She fell out of the habit of breakfast because, due to her long nights at the Caverns, she would sleep until lunch. The girl found she preferred to start her day without her father. She always went numb in his presence and his silence was oppressive.
Yet they always came together for dinner. The table was covered with white linen, and it was laden with china and crystal. Servants presented courses from silver platters; triads of candles along the buffet illuminated the parlor. Dressed in finery, the Patron and his daughter met at opposite ends of the long table. The girl curtseyed with a long sweep of silken skirts and her father bowed, the abyss between them hidden with the trappings of formal dining. They took their seats the same moment the troupe of musicians struck the first notes. Every night was a different melody as the violinists, flutists, mandolin players, and minstrels of the village made rounds at the manor, filling the air with music and song.
One day, the girl was startled to see her father standing at his chair waiting for her when she came into the dining parlor for lunch. Then she remembered he always worked in his study as the season drew to a close. She lifted her skirts and curtseyed, frowning at the empty place at her end of the table. A servant pulled a chair to the right of the Patron and he waved his hand to indicate where she should take her seat. But she hesitated before accepting, suddenly alarmed. Did he suspect? The Patron gave no indication he knew any of her secrets. He was quiet as always while they ate, yet he peered at her with curiosity in his light brown eyes. His scrutiny made the girl uneasy. She avoided glancing his way while they ate, facing him after her plate and bowl were empty. The girl held her breath while her father looked at her for what seemed an eternity. Then he finally nodded and excused her from the table. She almost sighed with relief when she curtseyed and took leave, but she restrained herself in time.
****
Something wasn’t right. The Patron couldn’t find a reason for the disturbance niggling in the back of his mind, but concentration had become impossible. His restlessness often sent him pacing around the house until the day he settled at the portico on the backside of the house.
This was his daughter’s favorite vantage point on those days she was inclined to paint, and he could understand why. The panorama of the rolling fields and the forest to the east was lovely, especially with the foliage rich in the warm light of the sun falling west, and with the sky deep blue before afternoon gave way to evening. The Patron grew calmer as he listened to the river twining through the distant trees, and he breathed in the smoky sweet of autumn. Such a pity his daughter wasn’t here to paint this scene. Her easel stood ready for her with a fresh canvas, the palette and brushes resting on the shelf, her finished work stacked on a small table.
He glanced from the easel to the settee nestled between its legs. The watercolors she’d done that summer were facedown, secured from the breezes with a stone. The more the Patron thought about it, he found it peculiar that his daughter ever started painting again. Art had never been a pastime she cared for and she had complained about the subject more than once. Her duenna had insisted the girl learn to paint, for highborn young ladies had to be accomplished in all the arts. But once her instructor left, the girl never practiced again.
What muse could have changed her mind? The disturbance that niggled in the back of his mind was enough to disrupt the soothing effect of the eastern fields and forest. The Patron reached for the rock and hesitated, hating himself for intruding on his daughter’s privacy. But something was wrong and his daughter couldn’t object too much if she left her watercolors where anybody could see them. After another moment’s pause, he set the rock aside and turned over the top canvas. His hand started to shake when he saw the image painted there.
His daughter’s duenna had been the most respected matron in her profession, so much that he had to wait several months before he could hire her. He flipped through the pile of watercolors and saw her reputation had been well deserved. His daughter had hated this subject, but her learning was so thorough she could pick up a brush several years later and do a fine job of bringing the Horse Trainer back to life. Every painting was of him.
He looked through them all. There was no mistaking the cause behind the smoldering eyes and the collapsed features. The Patron knew the look of a lover when he saw one.
He couldn’t think, rolling up the pages and tying them into a sling that he looped over his shoulder. He refused to feel, for he knew the wrath would take over if he did. He would not let that get the better of him; he would not lose control and do something he would later regret. The Patron was on his horse before he knew where he was going, running his mount hard and not stopping until he came to the stretch of river in the Ancient Grove and the Abandoned Valley.
He didn’t know what compelled him to come to where the rushing water made the only noise. The Patron hated this place. The stillness pierced through his fury and made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The feral gray colt that ran away from his stables was the only life that had come to this place in centuries, ever since the Sorcerer came and made his labyrinth of Caverns deep in the trees. He stared into the woods, trying to sense his daughter’s presence. He sighed in relief when he felt nothing. She wasn’t here. That was something to be grateful for.
She must be hunting or fishing. The Patron steered his mount to the east, breathing easier once he left the Sorcerer’s domain, following the river to the younger woods where the song of birds and noise of unseen animals was reassuring.
The Patron found her past the wide bend in the river in the same spot where she and the Trainer used to fish. Crouched on her haunches, she wore crude trousers tied at her waist, the fine stitches of her blouse grimy, her hair in a long braid to her waist, strands tousled around her face. Although she’d grown taller and now had the curves of womanhood, she looked just as she had that season seven years ago. Scanning the trees, he almost expected to find the Trainer, but his daughter was alone.
One thing had changed. She’d never worn a holster back then, but now had one belted below her waist. He raised his brows when he saw one of his pistols at her hip. He hadn’t heard the shot when she caught the squirrel, but she was skinning the carcass with one of his daggers. So intent was she on her task she didn’t hear him approach. Her eyes grew wide when she looked up and her hand slipped, the blade slicing into her wrist.
The Patron leaped off his horse and reached her in two strides. Gripping her arm, he sunk her hand in the water. The girl resisted, but he held on tight and squeezed her wound to stop the blood flowing into the river. He brought her hand out of the icy water and pressed his scarf against the side of her wrist, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He heard her labored breathing and felt the taut muscles of her arm while tying the bandage around her wrist. The Patron glanced over, ashamed when he saw the girl pulling as far from him as possible, her eyes narrowed to slits. It had been years since he last touched her.
“Daughter.”
His voice was hoarse as he ended the silence of seven years. The girl froze when he addressed her, but the Patron felt her arm give and continued.
“You must know I sent him away because I was trying to protect you.”
Her face clouded over before she scowled and looked away.
“The Horse Trainer.”
“I know who you’re speaking of.”
Her voice startled him. She’d had the higher pitch of a child the last time the Patron heard her speak. Now her tone was rich and deep, the voice of a woman. The realization that the silence he gave her was a silence she returned pierced through him, bringing pain to his heart for the first time in over twenty years.
“I suppose he meant well,” he continued, “but he wasn’t a good influence on you.”
“I beg to differ with you on that.”
“He took you to the Abandoned Valley!”
“No, Papa. I went with him to the Abandoned Valley.”
“Yes, you certainly did.”
The girl looked sharply at him, her expression guarded. The Patron found no satisfaction in the change, his lips were as tight as always when he felt his temper rising. He remembered the reason he came searching for her and reached for the watercolors slung over his shoulder, unrolling them before handing the stack to her. Her cheeks paled as she flipped through the paintings, but otherwise she was impenetrable. When she met his gaze again, her eyes were empty.
“Why were you going through my things?”
He glanced at the image on top and his hand clenched into a fist. The Trainer’s features were contorted and heat flared in the Patron’s temples.
“I don’t think that really matters,” he said.
The girl didn’t answer right away, peering at him with one brow cocked.
“I haven’t seen him in years, Papa. Are you now accusing him of seducing a child?”
“That’s not seduction. That’s rape.”
“You’ve lost your mind if you believe that.”
“Then what do you have to say about these?”
His daughter looked to the paintings in her grasp, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“I would say these are fantasy,” she said. “The content of dreams.”
She was mocking him. The Patron heard the scorn in her voice and saw it in her eyes glaring at him with the look of secrets. He breathed slowly, determined to keep his calm.
“Do you take me for a fool?” he snapped. “What is your explanation?”
“You must beg my pardon, Papa,” she said, “because I don’t have one.”
Something exploded inside the Patron, grief and resentment locked in his heart for years catapulted through every fiber of his being. His will was no longer his own. Watercolors scattered across the ground when the Patron grabbed his daughter and shook her with all his might. A howl surged through him, desperate to give voice to an agony that was endless. But he wouldn’t let it out, couldn’t let it out. He could only shake this girl who had caused him nothing but anguish. Somehow, her plaintive cries pierced through his madness until he regained his senses enough to stop. But the Patron wouldn’t release the girl even as she trembled in his grip and heaved for air. He looked into her eyes and saw the same torment and rage that tore him apart.
“Tell me, Papa,” she said, her voice raw. “How many times can a girl fall to her ruin?”
He let her go as suddenly as he grabbed her. Again, he was ashamed when the girl stumbled backwards, wincing as she rubbed her arms. She would have bruises later. He didn’t know how hard he was shaking until his limbs buckled and he dropped to the ground. The Patron couldn’t remember the last time he felt so weary.
“You’re right,” he said. “I haven’t done well by you.”
The confession just slipped out. But the Patron was even more surprised by the relief. As those words escaped the prison of his soul, the Patron felt a burden lift from him he hadn’t known he carried. He looked at his daughter in time to see the fury dissipate from her eyes. The girl opened her mouth to speak, but the Patron interrupted before he lost courage.
“I’m sorry.”
The girl started and then froze. They remained fixed in place for a sliver of eternity until the Patron stood up and bowed. He felt foolish, taking formal leave of his daughter. But he couldn’t think of anything else to do, this unfamiliar sensation making him awkward. The girl didn’t move, staring up at him in astonishment and disbelief after he mounted his horse.
“You should come back to the house,” he said, relieved he sounded calm. “I’ll send for the Doctor so he can look at that wound and dress it properly.”
The girl shook her head, finally coming out of her stupor.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
Her voice was cautious, but she gave a slight smile.
“As you wish. I’ll see you at supper then.”
“Yes, Papa. You will.”
He kicked and the stallion set off at a canter. Before he turned the bend in the river, he pulled in his reins and stopped. The Patron turned around to see his daughter still watching him. She hesitated for a moment and then waved, her expression almost shy. He returned the silent adieu before going on his way. But he felt lighter than he had in years. The house and the garden of lilies glowed in the light of the setting sun, inviting the Patron to come home.
The Sorcerer jostled the remaining drops into a ruby swirl and shook his head. Perhaps he’d get another week out of the Trainer, but no more. He glanced at his collection of vials. He had nothing that could compare to this one. Most of the essences were yellow because the weak of will were easy to catch. Melancholic blues were too ascetic for the drive of lust. His black essence was a rutting brute, nothing seductive about him. Maybe one of the greens would be acceptable. They were the romantics, the poets, artists, and dreamers. He hadn’t another red because that kind of man was the most rare.
He cursed himself. He should’ve introduced the essence of another man to his prot_g_e much sooner under the reasoning that the most skilled seductresses take on many lovers. Yet when the time came to transform, the Sorcerer always gave in to the lure of the Trainer’s red. In all these years, he’d never been so careless. He knew how perilous it was to take on the essence of another man. Whenever he transformed, that man’s identity would take over and he would absorb the memories and personality of one who left a piece of himself behind in a garment marked with his blood or sweat, and the Sorcerer would fall into the passive role of an observer. But he could feel again. It was always such a relief, even though sentiment could destroy him.
And the Trainer was the most intoxicating essence he’d ever had. The first change he noticed was that, as he went around the boiling cauldron, he became delirious with a love for life. When he stepped out of the mist and saw the girl gaping at him in horrified disbelief, he almost laughed out loud. But she still couldn’t resist him. The Sorcerer hardly blamed her; he was every bit as seduced by the Trainer as she was.