"The same as I?" I shook my head in alarm. "But I am no..." My words stalled precipitously in my throat, but it was of no moment for Lucian completed the thought for me.

"Monster?"

"Lucian, that's not what I-"

He cut me off, however. "Is that what you think of me, Aria?"

I watched helplessly as he slowly raised an invisible barrier between us. What fleeting, fragile affinity we had established thus far, was now being hastily dismantled by my horrified response and his male pride; a pride that I was inadvertently eroding with my adverse reaction, leaving naught but a chilly stoicism. Yet for just an instant, and so ephemeral that I bethought myself ridiculous, I thought I noticed a hint of anguish in his features? Or was I merely chasing spectral fancies? He was still no more than an enigma to me; in sooth, I knew him not at all.

"Please, Lucian, I do not understand." I lifted my trembling hands to my ashen face, swallowing a confused sob.

"No," said he, "you wouldn't, would you." He seemed to want to approach me, but fearing I might collapse of apoplexy — so nearly unhinged was I — he kept his distance. My lamp still lay forgotten and abandoned on the ground between us. By that light, I watched his jaw clenching in an agitated rhythm of anger.

"And it seems that I am just as naive." He looked up to the sky pensively as if silently begging the lunar goddess reverently for guidance. "I thought you might actually..." The rest of his words he suspired loudly, leaving the thought cruelly unfinished.

"Might what?!" It was my experience that men were usually direct and spoke plainly; why should the one exception to the rule by my future husband!

"See me..." He seemed to scoff at himself then and promptly pinched the bridge of his nose in obvious frustration.

His demeanor appeared a little less threatening as he gazed absently heavenward and I forgot, for just a brief moment, to feel dread. My exhausted heart becalmed itself in that instant so that I might cast aside my fright and gather a little fortitude; mostly because his unusual eyes were now occupied elsewhere.

"You know naught," he said again, "and therein lies the problem."

"Then tell me, Lucian! Give me the means with which to understand all this." I stepped a little closer to him, but remained just outside of his reach. "And to understand you."

He lowered his eyes, no longer the eerie heteroclites of before, to gaze at me sharply and shook his head against my plea, an iron mask of cool detachment capping his stony physiognomy.

"This is neither the time nor the place." He indicated the saturnine darkness surrounding us with a derisive flick of his hand. "And I do not trust you yet." He narrowed his gaze.

A thought came unbidden to my mind. Of a sudden, I recalled the old woman from the apothecary. I'd almost forgotten about her — or rather I'd purposefully shoved the recollection to the back of that dusty, neglected shelf in the very back of my mind. I had been so brutally humiliated and frightened by the old hag's accusations, although it was now a few years hence, that I still awoke betimes, from nightmarish slumbers, with the dregs of her shrunken, toothless, screeching image foremost in my thoughts.

Her biting words had made not a little sense back then, but somehow I had felt the truth of her recriminations now, as if she had seen into my very soul, routed what evil lurked there and waved it at me in horrified caveats. That awful memory washed over me now and, for some inexplicable reason, I sought to share this with Lucian; I sought to forge some confidence between us. I told him of the apothecary's mad ranting that day long ago, and he listened thoughtfully the while I shed the leaden impressions she'd etched in my troubled mind.

"Is there something wrong with me then, Lucian?" I knew there must be. On some subconscious level I had felt it all my life, but had not allowed myself to admit as much; I had ever shrunk back from the notion of confronting my peculiarity. "What am I, really?" I both craved the answer and dreaded it equally.

Lucian, however, did not answer immediately and so I mused on the subject a little more. I was good at denying what I wished not to see within myself. I wanted only to be accepted. To be loved. To be understood. Were not these the basic needs of any living creature and did I not deserve as much?

For so long now, I had strived to be as unexceptional and as normal as those around me, yet still I felt ever the outsider! I had never been ill a day in my life and had never broken a single bone in my entire body, although Edwin had given the endeavor his best efforts many a time; I had neither lost a tooth nor cracked my jaw on his fist even during the worst of his beatings!

I saw the world as others did not and perceived my surroundings as one removed and detached — as an old soul. It was another one of the appellations I'd earned from those that knew me best, or rather, 'twas what Mildred ascribed to me when I was but a youngling. However, neither of these things made me in any way monstrous exactly — quite the contrary in fact. Usually I was naught but staid and predictable, and had only really been reckless since Lucian's return; why this was so, I knew not.

What set me apart were the things I did not discuss openly. That which I had spoken to no one about for I had not even the courage to admit these abnormalities to my myself; they were not to be borne.

The physicality of my defects manifested themselves in very subtle ways: I was stronger than women thrice my girth, I was taller than any female of my acquaintance, I could see clearer and further than any I knew, and my sense of smell equalled that of even the hounds in Godwin's kennel. The latter I would never know for an absolute certainty, for I could not commune with animals, but the proof of my abilities lay buried in an old memory I had long ago suppressed.

When Elinore's mother had lived with us at Buttongrass Hall, during my sixth summer, I had told her what no person of any age or situation would wish to hear:

"Are you ill grandmother?"

"No, child. Why do you ask?"

"You are dying..." I had told her this quite emphatically, especially for one so young.

"How came you by this notion, Aria?" She had sounded aghast.

"You have the scent of death, granny."

I had been able to give her no better explanation than that. I knew not, in my innocence, how to define the odor, but it was distinct and strange. I knew, on atavistic level, what it represented. Death. That sweet, sickening, decomposing scent clung to her skin like mold.

She had struck me viciously then, her nails grazing my cheek. "Have you consulted with the devil, you wicked child?"

I had shaken my head negatively, horrified that she should even suggest as much, however I was too frightened to speak, and afeared that she might strike me again.

"Say nothing of this and speak of it no more, lest you wish to be burned at the stake and labeled a witch!" Her gnarled finger, arthritis ridden and crooked, she had pointed at me as if she were cursing me to that eventuality.

I had taken her warning to heart ever since, but it did not change the outcome I had predicted that day. Her cold, pale corpse had been discovered, the morning after my fateful prognosis, stiff within her bed; her ancient heart had, according to our physician, ceased its beating some time in the night. As a result of her warning, I had, ere now, never volunteered another thought until I had thoroughly recycled and analyzed it, only then could I trust my words to be normal and above suspicion. The damage had been wrought however, for I had nonetheless been viewed an oddity by my family, my peers, and the strangers or travelers that happened to pass through the area long enough to hear the gossip. I had, henceforth, been known as the little witch that had inconceivably survived her mother's violent death.

It was not only Lucian who did not give his trust openly; mine too was hard come by. I had been so thoroughly absorbed in my thoughts that, when Lucian finally spoke, it snapped me promptly from my reverie.

"I myself have questions as to what..." he seemed to change his mind and said instead, "as to who you are." I did not mis his faux pas, but did not pursue it.

He sighed and rubbed at his temples. "You are by no means an ordinary woman, Aria. Far from it." He contemplated his next words carefully. "But neither are you monstrous — as that moonstruck lunatic would have had you believe." He meant the apothecary's deranged mother.

"And you?" I met his level gaze. "By the same token then, are you not also different?" The word tasted odd.

"I am," he looked away, "other than I seem, it is true. But I am as flesh and blood as you are! I too can bleed and die. In that way, we are the same; is not that enough?"

"I ... I suppose it must be," I said with resignation heavy in my heart, "since you give me no choice." What was he not telling me? Why be so cryptic!

But I attempted one last endeavor at conciliation and moved a step closer, putting myself well within his reach — a small sign of my tenuous trust and all I was capable of, for the time being at least. He made no move to touch me and, seeing clearly my thirst for disclosure, he obviated further discussion with his next curt words.

"As I said before, this is neither the right time nor the most ideal setting in which to have this discussion; moreover you are not yet ready to hear the whole of my confessions." His words were uttered with finality — a death knell to this strange interlude. We said no more.

He bent to pick my light up off the forest floor. Holding the lamp high, he nodded his head down the darkened little path, indicating the direction he wished for me to go and I preceded him thence while he followed closely behind; a fact I was not all together sure made me uneasy or not. But t'was better to suffer the devil I knew than the devil I did not see lurking in the jetty shadows at the edge of the lamplight.

The long walk back to Nørrdragor was a quiet one, both of us utterly immersed in our own grim thoughts. At length he breached the turmoil of my inner reflections with a question I had been dreading.

"How did you leave the grounds without notice, Aria?"

Although he asked the question almost casually, I felt he always knew the answers to most anything he ever asked me and I felt it strange that he was constantly testing my mettle. The weight of the question settled heavily between my shoulder blades — at the exact spot I was sure he was stabbing me with that sharp gaze.

"The postern on the western wall," I answered simply.

"Promise me now that you will not use that door again."

"I vow I will not..." I had left my answer purposefully ambiguous, but whether or not he noticed, he did not press me further.

I vow I will make no such promise, I thought slyly, happy that I was not exactly lying — not really. And, furthermore, I felt vindicated inasmuch as I deemed it only fair that I be allowed to have my own secrets...just as the Greybacks chose to have theirs.

Let him be satisfied with that obscure promise and one I had made practically under duress. It was no better than he deserved. If he wished to be cryptic, then so too would I be. I would, however, find out the secret in the maze, I would discover where the prisoners vanished to and I would eventually uncover what it was that Lucian was hiding. I believed they were all related and if no one considered me worthy of the truth, then I must unravel it all for myself.

But a part of me was undecided, the prudence that dwelt in my mind and tried always to quell my reckless spirit pleaded for caution. If Lucian did not want me there, surely there was a reason for it. So in the interest of compromise, and because of the macabre evidence I had discovered in the labyrinth, I therefore decided that I would not climb within again despite that it galled me to obey without explanation.

I did not, after all, harbor a death wish.

❆



When we entered the warmth of the hall, Lucian escorted me to the dais. Anne and Godwin had since retired, but Caine, Carac, Henry and a few dozen knights yet remained. Thomas was sat playing chess with Frederick at a nearby table and stopped to watch our approach with blatant interest.

Although Lucian and I shared a late meal, we spoke very little. I was ignored for the most part while we ate our chicken pottage; what little there had been left over from supper had since been given over to the almoner to be distributed amongst the poor. Another reason to be wroth at me: I had cost him a little supper.

Once our bowls had been cleared, he removed himself from the table. I watched as he stalked impatiently toward Thomas and, resting his heavy hand atop the lad's blonde pate, turned my friend's head forward so that Thomas was no longer staring in my direction, but instead to where the chess board lay in front of him. Frederick snickered loudly while the blood rose, puce and mottled, into Thomas' chagrined face.

Lucian then continued on, having uttered not a single word, over to where the steward, Henry, and another of Lucian's knights were seated. Thither he remained and Caine soon followed; passing Thomas with a dark chuckle and a shake of his head.

"Take care, Aria," Carac warned quietly as he sat beside me. I turned to face him when he spoke. "I would do nothing further to anger Lucian, were I you. His is not a temper I would have you bear the brunt of; it is not without its casualties."

"It has claimed lives then? This temper of his?" I was being flippant, but I was tired and drained, my usual cautious sensibility utterly depleted by exhaustion. It had been a harrowing day after all.

"Yes," said he. I swallowed the retort that had been simmering on my tongue, Carac's answer taking me a little by surprise. "Ergo, I would not be reckless, were I you."

His eyes darted over to Thomas who, having been caught staring yet again, immediately looked away — a guilty flush suffusing his cheeks. Carac sighed in irritation. "It is in your best interest, as well as his," he dipped his head in Thomas' direction, "that the boy cease this unhealthy infatuation he harbors for you-"

"No! Thomas is only-"

"Aria, do not be naive!" He quickly lowered his voice again. "Why else has Anne disapproved of all the time you've spent in one another's company the last few years?" I had naught but a scowl in answer. "Do you not see how he and most the male population at Nørrdragor for that matter have been watching you?" I shook my head vehemently, refusing to hear his outrageous theory, but he ignored my demurral.

"Although, Thomas has been a lot less circumspect about it," he sneered. "His admiration has become dangerous, and it is not only I that has noticed..."

"Forsooth, Carac-" but he would not hear my denial.

"Do you not see how Lucian watches you?"

I dropped my gaze to my lap a moment then raised it over to where Lucian sat. His brow was furrowed as he watched Thomas through narrowed, baleful eyes. I shivered when he noticed me watching. I was never able to hold Lucian's gaze for long and was, as per usual, the first of us to break the uncomfortable contact.

"Ahh, I see that you do," Carac smirked.

"Do you know, at first I could not get you to open your mouth to speak to me," I repined with a roll of my eyes, "now you will not shut up." My lips compressed peevishly. "But come, let us talk of something else." A mischievous thought struck me then as I noticed Astrid standing up from where she'd been seated for her supper. The girl glanced at the dais and, seeing that I remarked the direction of her avid gaze — at Carac, where it often strayed — she quickly made to withdraw from the hall. "Is not Astrid a pretty little thing."

His brow quirked at my drastic change of topic, but he turned to observe my maid who was yet visible in the corridor. "Have it your way."

"Pardon me?"

He shrugged his shoulders and emptied his tankard in one large mouthful. "You think me easily diverted, but I will leave you with this thought to mull over..."

"And pray what is that?" I sighed my resignation, seeing that he was adamant to continue his excoriating.

"A wise woman might cultivate the interest her lord shows her, but a foolish one would only stoke his ire." He leaned in closer to whisper, "Which one are you?"

A little of both, I think...



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