“Mistress, it is best we attend to our tour of the house. There is much to see and Madame Elestren will demand your presence at dinner this evening. And perhaps a constitutional around the gardens will relieve some of your anxieties.” Camellia whisked me from my contemplations as she appeared with a pair of freshly shined shoes. “Your shoes did not suit Madame Elestren’s tastes. She had these sent this morning.” 

I claimed the shoes with a frown. “An ounce of familiarity might resolve more of my anxiety in a place simultaneously new and ancient.”

 I perched at the edge of the bed to fasten the buckles. With my feet encased I surmised I would be nursing blisters by the end of the day. Still, I straightened the wrinkles from my skirts and rose to follow the maid to the door. 

As I did so another thought crossed to the night before. “How is it again that you alone managed to see me to the bed?”

Camellia was ready with an answer as if she had been expecting to be asked for quite some time. “You said you felt dizzy. I helped you into your night clothes. I merely had to guide you to the bed before you were sound asleep. I am sure you thought most of it a dream.”

My nod shook the visions as they swept my mind. I had no desire to recall any of the dreams I had thus far experienced in Yarrow Hart. 

Camellia urged us to the door, keys dancing in her grasp, as I scanned the rooms for lingering villains in the shadows. Each passing moment left me sensitive to the unique hazards of Yarrow Hart.

I had expected to find the hallways a buzz of servants and members of the Hadowen clan. To the contrary, the wing through which we traveled was silent save for the clack from the heels of our shoes. Sconced luminaries provided light at intervals. Curiosity briefly quelled my fears as I wondered at the bulbs set within metal tubes. 

“Electricity?” I mused.

Their flickering held a strong resemblance to candle flames, and for all the light they provided along the near windowless corridor they might as well have been oil or tapers.  

“Mistress?” Camellia cast a glance over her shoulder.

“I had not noticed last night as we made our way. The house, it uses electric lighting.” My smile at this discovery was genuine.

“Yes, it is quite fascinating.” Camellia continued, amusement equal in her tone.

“It is a surprising advancement. How long since the conversion?” Even as the question left my lips I accepted the likelihood that I would not receive a satisfactory answer.

“I cannot remember precisely, Mistress. Since my childhood, though at the least. I recall the mess it made when they put in the lines and wires.” Camellia’s reply was notable in its depth, yet her next words gave me pause. 

The maid ceased her steps to rest a hand close to the walls. “The workmen did terrible things to the roses. Such a mess, they made.”

“I would have assumed as much.” I claimed the pause in our journey to sweep a gaze at the myriad rows of sconces.

“But our blooms grew back.” Camellia’s fingertips offered the softest caress to the nearest cluster of blossoms embossed upon the paper.

My first thought that her comment referring to the chaos made by tearing through walls was shattered by the reference to blooms growing back turned to the vines outside. Certainly they too had been trampled by the many workmen it would have taken to complete such a massive undertaking.

At once I hoped to catch the woman in what must have been a falsehood from the night before. “Did your father mention that in one of his letters?” 

Camellia’s pace remained steady. “I am sorry, mistress, I do not understand.”  

“You said you had never seen the roses in the front gardens. So how would you know the workmen trampled them, or that they had grown back? Unless your father made mention of it in letters to you.” I conveyed a wry smile at the back of Camellia’s head.

“No mistress, I was referring to the roses within the house. Please forgive the confusion.” Camellia resumed her pace.

My own breath caught in spite of the profile of the maid’s sweet smile. 

As if stung, Camellia drew back her hand and her march resumed at a quickened pace. 

Taking in the juxtaposition of word and action, my urge to follow the maid faltered. I eyed the pattern commanding the surrounding walls. A wave of recognition crashed with sinister familiarity, and a fear renewed at being alone in this hall of creepy vines.

We progressed along the labyrinth, disorientation mulling disquiet as our location became a dizzying quandary. The lack of windows made it increasingly impossible to peer how far we had traveled from my rooms or design on which floor we commuted.

After what seemed an age, a breath of relief sighed upon me as a sound other than our footfalls tapped my senses. Our wandering curved us down the throat of yet another hallway, drawing near the echo of voices. 

The bouts of linguistic outburst were accented with a sharp rasp of metal on metal. 

Camellia drew abreast of the doors where the sounds were most audible. The maid continued on, and may well have increased her pace, as if keen to pass. 

I however paused. 

Had the doors not burst open with the laughter of two masked gentlemen spilling free, I might have been forced to follow the determined clip Camellia assumed.

“Magareen!” Joram’s jovial voice emitted from behind the facade of a fencer’s mask.

My newly acquainted cousin flipped his mask to reveal a giddy face, his unmistakable tumble of blonde curls clinging damp to flushed temples. Joram’s other arm shot from his side to wrap my shoulders in a surprisingly familial embrace. The act left me careful to avoid the epee blade dangling from his languid grip.

“It is lovely to see you, Joram.” Though his affection and boldness of physical embrace shocked me, I indeed did feel a gratitude at meeting an affable being.  

Joram released me with such abruptness of movement I instinctively sought the source of his action. 

Upon the sight of Camellia’s glare the cause was clear. I had until that moment considered Camellia an otherwise wilting flower. It was at once abundantly obvious how mistaken my assumption had been.

A blue grey fire flared in the orbs of the maid’s wide eyes.

Joram tucked the sword in the crook of his arm and relinquished his greeting to that of a curtly executed bow to both myself and Camellia.  

“Mistress Magareen, Camellia, I hope you find this day as well as it finds you.” As Joram released himself from the fold of his greeting he leaned ever so slightly in my direction. “You were missed at dinner, cousin. And I had so looked forward to conversing again with you.”

Camellia stepped into the exchange with the speed of a wasp on the wing. “The Mistress Magareen was weary from her journey, Master Joram. I am certain you understand having experienced the same malaise in your first season.”

At this Joram’s associate cleared his throat causing our triad to pivot attention as if synchronized.

“Well, it appears I am dropping manners here and there this morning.” Joram cast a wave in the direction of a slightly taller gentleman. 

The youth tipped his epee upon the toe of his boot as he studied just beyond our gathering. He removed his mask to reveal a dishevelment of white blonde tresses. 

“Mistress Magareen, may I introduce Sir Calix Florizel.” A shift in Joram’s eyes was more than enough for me to receive the subtle message concerning my cousin’s affection for the man.

“It is a pleasure, Sir.” I extended a brief curtsy. “Another Hadowen am I to assume.” I remarked, though not unkindly. 

I noted how the young man’s pale hair fell in silken waves as he bowed. In an elegant sweep, and a closure of space that caused me to recall the movements of my cottage maid, Lilly, this new acquaintance was in our circle.

My hand was caught in a gentle yet firm clasp of Sir Calix Florizel’s slender fingers. An act that caused an involuntary shudder to dance through me as his pale eyes locked with mine. With the grace of a saint the young man bent to rest a devilish caress across my knuckles. My fingertips slid languidly over his as he released me.

I may have once prided myself on my ability to ignore the wiles of men, though circumstance allowed little practice, I did my level best to ignore the electrical reverberation of Calix’s touch that scurried my spine.  

“Be not ashamed, Mistress Magareen, it is a practiced gift.” Sir Calix of Florizel displayed a wolfish grin as he straightened.

He allowed the space between us to return.

“There are many skills to be cultivated here in the family’s great estate of Yarrow Hart.” Calix’s diabolic smile seemed as natural as breath. “Our dear Joram should heed my advice and follow into my more favored wings of the house. I daresay he would enjoy his days as a single gentleman far more.”

A short cough of a laugh raised my attention to Joram. “True enough, Sir Calix here may well be the sole reason for the bachelorhood you so boldly brought to attention in our journey.” 

The fleeting of a peccant glare was not entirely concealed by Joram’s jest.

“This is not the sort of conversation gentlemen would be holding in the presence of a lady equal in their rank.” Camellia seemingly found her senses to play a role as chaperone as she scorned the pair.

“The good maid is correct,” Calix slipped around Joram.

In again a span of less than a gasp Calix pressed his stature to his advantage, thrusting himself face to face with Camellia.  

My gaze darted for the maid, surprised to see her demeanor shift to vapid placidity as she averted her eyes from that of the young Sir who towered a head taller. 

“Indeed she is,” Joram sidled into the narrow gap between Calix and Camellia, easing the maid aside, “And, Calix, I believe today we recognized where I am able to best you. Perhaps you would care to have another round, for the sake of such a lovely audience.”

“Indeed, cousin.'' Though his words were directed to Joram, Sir Calix’s eyes glinted upon me.

Taking Camellia’s lead I assayed to avoid being taken by Sir Calix’s gaze. 

“The mistress thanks you for your invitation, Sir, but we must decline.” I found myself impressed by the sudden strength in Camellia’s tone and posture. “The mistress has a heavy schedule this day, perhaps-”

Calix’s gaze halted the maid mid sentence. With the grace of a raptorial bird dropping upon its prey, Sir Calix rested a hand on Camellia’s arm. “Only a short while. Is that what you were about to say?”

The air in the hallway felt suddenly thick, heavy. I watched in guarded wonder as Camellia drooped under the weight of it. 

It was Joram’s voice that drew my attention from this alarming feat. 

“After a quick lesson, Magareen, you might like to try your hand at the game.” Joram offered his arm to guide me into the room.

“Fencing?” My brows raised at the mere suggestion of the sport.

“Have you tried?” Joram’s tone murmured that he remember manners, if only in jest.

“No.” I sought Camellia’s retreating form.

“Mistress Magareen,” Her voice urged though momentary freedom from Sir Calix’s spell. “We have much to attend to.”

“Fear not dear maid.” Calix danced a hand to the small of Camellia’s back. His other curved to her jaw, as his eyes captured her again. “We will not keep your mistress long.” 

Calix drew their bodies close at the hip. Camellia slackened into the gesture. Calix swept them through the doorway in an unctuous waltz. 

I confess an exquisite nature to this cousin’s cunning, a genius to his power over women. I desired to see more, as long as I was not captivated as his thrall.