The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 194

The heavy oak door of their private wing creaked open, announcing Lord Alaric Valerius’s return. He was a silhouette against the muted gloom of the main house corridor, his usual brisk stride hampered by a weariness that clung to him like the ever-present chill of the estate. His left arm was conspicuously bound in a crisp linen bandage.

He found Lady Iris in Freya’s bedchamber, seated on a small chair beside her daughter’s bed. The single candle on the nightstand cast long, dancing shadows, illuminating the pale oval of Iris’s face, etched with lines of profound exhaustion and lingering fear.

“Iris?” he murmured, his voice low, gravelly. “How is she? Our Freya?”

Lady Iris looked up, her violet-crimson eyes wide and dark in the dim light. “Alaric! You’re back. Oh, thank the heavens.” She rose, her movements stiff. “She is… she is sleeping now. The physician gave her a mild calming draught. He said she suffered no lasting physical harm, only the shock and the cold. He was more concerned about… well, you know.” Her gaze flickered with an unspoken dread, the memory of Amelia’s fury, of Freya’s near-drowning, still a raw wound.

Lord Alaric nodded, his own crimson eyes moving to the small, still form in the bed. He approached quietly, his boots making little sound on the thick carpet. Freya lay curled on her side, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, her breathing soft and even. He reached out a trembling hand, his uninjured one, and gently brushed a stray curl from her forehead. Her skin felt cool, but not alarmingly so.

At his touch, Freya stirred. Her eyelids opened, revealing eyes still clouded with sleep and the shadows of recent terror. “Father?” she whispered, her voice small and hoarse. She pushed herself up slightly. Then, her gaze sharpened with a sudden, urgent memory. “Father… Sister Amelia! How is she? I… I heard her screaming when she… when she pulled me from the water. It sounded like she was in so much pain.”

Lord Alaric’s expression softened, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. The raw agony in Amelia’s voice as the sun had seared her, even through the makeshift velvet shroud, echoed in his own memory. “She is… recovering, my Starlight. She is very strong. But yes, she was… she was injured in saving you.”

Tears welled in Freya’s eyes, spilling onto her pale cheeks. “Oh, Father, it’s all my fault! I was so foolish to go on that slippery dock. Nanny told me not to, but I didn’t listen properly. And now Sister Amelia is hurt because of me!” She began to sob, small, heartbroken sounds that tore at her parents’ already frayed nerves. “I have to tell her I’m sorry! I have to see her and say I’m sorry!” She tried to push the covers back, intending to get out of bed, her small body trembling with guilt and distress.

“No, Freya, my love, not now,” Lady Iris said quickly, moving to her side, gently easing her back against the pillows. Her own voice was strained, laced with a fear Freya couldn’t comprehend. “Sister Amelia needs to rest, my darling. She is… she is recovering, just as your father said. You mustn’t disturb her. Truly, it would not be good for her now.”

“But I need to apologize!” Freya insisted, her small face crumpled with guilt and distress. “She saved my life, didn’t she? Even though I made her so angry before, with the light. She still saved me! I have to tell her.”

“She did, my brave girl,” Lord Alaric said, his voice thick with emotion. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking her small hand in his. “And the best way you can help her now is to rest yourself, to get strong again. When she is well enough, perhaps then you can tell her. But for now, sleep is what you both need.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, my little Starlight, and recover.” He reached for the worn wooden doll lying beside her pillow and gently tucked Princess Aurora under the covers, nestled beside Freya.

Freya’s sobs subsided into sniffles. She looked from her father to her mother, her crimson eyes still troubled. “Where… where is Mrs. Gable, Father? Is she very angry with me too? For not listening?”

Lord Alaric’s face remained carefully neutral, but a profound silence answered her question. He said nothing, merely stroked her hair again, his touch gentle but his eyes distant.

Freya’s lower lip trembled. She looked down at Princess Aurora, then back at her father’s unreadable expression. Nanny hadn’t come to see me. Nanny was always there when I woke up from a bad dream or felt unwell. A cold understanding, too heavy for her ten years, began to settle in her heart. Mrs. Gable must be in very, very big trouble now. Because of me. She hugged Princess Aurora tightly, burying her face against the doll’s yarn hair, and closed her eyes, trying to will herself back to sleep, though her mind whirled with guilt and a new, unspoken worry for her absent nanny.

Once Freya’s breathing had deepened into the rhythm of sleep, Lord Alaric rose quietly. He gestured for Iris to follow him, and they slipped out of the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind them.

In the dim corridor, under the watchful, painted eyes of a long-dead Valerius ancestor whose stern gaze seemed to follow their every move, Lady Iris finally turned to her husband, her gaze fixed on his bandaged arm. “Alaric, your arm! What happened? The physician said nothing of you being injured when he saw Freya.”

He avoided her eyes. They walked towards their private sitting room, the silence between them thick with unspoken fears. Once inside, with the door shut against the oppressive quiet of the estate, Lord Alaric spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, though there was no one to overhear. “Iris… Amelia is gravely weakened. The sunlight, even as weak as it was… it did severe damage. And the effort of… of what she did… it has taken a terrible toll.” He paused, the next words seeming to cost him dearly, each syllable a leaden weight. “She requires sustenance to recover. Valerius blood. Our blood.”

Iris stared at him, her hand flying to her throat, her eyes wide with a horrified disbelief. “No,” she breathed, the word a mere exhalation of air. “Alaric, no. You… you haven’t… not already?”

“I have had to, Iris,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, the tone of a man reciting a grim, unalterable fact. “Just now. Before coming to you. She is in a precarious state. The pact is clear. The lineage provides, when required, for her… well-being.”

“But Alaric,” Iris whispered, her voice cracking, a desperate, wild hope flaring in her eyes like a dying ember fanned by a sudden gust. “If she is so weak… perhaps… perhaps this is it. Perhaps she might… fade. And we… we would be free. Truly free. The pact would die with her. Freya would be free!” The words tumbled out, a torrent of forbidden desire and agonizing hope, a lifetime of fear and oppression seeking an impossible release.

Lord Alaric looked at his wife, at the raw hunger for liberation etched on her face, and his own heart twisted with a shared, yet impossible, yearning. “Iris,” he said gently, taking her trembling hands, his own grip unsteady. “She saved Freya’s life. Our daughter would have drowned in that lake. She would be gone. Amelia, whatever else she is, whatever else she has done or might do… she saved our only child when no one else could.”

The fight seemed to drain from Iris, her shoulders slumping as the terrible, undeniable truth of his words extinguished her desperate hope. “Yes,” she whispered, tears beginning to trace shimmering paths down her pale cheeks. “Yes, you are right. She saved Freya.” She clung to his hands, her body shaking. “But the price, Alaric… the price is always so high with her. Always.”

He pulled her into his embrace, holding her tightly as she wept against his chest. “I know, my love. I know.” He stroked her hair, offering what little comfort he could in their gilded cage, a cage whose bars seemed to grow stronger, more unyielding, with every passing year.

After a moment, Iris drew back slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “What… what of Mrs. Gable, Alaric? Freya asked for her. She is nowhere to be found. Did you…?”

“She is gone, Iris,” he said, his voice grim. “Fled, it seems. Finch reported her rooms empty just a short while ago, after the… commotion at the lake settled. Her belongings gone. She must have panicked, fearing the consequences of her… catastrophic misjudgment.”

“Fled?” Iris repeated, a new worry dawning in her eyes. “But Alaric, she knows so much… about this house, about us, about… Amelia. If she were to speak…”

“I have already dispatched men I trust, discreetly,” Lord Alaric said, his jaw tightening, a cold resolve in his crimson eyes. “They will find her. And they will ensure her silence, one way or another. She will not speak of Valerius affairs to anyone. I will make certain of it.” The implication was chilling, but in this house of shadows and ancient pacts, such measures were a grim necessity.

He looked at his wife, his own weariness profound. “I will have to… attend to Amelia again this evening. And likely for some days to come. Providing what she needs.” He didn’t elaborate on the draining ritual, the coldness of Amelia’s touch as she fed, the creeping weakness that followed each offering.

A shadow passed over Lady Iris's face, and she closed her eyes briefly, a weary acknowledgment of the unyielding demands of their cursed existence.

Days passed. Freya, watched over by a quiet, diligent Elsie, recovered her strength, though a shadow of guilt still clung to her like a second skin. She spoke often and with growing urgency of “Sister Amelia,” her concern genuine, her desire to thank her savior becoming an almost obsessive focus.

“Mother, please,” she begged one afternoon, clutching a small, carefully arranged bouquet of early spring roses she had persuaded a footman to cut for her – the wildflowers were still scarce after the long winter, their cheerful rebellion muted by the lingering chill. “I must see Sister Amelia. I must tell her how sorry I am, and how grateful. She was so brave for me. Elsie says she is taking broth now! That must mean she is getting better!”

Lady Iris hesitated, her heart twisting at the innocent adoration shining in Freya’s eyes. Denying her felt cruel, yet the thought of Freya near Amelia, even a weakened Amelia, sent shivers of apprehension down her spine. “Freya, darling, she is still very weak…”

“But Father has been visiting her, hasn’t he?” Freya persisted, her crimson eyes pleading, her small voice filled with an unshakeable conviction. “If he can see her, surely I can, just for a moment? She saved my life, Mother. I have to thank her.”

Lady Iris looked at her daughter, then at Lord Alaric, who had entered the room, his face pale but resolute. He met her gaze, a silent, weary acknowledgment passing between them. He knew, as Iris did, that denying Freya this would only deepen the mystery.

The next afternoon, Lord Alaric took Freya’s small hand. “Come, Starlight,” he said, his voice gentle, though his heart felt like a leaden weight in his chest. “We will visit… Amelia.”

He led her through the silent, oppressive corridors to the West Wing. The air grew colder with each step, the shadows deeper, seeming to cling to them like grasping fingers. At the door to Amelia’s bedchamber – a room Freya had never seen, even more grand and somber than her study – he paused. Mr. Finch stood guard, his face an impassive mask of grey stone. He merely inclined his head, a silent, almost imperceptible gesture, and opened the door.

Freya stepped inside, clutching her roses, her small figure dwarfed by the immensity of the room. It was vast, dominated by a massive, four-poster bed draped in heavy, dark velvet that seemed to absorb all light. And there, lying amongst a profusion of silken pillows, her golden hair spread out like a sunburst against the dark fabric, was Amelia.

Her face was pale, almost translucent, but her breathing was even, her expression serene, peaceful. To Freya’s innocent eyes, Amelia was like a beautiful, ethereal princess in an enchanted sleep.

Tears welled in Freya’s eyes. She tiptoed closer, her father a silent, watchful presence just inside the doorway. “Sister Amelia?” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion as she reached the bedside. “Sister Amelia, please wake up. It’s me, Freya.”

Amelia remained still, her eyelids gently closed, the only sign of life the faint rise and fall of the silken coverlet over her chest.

“Oh, Sister Amelia,” Freya cried softly, tears streaming down her face now, glistening in the dim, filtered light from the heavily curtained windows. She laid the roses carefully on the silken coverlet beside Amelia’s still, pale hand. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry for being foolish and going on the dock. It’s all my fault you got hurt.” Her voice trembled with guilt. “But thank you. Thank you for saving me. You were so brave. I… I don’t want to lose you, Sister Amelia. I want you to get better so we can… so we can play together. I’ll play with you forever if you like, I promise! Just… please wake up.”

A very faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Amelia’s pale lips. Her eyelids did not move, but her voice, when it came, was a soft, silken whisper, barely audible in the vast, silent room, a sound like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten tomb.

“Will you, Freya?”