~❦︎~❦︎~
Chapter V - Welcome to Hell
~❦︎~❦︎~
Count Raphael often stayed in his preferred section of the castle: a secluded apartment seldom visited by outsiders. Yet, whenever one did enter upon permission, a creamy, sumptuous voice often crooned the dreaded Italian phrase: "*Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate."
Marshal Poitier, the Count's *imitateur, shivered upon the impact of the words as he opened the door to the room. His eyes faltered, falling from the beast and slithering towards the distraction of the candle, glittering and glowing, upon the desk. It was a place of profound mourning and deep sorrow—the room where Raphael sought shelter during the loss of his mother. A pale, fiendish glow seeped through the cracks of the walls, painting images of darkness and despair. Shredded curtains prevented any such light from the outside. Raphael possessed a particular admiration for the place, even with it being an add-on to his extensive bedroom. However, Marshal did not appreciate it at all. Every time the ancient door would gradually creak open, the man became apprehensive, fingers latching onto the hinges.
The imitateur had appeared at every ball, meeting, and occasion clothed as the count. Jean, the advisor, and head servants attempted to prepare him for speaking with officials of other countries, but it was of no use, for he was much too awkward.
Yet, even through all the meetings, balls, and discussions, the worst thing Marshal ever had to do was talk to the village women of Raphael's choosing. Marshal had no sense of social skills or how to please others. Count Raphael insisted on Marshal charming every girl that arrived, slowly introducing the curse to her. Whenever a new one trotted up the castle steps, she presumed a grand castle with Count Raphael at its stairway, and yet only receiving the awkward, foolish Marshal. Nearly two years passed since the last maiden visited, and Raphael only grew more dismal and irritable.
As memories of past girls floated about in his mind, the one thing that stuck out to him was how most women turned down the idea of residing in the castle. Only the one before Dalia agreed to it, the reason being her father was ill. What is it that causes Raphael's abnormal attraction toward women? Marshal wondered. It seemed as though the count had always acquired the trait, from his first glance into his mother's midnight eyes.
After Marshal recognized his count, bowing to him, Raphael inquired, "Did you ask her to stay, imitateur?"
"Yes, My Lord," he muttered, hoping to hide the fact he had downed a swig of whiskey prior to speaking with Miss O'Bruadair.
Before he could finish, the count became consumed with curiosity over what Dalia had said. He sat up straighter, and emanating off of him was an air of raw, vibrant exuberance, with fangs glistening and mane shining. He wore a large, maroon cape, stained with the blood of his kills from the woods. It made him appear wider and bulkier, towering over any human. It was ripped and torn, trailing down the spine on his back, covering his matted fur. "And what of the girl? How did she react?"
"She said yes."
Raphael grinned and expressed pure vitality as though he never transformed into a hideous beast. Marshal became moderately frightened over the count's sudden interest. "My Lord, I need to tell you something—"
"That chaperone of hers—did he come too?" the beast interrupted.
"Yes, but—"
"He will have to go. Not now, but when the—"
"My Lord—" Marshal started.
"What is it, imitateur?! Again you deliberately have neglected your role."
"She— She is already in search of a husband. The lady told me once she acquired a spouse, she would move straight back to America."
The monster's look faded away. His shoulders sagged, as though a rain shower had spoiled a young child's picnic, washing away all the fun and excitement that once coursed through him. And then, a twisted wind blew across the air, bending the candle's striking glow. The count's eyes spoiled, turning and churning to a grim, oily black. "I will make her stay. She will not desire to move back once I am through with her." And with that, Count Raphael stood up and made way to his bedroom.
"Wait!" Marshal called. The beast turned. "When do you want me to introduce the curse to her? When do you want to meet her?"
"When the time is desirable—and she caught wholly unawares—there we will strike."
~❦︎~
During his lecture, Marshal noted the count's unsteadiness. It was out of character for Raphael to be nervous or anxious. The imitateur wanted to add in some of his own points and observations he had made of the lady, but Marshal dared not interrupt the count's tedious lectures—never.
The minute he sat in the luxurious, velvet chair fit for a count, all of his earlier dread left. No longer was Marshal's mind cluttered with thoughts of how Dalia would react to Raphael's words, or how Raphael would react to his deliverance of them. All he could think of was how everything would somehow come together, only by sitting in the fantastic, exquisitely-designed chair.
Several minutes flew by when, as if on command, the door behind Marshal flung open. Standing there, snarling with teeth tightly gnashed together, was Count Raphael.
The impersonator soon heard footsteps from down the hall, which became louder and more frightening with each monotonous echo that spread itself throughout the room. Count Raphael tuckered away into the curtains, silent as a scream in the woods. Whenever the count stayed in the dining hall, he preferred his signature Hellish glow. Despite this, a new light flowed into the dimly lit room as the door slowly, eerily creaked opened.
Marjolaine, walked in first, with rich, burgundy locks that bounced as she walked. Marshal believed she knew the count was in there as she repeatedly looked about the perimeter of the room until her eyes landed on the exact spot where he stood. Neither the count nor Marshal expected what came next.
Miss Dalia O'Bruadair walked boldly into the room, with her chin held high. Marshal felt his throat swell up once more at the divine beauty of the lady. Her charm during their first talk had blinded Marshal from seeing she was not much of a pretty sight. But, this time, there was something more elegant about her. She wore the finest dress, with her hair in a specific style meant to shape her face. One of the kitchen staff pulled back a chair for her, and she sat down, hoops rustling. It took the lady several moments to become accustomed to the eminent archway that soared above her head. The servants had done their best to straighten the room up. Even so, rips and tears in the carpet were still visible, and spiders still made their homes in the wooden beams that kept the ceiling from collapsing.
As Dalia looked up, Henri saw relief in those wondrous eyes of hers. Miss O'Bruadair would rather have been with an awkward man for hours than with a group of confident women for only a moment.
"Good evening, Miss O'Bruadair," he spoke.
"Good evenin'," she replied. This time, however, it was not with lashes fluttering and dimples seeping through. Her face was not flirtatious. What had changed since the last time he had seen her until now?
A rustle from the curtains nearest him. Marshal knew that was the signal to get on with the discussion Count Raphael had asked of him. "Miss O'Bruadair, how are the servants?" he asked, horrified.
"Just fine, thank you. I love Blanche's taste in fashion." Her statement was clear and precise, yet plain and dry.
Marshal pushed on. "That dress is so mighty lovely on you."
A light smile spread across her face, but he could tell she was holding something back.
A faint rustle once more. Marshal was sure this time it was because he had gotten off-topic. Just as he asked her another one of the count's questions, the kitchen door opened and trays filled with appetizers and drinks raced towards him and Miss O'Bruadair. Henri noticed that the servants offered her many spirits, but she only took water.
"Miss O'Bruadair, won't you take some of the fine spirits Bordeaux has to offer?"
"No, I don't drink."
He sank back into his chair, defeated. This was not the same woman he had conversed with earlier in the afternoon. The red hot irritation of Raphael behind him steamed, blazing off the hairs on the back of his head. Oh, what was it he said in his lecture? Ah, yes! "What are your thoughts on this majestic city: Bordeaux?"
Dalia's eyebrow shifted, meandering and sliding over her powdered skin. Her cutting eyes startled him, giving him a look that Marshal was all too familiar with; it was the same skepticism Raphael had emitted so many times. He felt as if he was staring into the eyes of the beast when he stared at her. Her orbs moved up and down, looking into his face, deciding. "I 'spose it's rather nice, although a view from the lens of servantry is not a desired one."
Marshal sighed, understanding the layers. Still, she was being uncooperative and Marshal knew these were not the answers Raphael had wanted. What else did he say? Oh, yes etiquette lessons. "You can become more than a servant in this city, Miss O'Bruadair, with my help."
Dalia searched him once again, putting down her fork and leaning over. Her piercing gaze dug into his sockets, shoveling his soul out. "And just how do ya plan to do that—for me and Virgil?"
"You and your chaperone can aid me with my affairs in the city. Seeing from another point of view is quite beneficial. As I stated earlier, you can remain here for as long as you would like."
She tilted her head down, her eyes fluttering, thinking ravenously, delving for a conclusion. "But, neither I nor my chaperone knows anything of French affairs. Virgil and I—we—he speaks a bit of French, but not fluently."
"Both of you will learn, of course," he stated. "Our governess, Madame St. Clair, will teach you. How do you fancy French lessons?"
A sweep of relief seemed to spread over her serious face, coloring her features and the red diminishing. The sweat trickling down her defined, her woodpecker-like nose appeared to stop, and her protruding cheekbones attained their previous neutral tone, rather than bright red.
"I am delighted to take you up on your offer."
One final rustle from the curtains.
"Magnificent."
~❦︎~❦︎~
*Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate (Italian) - "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." A quote from Dante Alighieri's The Divine Comedy.
*Imitateur (French) - Imitater, copier, impersonator.