The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 195

The silence in the Valerius estate, once a smothering shroud, began to fray at the edges in the weeks following Freya’s near-drowning. Mrs. Gable was gone. Elsie, the quiet diligent maid, now attended to Freya. Freya understood, with a child’s intuitive grasp of unspoken truths, that Nanny Gable would not be returning. A quiet sorrow for her absent companion settled in her heart, but it was overshadowed by a profound, almost worshipful gratitude towards the woman who had snatched her from the lake’s icy embrace.

Sister Amelia. Her savior.

Each day, Freya’s visits to the West Wing became a pilgrimage of devotion. The wildflowers, their season passed, were replaced by roses – not the stern, blood-red blooms of the formal gardens, but softer hues of pink and cream she persuaded a hesitant footman to cut from a sheltered arbor. She would carry them carefully, her small face alight with purpose, to Amelia’s grand, somber bedchamber.

“Good morning, Sister Amelia,” she would whisper, placing the roses in a crystal vase by the bedside. Amelia, still pale and recovering, would offer a faint smile, her clear blue eyes watching Freya with an unreadable intensity. “I brought you these today. Elsie says they smell like summer mornings.”

Freya would then settle beside the bed with a storybook, her voice a soft, earnest murmur as she read tales of brave knights and enchanted forests. Amelia would listen, her gaze distant, yet attentive. Sometimes, Freya would pause, looking up. “Are you feeling a little stronger today, Sister Amelia?”

“A little, child,” Amelia’s voice would be a silken whisper. “Your… company is restorative.”

As weeks turned into months, Amelia’s strength returned, and with it, a subtle shift began to permeate the ancient stones of the Valerius estate. She no longer remained confined to her bedchamber. Freya, emboldened by their shared ordeal and Amelia’s continued gentle demeanor, would often seek her out in the vast, shadowed study.

“Sister Amelia,” Freya announced one crisp autumn afternoon, now a girl of eleven, her crimson eyes bright with excitement, “Mr. Abernathy taught me a new poem today! It’s all about a star that fell in love with the moon. May I read it to you?”

Amelia, seated before her massive desk, a half-smile playing on her lips, would incline her head. “If it pleases you, little Starlight.” The old endearment, once her father’s alone, now occasionally graced Amelia’s lips, a strange, almost tender echo.

Freya would read, her voice clear and sweet, and Amelia would listen, her gaze sometimes drifting to the child’s earnest face, sometimes to the ancient tomes that surrounded them. Freya, in turn, would often peer at the strange symbols and archaic script in Amelia’s books. “What are those funny pictures, Sister Amelia? Are they a secret language?”

“Indeed, child,” Amelia might reply, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “A language of forgotten things. Perhaps, one day, you will learn to read them too.”

Then came the day Amelia appeared in the East Wing, unannounced, at lunchtime. Lord Alaric and Lady Iris froze, their polite morning greetings catching in their throats. But Freya, oblivious to their renewed terror, clapped her hands. “Sister Amelia! You came! Oh, this is wonderful! Please, sit with us!”

And Amelia, with a regal grace that still held an undertone of ancient power, had sat. The meal was stilted at first, Lord Alaric and Lady Iris exchanging nervous, sidelong glances. But Freya’s innocent chatter, her delighted questions directed at Amelia, slowly began to chip away at the oppressive tension.

“Sister Amelia, do you know why squirrels hide their nuts?” Freya asked, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Nanny Gable used to say it was because they were afraid the grumpy old badger would steal them, but Mr. Abernathy says it’s for winter!”

A sound, soft and unexpected, escaped Amelia. A chuckle. It was light, almost melodious, yet it made Lord Alaric jump. Lady Iris stared, her fork clattering softly against her plate.

“Perhaps, Freya,” Amelia said, a genuine smile crinkling the corners of her clear blue eyes, “both your Nanny and your tutor are correct. Even badgers appreciate a well-stocked larder, and squirrels are notoriously forgetful.”

Freya giggled, and the sound, so rare and precious in their wing, seemed to echo. After that, Amelia’s appearances became more frequent. Breakfasts, lunches, even the occasional quiet evening in their sitting room. The gloom of the Valerius estate didn’t vanish, but it receded, like a tide pulling back from a long-neglected shore, leaving behind small, unexpected pools of light.

“Why did the little bird bring a ladder to the library, Father?” Freya asked one afternoon during tea, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Lord Alaric, startled from his thoughts, looked at her. “I… I confess I do not know, Starlight. Why did it?”

“Because it heard the books were all high-brow!” Freya declared, dissolving into peals of laughter.

Even Amelia, seated beside her, let out a delicate, amused laugh. The sound, so human, so unexpected, made Lady Iris’s heart skip a beat.

The vast gardens, once a place of careful, supervised walks, became Freya’s playground. She would race through the manicured lawns, her laughter echoing, playing hide-and-seek. “Ready or not, here I come!” she would call to Amelia, who would often indulge her. And Amelia, with her uncanny senses, always found her. “It’s like you know where I am before I even hide, Sister Amelia!” Freya would exclaim, awestruck. Amelia would merely smile, a knowing, enigmatic look in her eyes. It was, indeed, like a premonition.

One sunny afternoon, Lord Alaric found his wife in their private sitting room. The heavy velvet curtains, for the first time in years, were drawn back, allowing shafts of warm golden light to spill onto the Persian rug. Lady Iris was laughing, a genuine, unrestrained sound, as Freya, now nearing thirteen, recounted a particularly amusing anecdote from her lessons.

“Oh, Alaric,” Lady Iris said, turning as he entered, her face flushed, her eyes bright with a happiness he hadn’t seen since before they’d left the lake house. “You missed Freya’s impression of poor Mr. Abernathy when a moth flew into his inkwell! It was… priceless!”

He smiled, a deep, relieved warmth spreading through him. “I don’t believe I’ve heard you laugh like that, my love,” he said softly, his gaze tender, “since we moved to this place.”

Later, when Freya had gone to practice her harp, Iris turned to him, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I never knew Amelia could laugh like that, Alaric. Truly laugh, like… like a human being. It’s still… unsettling, sometimes. I still feel a shiver when she looks at Freya too intently. But…” She sighed. “She seems to genuinely enjoy Freya’s company. And Freya… she adores her. If this strange companionship brings our daughter happiness, if it lessens the shadow over her… then I will play along. I will endure it.”

Lord Alaric nodded, taking her hand. “Perhaps it is for the best, Iris. Freya… she will have responsibilities, one day. The pact… it is unyielding. If she can approach that destiny not with the terror that has haunted our line, but with… some measure of understanding, perhaps even affection for Amelia… it might ease her burden. This… this strange harmony, it might be the only way to ensure she does not live her life here in fear, but with some semblance of happiness.”

Lady Iris’s smile was fragile. “I can only hope, Alaric. I can only hope.”

Years spun by, weaving a tapestry of shared moments, of laughter and stories. Freya, at sixteen, was no longer a child. She stood taller, her dark hair cascading past her shoulders, her crimson eyes holding a quiet confidence and a gentle wisdom. The estate, while still imbued with an ancient stillness, no longer felt so suffocatingly grim. The fear hadn't entirely vanished from her parents’ eyes, but it was overlaid with a cautious optimism, a fragile peace bought at the price of an uneasy alliance. Freya had spent countless hours with Amelia, reading, sharing the small discoveries of her days, her bond with the enigmatic woman in the West Wing deepening with each passing season.

One afternoon, during tea in the East Wing drawing-room – Lord Alaric cleared his throat, a hesitant but determined look on his face.

“Freya, my dear,” he began, setting down his teacup. Lady Iris looked at him, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. “Your mother and I have been discussing your future. You are… a young woman now. And it is customary, for young ladies of your station…”

“Oh, Father, please don’t say I have to learn needlepoint again!” Freya interjected, a playful groan in her voice. Mr. Abernathy had long since departed, replaced by a succession of tutors.

Lord Alaric chuckled. “No, my Starlight. Nothing so… arduous. We believe it is time for you to broaden your horizons. To experience something of the world beyond these walls. We propose that you travel to the capital, to complete your education. To study music further, perhaps, languages, the arts… to see a little of society.”

Freya’s eyes widened, a thrill of excitement dancing within them. “The capital? Truly, Father? I… I’ve never been anywhere but the lake house and here!” The prospect of seeing a bustling city, of new experiences, was intoxicating. “Will there be someone to look after me? A guardian?”

“Indeed,” Lord Alaric said. “A distant cousin of your mother’s, a respectable dowager countess, has agreed to oversee your stay. You will want for nothing.”

Amelia, who had been listening with serene attentiveness, offered a rare, approving nod. “An excellent notion, Alaric. A well-educated, cultured young woman is a credit to her lineage. The Valerius name deserves no less. It will… prepare her well.” Her clear blue eyes met Freya’s, a subtle, almost imperceptible gleam within them.

And so, the arrangements were made. Freya’s departure was set for the following week. On the morning she was due to leave, her trunks already loaded onto the waiting carriage, Freya walked with a confident stride towards the West Wing. The maids she passed curtsied low, their faces no longer quite so pale. Mr. Finch, standing sentinel at the entrance to Amelia’s domain, inclined his head with a respect that was almost… warm.

She found Amelia in her study, not bent over an ancient tome, but standing by a tall window, gazing out at the manicured grounds.

“Sister Amelia?” Freya said softly.

Amelia turned, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “Ah, Freya. Come to bid your old sister farewell, have you?”

“Yes,” Freya said, moving closer. She was almost as tall as Amelia now, her youthful beauty a vibrant counterpoint to Amelia’s timeless, ethereal grace. “I leave for the capital today. It is… very far. I will be gone for a long time, until my education is complete.” She paused, a genuine sadness in her voice. “I shall miss you terribly, Sister Amelia. You have been… the kindest, gentlest sister a girl could wish for.”

Amelia’s smile softened. She reached out, her cool fingers lightly touching Freya’s cheek. “And I shall miss your… interruptions, little Starlight. The Valerius blood runs true in you. That is why I have… indulged you.” Her laugh was soft, a private amusement.

“I shall write to you, Sister Amelia,” Freya said earnestly. “Every week! And you must promise to write back. Tell me all the news of the estate, and if the grumpy old badger is still complaining.”

Amelia chuckled. “Still bothering me, even from the capital, are you? I had hoped, once my little sister was grown, my peace might finally be restored.”

Freya smiled, then stepped closer, taking Amelia’s slender, cool hand in her own. Her crimson eyes, so like her father’s, yet holding a unique light, met Amelia’s clear blue ones. 

“Sister Amelia,” she said, her voice filled with a profound, heartfelt gratitude. “I wanted to thank you. Truly. When I first came to this house, it felt so… sad. Father was always worried, and Mother cried so often. But then… then you opened up your heart to us, to me. And everything changed. You helped make us a wonderfully happy family. I will never forget that.”

Amelia’s smile wavered for the briefest of moments, an almost imperceptible tightening around her lips, before it reformed, serene and gentle. “The happiness of this family… is of great importance, Freya.”

“Before I go,” Freya said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes dancing, “I have a secret to tell you, Sister Amelia.”

Amelia’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. A faint, condescending amusement touched her lips. “A secret, child? I doubt there is a secret within these ancient walls that I am not privy to. The very stones whisper to me.”

Freya leaned closer, her warm breath stirring the air near Amelia’s ear. “I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet each word clear and sharp as a shard of ice, “that you are not my sister.”

Amelia froze. The gentle smile vanished, her beautiful face becoming a mask of utter stillness. The air in the vast study seemed to crackle, the temperature plummeting. For the first time in centuries, genuine, unadulterated surprise – and something far colder, far darker – flared in her luminous blue eyes. They narrowed, darkening to the stormy hue of a winter ocean.