The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 192

The final, sweet notes of the harp melody lingered in the East Wing drawing-room, a fragile butterfly of sound in the usually somber air. Freya’s small fingers stilled on the strings, a pleased smile gracing her lips. Miss Thorne had praised her progress, and for the first time in what felt like an age, a genuine lightness filled her.

She excused herself from her tutor, her heart eager. Her father was home. His absence had felt strangely hollow, a quiet ache in the rhythm of their confined life. She practically skipped to their private sitting room, knocking softly before pushing the door open.

Lord Alaric stood by the window, but he turned as she entered, a weary but warm smile instantly gracing his lips. Lady Iris was on the chaise lounge, her expression taut.

“Father!” Freya exclaimed, rushing towards him. “Oh, I missed you so very much!”

He knelt, enveloping her in a hug that smelled faintly of horses and the crisp outdoor air, a scent so different from the perpetual indoor stillness of the estate. “And I missed you, my Starlight,” he murmured, his voice rumbling comfortingly against her hair. “It felt like an age.”

“It did!” Freya agreed, pulling back to beam at him, then turning her bright gaze to her mother. “Did you have a good journey? Was the magistrate very difficult?”

“All resolved, my dear, all resolved,” Lord Alaric said, rising and taking her hand. “But tell me, how are your own important affairs progressing? How was the harp lesson today?”

Freya’s crimson eyes sparkled. “Oh, it was wonderful, Father! Miss Thorne said I am playing much better. My fingers are not nearly so clumsy anymore, and I learned a new piece, all about a shepherd boy and the stars!” She paused, a new, brighter thought illuminating her face. “And Father, Mother, isn’t it truly wonderful that Sister Amelia joined us for breakfast this morning? It felt so… so complete.”

The forced smile on Lady Iris's lips twitched, the sight of Freya’s innocent joy a fresh stab of pain. Her own desperate need for Freya to understand, to see the danger, welled up, raw and urgent. She opened her mouth, the words almost escaping before she could stop them, “Freya, darling, you must understand, she is not your…”

“Iris,” Lord Alaric interjected, his voice soft but firm, his gaze meeting his wife’s with a silent plea. Freya, caught in her own enthusiasm, didn’t seem to register the exchange.

“I was thinking,” Freya continued, her voice alight with innocent hope, “when I am very, very good at the harp, perhaps even better than I am now, I could play for Sister Amelia! Music makes people happy, doesn’t it? And she looked so pleased to be with us today!”

The air in the room grew heavy. Lady Iris’s attempt at a smile faltered completely, her eyes glistening with a mixture of anguish and unshed tears. “Freya, my love…”

“She seemed so happy that I invited her, Father,” Freya pressed on, turning to him. “She said it was the first time in an age she had shared a meal with such… convivial company! That’s what she said! I want us to eat together like this always. So our family will be complete. Truly complete. Like it was at the lake house, remember? All sunny and happy.”

Lady Iris’s composure finally crumbled. A soft sob escaped her, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, turning her head away slightly. “Oh, Freya…”

“Mother?” Freya asked, her bright expression clouding with immediate concern. She left her father’s side and rushed to the chaise lounge. “Why are you crying? Are you not happy that Sister Amelia joined us? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, my sweet pea,” Lady Iris choked out, her voice thick with emotion as she pulled Freya into a tight, almost desperate hug. The pain of seeing Freya so innocently embrace the very source of their terror was a fresh agony. “It is… it is because you looked so happy, my darling. And… and Sister Amelia seemed to enjoy your company so. It made my heart… overflow.”

She buried her face in Freya's hair, the lie bitter on her tongue. Oh, my child, she thought, her heart aching with a terrible premonition. How long can this illusion of happiness last before the true Valerius shadow falls upon your innocent shoulders? I will fill her childhood with light, she vowed silently, as many as I can, so she has something beautiful and true to hold onto when the darkness inevitably comes.

Lord Alaric moved to them, his arm encircling his wife’s trembling shoulders. “Indeed, my Starlight,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion Freya couldn’t quite decipher, but which sounded like sadness. 

“Your mother is merely overcome with joy. Let us all be happy for our little princess, and her… newfound companion.” He met Iris’s tear-filled gaze over Freya’s head, a silent acknowledgment of their shared, terrifying reality, and the impossible charade they were forced to maintain.

Days passed. The heavy dread that had settled over Lord Alaric and Lady Iris after Amelia’s pronouncements did not lift, but Freya, cocooned in her innocent belief, seemed to blossom under Amelia’s feigned attention. She no longer tiptoed to the threshold of the West Wing with secret offerings. Now, after a bright, cheerful announcement to Mrs. Gable – “I’m going to visit Sister Amelia, Nanny!” – she would walk with a confident, happy stride directly into the forbidden corridors, a small, radiant figure against the oppressive gloom.

Amelia, in her vast study, would hear the light patter of approaching footsteps. What trinket, what new piece of sentimental folly does she bring today? she would muse, a strange, almost reluctant anticipation stirring within her ancient, cold heart. The girl’s unwavering, artless sincerity was a perplexing anomaly in Amelia’s long, predictable existence, a tiny, persistent spark that refused to be extinguished by fear or indifference.

This afternoon, Freya entered, Princess Aurora clutched in her arms. “Good afternoon, Sister Amelia!” she chirped, her crimson eyes bright.

Amelia looked up from an ancient map of celestial alignments, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. “Ah, Freya. And who, pray tell, is your companion today?”

“This is Princess Aurora!” Freya announced, holding the doll aloft. “She’s very brave, and very kind. Her nose is a little chipped because she once fell while rescuing a baby bird from a wicked troll’s cooking pot, but she doesn’t mind. She says it gives her character.”

Amelia’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. “Princess Aurora, you say? A most… noble name. I confess, I do not recall her from any of the royal lineages I have studied. From which kingdom does this courageous princess hail?”

Freya giggled. “Oh, she’s not from a real kingdom, Sister Amelia. Not one in your big books, I don’t think. She’s from the Land of Whispering Willows and Sparkling Streams! It’s a secret place, only very good children and kind animals can find it. Princess Aurora is the guardian of the Crystal Waterfall there, and its water can heal any sadness. She shares it with everyone, even the grumpy old badger who always complains about the noise of the waterfall.”

Amelia chuckled, a dry, rustling sound, like autumn leaves skittering across cold stone. “Heal any sadness, you say? With water from a crystal fall guarded by a princess with a chipped nose? A most… imaginative tale, child.” Her blue eyes gleamed with a disbelieving, yet strangely attentive, amusement. “Tell me, what other fantastical treasures do you possess in your sunlit world?”

“Oh, many things!” Freya said, her face earnest. “I have a stone that hums when you hold it, and a feather that fell from a griffin’s wing – Nanny says it’s just a pigeon feather, but I know it’s not – and…”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Gable watched Freya’s daily departures into the West Wing with a growing, gnawing restlessness. Each confident step Freya took towards that forbidden domain was another nail in the coffin of Mrs. Gable’s own precarious position. Her dismissal loomed, a terrifying precipice, and only a month remained. She’d noticed how happy Freya seemed, almost detached from her old Nanny now, her world increasingly revolving around this strange, new bond with Lady Amelia.

“She’s so happy with me, Nanny,” Freya had said one afternoon, emerging from the West Wing with shining eyes. “I read to her from my storybook, the one about the brave knight, and I showed her how Princess Aurora can do a special curtsy! Sister Amelia said it was… charming.”

Mrs. Gable had forced a smile. “That’s… lovely, dear.” But inside, a desperate plan was beginning to curdle, a bitter mix of fear for her future and a distorted sense of needing to prove her worth.

A few days later, Freya emerged from her harp lesson, a familiar yearning in her eyes. “Nanny,” she said, “I should very much like to find some wildflowers for Sister Amelia today. She hasn’t had any fresh ones in so long, not since before the snows. Do you think any might be blooming yet?”

Mrs. Gable’s heart gave a nervous flutter. This was it. An opportunity, however risky. “Perhaps, Miss Freya. There's that secluded stretch of the estate lake, beyond the formal rose gardens, where the grounds meet the old willow copse. Wild things often bloom there first, undisturbed.

“Oh, the lake!” Freya’s face lit up. “Yes! Let’s go there!”

As they walked, Freya skipped ahead, her gaze scanning the verges for the first signs of spring color. Mrs. Gable followed, her mind a turmoil of fear and desperate hope. If… if little Miss Freya were to slip, just near the edge of the old wooden dock… if her feet were to get wet, and if I were to bravely pull her back… Lord Alaric, Lady Iris, surely they would see how indispensable I still am.

I don’t want to hurt her, she told herself, her conscience pricking like a thorn. Oh, merciful heavens, no. Just… just a little scare. A little dampness. There’s no real harm in it. She’ll be quite alright. It’s a small thing, really, to secure my future, to keep helping my own family.  She swallowed, the lie sitting like a stone in her throat, heavy and cold.

The old lake lay grey and still under an overcast sky, its surface reflecting the skeletal branches of the winter-bare trees. The wooden dock was slick with damp moss, its planks softened and uneven with age.

“I don’t see any here, Nanny,” Freya said, her voice touched with disappointment as she peered along the muddy bank. “Perhaps further along, by those reeds?” She pointed to a patch near the far end of the rickety dock, where the structure looked particularly unstable.

“Careful now, Miss Freya,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice a little too loud, betraying her inner tension. “The wood looks slippery there. And very old. Don’t go too far.” She watched, her breath held, her heart hammering, as Freya ventured onto the dock.

Freya took a few tentative steps, her eyes scanning the reeds for any sign of color. Then, her small foot slipped on a patch of particularly slick, dark green moss. With a startled cry, she flailed, her arms windmilling uselessly as her balance deserted her. She tumbled sideways, a small, bright figure against the grey water, before disappearing with a shocking splash into the cold, dark depths.

“Nanny!” she shrieked, the icy water stealing her breath, the sudden shock a paralyzing terror.

“Miss Freya!” Mrs. Gable cried, rushing forward, her carefully constructed plan instantly dissolving into raw panic. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it. The water near the dock edge looked shallow, but Freya had gone in further out, where the bank dropped away steeply, unseen beneath the murky surface. 

The child was struggling, her head bobbing, her small hands clawing uselessly at the water, her bright red dress a stark contrast to the dark, chilling depths.

“Help me, Nanny! I can’t… I can’t touch the bottom!” Freya’s voice was panicked, choked with ingested water, her crimson eyes wide with a terror that mirrored Mrs. Gable’s own.

Mrs. Gable reached for her, leaning precariously over the dock’s edge, her own feet slipping on the treacherous moss. “Hold on, child! Take my hand!” But Freya was too far out, her frantic struggles pulling her further away from the safety of the dock, deeper into the lake’s cold embrace. 

Mrs. Gable realized with a surge of pure, unadulterated horror that the water here was deep, far deeper than she had ever imagined. Her desperate, ill-conceived plan had unraveled into a nightmare of unimaginable proportions. She couldn’t swim.

“Help!” Freya screamed again, her voice weaker now, a desperate, gurgling plea. “Please... help me!”

In the distant West Wing of the Valerius estate, Amelia stood before a towering window, her gaze fixed on the bleak winter landscape, lost in thoughts of ancient pacts and perplexing, persistent children. Suddenly, a sound, so faint it was barely a whisper on the wind, sliced through her reverie. A child’s cry. Desperate. Terrified.

Freya.

For the first time in centuries, a sensation akin to a physical blow struck her. It wasn’t a thought, not an emotion as mortals understood it. It was… a resonance. Deep within the frozen stillness of her ancient being, something stirred, like the first, hesitant beat of a heart long dormant, a primal thrumming that echoed the child’s terror. The Valerius blood. The blood bound to her, by ancient right and shadowed pact. In peril.

She moved to the window, her gaze sweeping the distant grounds with an intensity that could pierce stone. And there, a tiny, struggling speck of color in the grey expanse of the lake. Freya. Drowning.

A cold, logical assessment warred with this new, visceral urgency. The sun, though weak and filtered through cloud, was still daylight. Its touch was agony, a burning, destructive force. The lake… water held its own ancient perils for her kind, its vastness a suffocating, weakening caress. How could she possibly reach her? Both the sun and the sprawling expanse of water were anathema, barriers she could not easily cross, each a potential death.

But the faint, desperate cries continued, weaker now, tearing at that strange, new resonance within her, a frantic counterpoint to the sudden, shocking throb in her own chest. The lineage. The pact. Her potent blood… The blood that sustains the ancient agreement. The words echoed, a mantra of ancient obligation and something more, something unnamable that twisted within her.

A decision, swift and absolute, cut through centuries of ingrained caution, of self-preservation. She turned, her eyes falling on the heavy, floor-length velvet curtains that flanked the window, the color of dried blood, thick as a shroud. With a movement too fast for the eye to follow, a blur of obsidian silk and desperate resolve, she ripped one from its moorings, the ancient fabric tearing with a sound like a dying gasp.

Glass shattered, a violent explosion of sound as she launched herself from the high upper-floor window, the heavy velvet clutched around her like a desperate, makeshift shield against the hateful light. The weak winter sun touched her exposed skin, and it sizzled, an agonizing, searing pain, tendrils of acrid smoke rising as she fell through the cold air.

She hit the frozen ground, rolling, the impact jarring even her ancient frame, each contact with the sun-touched earth a fresh wave of torment. But she was up in an instant, the velvet clutched tight, a dark, desperate figure, wreathed in her own smoking torment, racing with inhuman speed across the barren lawns towards the distant, dying cries from the lake.

“Freya!” Her voice, raw and powerful, amplified by a will that defied her own agonizing pain, tore through the cold air, a promise, a command, a desperate, uncharacteristic plea that echoed across the desolate grounds.