Days were met with schedules and matters of Hadowen business. As this was my first season, it grew apparent that Joram, and the others had far more responsibility, and that whatever potential for a budding friendship might have existed was nipped by enterprise of rank. I could not be certain if it was due to gender or novice level within the echelon, but much of the time Joram and Calix seemed to entertain more amusements; and kept far deeper secrets. The mirth of Master Fiorello mutated to disguise deeper thoughts. His absences were a hermitage to some depths of the mansion I had yet to explore. Professeur Rhodes had from the onset hidden not at all the disdain he harbored for me. This did not change even as his eyes grew increasingly watchful of my movements. And though he shadowed me more often than the others, overall the men of Yarrow Hart stood elusive. The master of this act was by a stretch the Master of the Hart himself. Ever promised, though never fruiting were the portends of our meeting. To this I had begun to wonder if the man even existed. Were it not for the strange nocturnal visions and visitations, I would by now have thought him a phantasm of the Hadowen mythos.

Instead I was left primarily in the company of my fairer cousins, Jessamine and Lady Azalea. It is beyond my ability to convey the dullness of this arrangement. Though, it could be confessed that I dared less to pass time alone in the sprawl of the estate. This freedom of time graciously allowed observation and study of members of the house.

Beyond the relative safety of my personal rooms, even in the company of Camelia, I feared I would have lost my way on multiple occasions had I not been caught up by one of the young women. Equally so, in observance of the pair, I developed a newfound bravery. Hadowen women were as stalwart as their bodies were fair. From Elestren to Camelia, now Jessamine and Azalea, a power coursed delicate fingers and features. 

I saw it now as Jessamine traced a tendriled digit along a shelf of cylinders. It had been by mere chance that I collected both Jessamine and Azalea in my most current venture to the library. Regret at this kismet collected as minutes pooled the hours. 

“What did our Mistress Magareen do all these years for diversions in a place so drab as the northern counties?” Lady Jessamine espoused a whine. Her eyes never turned to me as she spoke instead to the rows of shelves. 

It had been thus from that first dinner. Jessamine asked about me rather than to me in a way one might play in conversation with an animal or infant.

“Come now Jessamine, there are all manner of exploits to be had in the high country.” Lady Azalea leaned upon her hands, her languid form draping the curves of a lounge. “Most in weeds and marshes.”

Resting the Histories of Yarrow Hart fully on my lap I offered a wan smile from my position in a high backed chair. “In truth I ventured only as far as the clearings surrounding the cottage for my experience of the wild outdoors.”

“I should have guessed you too delicate for riding.” The roll of Lady Azalea’s eyes carried to her limbs.

She expanded like some great supine cat across the couch, the cascading satin of her dress shifting like a great dark wave.

“Well, then what about indoor amusements?” Lady Jessamine slid a cylinder from the ranks upon the shelf. “Even the high country has dinners and festivals, does it not?”

“Aunt Ama and her associates often hosted dinners, even in the depths of winter.” Any remaining response that may have lingered on my tongue was silenced by a curiosity at Lady Jessamine’s actions.

Jessamine swept to the far reach of the drawing room. Attached to the library, the doors between the rooms were open. As both were occupied this seemed to satisfy the bending of the locked door policy. Jessamine paused to unlock a cabinet. This revealed a curious device and a glint of brass behind the doors. Toothed gears and scrolled levers lay like a dormant beast. Her delicate fingers adjusted an ornate brass horn, which opened like a great metallic lily atop the dark furnishing. 

Pleased with her adjustments Lady Jessamine returned her attention to the cylinder tucked like a doll in the crook of her arm. From the cylinder she slipped the paper sleeve. With precision of a practiced hand, she propped the canister into the mouth of the cabinet. Jessamine straightened to wind the intricate arm protruding from the cabinet. She dropped a lever into place with an audible click to set the bizarre machination whirring to life. 

A hiss akin to a snake churned into a murmuring chorus that I assumed to consider music.

Jessamine dropped unceremoniously in the armed chair beside mine. “Marvelous isn’t it. One of Master Fiorello’s many toys.”

“Stolen toys.” Lady Azalea decried from across the room.

Jessamine’s face contorted. “Nonsense! Master Fiorello is a brilliant inventor.”

“Oh, of this there is no doubt. But devices as benign as this are not his fancy.” A tone of maleficence painted Azalea’s words. “His machinations are far more monstrous.”

The wicked glint in Azalea’s eyes baited curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Hush!” Lady Jessamine struck her lips with a reprimanding finger. “This is my favorite part.”

In the thrall of the melody murmuring and burbling from the device Jessamine closed her eyes, even as Lady Azalea rolled her own eyes in admonishment of such dramatic display. 

Dissuaded from the bold and vivid histories I had most recently unbound I too allowed the tune to lure the fullness of my attention. 

Not wanting to dog-ear the delicate pages of the ancient book, I pulled free a wide ribbon Camellia used to contain my hair that morning. Boredom, confinement, and lithe hands proffered ever more elaborate stylings in scarlet ribbon and curl. The release of the confinement sent a cascade of tangled waves over my shoulders. 

I slid the ribbon into the crease of the binding and smoothed the pages closed with the weight of the book. I heaved the tome to the center of the broad oak table to stretch. 

Too many roses, I caressed my fingers over the tooled surface of the leather, too many roses, too many Hadowen, too few answers. 

I released a resigned sigh to lower into a chair closer to the musical machine. My hair pillowed against the uneven hills and valleys of carved roses as the chair’s design pressed the intricate image against my skull. 

“Too many roses,” My musing added lyric to melodic drone of Jessamine’s selection.

Weary eyes followed thorny tendrils snaking and knotted where ceiling met wall. Since arriving at Yarrow Heart, I felt I had counted every rose. All else faded, details blurred, still the roses held hue like a freshly open wound. I paused on each pulsing note to consider crimson designs burning with inner fire after years. They surely had seen a fair century. 

Did those dwelling in the sprawling mansion have neither time nor sense to question the detail? Curiosity and awe lingered, as I reclined into the company of stranger relations, and strange music. Fading. How long had I been in these twisting halls? I stared at pale hands resting in surreal folds of satin. I had worn no other hue. My crinoline rustled as clenched fingers found it’s depth beneath the layer of luminous satin. Camellia set out attire the same sanguine colour as the roses. A novelty I assumed would wear after a time. A month? So long - and yet it felt at Yarrow Hart not so much. 

Notes continued like silk over flesh. 

My mind wandered to Joram. A jest, I assured dancing thoughts. Joram stated the house would drive one mad. A jape. But the cylinder clicked and turned my mind. It wound hours into weeks. Shook ill feelings, replacing each due adjustment to new surroundings, life, and loss of familiarity.

At the rear of the library the chime of a grandfather clock announced the hour. It’s vibrato rippled twin mirrors flanking it. Shattered was the spell of the music. My breath caught. I straightened in the chair. 

Evening had grown and I had spent far more time in the library than intended. 

My mind and gaze wandered to the doors of the drawing room, now closed. In agled hues of stained glass roses a murmuration of silhouettes shifted. 

Free of music and banter I moved for the doors. My hand pressed the lever of the handle and a moment of anxiety roiled my better senses. I imagined myself trapped in a jewel box prison. 

“Allow me.” Azalea appeared at my side, loop of keys in hand. “I know it’s your first season, but you must learn to open doors on your own if you are going to explore further.”

“Thank you.” My hand lowered the lever.

“Where are you off to?” Lady Jessamine’s calls chased. “My music too much for Boughwin ears?”

Her words shattered as some greater force pulled me from the confines of the rooms.

I discovered Joram in the hall not more than a turn from the library. I captured composure in a breath of observance. My cousin stood among a gathering of staff or Hadowen of caliber. Conspiratorial hues colored the cluster. They appeared waiting for a signal or cue with whispered conversation pooling at the bend in the hallway, denying me the grace of their secrets.  

“Master Joram.” My manner distinguished though desperation to connect ebbed my will onward.

Camellia’s appearance granted only a weak appeal to more sensible directives. “Mistress Magareen, I was unaware you had completed your studies in the library.”

It made no difference if the maid had succeeded in turning my attention fully. 

The forestallment of Camellia’s appearance honored Joram to turn attention from his associates. His gaze alighted me before redoubling command of the crowd, secreting into a nearby room. 

A more lingering glance came from Sir Calix, who took up the rear of the paraded gathering. His smile, as vicious as our first meeting, even as he rested a hand upon his chest to bow before blowing an inconspicuous kiss and slithering in the wake of the others.

The encounter steeled a resolve I had until then no knowledge of. I would find more companionship in buried solitude and study of Hadowen lineage and the secrets held there. 

Books could not run from querying gazes.

Perhaps a renewed closeness to Joram would come with deeper understanding of our connection on the branches of the Hadowen tree. 

Turning with a sweep I found the doors to the library closed, and of course locked. My torso met with aggression against heavy oak, my cheek with cool glass. Both were as abruptly snatched away with the cry of hinges.

“Mistress.” Camellia’s gasp did little to alert my folly. 

The door escaped me but a moment before I met the floor of polished wood. Even as I began to right myself, Camellia took my elbow in assistance.

Muffled laughter preceded my rise. “Hadowen grace seems to be one more thing you failed to be blessed with.” Jessamine’s smirk met my gaze as I straightened.

“Don’t be trite, Jessamine.” Lady Azalea did little to disguise the smile clipping her features.

Lady Azalea and Camellia set me on my feet. I sighed gratitude as I steadied my footing. 

“Come along Jessamine, if the gentlemen have moved to their next task so too must we to ours.” Lady Azalea’s words carried the weight of her importance over mine in the grand pecking order of Yarrow Hart.

The pair made for the hallway arm in arm.

Lady Jessamine glanced back. “You may continue to absorb yourself to the recordings, Mistress Magareen, but please leave nothing trapped in the cabinet.”

Her words sent attention to the device across the room. The glint of metal and glass stole the warmth from the enclosure. Delicate tines drew me as a spindle might call a storied maid.

The click of key in lock snapped the trance of the device. 

Camellia straightened with loop in hand. 

“I’ll return the cylinder to the shelves.” Camellia read my expressions before making her move.

“Thank you. I prefer to study in silence.”