The Eye of the Beholder (28 page)

The decision made, I went to examine Lysander's chambers so that I might determine what needed to be done within them. I was both astonished and disturbed when I began to survey them. There was so much damage that I stared about me with dismay, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work that needed to be done. Broken furniture was piled in every corner, and the broken, chipped marble floor was strewn with a combination of splintered wood and shards of glass. Every window in Lysander's chambers was broken, and even the cheer of the bright spring day without could not prevent the shiver of dread that suffused my body.

Did he truly hate his own reflection with such passion that he felt this destruction was essential to his peace of mind?
I wondered as I carefully picked my way across the floor and to the windows.

Lysander's chambers offered what should have been a splendid view of breathtaking gardens. Visible evidence of geometric patterns remained, though weeds clogged the stone paths, and the hedges had been neglected until they grew wildly every which way. There were pieces of statuary that might once have been magnificent, but had been reduced to rubble over time, crumbling and falling apart where they stood.

"I shall see the garden restored before spring is over," I vowed as I continued to study the ruin.

The garden would be my second project, once Lysander's chambers had been restored. They would be a peaceful place for us to walk and talk, a place where we could leave the oppressive castle behind us and enjoy nature's beauties for a time. I was eager to escape the castle's walls, to get outside and breathe fresh air, and the renewed gardens would complete the transformation of Lysander's living quarters.

Regretfully, I tore myself away from the view of the garden. The bleak reality of it had been replaced by the visions I could see in my mind's eye, and it was rather disheartening to trade the fantasy of such loveliness for the reality of such devastation and neglect.

As I turned, I noted that the roses grew up the side of the castle, covering Lysander's walls on all sides. Though they showed no signs of having been trimmed or pruned, they grew neatly around the windows, and I puzzled over this for a moment before my attention was fully claimed by the splendid blooms.

They were large, vibrant, and extravagantly fragrant, like no roses I had ever seen. Papa and I had planted some along the front of our cottage, but they were small, pale tea roses that could not compare in beauty to the splendid blooms upon which my eyes now feasted. There were white roses, red roses, pink roses, yellow roses, and roses of every shade in between. Some of them were as vibrant as a sunset on a summer's day while others were as pale as dawn's first light. Yet, for all their glorious beauty, I could not understand what it was about them that had driven Lysander to treat Papa as cruelly as he had for plucking one of them.

With an effort, I turned my back on the windows and on my thoughts of my father. One day, I would ask Lysander why he had treated my father as he had, but dwelling on the question now would only serve to make me angry and bitter. In light of the wrenching emotions I had experienced during the last several weeks, I was eager for some peace. For now, I was content to maintain a truce with Lysander.

I turned my attention back to his chambers and, tugging a small piece of parchment, a tiny bottle of ink, and a quill from my pocket, found a chair that was somewhat functional even though it wobbled most alarmingly, and perched myself carefully upon the edge so I could balance the parchment on my knee and scrawl a list. We would need to begin by clearing Lysander's chamber of all the broken furniture and debris. I set my list aside for a few moments so that I could carefully examine the furniture to see if any of it could be salvaged. Most of it was beyond repair, so it would be necessary to procure nearly all new furniture. Even Lysander's bed had been smashed into pieces and I wondered where he slept until I found a pile of blankets that looked to be a makeshift nest. The sight caused me to shake my head and click my tongue in disapproval.

Once the debris had been cleared from the chamber, we could begin to replace the windows and refinish the floor, replaster the walls and repaint them, and repair and repaint the ceiling. After that, we would replace the furniture, hang tapestries to decorate the walls, and make other small touches so the chamber would be an inviting place where Lysander could go to rest and reflect rather the despair. I would brook no more of his despair. He had spent far too much time wallowing in his own darkness.

My work completed, I quit Lysander's chambers and made my way to the servants' quarters. When I told them of my plans, they exchanged glances with one another and, for a moment, I feared that they would refuse me. But to my surprise and relief, they paused for only a moment and then nodded their agreement. In fact, I had the distinct impression that they very much approved of my plan, though I could not say what it was that led me to believe this. Leaving them with a list of the furniture we would need to procure and a plan for how the work would proceed, I returned to my own chambers to see how Lysander was faring.

He was awake and looking rather bored when I stepped through the doors. His expression brightened visibly when he caught sight of me, and I felt a shiver of something pass through me, though I could not quite determine what it was or what it meant. I smiled at him and made my way over to the bed.

"How are you?" I asked.

"I am well, though I believe I shall perish from boredom if I am not allowed to leave this bed soon," he told me with a scowl.

"Why did you not read the book I left for you?" I returned my quill, ink, and leftover parchment to my desk, seeing to it that things were tidy before I walked over to the bedside.

"I did not wish to read," Lysander said, sounding rather like a petulant child.

"Really, you cannot be that incapable of amusing yourself!" I feigned exasperation. In truth, I found his behavior rather amusing, though I did not tell him this. Perhaps one day he would not be averse to my teasing, but I felt it best to test the waters first and to proceed gently. "How did you manage before I arrived here?"

Something flickered in his eye, but it was gone before I could delve more deeply. It seemed Lysander had discovered the ease with which I had been able to read him, and had taken steps to prevent my continuing to be able to do so. I was not quite sure what this meant. We had never been friends, but there had been a sort of accord between the two of us, and I wondered what had occasioned this change in him.

"I am not the sort to find enjoyment in lying abed," he said mildly.

"As I am not either, I promise you that I am sympathetic to your plight." Gently, I began to unwind the linen that bound his wound. He went very still, and I was pleased he was such a model patient, unlike Papa, who had always been prone to bursts of impatient energy whenever it had been necessary for me to see to one of his wounds. I had not expected such docility from Lysander.

"It does not surprise me that it does not suit you either," he said, his voice soft. He winced slightly as I probed at his wound, but he dismissed the apology that formed on my lips with a terse shake of his great, shaggy head. "In fact, I could not help but notice that you are rather industrious. You seem to be forever making lists or bustling about the chamber or scribbling furiously on your sheets of parchment."

I blushed self-consciously at these words. For a time after my arrival in the castle, I had not been able to pick up my quill for any writing other than drawing up lists. As of late, my muse had returned to me, and I had once again begun to scrawl my tales. I had only done so when I had thought Lysander to be sleeping, so I was rather astonished to find that he had observed me at work.

"Yes, well, I could hardly afford to be idle before my arrival here. I had no servants to attend me at my old home." My words were a bit more brusque than I had intended.

"I…I did not mean to offend you," he said, amazing me by tripping over his words. He was nervous! This was shocking indeed, as he had never been anything other than smugly assured in my presence. Could it be that he was actually showing some signs of empathy, that he was concerned about my feelings?

"You did not offend me," I said, my voice softer this time.

Lysander looked relieved. "I find it admirable. You work hard, that much is clear to me. I, on the other hand, have never known a day's hard work." I do not know who was more stunned by his admission. He dropped his eyes and I took the opportunity to study his expression as best I could, but could glean little from it. His bestial face did not display emotions as a human face did. If I could not see his eyes, I could not even hazard a guess as to what he was feeling.

We were silent for the next few moments as I examined and cleaned his nearly healed wound. The skin was knitting itself back together very nicely, and it looked as though I would be able to remove the stitches in another day or two. Once I had coated the site with a pungent salve, I took a clean strip of linen and carefully wrapped Lysander's arm.

"It is healing well," I said, when I had finished. "I no longer fear that it will grow infected again."

"That is good news," Lysander replied. His voice sounded rather strange, but when I turned to look at him the expression on his face was benign.

"Restoring the castle will provide ample opportunity for hard work," I offered, studying his face.

His eyes met mine, and he nodded slowly. "Perhaps it is time for me to learn."

"I think perhaps it is," I said, smiling. I stood, gathering the soiled bandage and the salve. As I moved away from Lysander's side, I thought I heard him sigh, but the door to the balcony was open slightly and I decided that the sound I had heard was the wind.

Chapter 27: Restlessness

I hoped Mira did not hear me sigh as she moved away from me. It was becoming increasingly difficult to conceal to her just what I felt when she touched me, and I was constantly worried I would do or say something to give myself away. Before I would even allow myself to contemplate how I might try to express my feelings to her, I wanted to earn Mira's trust. It was asking a lot, given how mistrustful--and justifiably so--she was of me.

Perhaps if she did grow to trust me, she might share with me what it was she scribbled upon her sheets of parchment late at night. It had been a mistaken, my tripping up and letting her know that I had observed her writing. I had made her aware that there were occasions when I had been observing her while she thought I was asleep. I had not intended to spy on her, but once I saw how her preoccupation with what she was writing seemed to transform her, I could not help but watch whenever the opportunity presented itself. Now she might hide from me when she wrote.

This thought pained me, for there was something so compelling in watching her write. When she set quill to parchment, it was plain to see that she was transported to another world. I had no idea what she wrote about, but it seemed that her world was an enchanting one, for she would inadvertently smile or sigh, or an expression of such dreamlike contentment would come across her features that I would be almost loath to breathe lest I disrupt the beauty of the moment.

The first time I had observed her writing had been accidental. I had woken in the midst of the night and had been on the verge of asking her for some water for my parched throat when my gaze had fallen upon her and my words stilled. She had pulled her chair back a short distance, presumably so that the light from her small candle would not disturb me, and she was curled up in her night shift and wrap. Her hair had been carelessly piled on her head, and several loose strands brushed against her cheek as she tilted her head slightly, her eyes following the progress of her quill across the parchment. At one point, she set her quill aside for a moment as her eyes rapidly flew over her words. Smiling wistfully, she stared off into the distance with a look of pure happiness, a look unlike any I had ever before seen on her face.

At that moment, I had made the unconscious decision to observe her writing whenever I could. I would find myself waking in the middle of the night, my eyes instantly darting about the chamber as I endeavored to find Mira and see if she was writing. There were times when she was not, of course; when she had extinguished the candles and all was quiet and dark in the chamber. However, there were a few other occasions upon which I had managed to observe her writing, and they had made all the effort worthwhile.

I wanted to know what wonders were held within those pages. What creations of Mira's mind so enthralled her that they could make her smile, make her sigh, make her appear as sad as she sometimes did? I felt that if I could know what it was she wrote, I could know something of her soul.

There was a small, bitter, and scornful part of me that scoffed at these newfound desires of mine. That part of me claimed that I was weak, that I was yet another fool that had succumbed to the delusion that some called love. But that part of me seemed to grow smaller by the day, for what attraction could it hold for me if its only purpose was to try to convince me that I did not long for Mira as I so painfully did?