Below
Ch 3 of A Thorn Defends
"Footfalls echo in the memory, Down the passage which we did not take, Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden."
-T.S. Eliot
Unrest was the best of the descriptions.
Gerel no longer came. He had returned to work with me, the next day after, refusing to take his seat. He sorted papers, silently, dustily, for several minutes – then leapt forward, threw down the sheaf, and pleaded with me – hair in disarray, falling over wide, stricken eyes – for the return of his love. "She is happy with me," he said. "I will give her all that she desires." It was not until later, when the walls had shut their ears from the shouting, and the storm gathered at the corners of the windows, that he said what he meant, but cordiality prevented –
"I love her – you do not!"
I sent him away. Through the ceiling, I could hear a noise at her window, a faint scratching and flutter. One last letter. It could not hurt – she would go tomorrow, departing for our cousin's. A house in the country, out of our province's bounds. She would be in their care for now.
Outside, the servants met and muttered, clandestine meetings in the trees, dreaming more of revolt than rapture. Maybe they were the same. She had charmed them, before. They would listen to her and believe there was goodwill and grace in the house of the Vartan. But now she remained upstairs, penning half-scribbled missives of love and turning tearful, downcast eyes to the portraits in the regal halls. She pushed her attendant, when she came to dress her. The task of morale came to me.
I appeared before them – the few who would come - calling a gathering. I promised higher wages while trying to smile, the low-declined figures of yesterday's counting-house pressing against my eyelids. I spoke unsteadily, telling them of what they already knew – fallen crops elsewhere, wars pressing at the edges of neighboring lands. I tried to urge loyalty.
"Our king was generous!" one called. "What's happening now?"
"Conservation," I said. My smile was strained.
After all, the door to the count-house was locked. The ghosts of ancestors' riches would not escape the windows, as they had the hands of my forbears. It was true - the king had been generous. But again, he had never ruled.
The face of the duke still spun, smudged, in the mirror. He smirked when I appeared, as my clothes grew more worn, declaiming each time that I was prettier than ever. He fingered his rings, swathed by the smoke, and smiled.
I had to send her away, just as I had had to put him away. Magic had worked – once – to subdue him, though it did not satisfy his greed. I would not rely on that again.
She left in our last coach. One of the remaining loyals, Hunterian, drove.
I returned to the work-room, shifted a few paper relics of former coins.
Upstairs, the mirror laughed.
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A/N: Hey all! I am so sorry, especially for those of you who have stuck with the story so long, that I never updated sooner! I'm still enthusiastic about the story idea, though I lapsed for a bit – I tend to start pieces a few at a time, and then follow some and not others. But I finally got the writing bug again for this one, so here it is – I hope it works out alright. To those who reviewed the last two chapters – thank you so much! And so sorry if the last chapter was a bit ambiguous – it will be clearer soon. For this chapter… I added more surreal-elements of the original story, which will also be explained, as well as (I have to admit) influences from my French-Revolution studies. The political climate, in this world, is similar (though on a much smaller scale) to pre-Revolution France. Gerel is an OC. Thanks so much for reading!