Asphodel

III. τρίτος

III. Third

I'll never be quite sure whether my grandmother's insistence that I not be committed was, in fact, due to her belief that I was perfectly sane. After all, more than one specialist had suggested otherwise. To her credit, she always treated me as though I were perfectly regular, though I suspect that, in her own grief, she was less sensible than I.

I had not spoken a word—aloud—to anyone in years. It had been so long that there was no way to really know what my last words to a living person had been; my memories had fluctuated so often that I did not attempt to differentiate between reality and nightmares because as horrifying as my nightmares were, I always knew they weren't real.

"Why don't you eat something, eh?" Mr. Riddlerton—Dylan, he'd insisted—suggested. It was my first morning at Mirstone and I remember being so delighted to see the sun that I was no longer plagued by the familiar terror-induced dampness of my bedclothes.

I looked at him and offered the faintest of smiles; an effort to reassure him that I was fine. He did not appear convinced.

My chief concern that day was to acquire some books; although I was anxious to familiarize myself with the estate, I decided that it would be better to wait until the manor was structurally sound. Dylan's warning that there would be construction came across as rather ominous, and, in light of the lack of inhabitants, it seemed foolish to lose myself in a place where no one was around to find me.

After breakfast, I followed Dylan to the library; the room had not changed much from the night before, except Mary had began taking the books from one of the trunks and arranging them on the shelves.

"I took the liberty of selecting this for you last night; I believe you may enjoy it, if you have not already had the pleasure," he said with a wink when we arrived.

I was given a beautifully bound copy of The Italian and frowned. I had, in fact, had the displeasure of reading Miss Radcliffe's novel once before, and I was not particularly keen on repeating the endeavor. Although her scenic descriptions were sometimes captivating, her long-windedness and affinity for the word "notwithstanding" were detrimental to my appreciation of her work.

In a show of deference, I carried the book to the back of the room and shelved it. My options were rather limited at the time, though a well-worn copy of As You Like It caught my eye. I made the mistake of reading Macbeth once, only to have dedicated the rest of the month to finishing all of Shakespeare's tragedies. I remember that I had decided to make the best of my nightmares: I might as well continue reading plays about death and hauntings while the night terrors couldn't take me by surprise. It was not one of my most remarkable decisions.

"Not a fan of the Gothic, are you?" Dylan asked as I took a seat across from him. He hadn't peered up from his reading of Les Mis.

I did not answer, though I wish I could have told him how much I appreciated the genre, aside from Miss Radcliffe. Quite frankly, I was not over fond of Mary Shelley's work, either; I found her plot was compelling, though the execution was somewhat disappointing.

I had scarcely turned the title page when Dylan tucked a finger between his pages and sat upright in his chair to say, "Your gentleness shall force more than your force move us to gentleness."

When I glanced up, I saw that he was staring at me, a peculiar expression contorting his features.

"As You Like It," he laughed—entirely to himself, I think. "I am hesitant to make another suggestion, but I believe you may appreciate Les Misérables when I am finished."

Dylan returned to his reading, and I to mine, but not before I considered all of the places in France I should have liked to visit; my grandmother told me once that she should have shipped me off to a ladies' school, but I had inherited my father's stubborn nature and she doubted that a reformatory could get me to speak.

One benefit of being mute is that I could never really say the wrong thing; silence very rarely offends a person, especially when it's persistent. I had the advantage of not needing to worry over mispronunciations of foreign words, so travel appeared to be a promising possibility once I had turned twenty-one.

Two full weeks passed in much the same manner as my first full day at Mirstone. The most notable change over the course of those days was that the commencement of construction on the North wing, the barn, and throughout the grounds supplied a variety of racket. Sometimes in the mornings, the monotonous buzzing of men sawing rails for the new fences settled into a low, comfortable din. Alternatively, there were times when the men were deafly shouting at one another, or intermittently hammering without consideration to rhythm—or my reading habits.

"Your room is coming along nicely," Dylan said one morning. He was suspicious of the fact that I had eaten more than one bite of my meal.

It was impossible to communicate to him that I would prefer not to switch rooms at all, obviously because I was occupying the Earl's apartment, and it would be incredibly unprecedented for him to allow me to stay. However, I knew that the move, no matter how minimal it would be, was going to disrupt my sleep.

Mr. Buslingthorpe had warned Dylan of my fluctuating eating habits, but what no one knew was that my "disinterest" in food was directly correlated to my inability to sleep. I had discovered at an early age—almost immediately following my arrival at my grandparents' home—that hunger was a powerful weapon. At first, my grandfather had withheld meals from me in an effort to coerce me to speak; it did not work. What I learned instead was that the visceral aching of famishment distracted me from my nightmares.

"My grandson should be here before long," he said. "I'm not sure he'll be the best company, but I intend on charging him with the responsibility of your marriage since I'm not long for this world."

The man grinned and it was hard to believe he was old enough to fear death, but I was suddenly more interested in Dylan's grandson, Einion. If he was anything like his grandfather, there was a possibility I could bide my time and remain an unmarried heiress. Of course, I suspected that I should prepare for the worst, just in case. 

A/N: I'm a liar. I'm posting this way later than I had wanted to. I should promise not to make promises anymore. LOL. However, it's a little longer than the last one. I'll do what I can about another one. Hopefully soon, but it's a holiday weekend and I have some work to do. A lot, actually. Anyway, thank you for reading!