Author's Note: Thanks again to Clar the Pirate and Zagato for the reviews! If you see anything you think should be fixed, let me know... If you review, I'll give you more story more quickly!
Chapter 6
The clock struck twice, waking Isabelle. There was no way she could go back to sleep. Isabelle was hungry for the first time since she had arrived at the castle. She slipped out of her bed, wrapping her blanket around her. She would see if she could find something to eat down in the kitchen. Isabelle opened the door; cringing when its hinges creaked. Isabelle almost stepped on something. A cup of water and a plate with cold bacon, cheese, and a slice of bread had been set on the floor in the hallway. Isabelle set them on the writing desk in her room and ate in the darkness.
The next morning, Isabelle woke early and carried her empty plate down to the kitchen. Trestan had given her the last of the bread the night before, so Isabelle started a fire under the smallest oven and had some breakfast. When it had died down, she put some flour, water, eggs and salt in a bowl, mixed them, and set them inside to cook. Isabelle sewed her apron while the bread cooked, then pulled the loaves out of the oven when they were lightly browned.
Trestan came in at lunchtime and wordlessly took a seat at the table. "Bread smells good," he said hesitantly breaking the silence.
"Merci," she said simply. She handed him a hearty, warm slice of it, along with some warm ham, coated with melted cheese.
After the meal was over, Trestan spoke. "I am sorry that I was so…harsh with you yesterday. I know you miss your home."
"I was being foolish," Isabelle said, bitterly shaking her head. "I cannot go back; not like this, even with the shoes. My curse must be completely broken first, but I have no idea how to rid myself of it."
"You never were told how to break it?" Trestan said strangely. The gleam in his eyes was first incredulous, then hopeful, and finally disappointed.
"Non," she said mournfully, "I was nearly unconscious when I thought that the witch said something, but like as not, I imagined it."
"Did you remember even one word?" Trestan asked eagerly.
"Not a single one" Isabelle shook her head, clearing the plates and scrubbing them with a cloth. She dried them and put them away as Trestan built up the fire.
"I have not seen much of the upper story of the western wing yet," Isabelle remarked.
"I haven't been up there much myself," Trestan said, gesturing to the door. "Let's go."
As they walked, Isabelle asked, "If you have been here close on forty days, then why did you not explore the whole castle?"
"I scanned a few of the rooms quickly, to make sure that no one was there, but mostly, I have been getting wood for the fire, and food. Finding walnuts takes much time," the bear said.
This part of the castle was filled with corridors and doorways. Isabelle stood, glancing out a slit-like glass window at the hill below, for a moment and almost lost Trestan. They opened and shut doors, mostly finding bare rooms, and once, a garderobe. Trestan peered into one room, then stepped inside, dazzled. This room was stuffed with books. They were placed on shelves, on tables, in stacks on the carpeted floor. One even sat open on a pedestal. Trestan reverently ran his paws along the cracked spines, breathing in the musty, knowing smell of long-neglected books. Trestan seized a tattered volume and flipped it open. A single page flitted to the floor, amid the dust that settled there.
"Are you considering that book's worth as fuel for the fire?" Isabelle said lightly.
"Never burn these books," Trestan said in the same dark tones he had used the day before. "You have the slippers, so these are mine." He replaced the book he was holding on the shelf and grasped another. "Virgil's Aneid," the man said after a long pause. The books made him relax; here he was on familiar turf. "Have you ever heard of it?"
"No," Isabelle said uneasily, "I have not."
"There are so many great titles here," Trestan said, earnestly cradling a tiny book between his paws. "A translation of The Iliad. This is far too rare in the north. Ah! Hundreds of men would leap at the chance to read this, but I have it. Do you do much reading," Trestan said over his shoulder.
"No," Isabelle said icily, "I never learned."
"Oh," Trestan faltered, "I apologize."
"It is unimportant," she said bitterly, quoting the words of her father. "Women should not be taught manly skills. They may think themselves too important and then shoo away rich suitors."
The girl stopped abruptly, realizing that she had just imitated her father. When Marie and Antoine were small she had imitated him behind his back to make them laugh. Isabelle had also said far too much. She barely knew Trestan, yet was complaining about a fact which no one knew but herself. Trestan froze in shock for a moment, then began to laugh. Isabelle stared at him, appalled.
"Go ahead then, laugh," Isabelle snarled. She believed that he was laughing at the idea of her marrying a rich man. "You don't have to worry about who your parents force you to be married to. Men get to read and travel and are not constantly told what to do."
"Isabelle," Trestan said gently, "That isn't true. Your father should have—"
"What do you know about my father," Isabelle snapped. "It is none of your concern what he should do."
Trestan stepped back. "Would you like for me to teach you," he said, chastened.
"Merci non," Isabelle said curtly.
"Suit yourself," Trestan said, shrugging his enormous, hairy shoulders. "Why don't we go on; I'd like to see more of this gloomy old place."
Isabelle retreated back into the hallway, Trestan reluctantly following. Isabelle opened the first door she reached. Inside was a closet with four broken shelves. One shelf held a tattered scrap of paper and a crooked spindle. Isabelle grabbed the spindle eagerly, then remembered that she had nothing to spin. She could eventually buy some raw wool to spin; even a crooked spindle was better than none. For now, she would keep it. She disdainfully passed the scrap of paper to Trestan.
"There," she said, "Now you can tell me what the symbols on the paper say."
"Since you wish it," Trestan said. He read the slip for a moment. "It says, 'To the esteemed Baron Debussy.
"I write to thank you for your hospitality I enjoyed the previous week. As always, the company of you, your wife, and your sons and daughters was thoroughly enjoyed.
Ever your servant, Lord Rasque of Goble Hill."
"Reading is useful indeed," Isabelle observed wryly.
"Well, this shows that there once was a Lord Rasque who lived here. And this place is called Goble Hill. Both good things to know."
They looked around that part of the castle that day. Isabelle finally felt that she was learning her way around. After supper, Trestan left and retrieved the book The Iliad, or whatever it was called, and sat on the hearth, reading with his back to the fire. Isabelle sat at the table putting tiny stitches in the apron she was making. After a quarter of an hour, Isabelle noticed something that smelled like burning wool.
"Do you smell something odd?" Isabelle said, eyeing the fireplace.
"Yes, now that you mention it," Trestan said, glancing on either side of himself at the hearth stones. A moment later, he leapt up, swearing, and trying to swat where he had been sitting. Holding his book aloft, Trestan shouted, "Douse it; I'm on fire!"
Trying not to collapse with laughter, Isabelle stumbled to the bucket and flung the water it contained onto Trestan's backside. His pants had a small burn hole there now. Isabelle flung herself on a chair, still laughing hysterically. Trestan tried to look dignified as he laid his book on the table and stood otherwise drenched.
"What is so funny?" he asked her sheepishly. "It could happen to anyone."
"Tomorrow I will patch your pants…unless you want to do it yourself," Isabelle said with a smirk.
"You had better do it," Trestan laughed awkwardly.
"Goodnight," Isabelle yawned. "Those pants will take so much work to patch, that I should get some rest."
"Sleep well," Trestan called after her.