Prologue: Concerning the de Sade Estate
Nestled deep in the countryside of France, cradled within the depths of a valley whose hills turned golden during the height of summer, and whose lake was often skated across in the winter months existed a chateau. It was a simple thing, no more than a collection of stone buildings housing a handful of servants and a gaggle of children. Up until recently it had lay void of life, only a shell of its former glory. The halls where a future queen had once danced with her consort had fallen into dormancy, vines overtaking the wood and stained glass. The past that its dwellers had been so fond of faded away into obscurity. That had been three years ago. Now the halls rung with the laughter of children, the fretful cries of nursemaids, where once darkness had taken hold, light now resonated. It was a shocking change, both for the dwelling and the inhabitants of a nearby village, but not for one Reginald Alexander Boutchamps – head butler to the de Sade family.
Reginald considered himself to be a man of good mental facilities, with a firm grasp on the past, and a steady eye towards the future. When he had been young, he had walked these very halls, running to and fro akin to a headless chicken in his desperation to see to his duties without delays. He remembered the battle that had broken the lovely stained-glass rendition of the virgin Mary, the blood that had splattered across stone and turned the lawn red. Had never forgotten that dreadful night when his young master – barely older than 15 summers – had taken his hand and dragged him to safety, leaving behind the screams of the forsaken. Reginald did not consider himself to be a sentimental man, but in the year since he had returned to the Estate, he sometimes found himself pausing and surveying the domain noting the things that had changed, and what had stayed the same.
The addition of children certainly made a difference he decided, when first the Marquis had told of him of his desire to restore the estate, Reginald had been caught quite off guard. Torn between confusion and concern, now however, watching the young mistress gallop her horse in the distance he saw that – as per usual – the Marquis had been correct. Children needed places to roam and run free, and what better than an estate in the middle of the French countryside, where nothing could harm them for no one knew where it was located. It was the perfect haven for the little ones and yet, despite it all, even with the reassurances provided by the Marquis, Reginald found himself worrying.
He was having a day, as his mother would say back when he was little and full of fear. He would not call it a bad one per say, but neither was it a good one. It was simply one of those days where it felt as if the whole world was holding its breath. Quite akin to his least favorite moment of a party where all the guests inhaled as one to shout "surprise" at the top of their lungs in a horrid cacophony of unharmonized voices. He recalled one moment where the unpleasant shock had caused him to get birthday frosting all over his mistresses' favorite dress, that had not been the most delightful of evenings. In the butler's experience, surprises tended to usually be nasty and quite inconvenient, especially when one worked for the unpredictable de Sade family. Not that he would be so foolish as to say that out loud. He had not survived to the ripe old age of 62 by wagging his tongue within his master's ear shot. No, that there was the fastest way to lose said tongue, his master was not fond of wagging appendences. Reginald had learned that fact quite early on in his career. In very explicit detail. He shuddered, checking his pocket watch in a bid to rid himself of the gruesome memories. It had taken him hours to scrub the blood out of the carpet.
The pocket watch – a silver thing embossed with the estate's coat of arms – had been a gift for his 20th year of service, shortly thereafter he'd assumed the esteemed position of head butler. His predecessor having had an untimely accident. Truly a tragic event. There had been much blood to clean up then as well. Really, the man should have known better, attempting to stab the Marquis never ended well. For anyone, least of all the staff on cleaning duty. Reginald shook it again, verifying the time to be correct, and stowed it away again, grumbling in disapproval.
It was not that he disliked his job, loved it in fact, but the odd feeling would not go away. Perhaps it would settle once he laid eyes on his charges, he hoped so at any rate, going throughout the day feeling like a strong breeze would knock him over was not something a butler ought to do. With a fortifying breath he began the climb up the long staircase towards the floor on which the young master, his sister, and the ward were stashed. In all honesty, Reginald did not quite understand why it was that the ward had been taken in, nor why the youngest master insisted on calling himself a man, but so long as the Marquis requested it of him then Reginald would do his best to comply. He could not deny that the young twins were happiest when the ward was by their side, and the ward as well, despite Reginald's initial apprehensions about taking in a child that was clearly foreign in origin, had slowly begun to grow on him. The three of them where absolute terrors, but their smiles could warm the coldest of hearts, and when the young mistress had formerly moved in things had seemed to settle down.
Reginald would be lying if he claimed that he did not have a favorite among the three. It was not his place to question why, young Louis had been rejected by his parents, but ever since the tiny thing had taken his hand and clung to it over fourteen years ago, Reginald had been wrapped around the young master's little finger. Seeing him blossom into a young lad of 16 summers with a smile that could melt butter and a tongue that could draw blood, filled Reginald up with pride. He might not understand everything about his charge, but that did not change the love that filled his heart when he thought of the lad. Yes, seeing him blossom and grow into his own within this sheltered estate was a blessing.
The young mistress as well, ever since the timely passing of her father, she had started to open up and Reginald thought that a smile suited her far better than tears. It was good to see her less afraid of her own shadow, or of what her father would do to her should he catch her with a blade in hand instead of a needle. Now that she was on good terms with her elder siblings – and hadn't that been a shock when the lady Veronica had shown up n their doorstep demanding to her see her baby sister – the future was beginning to seem nice and sunny.
He had just taken his final step, huffing, and puffing, for he was no longer quite so spry in his elder years when a piercing shriek resounded through the halls. It was thrown out with such force and at such pitch, that he knew at once the screamer to be one Mademoiselle Amelia. It was quite the unfortunate thing that she had not gone off and joined a convent, for with pipes like hers, Reginald was always in fear that the glass might shatter. Still, she was a good lass with a proper singing voice and a steady hand if one ignored the minute detail that she occasionally partook of blood rather than the perfectly respectable wine the rest of the staff drank. The scream came again, as piercing as the battle cry of a hawk and the butler tutted, slowly turning to make his way back down the stairs.
He hoped that it wasn't another dead body, there had been quite enough of those in the past month. Still, Mademoiselle Amelia's cry had not seemed panicked, merely alarmed, and it wasn't as if she couldn't deal with an assassin or two. Reginald occasionally found himself thinking that she would make a good bodyguard for the young mistress, before he remembered that ladies did not perform such unsightly acts, no matter how strong they were. It was a pity really, the young mistress got up into such trouble, she could do with a steadier guardian then poor old Nancy. With one last groan, Reginald escaped the staircase, made his way through the foyer and out into the scene of a crime. The Mademoiselle was slumped against he wall, clutching the front of her blouse as if she'd had the fright of her life, and there in the open doorway Reginald laid eyes on a sight that both upset his poor heart and delighted it. Finally, the dreadful surprise had arrived for the Marquis de Mazan – thought to be many a day's journey away – had returned home earlier than anticipated.
The Marquis – the culprit of poor Mademoiselle Amelia's fright - was a slim figure, hair neatly coiffed into a ponytail and dressed in the sort of finery that only a member of the upper class would waste time dawning. He was standing in the doorway, cane in hand, and the most tolerant of smiles on his blood-stained face. Reginald sighed. The figure's smile grew exponentially larger. Mademoiselle Amelia fanned herself in the corner, looking quite discomfit.
"Welcome home, Master," Reginald said, and managed a proper little bow, a hand flying to his hat to keep it firmly in place. "We were not expecting you for another fortnight, is ought amiss?"
"Nothing that you need to concern yourself with," the marquis replied and strode past him with a vigor that sent fear coursing down Reginald's spine. "Fetch my granddaughter for me, the eldest that is, I wish to have words with her in the greenhouse." A moment later, he was gone, disappearing up the stairs with a bounce and a whistle, leaving Reginald to stare in dismay at the bloody footprints left behind in a formerly pristine carpet.
