Fiona's Fire-Curse

Chapter 4

The door was opened by a short, bald man with a beard and friendly wrinkles around his eyes. He was very short, just barely up to Fiona's middle.

"Hel-hello," she began, her throat suddenly dry. "I'm looking for Count Brimhurst. I know it's very early, but I need his advice."

"He's in at the moment," the short man said. "Come in."

"That was simple," Fiona thought nervously, stepping inside. She followed him further in.

"My name is Tuckle. I'm a house-gnome so naturally I run the house."

Fiona said, "I'm Fiona Bagshaw. It's good to meet you."

Tuckle nodded. He pointed to a chair in a little sitting room.

You can sit there and I'll go get him."

"Thank you," Fiona said. She sat in the chair. She looked about the room. From what she could see, and what she'd seen of outside the room, Tuckle was a good house-gnome. The house wasn't shining spotless, but it was clean and felt comfortable. But Fiona was sure she could feel some kind of trembling tension in the air. The Count's magic, she supposed.

A man stopped in the doorway. For a moment Fiona wasn't sure whether he was the Count or not. Yes, he was dressed in black with a crisp white shirt, had a presence about him, dark hair, and penetrating, keenly observant dark eyes, but he wasn't seven feet tall, monstrously cruel-looking or even old. No, this man was hardly thirty, Fiona believed, although he had a seasoned look about him, as if he had seen and done much.

His obsidian eyes were sharp upon her.

"That's quite a curse you have on you," he said. His voice was an expressive one. He didn't so much speak, Fiona thought, as declared.

"I've come to ask you to please remove it, Count," she said, standing up and dropping a little curtsey, which felt like the respectful thing to do. It was better to be careful with homicidal wizards.

"It's not a normal curse. It's quite difficult. And progressive."

"Progressive?"

"It will lead to self-immolation."

"Excuse me, I don't follow. Sir," she added.

"Untreated, you will spontaneously catch on fire and burn to death." He put his palms together at his chin, above which was that hawk-like stare. That act, together with his rolling, luxurious voice, made him appear very theatrical.

Fiona hardly noticed. She had gone cold all over and her knees were starting to shake. She couldn't believe what he'd said. Catching on fire? Burning alive?

"Please help me," she said. "Please. I'll pay you all the money I have. I'll pay whatever you ask, it doesn't matter how much."

"You must stay here," Count Brimhurst concluded, coming to the end of his own train of thought. "I can control a Fire-Curse in my own house. You must move in at once."

"But—but I work at Perridew—or I used to—and I live in town," Fiona began, confusedly thinking of cycling all these miles everyday.

"You will not have anything to do with fire or baking or cooking...unless it is within these walls," Count Brimhurst informed her, indicating the house with his finger. "That's a worthy way to recompense me. It is important that you obey, Ms. Bagshaw. Your life is at stake. Stay here and be safe while I work on undoing the curse. That is the only way to treat this matter. I cannot help you if you are unwilling to act in your own best interest."

He stood there, waiting for her reply.

Reluctant to agree, but afraid not to, Fiona said, "All right. I'll move in."

The Count gave a quick smile, then left.

"Tuckle!" Fiona heard him call. "A conveyance and prepare a room! Ms. Bagshaw will be staying with us."

Fiona sat back down, very weak in the knees and a little breathless. Things had become rather rushed right just now.