Chapter 11: The Notebook

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  However strange it seems to say about someone who cannot talk, Chiselle seems particularly silent the following day. Or sulky. Which is also a curious way to describe someone whose default facial expression is that of a whipped mule and whose spirit resembles sour milk.

  They must have had the talk before I was roused. And, judging by her slumping shoulders, probably more than just a talk. I imagine even a heated argument in sign language can get ugly. I can only guess as to when it happened - right after I went to bed or just before sunrise? Long enough ago for her wrath to turn to defeat, at least.

  So we work with barely any communication between us, her with a wringed cloth and a feather duster, and me with a broom and a mop, slowly laboring our way through the mansion. As usual, we skip the few locked doors on the upper floor and don’t stop until we reach the door connecting the library to the master’s private chamber. I imagine Chiselle cleans the remaining rooms when I’m not around.

  As the calendar delves deeper and deeper into the month of October, nightfall comes earlier and earlier. When the clock in the entrance hall tells us it’s four hours past midday, Chiselle signs to me that it’s time to go out and check the traps before it gets too dark. It is not like she needs my help, but I don’t mind the trips outside. Being indoors all day with drawn curtains can mess with your brain. It’s nice to remind oneself there’s a world outside as well.

  Today we carry home a fully grown fox, its rusty red-brown coat eerily similar to Chiselle’s locks. The animal is skinned and exsanguinated, its legs salted for another day, and the rest diced for tonight’s supper: fox stew with freshly baked bread.

  I fake ignorance when the bucket of blood is put aside for later. I would rather not explain to Chiselle how and why I suddenly know what they use it for. And, frankly, I prefer not to dwell on it too much.

  When we are done eating and cleaning, I am dismissed as usual. Normally I would withdraw myself to my room and lounge in bed until sleep would claim me, but today is different. I ask Chiselle if I should wait in the kitchen or my room until I am summoned, but she simply shrugs and shoos me away. So not the kitchen, I conclude.

  I return to my room and decide to wash myself and redo my hair. Unbraiding my locks, I let loose my bundle of curls and treat myself to a round of scalp massage. In a moment of ingenuity, I rub the dry lavender-and-rosemary soap between my hands and then buff the back of my neck and shoulders for the subtle scent to stick to me. Lastly, I change into a clean dress - one of Chiselle’s from the dresser. I want to give the impression that I’m taking this seriously, and thus I have to appear the part - and not reek like someone who just spent an entire day sweeping and mopping the floors. Especially as we would probably need to sit next to each other in order to work together, and I would prefer to focus on the teachings rather than my self-awareness.

  The master takes his supper in the library as usual, with Chiselle as company, but they finish within an hour today. The redhead seems displeased as she comes to fetch me, eyeing me darkly.

  “One month,” I say softly as I follow her downstairs. “One month, and you can go back to having him all to yourself. You won't ever have to see me again.”

  She merely snorts at my insincere attempt of reassurance.

  The library has been refurbished, I notice the moment we enter. The cozy seating arrangement in front of the fireplace has been moved to a corner, and in its stead now stands a desk and two regular chairs.

  “I figured you would prefer a seat near the fire,” the master greets me. “You seem to dislike the cold.”

  What an odd thing to say. Of course I prefer not to freeze indoors. But I know these people have a strange relationship with light and warmth in general.

  As long as the library is as well-lit and heated as it is now, it won't become an issue.

  I nod and step closer to the desk, eyeing the various items littering the wooden surface: a couple of books, a stack of blank paper, ink, a feathered quill pen, and a tray of drinking glasses and a few bottled beverages.

  The master signals for me to take a seat beside him as he sits down in one of the chairs. I feel my body hesitate at the thought of his proximity, the inevitable proximity, but I push through; I might as well get the first lesson over with to find out if it's even worth the hassle.

  So I sit down next to him and fold my hands in my lap, awaiting.

  Much to my surprise - and yet not at all - Chiselle flumps down into one of the relocated armchairs in the corner and loudly swings her feet up onto the small table, making herself far too comfortable.

  I did not expect her to stay and observe our lessons, but perhaps it's an agreement they’ve made. A compromise.

  Despite the aggravating reminder of her presence, the master ignores her.

  “So, you want to read,” he begins, pouring us both a glass of water. “This will require a fair amount of dedication from you, especially with our time frame. I expect you to resume your studies whenever you have time to spare. Will you apply yourself accordingly?”

  His shoulder nearly brushes mine as he turns to look at me. I keep my posture.

  “Of course,” I say, watching the finely carved edge of the dark wood desk. “I am just grateful for the opportunity.”

  “Excellent.” Cordial as he is this evening, his relaxed and jovial tone from yesterday is long gone. I suspect he has peppered his usual near-stoic self with a tinge of amiability and courtesy to keep me from getting cold feet. Calculated, perhaps, but at least he doesn't come across as angry or threatening any longer. That seems to be Chiselle’s department these days.

  Spiteful, jealous creature. I can practically feel her glare across the room, burning holes in my clothes, searing my skin beneath.

  The master pulls the stack of paper between us. “How much do you know about reading and writing already?”

  A soft snort sounds from the corner, and I stop myself before I shoot Chiselle a pointed look over my shoulder. Something tells me she’ll grow bored with the attitude faster if we both ignore her completely. Besides, I imagine it would do me no good showing her that she can get under my skin easily. It’s clear that she thinks little of me in this regard; a total waste of time and effort, good for nothing but simple housework. And fair enough - nothing about me signals education and proper etiquette, contrary to them. But that is the very thing I’m trying to change.

  I lift my face and will my cheeks not to redden with shame.

  “Just the basics,” I reply, now staring into the flames of the fireplace before us, not quite ready to meet his engulfing gaze this near. “Words consist of letters, and sentences of words.”

  “Have you learned the alphabet?”

  I shake my head. I would not even be able to identify my own name if I saw it in writing.

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  “Alright,” the master says and picks up the quill. “The alphabet is where we will begin.”

  He dips the tip and writes a long series of letters across a sheet of paper while I watch in silence. The pen floats quickly and elegantly over the surface, a testament of mastery. When he stops, there are more than two dozen inky scribbles on the page.

  “Every letter symbolizes a distinctive sound,” he explains. “By identifying the combination of sounds in a word, you can break the word down into letters. When you can deconstruct a word, you can construct a word as well. And then you can read it.”

  Nibbling my bottom lip, I nod. Right now it seems like quite a handful, but I can do this.

  “You will have to memorize the sound of each letter first. It will take some days, but I expect this might help…”

  Dipping the pen anew, the master draws what appears to be an apple underneath the first letter. It’s simple in design and not quite as smoothly curved as his handwriting, but definitely recognizable. Then he taps the small drawing and looks at me expectantly.

  “An… apple?” I say.

  “Yes. What is the initial sound you make when pronouncing the word?”

  “Ehm… Aaaa-?” I breathe loudly, feeling kind of silly. Or like a drooling baby waiting to be fed.

  I can only imagine what Chiselle must be thinking.

  The master nods and adds another small drawing under the letter, next to the apple. It takes me a moment to identify this one.

  “Acorn?”

  “I am content that my artwork is sufficiently interpretable,” the master says. I sense a faint trace of humor in his voice, but his face reveals nothing. “Now, what sound is that?”

  “Aaaa-?”

  “Correct. As you can hear, the sounds vary a bit, but both are the same letter - ‘a’. Most letters have phonetic variations like this one, but for now we will focus on the primary sound - or sounds - for each letter.”

  I repeat the name of the letter and the two sounds in my head. Alright, that wasn’t so hard.

  “The next letter is called ‘b’.” He dips and starts drawing again, and I watch closely. A book. He introduces the letter, and I identify the sound of it. He lends me the quill, and I draw a crude loaf of bread next to his book.

  Working our way through the alphabet takes us a few hours. The result is a page decorated with letters and symbols and drawings. Beautiful it is not, but it’s definitely effective.

  When the ink is dry, the master folds the page and slides it into a brown, leather-bound book he plucks from one of the many stuffed shelves around us.

  “This is your notebook now,” he says as he hands it to me. “All its pages are blank, and it is yours to use when practising your reading and writing. I expect you to bring it with you to each lesson so I can monitor your progress when necessary.”

  “Thank you,” I breathe, clutching the book to me. The symbol of my first step towards change. A good step. I’m hopeful. “Thank you so much for this, my lord.”

  “You are most welcome.” The master offers me a friendly smile. “And please call me Seth.”

  A sharp intake of air from the corner tells me Chiselle disapproves with this development. I find it laughable, really - it’s not like me knowing his name means that I’m stealing away her boyfriend. I hope in time she realizes this.

  Besides, it’s not like oddly mercurial, sickly malnourished, silver-haired-in-his-twenties, nobly-rich-but-horribly-isolated guys are my type. She can have him - without contest.

  “When will the next lesson be?” I ask and feel a yawn slowly pressing its way to the surface.

  “If this is to succeed, we will have to adjust to each other’s sleep cycle to some degree,” the master - no, Seth - says. “You will get up an hour before dawn, the same time as Chiselle, for a two hour lesson. And, like today, the evenings will conclude with another session, this one longer. Furthermore, I have informed Chiselle that you will be needing an hour off after lunch for studying. She will assist you if you have any questions during this period, as I will be unavailable.”

  I sure hope that won’t be necessary. I can only imagine she would try to sabotage me if given the chance.

  Aforementioned person watches me coolly as I am led to the door. My fingers fidget with the straps keeping my notebook tightly shut. This would have been the perfect ending to an enlightening evening, but there’s still the matter of the payment. Only I cannot mention it directly in the redhead’s presence.

  Daring myself to finally meet Seth’s eyes this close, I try to convey the question wordlessly. Aren’t we forgetting… something? I think hard. He blinks.

  “Is there anything else– oh, excuse me for a second,” he says, then strides back to the desk to grab something. “What good is a notebook without the pen with which to take notes?”

  He lends me a quill and a small, corked bottle of ink, and I fasten them under the strap. They will come in need, surely, but that was not the issue. I decide not to push further, however. It’s not like I am in a rush to cut myself open anyway. He will likely find a way to remind me when he grows impatient.

  “Goodnight,” I say, inclining my head to both of them, although I know I will only receive one reply. “See you in the morning.”

  And right I am, of course.

  Chiselle remains sitting in the library as the door is closed behind me, and I return upstairs on my own.

  When finally alone in my room, I breathe deeply and roll my shoulders to release any lingering tension.

  First lesson complete. It went better than expected. I might actually learn something useful from this, if I take it seriously and keep studying in my spare time.

  The soft moonlight creeping in between the curtains paints the room a cool blue. Albeit calming, it’s not sufficient for my studies, so I get a flame going in the oil lamp on my nightstand.

  Fighting off another yawn, I sit down on the bed and pull my legs up under me, then pull the notebook into my lap. It's hard-backed and has a considerable weight to it; definitely of fine make. I run my thumb over the finely stitched leather cover and the matching strap tied around the book. All mine to use.

  Loosening the strap and putting the quill and ink aside, I open the tome. I’ll just go over the alphabet a few more times before bedtime, perhaps add a thing or two to it if inspiration strikes me. But I can’t find the sheet of paper in the front where I expected it to be, so I leaf through the pages in search of it - and instead find the second half of the book oddly stiff, like the pages have merged into a solid block.

  Curious, I part the notebook midway.

  There, before me, lies the familiar, folded sheet of paper, and beneath it is a hidden compartment, carved right into the core of the book itself. It is small and far enough from the edges that it’s impossible to notice from the outside. However, it is big enough to contain two items: a tiny glass bottle with a cork stopper and a knife hardly longer than a palm.

  The bottle looks to be an old ink container, now emptied and rinsed. I am not sure what the knife was made for, with such a short and slender blade, but I can easily imagine what Seth wants me to do with it.

  So he did think of it. The payment. Of course he did. And here I was, fooled by his gentle smile and patient manner, as if, for a moment, this was more than strictly transactional to him; as if he actually enjoyed watching me learn.

  But I cannot complain. I got what I asked for. And he shall have his.

  With the book in one hand and the oil lamp in the other, I retreat to the bathing chamber - the only room at my disposal with a functioning lock on the door.

  Cautious not to cut myself accidentally, I pry the knife from its shrewd hiding place. Against the light it appears clean and unused, but I don’t feel like taking chances, so I hold the blade to the flame of the lamp until it darkens, then wipe it off in a clean cloth rag from the cabinet, ever so careful not to rip the material.

  There are a few places on my body I doubt Chiselle would ever check me for marks, but neither of them seems ideal or particularly tempting to cut open. I eliminate the options that I cannot access easily and those who would likely cause me issues, and I am left with one.

  Lifting one leg to rest against the edge of the bathtub, I pull my skirt all the way up, baring my braies to the chill air. I initially thought the process wouldn’t bother me the slightest, but now that the concept becomes reality, I feel a knot of nervousness in my belly.

  I suck in a lungful of air as the blade slices through the soft, pale skin of my inner thigh; a shallow cut, but just accurately deep enough to summon a portion of my life force. Pressing the uncorked bottle to the incision, I watch with bated breath as drops of deep red blood trickle into it. I count seven precisely before removing it and clasping a hand to the wound.

  I’ll have to sacrifice a couple of rags to this project, it would seem - and find a way to keep them hidden until my next period. A few more bloodied cloth strips won’t make a difference then, but right now it could very well raise suspicion.

  I wrap my thigh and pull the skirt back down. The knife and bottle are wiped clean, the cork stopper pressed back in, and all of it is returned to the compartment in the book.

  Like nothing ever happened.