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Two years, ten months and sixteen days into when they were first brought to Lord Thesiger as his bride-to-be, Serenity Moreau (“Ren” to their friends, and quite possibly more properly Thesiger, for they were wed, after all) realizes that their life, which they have thought of as “bad” for quite some time, can, in fact, become worse.
The day begins as every other day has since they were brought to the manor to wed Lord Isidore Thesiger: with breakfast, delivered on a tray to their rooms by a serving-woman who has been instructed not to speak to them nor make eye contact. She sets it down silently, giving a bow before retreating, leaving behind their meal: plain porridge, a pot of tea (black, from the look of it, the peach blend that they had originally found charming but have come to loathe, as it is one of two that they are given throughout the year, and it is almost cloyingly sweet despite the lack of sugar in it), and a pot of cream. If they are very lucky, there is some sort of seasonal fruit, though more often than not this is left off, in light of their supposed ill health and poor temper.
“My health would be improved if His Lordship would allow me to leave my rooms,” they say to the serving woman each morning.
She is not allowed to speak to them, however, and so after her short bow and departure, they are let alone again until luncheon (also on a tray, similarly plain and uninteresting, though it at least deviates in a way that their breakfast does not, and does not include more of the abominable peach tea). After luncheon there is supper, and once a month (or thereabouts; they have never been able to determine the timing of it), Lord Thesiger comes to their rooms, never stepping through the door, to tell them that he has not decided to lift the interdiction – yet – and so they are not allowed to leave.
“I would not leave the estate grounds,” they try. “If I could just…”
Lord Thesiger is unmoved, however, and so it is that the interdiction remains in place: they are to stay in their suite of rooms (a sitting-room, their bedroom and a washroom, with a balcony, at least, which overlooks the back garden), not leaving until or unless His Lordship gives permission. The lord’s word is law, and in the case of Lord Thesiger, doubly so. He is a magician of some renown, or so Ren is given to understand, and his word is magically binding. If he were a lesser lord, they might have been able to throw it off – they’ve some skill at that – but he is not, and as much as they’d tried, they’d not been able to slip out of it, the way they’d slipped out of similar bindings their own mother had tried to put on them.
They’ve not given up hope that they will be allowed out someday. Lord Thesiger (“Isidore”, they try to think of him, for they don’t wish to hold him above themself; that may be part of the trouble with the binding, after all) is not an unreasonable man. He treats the staff well, per their understanding and the limited interactions they have seen with him; his diplomatic relations with those of the other, neighboring duchies are cordial and rarely result in the sort of skirmishes their own father had seen himself embroiled in. He had not tried to force them on their wedding night (not that it would have gone well for him if he had). He had realized they could not speak (such was the nature of the curse, after all, or part of it), that they could not touch him nor be touched (for he had tried), and after trying and failing to ascertain what was wrong with them, going so far as to hand them a slate and a stick of chalk and watching as they – blocked from using all language – tried to draw what was wrong (doing a rather impressive job, considering the size of the slate and their own limited skill with a pencil), finally shaking his head and withdrawing from their rooms when they could not communicate it clearly.
The interdiction – that they are to stay in their rooms at all times, save if their personal safety is endangered in some way (for Isidore was not, in fact, unreasonable) – came out of their supposed refusal to speak. Until and unless they were willing to engage in civil conversation with Isidore, he informed them, they are to stay in their rooms.
“I trust you understand the terms of the arrangement,” he’d said, after uttering the phrase that saw them stuck, firmly. It was the day after the wedding (during which they had not spoken, for they had not been able to, though this was evidently not an impediment to their marriage). “If and when you are prepared to talk, you may do so, and if I find your apology satisfactory, I shall let you out again.”
Two years, eight months and fourteen days later, Ren has been uncursed for some time – has been able to speak and let Isidore know that they were cursed – and His Lordship has remained unmoved.
“You conveniently deign to speak again, and try to tell me that it is a curse?” He shakes his head. “Try again.”
This was at the one year, eleven months and three days mark (Ren having noted the time with tally marks in the front cover of one of the books they were afforded, not having paper or anything else to write upon). They had wept and pleaded, tried to explain – “I was cursed on behalf of my sister, I could not let her die” – but since their parents believe they are simply ill-tempered and sulky, and since their sister herself has, in fact, since died, there is no one to verify their story, and they are not believed.
“I see,” said Isidore – and forbade the serving-woman from saying so much as good morning to them. “For two years, for that is how long they refused to speak to me.”
Trying to tell him about the curse again had resulted in weeping and another interdiction that they were not to speak at all for a fortnight, and so Ren has not tried again.
They did try to apologize, of course, though not without mentioning the curse. The first attempt saw Isidore look at them, sidelong, and drawl that he thought they were past this. They have not yet made another.
Ren spends their time plotting the end to Lord Isidore Thesiger, wondering if they can find some way to have their marriage dissolved on the grounds of cruel treatment – though of course, there is no provision to do so.
The day that things go from bad to worse is the same day that one of the diplomats of some duchy or another comes to visit. Ren does not know which it is – the family seals change every time someone new inherits, and whomever had taken over this one had decided that instead of simply updating the old seal, they would redo it entirely, resulting in a monstrous design in eye-searing gold paint on the doors of their carriages – two fists holding swords, or perhaps pole-axes or something else, for from their second-floor suite they cannot make out what the hands are meant to be holding, such is the art.
They stand on their balcony, watching as the ritual greeting exchanged in the garden, the carriage having dropped the diplomat along the back drive. The table is set with what Ren recognizes as the second-best china (what had been used for lesser guests at their wedding to the lord), while the serving staff mill about, placing covered dishes out – enough for three, which raises the question of who the third guest will be, for the sorts of talks that Isidore usually engages in regarding peace or trade negotiations are rarely done over meals, and those meals that are taken are usually only with the representative of the neighboring lands. There is the diplomat, of course, dressed all in white (as is the tradition whenever peace talks are being negotiated), with Isidore in his typical daywear. Standing a little ways behind the diplomat is a man – or Ren thinks him a man, for he is very tall, even if his hair is elaborately coiffed and styled, and he is wearing white robes that match those of the diplomat. He is very lovely, even from afar, his expression one of solemnity. Isidore looks at him, studying him as though studying a prize animal, finally nodding slowly.
Ren cannot hear them, more’s the pity. They wish at times that they had more aptitude for magic – but they have not, and what lessons they’d had as a child had been fruitless, never quite yielding the results desired, and so they had not continued them as an adult.
What are you playing at?
The meal is a quick one. Ren’s own luncheon is delivered. They take the tray from the serving-woman, talking to her loudly (one of their only forms of entertainment, alas) about how His Lordship would see their relationship improved if he would let them go as far as the back garden, but as he is content to let them wither away in their rooms, they suppose they shall have to settle for haunting him someday instead, something that makes the corner of her mouth twitch (always a goal; she cannot speak, but she can laugh, and if the serving-woman is the only person they can make laugh, at least someone has acknowledged their continued existence and reminded them that, after almost three years of being cursed, they can speak again).
They take their tray to the balcony, lifting the cloche (sandwiches, today; whatever His Lordship is eating must have taxed the kitchens enough that theirs is rather slap-dash, the bread not even cut to the same thickness) and settle on the balcony, sitting cross-legged on the flagstones to eat – and watch, peering at Isidore through the railing that surrounds it.
The conversation is not a pleasant one, from the look of things. Isidore gestures at the young man in white robes, who sits absolutely stock-still, his eyes on his own plate, while the diplomat’s expression slowly becomes more and more flinty.
I hope you curse him, Ren thinks, watching. He’d deserve it – for His Lordship is stubborn and headstrong, and could stand to be brought down several pegs, at least in their estimation. Make it a good one…
Curse him not to talk, for instance, or for all of his interdictions to fail. They can imagine nothing better – being able to walk out of their rooms, not solely out of them but off of the estate entirely, free and able to pursue whatever they like.
Not that Ren strictly knows what they’d like – but anything must be better than this.
Isidore’s hands come down on the table. The diplomat shouts something they cannot quite make out – for the gardens are warded with one of His Lordship’s wards, more’s the pity, and while they can see, Ren cannot hear anything – and the carriage comes around the back drive again. They climb into it, shaking their head as they do, and the young man does not climb back into it with them.
Curious, they think. I wonder…
Isidore gestures to the young man, who nods (still solemn) and rises from the table to follow him.
I suppose I shall find out when His Lordship deigns to visit me again, if I manage to voice the question before he becomes fed up that it’s not another apology and forbids me from speaking to him. This does not seem likely, but given time, they may find out – the staff talk sometimes, in the corridor outside their suite, and they have overheard enough to have some idea of what happens in Isidore’s lands.
They finish eating their sandwich, putting the cloche back on the tray and moving it to the spot near the door (not being able to open the door, naturally, and put it out themself – such are the terms of the magic which they are under) before going to the washroom to wash their hands and face, peering at themself in the mirror and wondering if today is a day they ought to bother with makeup. They will not be seeing Isidore, naturally, and as much as it pains them to admit it, there is a point to being made up for him. If they show him that they are lovely, as heartbreakingly beautiful as he was led to believe (“as beautiful as the goddess of the moon”, or so the story supposedly went – they wouldn’t know, their mum had never let them listen to any of the poems about them for fear that they would go to their head), perhaps one day he will be overcome with desire, and so decide to touch them and (in his gratitude – they do not consider the fantasy any further than kissing their hand) free them from the interdiction.
If they are not seeing him, however, it is a warm early summer day, and having a face full of makeup that is not appreciated by anyone will only mean that washing their face is even more unpleasant than usual (for he will not purchase them proper makeup remover, naturally – not seeming to realize that it is something that they will require along with everything else, and never allowing them to put in an order themself).
Ren settles for reading one of the books from the shelf near the door – one of those that they have read only once, for they liked it so well they were afraid not to savor it, space it out and save it for a day that they have need of something truly diverting. The young man and the subsequent expression on Isidore’s face tells them that they have need of diversion now, lest they tie themself in knots wondering if something has happened and if so, if it will affect them.
Likely not, they think, picking it up off the shelf.
They are perhaps ten pages into it when there comes a knock at the door to their suite.
This is unusual. The serving-women do not knock, simply slipping in and out again, silent as the grave. Isidore lets himself in, of course, announcing himself loudly. A knock is something altogether strange, then – something they have not heard in the almost three years they have been locked in.
They cannot open the door, of course, for they cannot approach it (such is the interdiction), and so they call out, loudly:
“Come in.”
Ren does not move from their spot, of course, sprawled as they are on their stomach, the book in their hands, their feet in the air, legs bent at the knees and crossed over them. It is not the most comfortable of reading positions, perhaps, but it means that they are fully distracted from what should otherwise trouble them – the strange young man, Isidore’s mood, the interdiction they are under – for they are not strictly comfortable, and thus must focus even harder on the story in their book, which has the added effect of transporting them away.
The door swings open. From their position on the floor, they see white robes, as well as the dark blue trousers which Isidore favors. The young man, then, they wonder. They prop themself up on their elbows, looking up from their book.
“You will stay here,” Isidore says to the young man. He is very handsome up close, his features fine – almost as pretty as they are, for all that he is a man. He is lithe, with brown hair cropped close to his scalp (curly, from the look of it). His face, in profile (for he turns as they look at him) is lovely – hazel eyes with delicately arched brows, a full mouth, finely-formed ears…
You have had no one but Isidore and the serving-women to look at in years, and already you are staring, Ren chides themself. Stop it!
“Serenity.” Isidore to them, then – this is unusual. They aren’t due to see him for another two weeks at least. “This is Orion – Orion Clay. He has been brought to House Isidore as a concubine, and as such, he will share the rooms of the lord’s spouse with you.”
They blink at this, unsure what they are hearing. “What?”
“Orion Clay is a concubine, and he will be your new companion, until such a point as I decide otherwise,” says Isidore, his expression one of extreme irritation. “If you object, I shall find you other quarters.”
The emphasis on the words other quarters tells them that whatever limited access they have to the outside – chiefly, their balcony – will be taken from them. He’s threatened to lock them fully in the attic before, which they know (from overhearing the house servants, who had fretted on their behalf) has no windows.
“Do you object?” Isidore’s expression is one of extreme displeasure. Should they say anything, they know, they will see themself led up to the attic immediately. The thought is enough to make the blood drain from their face, such is the idea of no longer being able to see the sun or stars again, not even look upon the gardens or tend to the window-boxes on their balcony (which are blooming now, one of the few things that brings them cheer and has kept them sane these past not quite three years).
“No, my lord,” Ren says softly. “I do not object. Welcome, Orion.”
The young man looks at them at last, meeting their eyes, his expression one of fear. Fear? Ren wonders. Stars, he can’t have – it’s early yet, he can’t have done anything to him, what is there to be afraid of?
Isidore’s expression thaws a tenth of a degree. “Show him where he is to sleep,” he says, waving a hand. “I will see someone sent in to take his measurements and have proper clothes made for him – nothing of yours will fit him. Orion, if there is anything you require, inform the serving staff, and they will have an order made for you. Otherwise, you are to rest from your journey. I will see you this evening.”
His Lordship turns to leave, leaving the two of them together. Orion is not, Ren notes, under any sort of interdiction – or if he is, Isidore put it on him before bringing him up here.
“I…will show you where it is I sleep,” they say, vaguely dazed. Isidore gave them a direct command, after all, and the force of the magic is behind it, bending them to his will. “There is only – I do not know if the lord of this estate has ever had more than one…spouse…before. There is not – there is not a second bed.”
Orion glances to them. “Please, Serenity,” he says, his voice melodic. “Show me where it is I am to sleep, for I should like to rest.”
They fight the urge to roll their eyes at his deference, for it's unnecessary - he had heard Isidore threaten them. “This way,” they say, rising off the floor, carefully setting their book aside. “I will show you to the bedroom.”
The bed is made – for Ren cannot bear being untidy, really, not when the suite of rooms is their entire world, and it at least gives them something to do. Orion sits on it, experimentally, and they bite their lip to keep from saying something. If Isidore is seeing him later, and he carries tales of how Ren did not greet him with proper hospitality…
Attic, they think grimly.
They show him to the washroom, where he notes the neatly laid out arrangement of makeup, touching the various pots and tubes, looking at the color of their lip tint and eyeshadow, mascara and other things – then back to the sitting room, where they explain how the books are organized (by subject, and then alphabetically by author’s surname), point to the various puzzles and games that are here (the puzzles all ones they’ve solved, of course, more times than they can count, and are now at the point of assembling upside-down, just to give themself more of a challenge, while the games are useless as they all require two or more players) before finally showing him to the sofa, with its careful arrangement of pillows and blankets, pointedly not showing him the balcony with their plants (for fear that he may wish to claim it for himself, and then where would they be).
“If you should like to rest, you may do so in the bedroom,” they say. “The curtains can be drawn and the room dimmed, if there is a need.”
He shakes his head. “The bed is to be mine?”
The casual cruelty of the question leaves them breathless. Well, there’s always the sofa, they suppose, their heart sinking to their toes. “If His Lordship has decreed that you are to stay here, you are to take my – the bed,” they say. Maybe he’ll tell Isidore, and Isidore will arrange to have someone bring up a second bed – though Ren cannot, in truth, imagine this happening. Likely they will be expected to sleep on the floor, another line added to the interdiction. I thought it could not get worse, and yet…
“Thank you, Serenity,” Orion says. He bows at them, retreating to the bedroom to take their bed, closing the door behind him. They can hear the soft snick of the lock in the frame – something they have never been allowed, of course, for Isidore had prevented them from being able to lock themself in and sulk, during that time which they were cursed and could not speak, and has never thought to lift it. They have no real privacy, not even in the washroom, something that they will have to find a way to explain to their new roommate without sounding as though they are complaining, for if he carries tales to Isidore…
Oh, gods, I’m never going to be properly alone again, am I? Everything I do – everything I say, I’m going to have to worry about him carrying tales to Isidore, and I’ll end up locked in the attic after all.
Ren finds, suddenly, that they cannot breathe, or at least not properly. They take a deep breath, the horror of their situation occurring to them fully, and walk out to the balcony, to sit upon the polished tile of it, looking at the plants in their window-boxes, trying to memorize them, knowing full-well that this situation will not last, and all too soon they will finally be shut away – the spouse locked in the attic, left to wither away, just as all the old stories had said happened to those that were not wanted.
Orion sleeps until suppertime. When the serving-woman that brings their tray comes in, she brings only one, setting it on the low table before knocking at the door to the bedroom. He answers it, of course, and she informs him in a low voice that his presence is requested at the table, should he be willing to join His Lordship downstairs.
Ren wants to wail, to weep and gnash their teeth at the unfairness of it – but they keep their outward expression pleasantly neutral, waiting until Orion has gone, the door clicking closed behind him and the serving-woman, before they walk into the bedroom to get those few things that are theirs. They haven’t much – Isidore is not one to give gifts, and their parents had seen the curse as a sign of sulkiness and resistance, not what it truly was, and so there was precious little they were allowed to bring with them. There is a figurine of a mouse, given to them for their birthday when they were six, as well as a stuffed wren their godmother had made for them, before she too had been forbidden from seeing them. (She might have been able to figure out that they were cursed, more was the pity, but – well.) There is the book that is their favorite of favorites, the storybook that is enchanted to change with the seasons, currently in the summer-stories, which are some of their favorites in the book itself, and the mother-of-pearl inlaid hairbrush they were given as a wedding-gift and have used to keep their hair smooth and shiny. They think about stealing their pillow back (for it is comfortable, more comfortable than what is on the sofa), but the thought of the attic chills them, and so they leave it alone, giving a longing look backward before they move their things to inconspicuous places. The mouse figurine can live on a bookshelf, while their wren they hide beneath the sofa, and the book goes in with the other story-books (for there are picture books) on one of the low shelves. The hairbrush they place in the washroom, on the vanity. This done, they take a deep breath, steeling themself, and open the tray for their supper.
It is exactly the same as luncheon. Their resolve fails, seeing this, for two meals the same in a row means either that the kitchens are in a frenzy (for His Lordship is entertaining), or that Isidore is angry at them, and they will have the same thing for every meal until they apologize or he is otherwise satisfied.
Ren begins to cry, hating themself for it – for tears do no good, as they learned during the time they were cursed, and if Orion reports to Isidore that they have been weeping…
Not that this thought helps, of course, for the idea of being shut in the attic makes them cry all the harder.
They force themself to look out at the balcony, at their flowers in bloom. Count how many red things you can see, they think, recalling the game they had played with their godmother once upon a time. There’s roses in the yard – how many do you think are fully in bloom? You counted thirty-eight yesterday…
Counting calms them. They wash their face, and have just settled before their tray, eating their meal careful bite by careful bite, their expression impassive, when the door swings open again.
They rise to their feet, half-hoping it is a serving woman, coming to bring them a different meal, for their spouse is not displeased after all, but no such luck – it’s Isidore himself, Orion trailing behind him, his expression still a mask of calm.
“You,” Isidore says, pointing to Ren, who gives a full bow. “What’s this about beds?”
They look at Orion, horrified, hoping against hope that they are wrong, that he has not tried to guarantee his place (and thus gain the confidence of Isidore) by telling tales about what it is that they have said.
Orion meets their eyes, giving a small shrug.
“Good evening, lord,” they say, straightening. “There is only one bed in this suite. I told” – and what is the proper title for a concubine, anyway? – “Lord Clay that he may take it, as he is your new…guest.”
Isidore looks at them, his expression one of bafflement. “What?”
Ren’s heart is in their throat, aware of the precariousness of their position. “There is only one bed, lord,” they repeat. “I told Lord Clay that it is to be his.”
“Then where are you to sleep?” Isidore sounds cross – the same way he had sounded, in fact, when he placed the interdiction upon them, that they were not to leave their rooms.
Ren is very aware that they are about to begin crying. They blink rapidly, trying not to show this. “There is the sofa, lord, or if that does not please you, I should sleep on the floor.”
“The floor?” He sounds as angry as he ever has. “You can’t seriously think – gods, what is this posturing?”
The tears they had mostly managed to blink away fall at last, running silently down their face. “There is only one bed, lord,” they repeat, hating how thick their voice sounds. “You – when I moved in, originally, you told me I was not to have a lady’s maid, and so the staff blocked off access to what would have been the maid’s chamber. I am sorry, lord, and I am not posturing – there is nowhere else to sleep, and the – interdiction you placed on me will not allow me to go into that maid’s chamber even if it were unbarred.”
They had been told they were not to have a lady’s maid because they were sulky and ill-behaved, not that this matters now – they had not been able to speak, and they had tried to communicate, to tell him about the curse, just as they are trying to communicate now. Not that it shall matter, truly, for he will assume I am being difficult once again, and I can say goodbye to my little balcony, outside air. I only hope that I have a moment to hide my things and bring them up with me when I am exiled.
Isidore takes a deep breath. Ren swallows, running their sleeve over their face, wishing they could stopper their ears, for they know he is about to shout – to give the order that will see them banished to the attic after all – but he merely calls the name of one of the serving staff, who appears before him in an instant (such is the lord’s magic).
“There is a maid’s chamber attached to this room,” he says – to the servant, not to them. “It should have a door connecting it to the bedroom. I wish for that door to be unlocked and unbarred, and the bed in that room to be properly made as befits a guest. Replace it with a different bed if it cannot be made ready.”
The serving woman bows. “It will be done, lord.”
“Very good.” Isidore looks at Ren, studying them as though seeing them for the first time. “You are afraid of me,” he remarks, after a moment. “Why?”
Ren swallows, wondering how they are to honestly answer that question without being exiled after all. There is nothing I can say, they think. Nothing I can do.
“Tell me,” he says. It is an order, not a request.
“I –” they croak, but they can’t not speak. “You told me, lord, if I did not please you, you would move me to the attic. I – the attic does not have windows, and as I cannot leave my rooms, the – the windows are all I have, lord.”
Magic does not demand perfect honesty, at least, only that they give an answer, and so they do not have to tell him about their balcony, their plants and the only place of peace they have in this house.
He starts. “You…believed me.”
Ren finds that they are on the verge of tears again. “You will find, lord, that you have never given me a reason not to believe you.” They feel every bit as pathetic as they sound. “I have been in your house for almost three years now. In that time, I have lost what freedom I had. My world is these rooms and what of the back garden I can see from them. I – should prefer not to lose what little I have left. If I have displeased you somehow, I am sorry, but as always, I have only ever told you the truth.”
They should have stopped, they know, not spoken – such is the look of fury on his face – for all their pleading, they shall be sent to the attic, and that will be the end of it after all.
“Tell me now,” he says, his voice flat. “You said once you were cursed. Were you? Give me the truth, Serenity.”
It is all they have ever wanted – what they had wished he would do, command them to tell the truth with magic they cannot buck, make them wriggle and repeat themself, so that he would understand and believe them at last. “I was cursed,” they say. “My sister was to have died; I made a bargain with a witch that she would live, and I was placed under a curse that could only be broken by her death or true love’s first kiss. She died in childbirth, as you know, and the curse was lifted.”
Orion looks first at them, then at Isidore, horror stark on his features.
Welcome to the manor, Ren thinks tiredly, wiping a sleeve across their face again.
“You told the truth,” Isidore says slowly. “You have been telling the truth this entire time.”
“I have had no cause to lie to you, milord.” If they are to be sent to the attic, let it all come tumbling out, nothing left unsaid. “I was cursed; I could not speak nor write. I was able to draw, and so I tried to – illustrate what the problem was. As soon as I was uncursed, I told you.” And you did not believe me, but such is life.
He takes a deep breath. “Serenity.”
They do not look at him, their eyes fixed on the floor, memorizing the pattern of the carpet. Roses, they think. Woven, very pretty.
“The attic is not, I think, habitable,” he says, his voice rough. “I will not send you there.”
But elsewhere is not out of the equation, is the implication. Ren nods, not speaking, still without looking up to meet his eyes.
“Do you…like your rooms, excellence?”
It is the first time in their time in the house that they been asked for their opinion. “I am fond of these rooms,” they say as carefully as they can. Not that I have seen other rooms in the house to compare them to. “I would prefer not to be moved, milord, unless it is necessary.”
“Look at me, Serenity.”
They look up, willed to by the magic. “Milord.”
“I will not remove your interdiction,” he says. “But I will modify it, if I am pleased by your behavior. You have yet to please me.”
They bite their tongue.
“You think me unfair, I know,” he says. “Perhaps I am. I forbid you from sleeping on the floor, Serenity. Your bed is to remain your own. Orion will take the maid’s chamber until I determine what is to be done with him. I will let you make one request of me. Speak quickly.”
Oh, stars, he can’t – there are too many things I wish for, he cannot truly – but he is tapping his foot in the impatient way that he had once waited for them to finish drawing on a slate, and Ren is all too aware that if they do not answer fast enough, it is all too likely that he will go back on his word. “Milord, there is a part of the interdiction – I am not allowed to lock doors, not even to the washroom. If I am not to be alone – I should prefer –”
“You may lock the door to the washroom while bathing or using the toilet,” he says, then: “I am not a monster, Serenity. I did not choose you for a wife, but I will not torture you.”
The words escape before they can think better of it: “I have been locked in my rooms for three years, lord, for reasons you now know to be false – how is that not torture?”
“You are dismissed, Serenity. Go to your bedroom. I would speak to Orion alone.”
The magic is there. They give a half-bow, a longing glance at the remains of their supper (for they are hungry, now that they know they are not to be sent elsewhere), and walk back to their room, shutting the door as they do, burying their face in the pillow and finally letting themself cry – quietly, but still – out of the mix of relief and rage that fills them.
They must fall asleep. When they wake again, the room is dark and quiet, and they are hungry, their stomach tying itself in knots as they sit up slowly. They feel sticky, their eyes sandy from crying. There is no hope, they know, that their meal will have been left behind.
Porridge in the morning, Ren thinks. I suppose I shall be glad to have it after all.
There is a scraping sound from the sitting room. They rise slowly to their feet, pushing the door open, blinking at the light that suddenly fills their vision. The lamps are lit, Orion sitting before them. The tray with their supper on it is pushed aside, as is the low table before the sofa. He is in only his undergarments, the white robe folded and set aside, doing what looks like some sort of exercise.
They look from him to the tray, where the remains of their supper await, and back to him again. He is quietly, methodically moving his body. They notice, uncomfortably, that he is very fit, his undershirt riding up as he moves his body.
“I – excuse me,” they say softly, as he sits up. “I will fetch my – supper tray, or what remains of it, if you don’t mind.”
He shakes his head. “Take it.”
“Thank you.” They step toward it, shifting it out toward the balcony. The balcony doors are open – it is summer, after all, and quite warm – and when Orion does not make a move toward them, they step outside, sitting cross-legged on the now-cool tile, tugging their dinner plate toward themself, tilting their face into the moonlight. They are exhausted, tired in a way they cannot remember being since they first came to House Thesiger.
Ren has just picked up the other half of their sandwich again when Orion speaks to them. “Have you truly been locked in your rooms for three years?” His voice is low; they cannot imagine why he is asking, unless it is to get them in trouble, but then again –
“I am under an interdiction that does not allow me to leave my suite,” they say. This is true, and Isidore cannot protest them telling the truth. “It has lasted two years, ten months, and fourteen days.”
He flinches. “They said he was kind,” he murmurs. “I would not have agreed, if I had known otherwise –”
They do not reply to this, quietly setting to eating the rest of their supper.
“I would be friends with you, Serenity,” Orion says, when they don’t speak. “If you don’t – it would be easier if we liked each other. I don’t expect you to trust me, but…I shan’t tell on you to Isidore, not if it will – did he truly threaten to lock you in the attic?”
“Yes,” they say flatly. “And he will say that he did not think I would believe him, but it was not an idle threat, for I heard the staff discussing it later – what furniture was to be moved upstairs to make a nook for me.”
“...he said that you were stubborn and refused to speak to him for the first two years of your marriage to him,” Orion says slowly. “But I can tell – you were under a curse. Is that – is that why he placed an interdiction upon you?”
“I could not speak or write.” Again, this is the truth. “He thought it was that I was sulking, and said that I should be locked in my rooms until I was ready to rejoin polite society. The curse was ended, and he still does not – well. His Lordship does not believe me.”
“You are his spouse.”
“Yes.”
“He could command you not to lie to him, on his lands – did he never…”
“I would rather finish my supper than talk about this,” Ren says softly. “There will be plenty of time – it will take him time to find somewhere to put you that is not a maid’s chamber, for I doubt he will keep you in with me any longer than he is required to.”
“As you like, Serenity.”
“Ren,” they say. “I – only Isidore calls me Serenity.”
“Ren.” He blinks at this. “Like the bird?”
That had, in fact, been why they were nicknamed what they were as a child, not that he has any right to know this. “As a short-name for Serenity,” they say softly. “Later, please, I should answer any questions you have, but until then –”
“My apologies, excellence – Ren.” He swallows. “I should – yes, I should like to speak to you later, if you are not opposed.”
“If you can promise me that you will not repeat anything I tell you to Isidore, I will answer whatever questions you have.”
“I can promise, and will agree to be put under an interdiction to that effect, if it would help.”
Ren takes a breath. I can’t do that sort of magic even if I wanted to. “That won’t be necessary. Your word is good enough; I’m not Isidore – I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Orion nods, seemingly accepting this, and returns to doing his exercises.
They finish eating, putting their tray back near the door, locking themself in the washroom to bathe (and such a wonder it is, that they can lock the door again), unlocking it as soon as they are out of the bath, brushing their teeth and washing their face before opening the door, walking back to their bedroom. They hesitate for a moment, gathering their things before they do – the storybook, their stuffed wren, the mouse figurine (their hairbrush already in hand from the washroom) – but take a deep breath, returning them to their room.
Orion watches as they do this.
“Your belongings?” he asks.
“The few things that are solely mine, yes.” The brush goes back on the vanity, the storybook on their nightstand beside the mouse figurine, the stuffed wren returned to their bed. “Please – please don’t tell Isidore.” They feel pathetic asking, but it is better than assuming they will be safe, and it is a small test, for they cannot imagine that even Isidore is such a monster as to strip away their few personal belongings when they have done nothing.
He shakes his head. “I won’t be telling him anything if I can help it.”
“He will compel you,” they say dully. “I won’t take it personally.”
“If he does –”
“When he does,” they say. “I promise, I won’t take it personally.”
“I – all right.”
“You are sleeping in the maid’s quarters?”
“The staff unlocked the door and moved a new bed in,” he says awkwardly. “It’s not much smaller than your bedroom, and it’s accessible through it. I’m – to stay here for now. Isidore said he’ll see about finding a second proper bed so that I’m not stuck in the maid’s room, but since my role is – similar to yours…”
We are meant to share. The day has gone from bad to worse to merely bad again; still, this is not an improvement by any stretch. “I – yes, I understand.”
“For what it’s worth, Ren, I am sorry.”
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” they say. “I am going to bed – please try not to take me if you stay up much later.”
Whatever he says next is lost as they close the door, crawling into their bed again, curling up with their pillow, their stuffed wren in their arms.
I used to be brave, they think. Now I am limited to what, back-talking to the staff and pleading with the lord of the manor not to make my life worse than it is? Not that this last point has worked, for now I have to share with someone who will almost certainly be required to spy on me for him, and no matter what I do, it will not be satisfactory…
They are anxious, of course, but there is little enough they can do.
They do fall asleep eventually, dreaming of Isidore locking them in the attic after all, tearing their storybook and wren, smashing the figurine and tossing the hairbrush down the stairs as they watch in horror.
When they wake, it is to the sound of Orion entering the maid’s room, the door closing quietly behind him.
Not quite three years, they think bleakly. All I have managed to get lifted is that I may lock doors now, that I may have privacy on the toilet.
It takes a very long time to fall asleep again.