Once it was secured, she took a satisfied look around her private sanctuary. Every castle had a still room, so the housekeeper could make cordials and liquers as well as house the common herbs needed for the everyday maladies that sprang up in a large household. However, Rosaline's mother had kept this still room herself and had turned it into more of a herbarium or apothecary. She had even Spirit-sealed this room and her bedroom to keep her two sanctuaries for her daughter. It was as if she had envisioned the need to protect those spaces for her heir.
The match had been arranged by the vassals after Rosamund's parents, the former Marquess and Marchioness, had died from a 'mysterious illness'. Sebastian Hallowfeld had come from a wealthy family that would contribute to the Thorne family coffers, while taking the Thorne family name and tying his bloodline to the famous family. The pressure had been intense, and already showing symptoms of the same illness that had taken the lives of her parents, the young Marchioness had no choice but to agree.
Her mother had taken the measure of her new husband quickly. He was a vain and ambitious man who coveted her power. In an attempt to keep her husband's vanity and ego satisfied, when questioned, Rosamund had always modestly claimed that being a Spirit Master took no special powers, just knowledge.
Knowledge that she had wisely kept away from him, no matter how he tried to pry it from her.
Her foresight had been acute, as one of the first things that her father had done after her death was to order that any information about Spirits and Spirit Masters be gathered for him.
He reasoned that if anyone could do it, then why not him? Then he could become the head of a new Spirit Master bloodline and take all that he had gained from the Thornes for the Hallowfelds.
He had taken his wife's family name as a condition of the marriage, so that their children would carry on the famous family name. If he could succeed, then he could reclaim his name, the Thornes would fade into obscurity, and the Hallowfelds would rise.
The library and her mother's study had been ransacked with abandon, and any scrap of paper with even the word 'spirit' on it was confiscated and poured over. A lot of tomes of lore and vague stories were found, but no solid information surfaced.
The trove of family journals and Spirit Master secrets that he had assumed existed didn't materialize. Attention had then turned to her mother's bedchamber and the still room, but all attempts to enter had been useless. The doors were sealed, as if fused to the walls. Only the power of a Spirit could force the chamber doors open. At least that's what everyone had thought, until Rosaline had approached them. The doors had opened easily at her touch, though only she had been able to cross the threshold.
It still stirred a small sense of satisfaction in her heart that they had no choice but to cede control of her mother's space to her. The rage-filled shouts from her father when he could not access his late wife's most private rooms echoed down the halls for quite some time.
Her mother had been very wise. The Spirit seal made it so that only someone of the Thorne bloodline could open the door to enter, and only after they had made a pact with a Spirit. Others could only enter if she opened the door for them from the inside, a detail she was careful to keep hidden. Others could only speak to her from the threshold if she left the door open. This allowed her refuge and privacy to access the tools and tomes of her ancestors left by her mother and continue her path as a Spirit Master.
And a Spirit Master she was. Her mother had insured it.
As if she were sensing her death on the horizon, she had insisted on guiding her daughter through the first pact ceremony just a week before she succumbed to her illness. It had pained her to put her daughter through it so young, worried about the girl being able to control her powers. But survival came first. To that end, she had repeatedly lectured her daughter on the need for secrecy.
Rosaline still remembered it clearly. Her mother had sent all the servants away, claiming that she wanted to have a quiet nap while her daughter read to her. She had made her Spirit sweep the whole wing to ensure no one lingered near enough to spy on them. Once she was assured that they wouldn't be discovered, she rushed Rosaline to gather the materials from the wardrobe in her room.
"Prospero, we will need your strength for this." Her mother had called her Spirit back, and he had appeared, his concern for his bondmate's worsening condition etched in the fine lines that had begun to mar the smooth light blue face. Spirits bound by a pact would take on the appearance of the species of their bondmate, matching them in age, though their true form could be very different.
Taking the form of a middle-aged man, to a small girl, he appeared as tall as a statue. His neatly styled beard and long, light blue hair, constantly swaying in an unseen wind, made him seem like a sage from her storybooks. Usually, he would have a twinkle in his blue eyes and a wink for her as he would help with her mother’s lessons when the frail woman couldn't keep going. However, on that day, he had been so serious that it had instantly focused the young girl.
Spirits could only be seen by those who had received their blessing, but once blessed, the world of the Spirits would be revealed to the observer for life. Spirits only willingly showed themselves to those who had earned their trust, or in the event their bondmate was in dire need, so they maintained their mystique even in a household that had once been filled with Spirit Masters.
Every member of the Thorne family was blessed by their parents' Spirits as soon as they were born, so the Spirit Realm was open to them from the moment they opened their eyes. This helped to bolster the belief that the power was held in the Thorne bloodline itself when all the Thorne children ran around with playmates that only they could see, no matter how hard others looked. By the time a child came of age to make their pact at fifteen, it had already been instilled in them to never let their spirit bless anyone other than a direct family member.
She had followed the Spirit to the wardrobe in her mother's room and tapped the correct spots on the parquet rose on its surface. When she had opened the doors, where there should have been gowns hung in neat rows and shoes and accessories on tidy shelves, there were instead rows of shelves lined with books and artifacts. Jars of incense and herbs, bundles of twigs from various trees, and mineral stones and crystals. Prospero helped her to pick out the ones she would need, only guiding her when her hand hovered in indecision a few times.
Once they had the materials they needed, they rolled back the thick, round carpet that covered the floor next to the bed to reveal an intricate silver pattern inlaid in the wooden floor. If one were to look closely, one would see that there were key pieces of silver missing from the patterns laid out.
This had been an ingenious method that her mother had developed. She quickly slid silver strips from the box at her mother's bedside into the correct grooves set into the floor to make the right ritual circle. Then, under her mother's soft guidance, she had lit the incense and placed the three objects that she had decided on the day before.
Forced to mature well beyond her five years of life, Rosaline had understood that she was going to lose her last line of protection when her mother passed. As such, the promise of a companion that would be with her for the rest of her life, helping and protecting her, had been a ray of hope in the dark that seemed to be closing in on the little girl.
Inheriting her mother's intellect, she had carefully chosen her items. A rod of hazel, with a few berries still clinging, that she had found on a meditative walk through the forest near the castle. The shape of the leaves and color of the berries had sparked her curiosity, and she had come back and asked her mother about it. Rosamund had seen her daughter's curiosity, and she had given her a book on herbs and their uses, which the young girl had pored over, then asked for more. Her mother had been a renowned herbalist and was pleased to pass on her journals and knowledge to her daughter.
The offered items were intended to entice a spirit. The pact would last a lifetime, the bond so deep that many Spirits locked themselves in the Spirit Realm after losing their bondmate.
As such, these first gifts must come from the heart, a sincere representation of who the Master was as a person. Otherwise, disaster would follow. That was why, traditionally, Spirit Masters made their first pact at fifteen, when their personality had settled, and some maturity could be obtained. The family histories had included a few tales of Masters that had not been truthful with themselves or the Spirit they bonded with, and that had led to short, tumultuous lives.
A lump of malachite she had used as a worry stone, rubbing it smooth as she sat by her mother's sickbed. She had found the stone in her grandfather's study, left untouched since his death at her mother's insistence. The swirling colors of the stone had soothed the young girl's mind, making her feel calm and centered when she held it in her hand.
Lastly, a simple wooden flute. She had played that flute to comfort her mother and for herself, to bolster her courage. She had played bright and happy tunes to cheer them both up, and soft, quiet tunes to soothe her mother to sleep. She had picked things that had deep meaning to her, knowing even at her young age that she had to offer things that mattered.
After placing the items in the designated spaces, she had sat outside the circle across from them, inhaling the incense and beginning to meditate. This ritual was very personal. No two people would go through it the same way.
Her mother had explained it as simply as possible. "Rosebud, it will be like you are going out to meet a new friend. Everyone makes friends differently, and all you will need to do is be yourself. The incense will help you relax so that your nerves don't get the best of you. When the time comes, just do what you feel like. It will be the right thing." She had run her hand over her young daughter's hair and patted her head comfortingly.
Now that the time had come, she found her muscles relaxing and her mind drifting. Time seemed to spin out, and after what could have been a few minutes or hours sitting in peace and listening to her mother's soft breaths coming from the bed, she began to hum quietly. She hadn't known what had prompted it, but as her mother had said, it had felt right. A few more moments of humming, and she started to sing a lullaby her mother had sung to her for most of her life.
"Moonlight breathes across the leaves,
My sweet, sweet little sprout.
The trees whisper our secrets,
My sweet, sweet little sprout.
I'll leave you when the moon drops low,
My sweet, sweet little sprout.
Remember me when the wind blows the leaves,
My sweet, sweet little sprout.
Grow as tall as the trees,
My sweet, sweet, little sprout.
Shine as bright as the moon above,
My sweet, sweet, little sprout.
Tell my name to the wind,
My sweet, sweet, little sprout.
We'll meet again in the moonlight,
My sweet, sweet, little sprout. "
The simple song had always given her complicated feelings. Happiness at her mother's warm, comforting voice. Sadness that her mother would one day leave and be a memory on the wind, blown around like the leaves. Even a little bit of fear. Fear of being alone when her mother was gone. The strongest feeling it gave her, though, was determination. If she did not grow as strong as the trees and shine as brightly as the moon, no one would be left to remember her mother, and she really would be lost.
Her voice vibrated deep inside her as she sang, the feelings swirling inside of her with increasing intensity. When they felt like they were too much and would overwhelm her, she instinctively pushed them outward, releasing them from deep within her heart out into the room.
As if triggered by the release of her emotions, a swirl of wind started in the center of the circle, slowly growing and swelling into a small whirlwind filled with leaves and flower petals. As her voice faded away, the wind slowly died down, leaving behind a figure in the center of the circle in front of her.
Her emerald eyes had met a pair of fathomless black pools, and she had felt submerged in warmth.
The Spirit looked to be about the same age as her, with light green skin and sea green hair. The curiosity in his gaze and the tilt to his lips made it seem mischievous, but she saw the sharp intellect hiding in those black orbs as they assessed her in return. After a moment, she had smiled at the boy and stretched out her hand, saying, "Hello, I'm Rosaline. Will you be my friend?"
He had tilted his head to the side, assessing her in return, then took her hand, and she felt the prick in her palm as her blood and the Spirit's essence mixed. A soft golden glow surrounded them, flowing up from their clasped hands. Rosaline felt her hair begin to lift as the soft wind reached out from the boy and flowed around her. Green threads spread through the Spirit's eyes and dominated the black, sweeping it aside until they matched the color of her own. The sign of a pact formed. "Hello, my name is Pan, and I will be your friend, little one."
The following week, her mother had passed beyond the veil. As his bondmate had exhaled her last breath, in a last act of devotion, Prospero had granted her last request and sealed both his Master's bedroom and the still room she had loved in life. Then the grieving Spirit had returned to the Spirit Realm.
Rosaline and Pan had been left behind to grow, learn, and survive as best they could.
She wiped her hands on her apron and started to gather jars of herbs from the shelves. Tipping her head towards the large book on one of the tables, she called out softly, "Come on, Pan, help me look up the right recipe. We need to have some antidotes on hand for when that Duke arrives."
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