Page 71 of Lost in the Dark

Too often, at night.

Clearly her throat, she propped her fists on her hips and surveyed her day’s task with a critical eye. “We shall clean all surfaces with damp cloths, being careful to not chip the paint. Then we shall oil the wood. But first, we’ll get rid of these sheets and see what treasures are underneath.”

“As you wish,” he said.

She watched his shoulders flex as he pulled out a stack of paintings. And those hands. Twice as large as the blacksmith’s in her village—possibly more—they were strong and big enough to wrap around multiple frames. Gods, she needed to stop thinking about his hands and how they’d feel on her body.

Or what it might mean to serve him.

That couldn’t be what her husband meant—could it?

Her cheeks flushed. “My husband tells me our great emperor’s family came from this land.”

Enulf glanced at her. “The castle has deep roots, lady.”

They pulled stained sheets from a wall of portraits larger than she was tall. Coughing from the cloud of dust, she squinted at an eight-winged panel painting, each wing depicting a fearsome-looking man with a long, sloping face, full lips, and dark hair. There was something familiar about their countenance. About the high, rounded curve of their foreheads. More pronounced upon the panel than in life, and yet…

“Enulf, does this show my lord’s ancestors?”

“Yes, lady.” Putting his back to her, he slowly folded the sheet.

She tipped her head to the side, studying him. His movements had grown stilted, but she didn’t imagine it was pain from the work. No. It was something else. “So these are all men from the House of Rathbytten?”

“Yes.” He didn’t turn. “Where shall I put this?”

Her gaze traveled between the panel paintings and Enulf. If she looked past the twisted spine and withered arm… Understanding whistled through her—her husband wasn’t the only man within this castle with dark hair and a uniquely plump lower lip.

“Ah,” she whispered. “I see.”

“No.” His hands curled into fists at his side. “You don’t.”

“There is no shame in such a status, Enulf.” Giving him space, she began tugging a sheet from a smaller portrait beside the large panels. Chastry priests might rumble about children out of wedlock, but none in her village had seen the point in shaming a child for being born. They hardly had enough people as it was—any new member had been celebrated. “It is rumored the emperor has begotten children out of wedlock, and the Chastry is still searching for secret heirs from the great Golden Dragons themselves. If you are kin to my husband, then I should treat you as a brother.”

He yanked a sheet free. “I am a servant here.”

“But Enulf—”

“Don’t.” He twisted the sheet in his grip, and she saw his hands were trembling.

“Very well.” She would drop it—for now. Causing him pain was the last thing she wanted. “Let’s continue.”

Patience, Anna, her grandmother used to advise.

And she could be patient.

At least for a little while.

“I’m grateful for your help.” She tied a kerchief over her mouth and nose, focused on the immediate task: sorting through another stack of portraits. She paused after uncovering the likeness of her husband—Lord Conomor Rathbytten. Interesting, how the artist’s style matched those of older pieces. Yet she asked no questions and she and Enulf worked in silence, peeling away disuse to reveal faces from times long past. They’d dealt with barely half the room and already the light had passed midday, the sun’s angle sharp and low in the winter sky.

Night’s already coming.

Stretching her back, she surveyed the uncovered portraits—and realized not one presented a lady of the house.

She looked at her helper. “Will you tell me of the first Lady Rathbytten?”

Enulf bent over a thick frame, rubbing. “The first lady Rathbytten was an extraordinary woman, my lady.”

Anna’s stomach tightened. “Did she serve the manor well?”

---