A/N Beta'd by the wonderful StoryWriter831. Everything belongs to JK Rowling.
...
If Lucius believed his threats to have cured me of my curiosity, he was very much mistaken. If anything, it was stronger than ever.
I just wanted to know...something. Anything. I didn't mind which of the hundreds of questions I had was answered first, I just wanted an answer, just one.
True, I didn't exactly feel like rushing back up to the third floor to conduct a personal interview with wailing lady. But too often I found myself wondering when the next opportunity to explore (or as Lucius would say, 'pry') might present itself.
And although I was afraid of Lucius, with each passing day I became less so. Not because he was changing, but because I was. ...It was almost as if I felt buffered from his wrath by my own growing feelings for him. As if that somehow counted. It was a dangerous fiction to cling to, but it was proving an irresistible one.
None-the-less, for several days after the events on the third floor I did my best to behave myself for him. I made a real attempt to be civil, polite, even deferential. I was like a self-repressing Victorian child: only speaking when spoken to, seen and not heard. I even toned down the loud chewing.
But not once—not even once—did he meet me half way.
He treated me exactly the same as he had from the start, like some contemptible nuisance. And it didn't take me very long to resent it. Soon enough we were back to our old combative, antagonistic exchanges—except now I was taking his insults to heart. I wanted so much for him to show just the smallest sign that he was softening to me. But the man was made of ice.
And when the only person you know despises you, the world is a terribly, terribly lonely place.
...
"Emily, Eva, Fiona...Greta, Gwendolyn...Harriet, Helena...Isabel..."
I was in the library, sitting upon a pile of pillows I'd brought downstairs from my room and made into a kind of nest for myself, preferring it to the imposingly grand desk and its uncomfortable tufted-leather chair in the centre of the room.
I had started to spend more and more hours in the library. It had now been over three weeks since the snowstorm began, and my own room was beginning to feel too much like a cell. Despite the fact the books were almost entirely blank to me, I felt somehow comforted just being surrounded by them, as if I had a natural affinity with them.
Often I would read from my small hoard, or just curl up and think (more often than not about him), or doze;—or, like today, I would simply stare up at the chandelier suspended from the ceiling and whisper through lists of names, hoping against hope to recognise my own.
When finally I reached "Zara" I let out a sigh and let my eyes wander over the vaults of beautiful books. I couldn't help but be frustrated by so vast and great a treasure lying all around me, in plain sight, yet totally beyond my grasp.
I longed to investigate the secret of their silence.
Well, why don't you, then, Alice? The thought sprang up to tempt me, as it did most days.
Because, I argued with myself, if Lucius catches you prying again, you could get more than just a sore scalp next time.
He never comes into the library. ...Besides, he has given you permission to be here. That implies permission to investigate—or, lets say, to 'peruse'—everything this room contains.
I'm not sure why today the voice of temptation finally won over the voice of caution. Perhaps it was because earlier this morning Lucius had been particularly acerbic, making me particularly rebellious. Whatever the reason, one moment I was nestled quietly in my pile of pillows, the next I found myself furtively scurrying over to the double doors, tugging out the belt of my robe to wind around and knot up the twin door-knobs, as a make-shift lock. Then I went to the laden bookshelves, randomly selected a book, and brought it over to the desk.
First I inspected the cover. It was made of a handsome dark red leather, embossed at the edges with golden scroll-work. But where there ought to be the title and author, there was a blank expanse of red. I tilted it towards the light of the over-head chandelier, trying to detect an imprint of lettering, or the texture of dried ink—anything. But I perceived nothing.
It creaked slightly as I opened it to the first page. It was also blank. I thumbed through the first few pages. All blank.
Hardly daring to breathe (or to think, lest I stop myself) I slowly began to tear away a page from its spine. The ripping sound seemed horribly amplified to my anxious ears, and I kept halting to peer over at the doors, half-expecting an enraged Lucius to storm through it at any moment. My robe-belt suddenly seemed ridiculously inadequate as a lock, serving as nothing more than a blaring testimony to my guilt.
But the page came away at last—the doors remained firmly shut—and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Again I held it up to the light, peering at it closely. Again I found nothing. Rather self-consciously, I spat a small blob onto the paper, and smeared it across with my finger. Still nothing.
The branching wall-lamps were fixed too high to reach from the floor, so I dragged the heavy desk-chair over to the nearest one and clambered up. I pressed the paper against the glass casing, then held it over the open top, but the paper merely glowed opaquely, and there was no sign of oxidisation. Finally, I tore off a small corner of the paper and dropped it onto the naked flame. It flared for a moment, then a spiral of smoke curled upwards, and I held the page above it like an umbrella. The paper discoloured slightly, but revealed no hidden markings.
Sighing, I climbed back off the chair and dragged it back to the desk. I placed the page carefully back from the place I had torn it, and stood for a while, gazing down at it thoughtfully. If the invisible ink didn't respond to light, moisture, heat or smoke...I could only suppose it required ultraviolet light or developing solution to be seen.
...I wish you would reveal your mysteries, I thought. I wish...I wish...
And I was just about to close the cover, when I saw the page flicker over with a spindly writing, silvery and fine, like spider's gossamer.
I blinked, gasped, snatched the page up and peered at it closely—but it was gone.
I could only suppose that, as per usual, my mind was playing tricks on me...
...
"Lucius, may I ask you something?"
I had been mulling over the mystery of the books all afternoon, and now, come evening, I couldn't help but broach the subject with my ever-sneering dinner companion.
"I suppose I cannot prevent you."
"...Promise not to get angry?"
He didn't need to say 'No.' It was written plainly on his face.
"The books in your library. They're written in invisible ink, aren't they?—This isn't curiosity," I quickly added. "I'm just telling you what I think."
His cool eyes betrayed nothing. "And?"
"And I'm now waiting for you to confirm or deny my theory."
His head tilted back and his lips compressed in a tight, slight smile. "You may find yourself waiting rather a long time."
"So, I'm right?"
One eyebrow made a supercilious arch.
"So, I'm wrong?"
His gaze flicked over my face, lingering momentarily on my mouth before fastening back on my eyes. Again, that extrinsic, tender look made my stomach flip. "You are...consistently unwise."
"Why?"
"There's no telling why, my dear. I suppose it is a trait native to your kind."
"My kind?" I stared, genuinely confused. "As in—you mean—what do you mean? "
He waved his hand in elegant dismissiveness. "I mean, I'm not in the habit of indulging the caprices of foolish young girls, Alice."
"Oh." No wonder the man was so unpleasant. Apparently he viewed females as a completely different species. "Are you saying only men are allowed to read your books?"
"I do not recall having said so."
"Then why can't I? Just tell me, Lucius. I promise not to be shocked."
"You should not promise what you may not perform."
"Alright then—shock me."
His smile widened fractionally. "Suffice it to say, 'He who plucks out this great treasure, is right-wise born worthy'."
I grimaced. I could recognise an insult when I met one, whether or not it masqueraded as a flowery quote. "So, you're telling me that, somehow, only worthy people—of whom I am clearly not counted among—can read your invisible ink?"
"I'm not telling you anything, Alice. I have merely made a remark, from which you have chosen to construct certain inferences."
God, the endless persiflage...had the man never heard of a normal conversation?
"It must be hard work, being you," I muttered sourly.
"How so?"
I shook my head. "Has it ever occurred to you to simply relax? To...oh, I don't know...just be nice, for once?"
"I'm quite relaxed, I assure you. As to being 'nice'—that, I believe, is entirely subjective."
"It must be exhausting, maintaining that level of misanthropy all the time. Do you have a special journal where you compose your insults?"
This time, his smile had teeth. "On the contrary, they occur quite naturally," he returned. "With such inspiration as is daily provided, there really is no need for premeditation."
His words, couched in a suavely-mocking bonhomie, stung me more than I cared to admit.
I sighed. "I wish I could go home," I muttered sullenly.
"What a pity that is not possible."
"You have no idea how...how tedious it is, when your world in confined to only three rooms!"
"Oh, do I not?" The thorny smile vanished, and a strange expression clouded over his face. His gaze dropped to settle on his port wine-glass, staring down into it almost as if he could see something, some memory, reflected in the tawny liquid. Softly, darkly, he muttered, "...Yet I have spent far longer, in far smaller, and far less comfortable quarters than those you presently inhabit."
Does he...could he mean...prison? I could not help wondering. Was he some kind of escaped-convict, hiding out in the wilderness? Perhaps waiting to use me as a bargaining chip? Was I his hostage, without even knowing it? I remembered how cruel, how brutal the man could be. ...Had his rage ever got the better of him?
A deep shiver ran through me. I could not stop the question from escaping my lips. "Are you some kind of fugitive?"
His eyes snapped back up to my face. "What did we say about prying, Alice?"
"I d-didn't mean to pry," I stuttered, suddenly afraid of that fathomless darkness in the black of his pupils. Yet somehow I couldn't stop talking. "I just thought that...perhaps that's why you won't tell me where we are. Because you're in hiding, and you d-don't want me to be able to identify your whereabouts, when I go home..."
I gulped, fixing my eyes to my plate, bracing for the tongue-lashing my curiosity would certainly earn me.
But Lucius only quietly murmured, "Ah...when you go home. Indeed."
I was relieved to sense the atmosphere relenting. To my surprise, he continued where I had trailed off. "And so you imagine I am some kind of absconder from the law, do you?" He sounded almost amused, but yet there was something palpably menacing, lingering just beneath the surface. "I wonder what unpaid-for crimes your fertile imagination has ascribed to me, from which I'm currently 'at large'."
I shrugged noncommittally, not risking a reply, nor daring to meet his gaze, lest he read in my eyes the vivid recollection that was now playing through my mind, of him shaking me brutally, snarling, "Do you know I have killed men for less than what's written on your face?"
...It was, I thought, high time to excuse myself from the table, before I said something that really got me into trouble.
I was about to do so, when my eye was caught by a movement upon the stem of Lucius's port glass: the furtive upward-scurrying of a small black insect or beetle. I blinked, and it disappeared—yet just the barest ripple on the surface of the liquid made me think that it had actually dropped inside.
A second later, Lucius brought his glass up to his lips.
"Don't drink that!" I blurted out. Lucius's sharp, enquiring glance met mine over his poised drink. "Something crawled in your glass!"
Swiftly, he lifted it up towards the light, examining the contents. Even from where I sat, I could see the rich, still clarity of the dark liquid. Dismayed that he might think I was playing some foolish trick, I stammered, "I—I really thought—honestly, I could've sworn I saw something..."
Ignoring me, Lucius settled the glass on the table, and taking from his breast-pocket a fine silk handkerchief, he dipped half of it into the port. Nothing happened, but he held it there, watching intently, as if awaiting something to occur. And, after a few seconds, the liquid began to slowly stir, then bubble, then rapidly fizzle and hiss.
When Lucius withdrew the silken material, it was stiff and brittle, and slightly smoking, as if dipped in dry ice. Moments later, it crumbled entirely away.
"What on earth?" I gasped.
Lucius's mouth compressed in a grim line. He reached into his breast pocket and took out the black baton with the silver snake's head, the one that I had accidentally tried to take from his hand a little over a week ago. Standing up, he made a slight gesture over the table with it, then elegantly executed a full circle of the dining room, making sweeping motions with the extended baton. Before, I had presumed it was a weapon, perhaps an outer scabbard containing a very long, slender dagger, but now I wondered if it was some kind of scanner or thermal-imaging device.
"What was that?" I asked anxiously, as Lucius paused by one window to pull back the heavy curtain and peer out into the snowy darkness.
Lucius let the curtain fall back into place, and returned to the table. He reached down to pluck the yet-lightly-smouldering port-glass from its place. "Stay where you are," he muttered briefly, then he hurried out of the room.
I sat in my place as he had bid me, peering mistrustfully into my own wineglass, half-filled with white wine, lifting my plate and moving the dishes in case any more of those things were lurking about.
A few minutes later, Lucius reappeared with neither glass nor baton in sight. He moved back to his place at the table, looking cool and unperturbed, which annoyed me, for some reason.
As he resumed his seat, I addressed him, my voice high and strained. "Do you mind telling me what that thing was? Because I feel I've a right to know if there are poisonous spiders crawling about this place!"
"Just so," Lucius replied calmly, with the slightest of shrugs. "It was, as you say, a poisonous spider."
My eyes widened. "Oh, that's just wonderful! I certainly hope they're not a common variety—I'd like to be able to sleep at night, you know!"
"No," he murmured. "They are not common. You will not see another one."
"Well, thank god for that!" I glanced apprehensively at what remained of his corroded handkerchief. "I would hate to think what it could do to someone, if they accidentally swallowed one."
Lucius observed my consternation with a dark smile. "After suffering a considerable amount of pain caused by internal hemorrhage, organ failure, and paralysis of the respiratory muscles, they would most certainly die." He said it with utter composure, as if describing a trifling inconvenience, the symptoms of a stubbed toe, instead of a painful and gruesome death.
For a while I just sat there, picturing the horrific scenario, imagining the terrifying helplessness of watching someone expire in such a ghastly manner. Of watching him expire in such a ghastly manner. I shivered, my stomach churning unpleasantly at the thought. But then, suddenly, an interesting new idea sprang to the forefront of my mind.
"...So technically, that means I saved your life," I said. I experimented with a tentative smile, but it withered under Lucius's narrowed gaze. He did not look at all grateful for my preserving his life. If anything, he looked as if he deeply resented my taking such a liberty.
Irritated by his response, or rather non-response, I sat up straighter and met his eyes squarely. "I guess that makes us equal."
I wasn't exactly expecting effusions of gratitude. But I certainly wasn't prepared for the sudden, sub-zero glare of haughty disdain.
"We may be...equivalently obligated," he said with a supercilious sneer, like a prince begrudgingly beholden to a pauper. "But I assure you that we are far, far from equal."
A flush of angry colour mantled my face. "Oh, you're welcome," I replied sarcastically. "Please, don't mention it. Next time you're in immediate mortal peril, remind me just to sit back and enjoy the show!"
"There will not be a next time."
"That," I snarled, "is a very great shame." I scraped back my chair, stood up and threw my napkin into my plate. "Well, since I'm clearly so unworthy of your company, as I am of perusing your stupid books, I'll leave you to yourself. I'm sure the conversation will be scintillating. Goodnight."
I stalked from the room and made my way to my chamber, muttering adjectives. "Ungrateful!...Spiteful!...Hateful!...Arrogant!..." When I gained my room I threw myself on my bed and stared at the wall, biting my lip with vexation.
Would it have killed him to say thank-you? Or even just given me one kind look? One smile, untainted by mocking disdain? Anyone might expect that saving a man from a horrible death by poisoning might earn them just the slightest acknowledgement of gratitude.—But perhaps Lucius was already so full of poison, it would just have absorbed into his bloodstream like a vitamin boost.
I smiled bitterly at this thought.
Why was he so... so totally impervious? And why did I, fool that I was, keep trying to break through that marble exterior, only to hurt myself in every failed attempt?
Whose fault is that really, Alice? You know full-well what he is like. You have only yourself to blame for cutting yourself on his edges.