The Fairy (part II)

“The first time I was alone with her was only four months later and she seemed…Distressed.” The man in the chair spoke, tracing the outline of the locket with his thumb and rubbed at the photo inside, shaded in grey and black. He continued with his tracing of the small portrait for a moment before closing it and placing it back in his pocket with a quick snap. “What are you thinking of now I wonder? Knowing that our little courtship lasted as long as it did?” He stared at the figure on the ground and set his jaw.

A grand room with shelves on either wall from floor to ceiling graced this room, stacked with leather bound books, embellished with words on the spine of gold and silver, embroidered with floral designs and waving depictions of the words inside. A large desk of mahogany, covered in tanned paper and random assortments of writing utensils sat in front of the wall length glass doors that led to a stone balcony, overseeing a vast garden filled with red and white roses and a grand fountain depicting a demon riding a powerful hellish steed threw the raging rapids of fire. The light of the half-moon turned the white to silver, the red into blood, and made the demon seem almost real, placid stone eyes narrowed with hate.

The opposite wall of the great window had two large oak doors to make entrance into this room, carved with mythical designs. A fire place was on the middle of the left wall as one entered, made of dark marble, pillars supporting it with wolves rearing on their hind legs, growling at one another. Two dark wing back chairs sat before the waving red and gold inside the hearth, a single table separating them.

A man in a dark suit with dark hair that had silver streaks running through it was pacing the carpet that covered the no doubt expensive wooden floor; the carpet was slightly faded, showing the scene of a wolf in a forest, woven with patterns on the outer edges that were lost to the irritated gentleman. His amber eyes were in a haze of anger, his pacing picking up with his agitation, and decreasing with calmness that suddenly overcame him, only to be replaced with more ire.

“Ridiculous,” he growled, his strides ceasing finally, “bunch of fools!” Seymour stalked over to his desk, standing as he swiped a quill from its place and proceeded to write something. The board of directors of his company had been more than a bother as of late and he was on his last legs about the whole situation. He wanted to expand to eastern Asia but they had ultimately refused and had started shipping farther into the Americas which was doing little to improve income…Not that Seymour needed it.

The Count could always cut ties and let them sink but he saw this as more of an opportunity than anything else. Having spent two decades to finally take over this small business he had turned it into a global empire in less than two years. Asia was going through a boom phase and Seymour saw reason to get ties early before they couldn’t and cut ties when things started going downhill but it was ‘too risky’ as his men had put it. No matter…He could always arrive in London for a surprise visit if they didn’t see things his way after this.

A knock at the door stopped the movements of his pen and he growled in agitation, “yes?” His voice was an angry roar – resonating through the room and his answer was met with a sort of fearful silence. Tapping his finger in an impatient manner he waited for the person or persons who had the audacity to tear him from his rant to open the door. The oaken gates at the head of the room did not move or creak in protest as they often did when they opened to which Seymour walked briskly out from behind his desk and wrenched open the door. “What is – oh,” it was Lillian.

Becoming aware of his appearance he mentally wished that he’d straightened himself out before opening the door. His dark dress shirt was unbuttoned and the white under one was ruffled and his hair was free from its usual bow, blanketing his shoulders and a few rebellious strands touching over his forehead and eyes.

“I wasn’t aware that you were coming,” he tried to collect himself but stopped when he noticed her petite form now appeared sickly. Bags formed under her misty grey eyes and her pale skin now looked almost like the color of her eyes. She also emerged to be much thinner than before, a blue satin dress hugging her waist and a navy blue shawl around her shoulders to keep her tiny frame warm no doubt.

“I’m sorry that I startled you Count,” she said in a voice that mirrored her size and Seymour strained to hear her now. “I was told by my father though that…You would not be attending the wedding,” she whispered and hugged the small cloak around her a little tighter, curling her fingers into it, “as a friend of the family I thought you would at least make an appearance.”

“I’m afraid not,” he interjected quickly, aware that her eyes had been on the floor the entire time she had spoken, but now they moved to his, holding him in their stormy embrace so well that he almost forgot how to speak. “I am currently far too busy with my company to be caught in any other affairs my dear.”

“Oh, well…I could always ask for the wedding to be placed at a further date so you could attend.” Lillian murmured, turning her gaze back to the floor and the Count looked flabbergasted.

“Surely not,” he exclaimed, “I will not discomfort you with such a notion.” His brow furrowed and his voice was rather husky and in that moment he chastised himself by not being more polite. “I apologize,” he said after, “I must be treating you very poorly, please, come in.”

“Not unkind at all Count! It is my fault I was just trying to make up for your time,” she went on, eyes jerking from the floor to his own and then she abruptly stopped, realizing that like her father she was about to go into an apologetic rant. Lillian once again returned her eyes to the floor, seeming to struggle with herself before coming into his study.

“You seem…Distressed my dear,” Seymour whispered as she came to a stop in the middle of the room, her feet just on the edge of the wolf’s eyes. “Is there anything wrong?” Something about this whole situation distressed him, watching her in her turmoil sent him on his own peril less inner torment. Yet again he thought he should hate her, her innocence was border line irritating and he usually loved nothing more than to crush the usual unsuspecting fool but this was not the same.

Her purity was like a spring creek, unbound and untouched by the hands of man, smoothly rushing by, finer than silk or satin. But not so uncouth and unfeeling like a husk or a shell of something that once was, not a useless burden or a pitiful fool. She was, truly, innocence at its peak and for such a thing to be tampered with would be mere blasphemy. Surely she had a protector or guardian to keep her secret and hide her from the uncivilized and unfeeling world…No. This radiance was bare to the whole, for all to see, and that bothered Seymour more than it should. How could two people like those he had met raise such an adoring spectacle as the one before him?

Lillian ignored his questions, instead she turned and stride over to one of his bookshelves in a graceful sort of dash and as she reached the shelf she stood on her tip toes, gracing her fingertips along the spine of one of the leather bound books with gold letters scrawled on the spine. “Shakespeare?” She sounded hopeful as Seymour closed the door and turned back to her, slowly buttoning up his dark dress shirt. Raising a brow he nodded slowly and she smiled but her eyes were saddened. “I gave Mathew first edition copies you know, first edition…He hasn’t even touched them. He says he doesn’t have time for reading but I think he just doesn’t like it…Although I wonder how one could fine books tedious.”

Lillian removed her hand from the book, looking far off, staring at some nameless volume on the shelf as Seymour approached her from behind. The Count had never been good with affairs that relied heavily on emotion so he touched her shoulder lightly, his fingers gliding over the smooth flesh there. “My dear, I can see very plainly now that you are indeed very troubled…” He never had time to finish because she began to sob.

It was just a light weeping at first but then she began to full on bawl and all Seymour could do was watch in bewilderment. Her face grew lines as she shut her eyes with a body wracking moan, hiccups coming from her as her once stiff form began to shake with full force. Completely caught off guard the Count didn’t know how to react when she turned and threw her arms around him, her scarf falling off to lie on the floor.

His arms were at first raised in the air on either side of her, unsure if to push her back or to hold her so that her crying would cease. Choosing the former he tentatively wrapped them around her tiny waist, feeling the satin run under his fingers as his chin rested on the top of her head. She was in such a hysterical state that he didn’t know what exactly to do in the solid name of comfort but so far the method of holding her was working quiet well. She smelled the same but alas as he had expected she had lost weight and he was assured that she may have been little more than a feather to him now. It was making him ill almost, the feeling of the once happy girl, who was now wilting like a flower in his arms.

“Lillian,” he whispered, running his fingers up and down her back in a slow manner, “what is the matter?” His voice was calm and placid, not like the gruff tone he had a moment ago.

“M – M – Mathew!” She hiccupped and he shushed her, trying to hear exactly what she was saying. Her fiancé…

“What did he do to you?” Seymour hissed and noted that his voice had taken an edge he didn’t like, Lillian herself though seemed not to catch it in her bawling and he was thankful for that. A sort of fury began to bubble under the Count’s skin at the mention that her dear, charming, perfectly sinister in his own right fiancé was attempting something.

Lillian seemed to calm here, her sniffles dying down and Seymour glanced down to her face. Tear stained with wide grey irises, ear to his heart, staring at the front of his shirt as she played with one of the buttons to his white one. “It’s not what he did,” she said in a low voice, “it’s what he does when I’m not around.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Seymour asked with a touch more curiosity than he liked.

“I heard it first from a servant girl so…I did a little experiment to see if it was true,” she stated, once more making Seymour strain to hear her, “I told him I was going out while he was still in bed, early one morning. I left the room and proceeded to the drawing room, waiting there I paced restlessly before returning to his room, taking my time outside I heard someone giggle. It was only then I figured out that Mathew had taken to inviting some…Friends from London and that sometimes he would hold entire parties with them.”

Seymour’s eyes widened in astonishment and revulsion although suddenly it became so obvious, the boy hid in secret what even the most public of men would be appalled by. Lillian took a deep breath, struggling here before grumbling, pushing her face into his shirt, saying something he could not hear.

“What was that my dear?” He asked, hands stopping on her back as he removed his chin from the top of her head to look down into her eyes with his burning amber pair. Lillian turned a shade of pink and withdrew from him, quickly snatching her scarf from the ground and Seymour raised a brow.

“It…It was nothing.” She fidgeted and the Count couldn’t help but release a chuckle, resulting in the young girl pouting at him. Seymour restrained himself, observing that she was not chilled at all by the rather malevolent sound his laugh often carried… “Do you like to read Count?” Lillian said, her eyes straying back to the bookshelf behind her and Seymour stopped in his mental reprieve, for every time she spoke he hung onto every word. Unlike most people, he yearned to hear her speak.

“…Yes I do actually.” He rubbed the back of his neck and watched her, looking at all his many books as she finally pulled one from the shelf.

“Could you…Read this to me?” She asked holding it, a palm on either end of it, “I know it is a horrible thing to come into one’s home and demand such a thing but…I’ve never seen this one before and I do love stories.”

“Surely,” Seymour started incredulously, “you as a nobleman’s daughter can read on your own?” Lillian suddenly looked taken aback, eyes going to the floor as she held the book preciously.

“Father never had me taught,” she whispered, her voice dropping by a few octaves and sounding rather far off. “I learned ballet, to play the violin and harp, how to paint, Latin, Greek, proper etiquette, how to speak to others, and some French but I never learned to read and write. For a long time I was forbidden to even enter the library, one of the girls – I think a maid – had been taught and would read to me.” Lillian was now hugging the book to her chest, her top bottom touching the top of its rough leather surface.

Clarity came now, she’d been taught many things, about dancing and the arts but never once had the cruelty of the world broken the surface of her dreams or life. She’d been secluded to a blissful island where nothing pierced the golden rays of dawn or blanketed her day in a fog. Seymour could imagine her listless days spent by the desk or in a mirrored room, watching her ballet shoes spin across a hard wood floor, but never had she seen the wintery London or the chilling underbelly of Paris. She probably didn’t even know of Africa or Asia and heard little of them but in tales from friends, she may have never even seen a mountain!

“Very well then,” he relented to her courtesy and stormy eyes which were staring at him with silent desire, “I will read to you.” She smiled then and it was the first time that he’d felt such an emotion directed straight at him. Warmth encompassed him, pressed against his chest and he felt himself succumb to some sort of vice, the tender feeling coursing through his veins and thawing his flesh.

Lillian approached him, holding him without knowing it, and he pulled the small tome from her arms, taking it between his skeletal fingers. He removed the table between the two wing back chairs and pushed them together, allowing her to hear his low baritone as he crept silently over every page. The deep rumble that was in his voice had her eyes sinking, her head against the wing of the chair, sliding down to land on his shoulder.

Seymour stopped then, turning his head to look at her, surprised again by the closeness. For a moment he lived in his own short fairy tale, pressing his forehead slightly against hers, the book resting on his lap, the right page depicting a maiden walking through a field, a grim specter following her. But that fleeting emotion stayed and made home inside the Count as he felt her there, against his side, warm and alive; what was she doing to him?

Sighing he withdrew into himself once more, hiding from the world in a little pit and he stood, cradling her head in his palm to keep her from falling over and awakening from her quiet slumber. Lillian slept soundlessly, her eyes closed but every now and again her peace was broken by a silent murmur. His arm found its way under her knees while the other one cradled her head, holding her like a precious doll and her head fit in under his chin.

Her small form was easy to lift and carry, prompting him to move for the door and open it. Seymour carried her out, calling for her carriage to be pulled around front, watching it appear from around the side a moment later. Much to the protestation of his servants he took her out to the front and deposited her inside. Seymour pushed a lock of her hair back, his knuckles gripping the door to the wooden box as he stepped down, adjusting his dress shirt. He closed the door, feeling the cool metal of the handle slide from his hand as he gave a click of his tongue, signaling the driver to move away.

With a clop that resonated along the front of the castle the coach was off, the black steeds at the head throwing their heads to rid the long hair from their eyes, heads down and snorting like beasts. Seymour had believed in keeping a horse clean always, never cutting their hair or having the reins pulled back to where their heads were high in the air, no, they would do their job the way they could get it done best. Thinking of this Seymour made his way through the solid oaken doors at the front of his citadel, closing the one he opened himself and pushing his forehead against it, forearms on either side of his head, resting on the door.

“Are you alright sir?” A Scottish sounding maid asked, whom he turned to view over his shoulder, silver and black shieling all but a cold amber eye from sight. The maid suddenly pulled her arms to her chest, her fingers balled together in fear as she watched her master turn back to the door, pulling himself up.

“No, everything is perfectly alright.” He rumbled, straightening out the front of his black dress shirt but never turning to face her, “perfectly.”