he places the wine bottle on the fireplace mantle and retakes his seat.
"You're rather plain yourself, Miss Keen," he cautions, perhaps teasing me, perhaps speaking truth. I'm not vain about my looks, in any case. But he adds, cleverly, "At least, dressed in all these greys you insist on wearing."
"Beauty is of little consequence," I respond firmly, my tongue loosened around him in a way that I would never dare around anyone else. "We are much more than our physical attributes, whatever they may be."
"Perhaps…," he concedes, shrugging, seemingly uninterested in settling the question one way or another. Sitting back against the soft fabric of his armchair, he tells me one more story for the night.
"I was once on the island of Ko Ri, in the Andaman Sea," he takes a drink of his wine. "I felt terribly ill—stung by a lionfish. I was dehydrated, in excruciating pain. Lizzie, you're meant to drink that—" He derails his own story to scold me for the untouched wine, held by the stem of the glass in my lap.
He nods at the glass. I'm worried he won't continue until I've tasted it so I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip. The foreign flavor passes my lips like a kiss. This is the first time I've ever tasted wine. He may guess—he seems to know more about me than myself sometimes—but I keep my eyes downcast, unwilling to let my gaze admit the fact for me.
Appeased, he continues,
"I had lost all sense of time and place. I was completely disoriented. But I knew I was dying, so I readied myself for it." He relates this fact so cursorily, as if it's an easy thing to accept death and let it come, without protest. Perhaps for him, it is? He appears to have a darker streak as wide as…well, the Andaman Sea.
I would say something about it, but he's still speaking, "And in that moment, at death's door, I looked up, and standing over me in the brightness was this landless Moken sea gypsy just standing there…smiling. She and her tribe nursed me back to health, good as new. And when I left the island she kissed me. It was like a…burst of sunlight on my cheek. It was—" he sighs with true contentment, finishing simply, "It made nearly dying well worth it."
He takes another drink and so do I. The second taste, a burst of dry sweetness, meets my tongue pleasantly and I find myself taking a third, longer sip.
"Anyway, that sea gypsy was terribly attractive," he mentions, casually, as if that was the point of the story all along. He adds, "I've always regretted that I didn't make love to her before I left the island."
I nearly choke on the wine, coughing once before setting it aside. When I look up, I find Reddington grinning at me, amused that he has undermined my Lowood sensibilities once again. I don't appreciate that grin. I don't like feeling like I'm a game to him.
And, most of all, I don't like that he felt the need to tell me that the sea gypsy was attractive right after he said that I was plain.
Why would it matter if he thinks you're plain, Lizzie?
I stand up and smooth out my skirt, ready to leave. The grin on his face falls in disappointment. He's not quite ready to say goodbye to me for the evening, and I almost think better of it. I'm conflicted, as always. He can be so cruel when he wants to be and yet, I know why he told me that story. And it had nothing to do with whether the sea gypsy woman was pretty or not.
"Sir, it's late and I have to make sure Agnès is in bed at a reasonable hour," I make my excuses. "Your words, not mine."
"Fine, Miss Keen," he knows he's upset me and so he waves me away, releasing me to my work. He will sit and stew about it for a while, but he knows I'll come again when he requests it…because I'm his employee and I don't think it's possible to refuse.
Yes, that's the reason. That's the only reason.
And the fact that the story of some pretty sea gypsy from years ago conjured up some odd and utterly nonsensical feelings of jealousy in my breast, means nothing at all.
Nothing.
I avoid Reddington for the next few days successfully.
He doesn't ask for me and I busy myself with teaching Agnès. Her efforts with mathematics improve, finally, though she still hates numbers with as much passion as ever. Her geography needs work. I ask her to point out Russia on the globe and her little fingers find the icy expanse of Canada instead.
"Not quite," I mutter and she pouts. But then I have an idea.
I tell Agnès to wait in the study room while I retrieve a book of maps that I recently found in the west wing library, while perusing Reddington's massive collection. He's encouraged me to take whatever volumes suit, whether for Agnès's study or my own pleasure. The maps are colorful and well-illustrated, with local flora and fauna drawn in the margins. Perhaps a more artistic rendering of faraway places will prove easier to remember.
"I'll just be a minute," I promise Agnès.
But it takes me a few more minutes than I planned.
Someone's knocking at the front door as I descend the staircase. They knock a second time as I reach the landing of the first floor. I look down both halls and find none of the servants approaching. It's nearly Christmas and there's a winter carnival in the village this week, which likely accounts for their absence. I plan on taking Agnès to see the ice castles they've built tomorrow or the next day.
A third knock sounds off the iron knocker and still no one comes. I abandon my pursuit of the maps briefly and open the door.
The chill of the winter air sweeps into the front hall and I catch my breath on the taste of frost, beckoning the man inside quickly, just so I can close the door again. The man who enters is tall, grey and very stately. His coat and hat are made of fine wool and, as he removes his leather gloves, I notice his hands are well-shaped and softly-planed. These are not the hands of a working man.
"Good afternoon, sir," I greet him properly once the cold wind is shut outside again. I pull my shawl close around my shoulders and tip my head slightly. "May I ask who you are?"
"Yes, you may," the man mutters, taking his time. He brushes snow from his shoulders and off the top hat. He glances at me once and then twice, longer the second time, lingering on my face. His voice holds a slight accent which I can't quite place, "I'm Lord Aloysius Fitch. I'm here to see Raymond Reddington."
"Is he expecting you?" I ask, not recalling news of any expected visitors, and certainly not a lord. Mr. Kaplan would have warned all of us that any high-ranking personage was coming to Thornfield Hall.
"No, he's not," Lord Fitch answers absently, now staring at me with that same look that Reddington had that day on the road, when he looked up and seemed to know me.
Except—no, not quite the same. Reddington's glance had been filled with some mixture of recognition and awe. This man's glance is all…well, I don't know exactly. But I have a sudden image of a grey wolf standing before me, sensing unexpected prey in the thicket.
He smiles. No, smirks. But again, that smirk is not like Reddington's at all. No tease, just sudden knowledge. And with all those cruel edges of an expression devoid of warmth.
He knows who I am. I don't know how, I don't know why. But this man knows who I am. In a way that means more to him than it does to me.
"Reddington brought you here," he mutters, musing the strange words, as if connecting puzzles pieces that had long been cast askew in his mind. His words aren't for me but for himself.
"Who—?" I begin, pulling that shawl around me even further, but not from cold. At least not the cold of winter. But rather, the cold dread and fear of things I don't understand. Again, I'm imagining a wolf, crouching, ready to pounce…
But I can't finish the thought as I'm joined, in that moment, by someone else. Reddington comes to my side, his left hand coming to rest at my elbow, gently taking my arm and pulling me just an inch or two closer to him, away from the man in traveling clothes. He positions himself between me and the stranger. It's a simple thing, but that chill that had been crawling into my insides halts and thaws a little.
His right hand reaches out to greet the stranger.
"Aloysius, how are you?" Reddington's words are warm but his tone is not. I can read the truer question hiding behind them. What are you doing here?
"I'm well, thank you," Lord Fitch replies, in his clipped accent. It's European—Eastern European. But slight, no more than a whisper on his tongue. "I have business in Manchester and thought I would stop by on my way north. There were matters that I thought we might discuss but…"
Reddington doesn't say a word, his jaw clenching, waiting for Lord Fitch to continue. There's old tension between the two men, running deep as any ravine in the Highlands.
"Who is this fetching young woman, Raymond?" Lord Fitch asks plainly, playing ignorant.
Reddington doesn't spare a glance on me, but his grip on my arm tightens slightly.
"She's a member of my staff, Aloysius," Reddington answers. "She's no concern of yours."
"Isn't she though?" the stranger says, his words cryptic but his gaze locked on me. He observes wryly, "The resemblance to her mother is uncanny…"
My mother? Questions swirl through my head, echoes of questions I've been asking my whole life. But the slight pressure on my forearm, from the grip of Reddington's fingers, tell me to stay silent.
"Whatever you think you—" Reddington begins, but Lord Fitch raises his hand, that wily, wolf-like expression curling his mouth into a satisfied sneer.
"You misunderstand me," Lord Fitch replies, suavely. "Oh, don't worry, Raymond. We're not the girl's keeper. If she's safe here with you, out of the way—" his words and tone turn ominous, "Well, there's little to fear from us, isn't there?"
Reddington is shaking his head. The air between the two men is charged with threats and menace that I don't understand. But I feel their power and find myself inching closer to Reddington, on impulse.
"I would've appreciated a note, of course," Lord Fitch mentions. "But I can understand your hesitation. And you've never played by our rules, have you?"
"You understand nothing, Aloysius," Reddington answers firmly. "She's not who you think she is."
Lord Fitch isn't buying Reddington's deflections. But he shrugs, moving on, "Are you going to invite me to dinner or should I take my leave? As I said, there are other matters we need to discuss."
"Fine," Reddington's reply is short and clipped. He's angry at the stranger. He's angry at himself for not anticipating this meeting. He gestures to the interior of the house, "I trust you know your way to the dining room?"
"Of course," Lord Fitch answers, with that false gentility falling off his lips as easy as water over stones. He takes one more look at me, tipping his head in my direction, "Pleasure to have met you, Masha."
At the foreign name, Reddington throws Lord Fitch a dark look. His blue-green eyes have turned as stormy as the sea churned up by a hurricane. Lord Fitch seems unruffled, having an upper hand somehow, as he saunters towards the dining room.
As soon as he leaves the front hall, Reddington releases my arm, reaching down and grasping my hand instead as he leads me back upstairs. He says nothing until we are in the corridors leading to the study room, where he leaves me with a short directive, said under those stormy eyes that I dare not disobey, "Stay out of sight until he's gone. Promise me, Lizzie?"
"I promise," I manage, completely bewildered by what has transpired in the last ten minutes.
And then he leaves me, hand slipping from mine reluctantly. As I watch him descend the stairs once more, back to his unwanted guest, I raise the hand that had held his and joined it with the other, fingers running over the scar on my wrist nervously, head swirling with thoughts of my mother…and the strange familiarity of the name Masha.
