Page 78 of Tangwystle
For several awful moments, I stood in the kitchen. The cold, damp kitchen that creaked in the wind. It wasn’t like Blackwell Manor, whose groans and squeaks indicated an opinion, which normally came during my conversations with Baz and Gretel.
Clinemell Manor had magic, as did all the great manors in the village, but it didn’t fill the air. It might buttress the structure, adding to its might, but it lacked a well of power.
It brought me a slight bit of comfort. Or at the very least pleased me to know that Rufus Clinemell could only grasp at true power. He would never come near Baz’s command of magic.
I stood there in the kitchen, the Manor making its strange noises, when I realized I recognized one of the sounds. Footsteps upon the stairs.
I suppose I expected another servant. Rufus had several; his version of authority came in the form of ordering people around.
“Do you plan for her to sleep on the floor?” a gentle voice purred.
I will forever remember meeting Isabella Clinemell.
I’m not sure I ever expected to meet her in the first place. I went out of my way to avoid her husband, and it’s not like we’d ever find ourselves in the same circles. Unless I spotted her in the market or walking in the neighborhood, my chances of seeing her were distant at best.
I’d envisioned someone cold. Brittle. Thin. Pale with a sharp chin. Because surely Rufus would bring out the sharpness in a person.
And she was tall and thin. And pale. But her chin wasn’t sharp, and her thick brown hair that fell in curls was very pretty.
Isabella was a beauty. But I think from the very first moment I met her, I knew that she was a tad bit strange. It was the way she held herself. Tall, proud, but soft-spoken. Those aren’t inherently bad qualities, but her eyes were so piercing, a shiver skittered over me.
She didn’t care about Rufus’s man. Her hand trailed the banister as she took a few steps. She blended into the shadows, but the male servant couldn’t ignore her.
He cleared his throat, but she didn’t bother to wait for his response. Her voice was cool, but could lash at a person.
“Will she curl on the floor next to the hearth like a stray cat come to stay?” She dismissively took in the fireplace. “Not that you could be bothered to even light it for our guest.”
She turned her back on the man, trailing back up the staircase. Apparently, Baz was not the only one who didn’t mind using a servant's stairwell.
“Please come this way,” she called over her shoulder, barely stopping her trek upstairs, “if you’d like a warmer welcome.”
A disgruntled noise huffed out of the mustached man. I was so out of it, I’m not sure I even properly debated if this might be a trap of some sort.
I later found out that Clinemell’s wife had been at the ball. They’d arrived together, but she’d left before Rufus burst into the ballroom, dragging Gretel with him.
It’s why her hair was already down and she only wore a sheath dress. How she could be so calm, so blank, threw me for a loop, though. And she seemed remarkably calm and factual about the situation.
She somehow already knew everything. About her husband’s outburst. Gretel and Baz. She didn’t show any signs that it might be strange that her husband dragged me back to their home, though.
The room she showed me looked like personal chambers. A small sitting room of sorts. It was much cozier than any of the other parts of their home. The walls were papered with light purple. Some sort of green leafy bouquet sat in a vase. The furniture was well-made but not stuffy. A woman’s touch certainly guided the décor.
And that woman was the nearly ethereal being, Isabella Clinemell.
She lit a few lamps, placing one on the side table closest to the sofa. And then she sat. Like any person, despite her beauty and grace, she was, after all, human like the rest of us.
“Please.” She motioned for me to sit beside her on the blue sofa.
Stiffly, I obliged. She picked up a cup and saucer, focusing on her tea. She barely looked at me, but in some ways I preferred that. I wanted to blend into my surroundings.
“I am sorry for my husband,” she said to her teacup. Even her voice was beautiful. A dainty, musical hum. “Such a fuss.”
They were spoken so plainly, uttered so simply. Yet, I believe she really did mean them.
“So you and Baz have been protecting Gretel,” she hummed, sipping her tea.
She sounded so sure of herself, saying their names.
“And whose idea was it?” she asked, sipping more of her tea. Like this was some drawing room chit-chat. Did she not realize we were up in the middle of the night discussing something incredibly important?
