The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 182

The oppressive weight of the Valerius estate seemed to settle more heavily with each passing day. Though the immediate, sharp terror of Freya’s misadventure in the West Wing had dulled, it left behind a residue of unspoken anxieties that clung to Lord Alaric and Lady Iris like the ever-present dust in the grand, shadowed rooms.

A few evenings after the incident, they sat in their private sitting room, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the twilight. A single candelabrum cast flickering shadows on the tapestried walls. Lord Alaric stared into the cold, empty fireplace, while Lady Iris, her needlework lying untouched in her lap, watched him, her violet-crimson eyes clouded with worry.

“Alaric,” she began, her voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the room’s heavy silence. “I cannot… I cannot stop thinking about what Amelia said. In the gallery, when… when she had Freya.” Her voice trembled at the memory. “About Freya’s blood. ‘So potent,’ she said. ‘So… useful.’ And that our Freya… that she carries it ‘more strongly’ than you. What did she mean, Alaric? Truly mean by that?”

Lord Alaric’s shoulders, already slumped, seemed to sink further. He ran a hand over his face, the gesture weary, almost defeated. “Iris, my love, perhaps it was merely… a turn of phrase. A way to exert her power, to unsettle us.”

“No,” Lady Iris insisted, her gaze unwavering. “It was more than that. I saw her eyes, Alaric. That cold, assessing gleam. It wasn’t just words. We must be honest with each other, now more than ever. What is this 'usefulness' she spoke of? I heard the whispers of the pact from your father, the protection she offered, the price of her sanctuary here. But this… this felt more specific, more chillingly personal to our daughter.”

He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of generations. He rose and paced to the window, peering through a tiny gap in the drapes at the dark, manicured grounds beyond. “The pact, Iris… it was never a simple arrangement. It wasn’t just for her sanctuary, her quiet existence under our family name. It wasn't solely for the influence and prosperity our ancestors gained, though that was undoubtedly part of their… bargain.” He turned back, his crimson eyes dark with a truth he had clearly hoped to shield from her.

“Part of the offering, Iris,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “part of what has kept her bound to us, and us to her, through all these generations… has been our blood. Valerius blood. Offered… periodically.”

Lady Iris gasped, her hand flying to her throat. The color drained from her face, leaving it ashen in the candlelight. “Offered?” she breathed, the word a horrified question. “You mean… she… she drinks it?”

He nodded, the movement stiff, pained. “Yes. Not often. Not from every generation, from what my father understood. He himself… he was never asked. Nor his father before him, according to the family lore he shared. It has been… a very long time, Iris. Decades. Perhaps even a full century since she last… required it from a direct Valerius. But the potential for her to ask, the right to ask for it… that, I fear, is an indelible part of the ancient agreement.”

“And Freya…” Lady Iris’s voice cracked. “Because her blood is ‘stronger,’ as Amelia put it…”

“There is more, my love,” Lord Alaric said, his voice heavy with a deeper sorrow. He walked back towards her, his steps slow, as if each one bore an immense burden. “Something few outside the direct Valerius line ever truly knew. A truth I… I had hoped you would never need to bear.” He paused, searching for the words. “Why do you think, Iris, in all these long generations, there has only ever been one Valerius heir in each successive line? One child to carry the name, the estate, the… the burden forward? My father was an only child. His father before him, and his father before that. It is not by choice, my dearest.”

Lady Iris stared at him, her eyes wide with a dawning, dreadful comprehension. “What… what are you saying, Alaric?”

“It is part of the pact’s price, Iris. A… a limitation. A binding, perhaps, to ensure the lineage remains… precious. Concentrated. Undiluted.” His voice dropped to a raw whisper. “Only one child. No matter how many times we might have… hoped for more.” The unspoken grief of their own lost hopes hung heavy in the air between them. “It is like a curse, woven into our blood, alongside her insidious influence, ensuring each heir is singular, vital to her continued presence.”

Tears welled in Lady Iris’s eyes, spilling over to trace shimmering paths down her pale cheeks. “So our Freya… she is not just our only child by chance… but by design? By Amelia’s monstrous design?” Her voice broke on a sob.

Lord Alaric knelt before her, taking her cold hands in his. “Or by the design of the pact our desperate ancestors forged so long ago. Yes, my love. It seems so.” His own eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I am so sorry, Iris. More sorry than words can ever express. To have brought you into this… this cursed lineage. To have our child born under such a shadow.”

“But you said… it has been a century,” Lady Iris whispered, clinging to his hands, searching his face for any sliver of hope. “Perhaps she no longer… needs it. Perhaps that terrible part of the pact has faded with time, become a forgotten clause.”

“We can only pray that is so,” Alaric said, his voice bleak. “But her words, Iris… ‘so potent… so useful.’ They chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. She sees something in Freya. A potency she hasn't seen in generations, perhaps. And it terrifies me.”

Lady Iris bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I cannot bear it, Alaric. I cannot. To think of our little girl… our innocent Freya… facing such a… a monstrous possibility. To be seen by that creature as… as sustenance.” The image was too horrific to voice fully.

Lord Alaric gently pulled her into his embrace, holding her tightly as she wept. “She will have a normal life, Iris,” he murmured against her hair, trying to infuse a conviction he scarcely felt into his words. “As normal as we can possibly make it within these oppressive walls. We follow the rules. We keep her safe. We keep her from Amelia’s sight as much as possible. My father lived his whole life here, and Amelia barely troubled him after his own childhood. We can do the same for Freya. We must.”

But Lady Iris continued to weep, her body trembling against his, the reassurance falling on ears deafened by a mother’s deepest fears.

A few moments later, a soft, hesitant knock sounded at the sitting room door. “Mother? Father?” Freya’s small voice called out. “Can I come in?”

Lady Iris quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, attempting a composed expression, though her face was still tear-stained and pale. Lord Alaric rose, smoothed his waistcoat, and opened the door.

Freya stood there in her small white nightgown, her dark hair tousled from sleep, Princess Aurora clutched in one hand. “I… I had a bad dream,” she said, her lower lip trembling slightly. It was a common excuse, one her parents always indulged, though tonight, the lingering shadows of the West Wing undoubtedly fueled her unease. “Can I… can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Of course, my darling,” Lady Iris said, her voice still thick with emotion but gentle. She patted the space beside her on the wide velvet settee. Freya padded over and snuggled close, burrowing into her mother’s side. Lady Iris wrapped an arm around her, pulling the cashmere shawl around them both.

“How are you feeling now, my sweet pea?” Lady Iris asked, kissing the top of Freya’s head.

Freya leaned back, looking up at her mother with troubled crimson eyes. “I’m okay. My throat doesn’t hurt so much anymore.” A shadow crossed her small face. “Mother… why is Sister Amelia like that? Why doesn’t she like the sun? Is she very, very sick?”

Lady Iris exchanged a quick, pained glance with Lord Alaric over Freya’s head. “Yes, darling,” she said softly, choosing her words with care. “Sister Amelia has a… a very special condition, a sort of illness, that means she cannot be in the bright sunlight for very long. It makes her feel very unwell, even quite poorly. Like some people cannot eat certain foods without getting sick, she cannot have too much direct light on her skin.”

Freya’s brow furrowed with a mixture of guilt and concern. “Oh. So… when I opened the curtains in that dark place… I made her sick? That’s why she was so angry with me? And that’s why you and Father were so sad and scared?” Her memory of the event was fragmented, a child’s jumbled impressions of darkness, sudden light, Amelia’s terrifying face, and her parents’ overwhelming fear, rather than a clear recollection of the words exchanged or the direct threat to herself. She remembered Amelia’s anger was connected to the light, a fact her parents’ hushed warnings had inadvertently reinforced.

“You didn’t know, my love,” Lady Iris soothed, stroking her hair. “It was an accident. And yes, it… it startled her very much, the sudden brightness, and that worried us greatly. But it wasn’t your fault for not knowing about her special condition.”

“I’m sorry I made her mad,” Freya whispered, her voice small and contrite. “I’m sorry I made you sad, Mother, and Father. I didn’t mean to.” She buried her face against Lady Iris’s shoulder.

Lady Iris held her daughter close, her heart aching. She saw the subdued spirit in Freya, the dimming of that bright, innocent light that had always been her greatest joy. The weight of this house, of Amelia’s presence, was already pressing down on her child. An idea, a desperate attempt to reclaim a sliver of that light, sparked in her mind.

“Freya, my love,” she said, her voice deliberately brighter. “Do you remember, back at the lake house, before we came here? You saw a lady visiting, and she was playing a beautiful golden harp in the drawing-room? The one with the angels carved on its pillar?”

Freya lifted her head, a flicker of distant memory in her crimson eyes. “The harp that sang like birds?”

Lady Iris smiled, a genuine, if fragile, expression. “The very one. And you said then, with such wide eyes, that you wished you could make music like that, so light and beautiful. Well, I was thinking… if you are still interested… perhaps we could find a tutor. Someone to come to our rooms here and teach you how to play the harp.”

Freya’s eyes widened, the clouds of guilt and sadness momentarily parting. “Really, Mother?” she breathed, a spark of her old enthusiasm igniting. “Can I really learn the harp? Here?”

“If you would like to, my darling,” Lady Iris said, glancing at Lord Alaric, who offered a small, supportive, albeit weary, nod.

“Oh, yes!” Freya exclaimed, scrambling up to hug her mother tightly. “Yes, please! I’ve been wanting to! It makes such pretty sounds, like sunshine turned into music!”

Lady Iris returned the hug, relief washing over her at the sight of Freya’s genuine delight. “Then it is settled. I shall make inquiries for a suitable tutor immediately. It will be something lovely and bright for you to learn, won’t it? A little bit of the lake house magic, right here.”

“Yes!” Freya cried, her smile radiant. “Thank you, Mother! Thank you, Father!” She snuggled back down, burying her face contentedly against Lady Iris’s shoulder once more. After a moment, she murmured sleepily, “You smell so good, Mother. Like the wildflowers in the summer, by the lake. Not like… not like the roses here.”

Lady Iris held her daughter, her own tears silently falling again, but this time, they were mingled with a fragile, determined hope. She would find every sliver of light, every note of joy, to shield her child from the encroaching darkness of the Valerius estate.