The Rules of the House

Rad Dat proved astonishingly free of hesitation. He was nothing like any of the hired servants or butlers Kasvren had known before. If Isolde was the master of this place, then Rad Dat felt like a part of the very soul that made up the mansion. Kasvren found his curiosity stirred by that word the man had used—change. Of course... it helped that he was hungry, too.

"No, you've gone to such trouble on my behalf—I'll eat. My thanks."

"You are too kind. When you have finished your meal, pray ring the bell."

The moment he melted away without a sound, Kasvren found himself alone in the dining room once more. He let his eyes travel over the dishes arranged on the tray, one by one. It was humble fare. With the exception of a single dish—chicken torn along the grain, simmered, and dressed in a citrus sauce—nearly everything was made of fruit or vegetables. Even so, care had clearly gone into every plate, and every one of them was delicious. When the warm mushroom soup slid into his hollow stomach, he very nearly felt moved to offer up a prayer of thanks.

Whatever misgivings he'd harbored at first, Kasvren made short work of every dish—so thoroughly, in fact, that he was almost grateful Rad Dat wasn't there to witness it. He wiped his mouth clean, straightened the tableware, and rang the bell. Unlike the mansion's heavy silence, the sound that answered was bright and ringing, a chime that lifted the spirits like the first bite of some tart dessert. Hearing footsteps approach, Kasvren folded his napkin and spoke.

"That was a truly fine meal. I'd half a mind to thank the cook myself. You—"

Only when he raised his head did Kasvren realize that the figure standing there was not Rad Dat but Isolde, and he shut his mouth in haste. His discomposure played openly across his face.

"I'm glad the meal was to your liking."

Isolde's face betrayed nothing. Unable to pierce her thoughts in the slightest, Kasvren faltered yet again. And in that instant, a faint sneer ghosted across her lips. Brief and barely there, like Rad Dat's had been—yet her smile seared itself into Kasvren's mind like a brand. What was that smile? What was it meant to convey?

"It seems you're more of an optimist than I expected."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It's just that you knew I was a murderer, and still you ate every last bite. Did it never occur to you the food might be poisoned? Not even for a moment?"

Kasvren was caught off guard. He could count on one hand the times in his life he'd been posed so awkward a question, and at the same moment his stomach—warm and full only moments before—gave a sickening lurch. How treacherous a creature man was. Only moments ago he had been savoring every taste and scent, licking his bowls clean like a starving hound; now a single word—poison—and his whole stomach felt as though it had hardened into stone. But he buried that shameful thought somewhere deep down.

"Do you take pleasure in frightening people that way? Always?"

Every trace of mischief drained from Isolde's face at once. In its place returned the blank mask of a pale phantom. She stared at him in silence for a long moment, then turned away, the hem of her white dress whispering across the dark floor.

"Follow me."

"You haven't answered my question."

"Because I have no obligation to."

Her imperious manner sent a flash of anger through him. He had never expected a warm welcome, but the mockery threaded through her coldness, the bare-faced inhospitality, prodded at a tender spot.

Still, he did not give in to it. Raging at a woman—and a woman younger than himself, no less—would be beneath him. Whether Isolde knew she had wounded his pride he couldn't say—though he suspected she knew perfectly well—she quit the kitchen with unruffled calm and started up the stairs. Beyond that first "follow me," she offered not another word. She simply climbed the great staircase of the vast mansion in silence.

When they reached the second floor, Isolde turned right into a long corridor. Balconies, a small sitting room, and a great many chambers stood in a row between them—but nearly all were locked. He could tell without so much as trying a door. Dust lay thick on the handles, and from the unseen rooms beyond seeped a hush like that of graves. The spaces where the people who had lived here—the people of House Drasken—had once sunk into quiet rest and solitude had gone cold as stone sarcophagi. The mansion itself was scarcely anything but one enormous mausoleum.

At last the two of them arrived at the corridor's end. Standing aslant before a closed door, Isolde flicked her eyes at him: come here.

He stepped up to the door and closed his hand around the handle. It was like touching a frost-covered window; a chill bored into his skin as if to slice it. Kasvren shot Isolde a glance, then slowly turned the handle and looked into the room. And in the very next instant, a hollow laugh burst out of him.

"Why are you laughing?"

Isolde asked. Still wearing the dregs of his laughter, Kasvren glanced back at her, shook his head, and gestured at the room.

"It's a beautiful room."

"It's the guest room. Whenever my father's or mother's visitors came, they were always given this room."

At her rejoinder—delivered as though it were the most obvious thing in the world—Kasvren pressed a hand to his brow and laughed again, low in his throat. What on earth had that absurd spectacle been, the one that had filled his head right up until the moment he'd gripped the handle? Cobwebs shrouding the ceiling, black spiders scuttling across the bed, a bat hanging upside down with red eyes gleaming as it stared at him—he had actually imagined all of it! Good Lord. He couldn't hold back his laughter. A fresh realization of just what a coward he was swept over him, hand in hand with a wave of self-disgust.

"I don't know what strikes you as so amusing, but from now on, this room is yours. I would prefer you keep to this part of the house whenever possible."

Isolde's voice was cold. Kasvren regarded her, the laughter not yet fully faded from his face.

"Is that a recommendation, or a warning? Are you afraid I'll roam the mansion and make off with anything of value? Or do you fear I might creep into your room like a thief in the night and lay hands on you while you sleep?"

Isolde's gaze shifted in a flash. In that instant, Kasvren caught it: those black eyes, with their countless secrets sunk in the depths, trembling—for the briefest sliver of a moment—with fear. She herself had plainly failed to notice the change. It was Kasvren who was startled.

"It was a joke."

"That is the worst joke I have ever heard."

Having left those words behind, cold as drifting snow, Isolde turned from him without ceremony, as though she had no further business with him at all. Confronting a mortal enemy would have been warmer. She seemed to lack the most basic compassion, the instinctive human concern that any living person ought to carry.

—She's a murderer. She killed her whole family, I tell you. Ever since she was very young.

Was that why? Because those words were true? Kasvren turned to watch Isolde's retreating back. His thoughts had knotted themselves. If the villagers spoke the truth, then what was to become of him? If she truly was a child born of the devil's kiss...

"Ah, I nearly forgot. There is something you must know."

His eyes met Isolde's as she turned her head. Her gaze had settled once more into that fathomless, uncanny black.

"And what is it I must know?"

"The rules you are to observe while you remain under this roof."

"How very like a boarding school."

Ignoring his remark, Isolde spoke on.

"First: never open a locked door. Second: keep mealtimes without fail. And third: never, ever bring another person into this house."

Never bring another person into this house. Kasvren understood at once that this was the point Isolde had truly wished to make. True, he couldn't begin to guess what punishment might follow were he to neglect the first two—Rad Dat would make a formidable housemaster, no doubt—but he could readily guess that to break the third taboo would mean never setting foot in this place again.

"I am a guest. If the lady of the house says so, then I shall obey."

Isolde, who had been fixing him with a steady stare, said,

"When it is time to eat, Rad Dat will ring the bell. Keep this in mind: miss the hour, and you go hungry."

"Very well. And if I choose not to join a meal? Is that within my rights?"

"So long as you don't come whining like an infant about how hungry you are."

With that, Isolde pressed a hand lightly to the base of her throat, gave a small cough, and climbed further up the stairs. It had plainly been a long while since she had held so lengthy a conversation with another soul, and her throat was paying for it. Kasvren had met someone of that sort once before, and so he recognized the small discomfort written on Isolde's face. And the more he saw, the more the questions and misgivings surrounding her swelled, bit by bit, like embers fanned in his chest.

It seemed no words in existence could describe Isolde Drasken with any precision. Stock phrases like mysterious or secretive could never render the real Isolde Drasken as she truly was. But what could he do about it? Disappointed that his own command of language was not as fluent and abundant as that of the poets of old, Kasvren began to look slowly around the room that had been given him.