The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 177

The dining room was a masterpiece of sombre grandeur, vast and echoing. A long, dark mahogany table, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the flickering light of a dozen silver candelabra. Their flames cast dancing, elongated shadows that writhed on the high, vaulted ceiling and across the heavy, wine-red tapestries depicting ancient, ambiguous Valerius triumphs.

The air was noticeably cooler here than in their private chambers, carrying a faint, metallic tang that Freya couldn’t quite place, mingling with the cloying scent of beeswax and old, meticulously polished silver.

Each place setting was an intimidating work of art: fine porcelain edged with intricate gold leaf, heavy silver cutlery that looked far too cumbersome for her small hands, and crystal goblets that shimmered with a cold, internal light.

Lord Alaric and Lady Iris were already seated when the butler, his face as pale and still as sculpted marble, his movements unnervingly silent, escorted Freya and Mrs. Gable to the room.

Mrs. Gable, after a curt, almost invisible nod from the butler who stood like a black-clad sentinel by a massive, shadowed sideboard, quickly settled Freya into a heavily carved oak chair that felt far too large and imposing for her. Then, with a whispered, “Be a good girl, now, Miss Freya,” she retreated with a silent, almost fearful haste, leaving Freya alone with her parents at the vast, intimidating table.

Freya’s parents sat together on one side of the vast table, somewhat down from the empty head chair. Her father’s knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of his chair, his crimson eyes fixed on the polished surface before him as if seeking an answer in its dark depths.

Her mother, seated beside him, kept smoothing the lap of her deep green silk gown, her own gaze darting nervously towards the ornate double doors through which they had entered, then flitting back to the empty head of the table.

Freya was placed next to her mother, her small chair almost touching Lady Iris's. For Freya, a small plate of roasted chicken and finely chopped root vegetables had been placed—simple, familiar food that seemed almost out of place amidst the opulence. Her parents had similar, if more adult, portions before them, untouched.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant, mournful tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the hall and Freya’s own slightly too-loud breathing. She fidgeted, her small black-booted heels kicking softly against the carved legs of her chair. The room felt like a vault, beautiful but airless.

“Is… is Sister Amelia coming soon?” Freya finally whispered, her voice sounding small and lost in the cavernous room, swallowed by the high ceilings.

Lady Iris flinched as if struck, placing a trembling finger to her lips. “Hush, child. We… we wait for Lady Amelia.” Her voice was a strained thread.

Lord Alaric cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. “Lady Amelia… ah… prefers to make her entrance when she is ready, Freya.” His voice was carefully devoid of inflection, a stark contrast to the warm tones he usually used with her. “It is her custom.”

The room seemed to grow colder still. Freya shivered, rubbing her arms despite the fine wool of her dress. The candles on the candelabra flickered erratically, their flames bending and stretching as if a sudden, icy draft had swept through the room, though no windows were open, no doors had visibly moved.

Then, the grand double doors at the far end of the dining room swung inward, silently, as if pushed by an unseen hand.

Amelia Valerius stood framed in the doorway, a vision in obsidian silk. The fabric seemed to drink the candlelight, making her golden hair, intricately plaited and coiled like a crown, and her luminous, pale skin appear even more striking, almost preternatural.

The shadows in the room seemed to deepen around her, clinging to the hem of her gown like devoted, spectral attendants. She moved with that same fluid, silent grace Freya had witnessed on the staircase, gliding towards the head of the table as if her feet barely touched the polished floor.

Lord Alaric and Lady Iris rose instantly, their movements stiff, almost mechanical. Freya, remembering her mother’s earlier admonishment and the importance of decorum, scrambled to her feet, her chair scraping loudly on the marble, nearly knocking over her crystal goblet of water.

Amelia did not acknowledge their rising. She simply took her place at the head of the table, the ornate chair there even grander than the others, its back carved into the shape of intertwined thorny roses. Only then did she gesture, a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of her slender, alabaster hand, for them to be seated.

The butler, his face impassive and greyish in the candlelight, moved with ghost-like quietness. He placed a large, silver-domed platter before Amelia. When the dome was lifted with a soft metallic sigh, a wave of intensely metallic, coppery scent wafted towards Freya, making her nose wrinkle and her stomach clench.

On the platter lay a thick steak, its surface seared almost black, but its center a shocking, vivid, glistening red. Juices of the same deep, alarming hue pooled around it, reflecting the candlelight like dark rubies. It looked, to Freya’s seven-year-old eyes, entirely raw, something dragged from a forest floor.

A young male servant, his face pale and his eyes wide with a fear he tried to conceal, approached Amelia with a heavy crystal decanter. It was filled with a liquid so dark red it was almost black, viscous and opaque. His hand visibly trembled as he poured a generous amount into a heavy, dark crystal goblet that seemed to be waiting just for this purpose, its facets catching the light in sinister winks.

Amelia watched him, her clear blue eyes unblinking, fixed on the decanter, then on the servant's shaking hand. Freya saw the young man flinch, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively as he backed away, his gaze never leaving the floor.

Amelia picked up a silver knife and fork, their handles intricately carved with the same motif of thorns and roses that adorned her chair. With delicate, almost surgical precision, she sliced into the bloody meat. She lifted a small, dripping piece to her lips, her chewing slow, deliberate, almost contemplative, her eyes half-closed.

Then she set down her fork and lifted the dark goblet. She took a long, slow sip, her throat working. When she opened her eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. She ate very little of the steak, perhaps only two or three more morsels, but her attention returned to the goblet frequently, her fingers caressing its stem.

Freya watched, a mixture of horrified fascination and profound unease churning within her. “What is Lady Amelia eating, Father?” she whispered, leaning towards Lord Alaric, her voice barely audible.

“Hush, Freya,” he murmured back, his own crimson eyes fixed on his untouched plate. “It is… a special diet Lady Amelia requires. For her… her constitution.”

“But it looks so… so red and wet,” Freya persisted quietly, unable to tear her gaze from Amelia’s plate. “And what is she drinking? It’s not like wine, is it?”

“Some people prefer their meat… less cooked, child,” Lady Iris interjected, her voice a tight thread of sound. “And that is… a special cordial. Eat your chicken, Freya. Mind your own plate.”

Amelia’s gaze, cool and assessing as a winter sky, drifted from her goblet to Freya. The silence in the room was broken only by the occasional soft clinking of Amelia’s silver against her plate and the soft, almost inaudible sounds of her drinking.

“The journey was… without incident, I trust, Lord Alaric?” Amelia finally spoke, her voice smooth as polished velvet, yet carrying an underlying resonance that made Freya feel as if the very air vibrated around her.

“Entirely uneventful, Lady Amelia,” her father replied, his voice too loud, too hearty in the oppressive silence. “The roads were clear. We made good time.”

“Good.” Amelia took another sip from her goblet, her eyes briefly closing. “The estate has been… quiet. Terribly quiet, perhaps, without the rightful master in residence.” Her eyes flickered towards Lord Alaric, a glance so fleeting Freya almost missed it, before dismissing him. “Though, of course, the duties of stewardship, the true burdens of this house, continue, regardless of who formally holds the title of ‘Lord’.”

A nervous cough escaped Lady Iris. Her hand fluttered to her throat. “The grounds look… magnificent, Lady Amelia. The roses… they are particularly vibrant this year, if I may say so.”

“They always are,” Amelia stated, a hint of something unreadable, perhaps a chilling satisfaction, in her tone. “Red is a color that thrives in Valerius soil. It feeds them well.”

Her gaze landed on Freya again, lingering on her dark, unbound hair. “A striking contrast to your mother’s lighter tones, child. And your own hair, so like the midnight sky. An old Valerius trait, that darkness, though it has become… diluted, less common in recent generations.”

Freya felt a strange mixture of pride at being singled out and a deep, inexplicable prickle of unease at the intensity of Amelia’s stare, the way her blue eyes seemed to see right through her. “My grandmother… my father’s mother… had dark hair too, Lady Amelia,” she offered, trying to be polite, to fill the silence that always seemed to rush in around Amelia.

“Indeed,” Amelia mused, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was a beautiful smile, perfectly formed, yet it made Freya want to shrink away. “And your eyes, child… they are true Valerius crimson. Like your father’s. A potent lineage, that. Such eyes are destined to witness much. To oversee… certain, unyielding responsibilities that pass down through your Valerius blood.”

Her voice dropped, becoming almost a silken whisper. “You will understand, in time, the duties that fall to those of your true bloodline, the ones who carry the oldest burdens. You will be the future to continue that duty, little one.”

Lord Alaric made a small, choked sound, like air punched from his lungs. Lady Iris’s hand flew to her mouth, her face paling further, her eyes wide with a horrified understanding. Freya looked from one parent to the other, their sudden, stark distress a stark contrast to Amelia’s calm, almost serene pronouncements. A wave of profound sadness washed over their features, so deep and raw it made Freya’s own small heart ache with a confusion and fear she couldn’t name.

“Lady Amelia,” Freya piped up, her innocent voice cutting through the heavy, charged atmosphere like a small, desperate bird. “You are so beautiful, just like a queen in my storybooks. And this house is so very big! Do you… do you ever play games in it? Could I… could I perhaps play with you sometime? I have a doll, Princess Aurora, but her nose is a little bit chipped… I could show you…”

A sudden, sharp silence descended, so absolute it felt like the world had stopped turning. Her father looked as if he might faint. Her mother’s eyes were wide with a desperate alarm. Even the butler, usually so unnervingly still, seemed to visibly stiffen, his pale face turned towards Amelia.

Amelia’s head tilted, a slow, deliberate movement, like a curious serpent. The candlelight caught the gold in her hair, making it seem like a saintly halo, but her eyes, those clear, summer-sky blue eyes, were like chips of arctic ice.

A low chuckle, like the tinkling of distant, frozen bells, or perhaps shattered glass, escaped her. It wasn’t a warm sound. It made the fine hairs on Freya’s arms stand on end, and a shiver traced its way down her spine.

“Play?” Amelia repeated, her voice a silken murmur, as if the word were a foreign, distasteful object she was examining for the first time. “Child, my days of… common play, of such frivolous pursuits, are long, long past. I have… responsibilities. The stewardship of this estate, the preservation of the Valerius line,” her eyes flicked momentarily to Freya with an unreadable expression, “the honoring of… traditions far older than your comprehension. These are not games.”

Her eyes, however, held a flicker of something that might have been cold amusement, or perhaps a detached, clinical curiosity. “Perhaps, one day, when you are… older, and understand the true nature of this house and its legacies, we might find… diversions more suited to your station within it. But not with dolls, I think. Our family—or rather, those who reside within these walls under my aegis—engage in more… profound entertainments.”

Freya’s face fell. A hot flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. It was the first time anyone had made her feel truly silly, truly small, for wanting something as simple as to play.

Amelia then turned her full attention to Lord Alaric and Lady Iris, her tone becoming crisp, devoid of any feigned pleasantry, the silken veil dropping to reveal cold steel. “I trust your wing in the east is… adequate for your needs. I have had it maintained, of course, as a matter of familial courtesy, but I rarely venture beyond the confines of the West Wing myself these days. And I expect that privacy, that sanctuary, to be… respected. Utterly.”

Her gaze sharpened, becoming two points of icy blue light. “My work there is delicate. It requires… absolute concentration. Undisturbed solitude. You will instruct your staff, and your child,” a brief, pointed, chilling look at Freya, “that the West Wing is sacrosanct. No one is to enter. No one is to disturb me there. For any reason. Under any circumstances.”

She paused, letting her words sink into the chilled air, each one a precisely placed stone. “Or else the consequences… would be most regrettable. Swift, and regrettable. For all involved.”

The implied threat hung in the air, as cold and sharp as a shard of ice in the heart. Lord Alaric bowed his head slightly, his shoulders slumping. “We understand perfectly, Lady Amelia. Your wishes will be strictly adhered to. The West Wing will remain entirely undisturbed.”

“Of course, Lady Amelia,” Lady Iris echoed, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes downcast. They both looked utterly defeated, their earlier, faint hopes of Amelia remaining a distant, reclusive presence seemingly dashed by this direct, chilling command that brooked no argument.

Amelia gave a curt, dismissive nod, then pushed her plate, with its mostly untouched, grotesquely bloody steak, slightly away from her. She picked up her dark goblet again, swirling the deep red liquid within, her eyes fixed on its vortex. “The formalities of your return are concluded, then. You may retire when you wish. I have matters of importance to attend to.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Rising with that same eerie, silent grace, she glided from the room, the obsidian silk of her gown whispering against the marble floor like the passage of a sigh, or a departing spirit.

She left behind the lingering scent of roses, the faint, disturbing metallic tang, and an oppressive silence that felt heavier than stone, colder than the grave.

Freya looked at her parents. Her father’s face was grim, etched with lines of strain and a deep, weary sorrow. Her mother’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, her lips pressed tightly together to stop a sob.

The magnificent dining room, with its gleaming silver and artistic food, suddenly felt like a beautiful, cold trap, a gilded cage. Freya didn’t understand what “duty” Amelia meant, or why the West Wing was so terribly forbidden, or why her parents looked so sad and so very scared.

She only knew that this breathtakingly beautiful “sister” was not like the kind, playful older sisters in her storybooks. And this grand, ancestral home, for all its outward splendor, felt less like a home and more like a place where joy went to die, where shadows clung to even the most beautiful things, and where the most important rule, unspoken yet terrifyingly clear, seemed to be: do not disturb the lady in the West Wing.

A cold knot of unease, sharp and painful, settled deep in her seven-year-old heart, a chilling understanding that something was fundamentally, terribly wrong in this house of Valerius.