A Machine Without Feelings (Cherik) | ✓

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔗𝔴𝔬

Charles looked at the letter in his hand, wax long-broken and words read over a thousand times on the carriage ride to his new place of employment. Charles had not expected to receive a request for his services as a tutor so quickly after he had advertised, but he had not needed to think twice before responding and packing his bags before the courier could even tuck the letter into his pocket.

"Mrs Moira MacTaggert," Charles spoke to himself, a habit he had not truly gotten over from his childhood. Reading aloud soothed him, and he had only kept up the habit when he would read fiction stories to Raven as they lazed around in the sunlight in the Graymalkin yard.

Charles cleared his throat as his body swayed with a bump in the road, his knee jostling against the side of the carriage as he looked down at the letter in his hands again.

'If C.X., who advertised in the -shire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned; and if he is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency; a situation can be offered him where there is but one pupil, a young boy, under ten years of age; and, where the salary is 30 pounds per annum. C.X. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction...'

"Mrs MacTaggert," Charles said again, folding the worn parchment again and tucking it securely into the breast of his Graymalkin-issued frock coat. His father's old pocket watch was nestled into his side, and he took it out. The time matched the dwindling sunlight, and Charles prayed that the journey would not be much longer.

Charles was nervous, though it was difficult to tell if it truly was nerves or mere excitement. Charles was confident in his abilities as a tutor, and had easily sent Mrs MacTaggert – whom he assumed was the lady of the house he was now employed by – references and achievements. Charles excelled in all subjects he was expected to teach, though the sciences were his most beloved. Charles was well-versed in various humanities, English, mathematics, sciences and even languages – mainly French and German.

"No need to be fearful, Charles," the 18-year-old reprimanded himself, smoothing the front of his trousers with the clammy palms of his hands. "You are more than equipped to manage."

Charles was no longer the boy who feared the Red Room, though his gentle and measured manner may make him seem timid. He was not timid, just calm and well-mannered, and his time at Graymalkin had taught him to stand up for himself while maintaining cordial relations. Passive, maybe, but not timid.

Charles must have dozed off somewhere towards the end of the journey, and was startled awake by two loud raps on the door of the carriage.

"Ironfield Hall just ahead, sir," the footman said gruffly, opening the carriage while another man hurled Charles's meagre luggage from the roof of the carriage.

"Thank you, and safe travels," Charles said, tipping his head as the carriage driver clicked his tongue, the horses trotting off down the road, wheels lurching into muddy divots in the dirt.

Charles looked towards the direction the footman had pointed at when he mentioned Ironfield Hall, and Charles's mouth opened a little in surprise at the sheer expanse of it. It was no Westchester, but it was still impressive; tall stone battlements spiralled up into the sky, cutting an imposing figure against the slitted moon. The entire periphery was jagged with thorny trees, obscuring most of the estate in sharp shadows. The residence, as a whole, seemed to loom over the countryside dauntingly, and Charles swallowed deeply before making his way towards it.

The wind whipped through overlying leaves as Charles trudged his way through the canopy of trees leading up to the estate, the night cold and awash with a light drizzle. By the time he tentatively beat his fists on a small wooden door, the shoulders of his coat were damp and his floppy brown hair was beginning to plaster to his pale forehead.