The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 183

The following days settled into a rhythm dictated by a fragile peace. The harp lessons, promised by Lady Iris, became a beacon of anticipation for Freya, a small, bright island in the otherwise subdued landscape of her life. This morning, however, the sun blazed with an almost defiant cheerfulness, and Mrs. Gable, ever mindful of her last chance and Lord Alaric’s stern pronouncements, suggested a supervised walk in the walled garden adjoining their East Wing.

“Look, Nanny!” Freya exclaimed, her small hand pointing towards the meticulously tended beds that bordered the high stone walls. “So many roses! Just like the ones by the big house entrance. But they’re all still just red. Only red.”

Mrs. Gable, walking beside her, her gaze constantly scanning their surroundings, nodded. “Indeed, Miss Freya. A great many red roses. Your family has always been known for them, I hear tell.” She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, though there was no one else to hear. “And if you believe what some of the younger maids whisper in the kitchens, these aren’t even the reddest ones on the estate.”

Freya’s crimson eyes widened. “No? Are there even redder roses somewhere else, Nanny?”

“Well, now,” Mrs. Gable said, glancing around as if the walls themselves had ears. “Young Elsie, the one who fetched your parents the other night, bless her brave heart, she was saying she overheard Cook talking to one of the under-gardeners. And they were saying that the roses in the… the West Wing gardens, the ones no one is allowed near… well, they say those roses bloom all year round, even in the deepest winter. And they’re a red so deep it’s almost black, like velvet blood. Positively unnatural, they said.” Mrs. Gable shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the sun. “Makes you wonder what sort of soil they’ve got over there to make flowers behave so strangely, doesn’t it?”

Freya pondered this. “Maybe it’s special magic soil, Nanny. For Sister Amelia’s special flowers.”

“Perhaps it is, child. Perhaps it is.” Mrs. Gable had tried, subtly, to glean more from the other servants. She’d learned to keep an open ear during her trips to the kitchens or when fetching linens. The staff spoke in hushed tones, their conversations ceasing abruptly if she approached too directly or asked too many questions about the West Wing or its solitary, formidable occupant. They were a closed circle, bound by fear and long-held secrets.

Freya continued her slow walk along the gravel path, her gaze sweeping the manicured lawns and perfectly sculpted hedges. “Nanny,” she said after a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. “Why are there no birds singing here? At the lake house, there were so many birds. Robins, and little wrens, and the swallows that made nests under the eaves. They sang all day long. And squirrels would chatter in the trees. But here… it’s so quiet. Even the wind doesn’t seem to whisper much.”

Mrs. Gable sighed. “It is a very… formal sort of garden, Miss Freya. Perhaps the birds prefer wilder places. And this old estate… well, it has a quiet sort of air about it, doesn’t it?”

“It feels sad,” Freya stated, her voice small. “The whole house feels sad. Even the sun doesn’t feel as warm here as it did by the lake.” She stopped, her gaze distant. “Sister Amelia… when I saw her face up close, in that dark hallway… even when she was so angry with me… her eyes looked sad too, Nanny. Really, really sad. Underneath all the scariness.”

Mrs. Gable’s heart gave a small lurch. “Did they now, child?” she asked gently, surprised by Freya’s observation. She herself had only ever seen coldness or terrifying indifference in the fleeting glimpses she’d had of Lady Amelia.

“Yes,” Freya insisted. “Like a princess in a storybook who’s been locked in a tower for a hundred years and has forgotten what sunshine feels like. Maybe… maybe that’s why she can’t go out in the light. Because her illness makes her sad if she sees the sun, and it reminds her of all the happy things she can’t do.”

“Perhaps you’re right, my lamb,” Mrs. Gable said, patting Freya’s shoulder, though a shiver ran down her own spine at the thought of comparing the formidable Lady Amelia to a sad, locked-away princess. The image was disconcerting.

They rounded a bend in the path, and Freya let out a small gasp of delight. Tucked away in a less formal corner, near a crumbling section of the ancient wall where the gardeners’ strictures seemed to have loosened, was a patch of vibrant wildflowers. Bluebells, buttercups, and a few stubborn daisies pushed their way through the neatly trimmed grass, a splash of defiant, cheerful color in the otherwise monochromatic formality.

“Oh, Nanny, look!” Freya cried, her earlier melancholy forgotten. “Wildflowers! Just like the ones on the road when we first came here!” She darted towards them, her small face alight with joy. Carefully, she began to pick a small bouquet, her fingers gentle as she selected the brightest blooms. “These are much nicer than the big red roses,” she declared. “They look happy.”

Mrs. Gable watched her, a fond smile softening her features. It was moments like these, Freya’s innocent delight in simple things, that made the oppressive atmosphere of the Valerius estate almost bearable.

That night, long after the great house had fallen into its customary deep silence, Freya lay awake in her bed. The single candle on her bedside table cast flickering shadows that danced like mournful spirits on the high ceiling. Beside her, in a small cot that had been moved into Freya’s room after the West Wing incident, Mrs. Gable snored softly, a steady, reassuring rhythm.

But Freya couldn’t sleep. Her mind kept replaying her conversation with Nanny, the whispers about the ever-blooming, blood-red roses in the West Wing, and her own observation of the sadness in Amelia’s eyes. If Sister Amelia was so sick that she couldn’t even go out into the sunshine, if her own special flowers were the only ones she could see, it must be a very lonely, sad existence. And Freya had made her even angrier by letting in the horrible, painful light. The guilt, though lessened by her mother’s explanation, still pricked at her conscience.

The small bouquet of wildflowers she had picked that morning lay on her bedside table, their vibrant colors muted in the candlelight, their heads already beginning to droop. They wouldn’t last long indoors. But perhaps… perhaps Sister Amelia would like them. They were happy flowers, not like the stern, sad red roses that seemed to be everywhere else. And they were from the outside, from the sunshine. Maybe they would bring a little bit of that lost sunshine to her.

A daring, reckless idea began to form in her seven-year-old mind. She knew, with absolute certainty, that she was never, ever supposed to go near the West Wing again. Her father’s terror, her mother’s tears, Nanny’s absolute panic – it was all seared into her memory. But she wouldn’t go in. Not really. Just to the door. The secret door she had found before.

Quietly, so as not to wake Mrs. Gable, Freya slipped out of bed. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet. She picked up the now slightly wilted bouquet of wildflowers, their stems damp in her small hand. Clutching Princess Aurora in her other arm for courage, she tiptoed out of her bedroom.

The private sitting room was dark, lit only by the faint moonlight filtering through the gaps in the heavy curtains. The connecting corridor to the antechamber was even darker. Her heart began to thump a little faster, a mixture of fear and a strange, compelling sense of mission.

She reached the antechamber. The narrow doorway, the one that led to the forbidden corridor, was closed now, firmly shut. But she remembered how it opened. With trembling fingers, she found the latch. It clicked softly, and the door creaked open a fraction of an inch, releasing that same faint, cool draft carrying the scent of dust, old paper, and the distant, heavy sweetness of roses.

“I’m not going in,” she whispered to Princess Aurora, as if the doll could offer reassurance. “Just to the entrance. Just to leave the flowers. So Sister Amelia knows someone is sorry she’s sick and can’t see the sun.”

Taking a deep breath, Freya pushed the door open just enough to slip through. The corridor beyond was as dark and silent as she remembered, a yawning maw of shadows. The palpable sense of ancient, cold energy was still there, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

She didn’t dare venture far. Just a few steps, to where the oppressive gloom of the West Wing truly began. She knelt down, placing the small, wilting bouquet of wildflowers carefully on the cold stone floor, right by the threshold of the forbidden territory. They looked so small and fragile in the immense darkness.

“These are for you, Sister Amelia,” she whispered into the shadows, her voice barely audible even to herself. “They’re happy flowers. From the sunshine. I hope… I hope they make you feel a little bit better. And I’m really, really sorry about the light.”

With her mission accomplished, a wave of fear, sharp and cold, washed over her. She scrambled back through the narrow doorway, pulling it shut behind her, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. She raced back through their private rooms, her heart pounding like a trapped bird, and dove back into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Princess Aurora lay beside her, her painted eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Freya squeezed her doll tightly. She had done something forbidden, something terrifying. But a small, stubborn part of her hoped that maybe, just maybe, her sad, sick sister in the West Wing would find the flowers and understand that someone, a little girl who was also sometimes lonely in this big, sad house, was thinking of her.