The Criswell's Curse

Time had passed by rather quickly. Ivy was already working, even though her finger remained covered with bandages. But things were different.

The maids respected me, some even feared me. The more courageous ones provided me with information I hadn’t even asked, talking with each other loudly enough for me to hear. They were truly wicked yet smart creatures.

“Milady, His Grace is ready to meet you.” Olivia entered my chambers while carrying a small bottle of perfume in her hands. Quickly, she sprinkled some of its essence on my neck before I left the room.

The tea party was tomorrow, and everything had gone according to plan. Patricia had done her job, just like her father. All that was left for me to do was to simply show up, and their futures would be secured - or so they thought.

Strolling down the hall, I noticed an individual with his head hanging low, back curled like a ball, feet lumping on the floor, body swinging side to side as if his figure stood on the middle of a tempestuous ocean. He peeked, attempting to see where he was going.

“I see you have recovered.”

Gilbert simply stared at me in silence, with his bloodlust eyes. He swallowed harshly and forced a smile to appear. “Yes, milady, I am indeed feeling better.”

Slowly, he tried to bow, but I grabbed his shoulders with my hands, pushing them upwards. A kind smile rested on my lips. “Please, there’s no need to push yourself so much.”

His dumbfounded expression lingered for a handful of minutes before he proudly snorted. “I shall take my leave then.”

Almost instantly, he dashed towards the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hall. I glared at my hands, the same pieces of skin that touched his filthy body - and yet, satisfaction flew through my veins. Seeing him cry, hearing him beg like a kid, becoming a complete disgrace, had been enough to expel all the fear left in me.

“Come in.” The Duke commanded after hearing me knock outside of his room.

Inside, his figure sat on the couch as his slender fingers held a warm-colored teacup, clearly holding pipping hot coffee within.

“Thank you for having me, Duke.” I bobbed my head.

“Ophelia, dear... please, call me Father.”

“Forgive me, Father.”

“No, no... I’m the one who should ask for your forgiveness.” He coughed slightly as my body sunk into the divan in front of him. “I have been too busy... I didn’t even get to ask about meeting with my son. Did you enjoy it?”

My muscles stiffened, forcing me to hold the teacup in mid-air. I knew Edgar hadn’t invited me simply to chit-chat. He had ulterior motives, wanting to know more about how our relation was moving.

“It was pleasant, even though it was too short.” I painfully smiled. Acting like a desolate maiden was easy, and that was exactly what his soul yearned to hear.

Terrel now knew how much my being loathed his, everything about him. There was no relationship between us, besides a strange competition of hatred and lust. Even then, Edgar couldn’t know we were walking on pins and needles. He needed to believe we were fine – as in his eyes, we should be two love birds, yearning to be approved by God in holy matrimony.

“I see... I am truly glad.” His thumb caressed the cup gently, as the Duke tried his best to hide away his conflicted yet pained feelings. “Ever since he was an infant, Terrel was a complicated child, but I hoped someone would accept that side of him, perhaps even change him for the better.”

A sudden sense of guilt embraced me knowing full well such dreams weren’t going to come true as the apple of his eyes would die by my bare hands.

When he knows of it, how will he react? Will he want vengeance? Will he send me to prison, execute me in the public square?

“I understand. I will do my best.” A blunt lie.

I wouldn’t try to fix him, to make him a better man. No, that was a foolish dream from a blind human, from a father filled with illusions having lost touch with reality. The moment Terrel placed foot on this estate, he’d die and not a bone in my body would hesitate to do so. That was a resolve that wouldn’t waver for silly emotions like compassion or care.

“Are you prepared for your party tomorrow?” Rather satisfied, he changed the subject, hoping to ease the mood of the conversation.

“Of course, Father.” I drank a bit of the tea as my being was still far too young to attempt drinking coffee. “Will you be able to attend?”

“I will try, child.” His voice was low, slightly disappointed.

He seemed tired. His eye bags had become bigger, darker. His hair was longer, clearly not cut for a handful of weeks. Even his attire was slightly messy as his collar wasn’t closed to its upper area, opening right at the middle of his chest, allowing some of his white hairs to peek. Some red rivers found their way onto the chocolate iris in his eyes as his skin hanged even lower than usual.

He must be having a tough time with the mercenaries...

I don’t recall when it started, but other noblemen and their paid robbers heavily assaulted the mines owned by the Wharton’s, taking a great percentage of their loot. This problem lasted for years, being solved by Terrel only a few months prior to my death. Somehow these daily occurrences stopped, and profit emerged rapidly, like magic.

My mind kept on trying to remember Terrel’s words, his conversations with the servants who would visit us in the cellar. But I couldn’t. Their voices were too far away, muffled by the sound of the horse’s neigh, who rested right outside of that alcoholic paradise.

Noticing my thoughts were lost somewhere far away from his study room, Edgar got up and patted my head gently. “It is getting late. You should get ready for dinner.”