"Head maid! Head maid Marguerite!" one of the younger servants cried, her voice sharp with panic as she ran down the corridor. Her face was pale, her hair escaping from her cap, eyes round as though she had seen the devil himself.
Marguerite, who was coming opposite her from Dorian's art gallery, heading to the kitchen, was met with the frantic screaming of the maid. Her stern brows furrowed, she had served in the mansion long enough to know that such fear did not come from broken dishes or clumsy accidents. Something far worse was amiss.
"What is it,?" she asked, though her tone heavy and harsh as she wondered what would make the maid this frightened, almost to the point of stammering.
"The maid—Emily" the young maid tried to say something, as she trembled in her apron , unable to catch her breath. "It's… it's the new girl, mistress. She—she—"
Marguerite felt annoyance rise at the girl's inability to speak. She closed her eyes, drew in a long breath, and moved with measured steps toward the kitchen her shoes struck the stone floor sharply, and the maid followed, wringing her hands.
When Marguerite reached the door, she flung it open with a force born of dread.
The sight that met her nearly shook her composure.
The kitchen was a grotesque mess, blood smeared the wooden counter, spattered across the pale vegetables, even dotted the walls like some savage artist had taken a brush to them. One of the maids lay slumped, her wrist torn so deep the bone was nearly visible. Raw flesh clung to the counter in shreds. And standing above her, knife in hand, was Arabella the new servant bought only yesterday. Her arm moved in a frenzied rhythm, stabbing, stabbing again, her eyes glazed as if trapped in some dark trance.
"What do you think you are doing?!" Margaret roared, her voice echoing off the high beams of the kitchen ceiling.
At the same moment, Arabella froze. It was as though a spell had been broken, her lips parted soundlessly confusion flickered in her eyes. She blinked, gasped, and with a startled cry hurled the knife across the room. It clattered against the stone floor. She glanced wildly about, horror dawning as she seemed to realize what her own hands had done.
"What do you think you have just done?!" Margaret demanded again, her voice trembling not from fear but from fury.
Arabella's throat worked, but no words came as her body shook.
The wounded maid staggered backward, collapsing as the other servants rushed to lift her from the bloody floor. Their faces twisted between pity and terror, for none wished to meet Arabella's eyes.
"I…" Arabella tried, her voice breaking. "I don't—" But the words died upon her tongue.
"Follow me," Margaret snapped.
The command struck like a blow. Arabella's chest thumped with each breath, a heavy drum of dread. Obediently, she trailed behind, ten, fifteen steps, her bloody hands trembling before her, even her maid's attire was dyed red.
They ascended the spiral staircase, the air cooler, quieter than the chaos below. Every creak of the steps made Arabella's heart beat faster. Her tongue longed to explain, to beg, but she knew no excuse would suffice.
Marguerite knocked lightly upon a door at the gallery of the second floor, then pushed it open. Inside stood Dorian, master of the house, his back to them, brush in hand. He was wholly absorbed in the oil painting before him, his strokes deliberate, calm, as though no world existed beyond canvas and pigment.
"Forgive me, Master Dorian," Marguerite said, bowing her head slightly. "But the new slave you purchased yesterday from the Crimson Dais is wreaking havoc"
Dorian did not immediately turn. His voice, smooth yet detached, drifted back to them. "And what, precisely, has she done?, is this still about her inability to follow orders?" he asked, his hands still working.
Arabella dared not raise her eyes due to the guilt and confusion she was feeling.
"At first it was disobedience," Margaret replied, each word weighted with disdain. "But, I returned to find she had brutally stabbed another maid, so deep the poor girl lost consciousness, the kitchen is now gruesomely smeard with blood."
At that, Dorian paused. He set his brush aside and, with slow grace, turned to face them. His expression was not one of outrage but rather a faint, amused curiosity. A chuckle slipped from him, low and unsettling.
"Is that so?" His gaze fell upon Arabella, whose head hung low. "Tell me, girl. Is it true?"
"I—" Arabella stammered. Her lips trembled. She wished to cry out her innocence, but no words formed. The weight of the room pressed her into silence, not that she was innocenct.
Marguerite folded her arms, content to watch her falter.
"I… I did not mean—" Arabella's voice cracked, falling into nothingness.
Dorian, uninterested in her stammering, turned back to his easel. "You know, you could be killed for harming one under my roof. Yet you are new, and I am not so quick to spill blood without measure." He cleaned his brush with calm precision, as if discussing the weather. "You will go three days without food. The dungeon will be your chamber until then. Let this be your lesson."
Arabella's heart sank. Tears pricked her eyes, slipping down her cheek. She clasped her hands before her, shivering.
"Now leave me," Dorian said lightly, almost bored.
Margaret bowed, gripping Arabella's arm, and turned her away, as she wasn't pleased at the punishment metted out to the new slave, to her death was always the ultimate.
As they exited the door, Dorian's hands stilled before he turned back to where the both of them previously stood, at least where Arabella stood. He looked again at the direction, his dark eyes narrowing with faint intrigue. Even with her head bent low, he could hear the rapid thunder of her heart, could almost taste the storm of her emotions, fear, sorrow, confusion bewilderment. It struck him as strange, this delicate confusion within someone who had treated another servant as though she was a piece of meat.
As his thoughts settled, silence settled once more. Dorian returned to his canvas, as though nothing had happened few minutes back as all his concentration was placed on the unfinished piece before him.
Hours passed before he set down the brush, wiping his hands on a kerchief. The colors on the canvas gleamed wet, oil yet to dry. He lowered himself into a red plush couch near the window, stretching with languid ease as he stared at the sun going down the horizon
The door creaked, and another figure entered. Dorian turned slightly, only to see Nathaniel, his kin, striding toward him. At once, Dorian's interest seemed to wane.
"I knew I would find you here," Nathaniel said, moving to glimpse the painting.
"Step one pace further," Dorian warned, his tone soft yet edged with steel, "and I shall see to it that you never use those legs again."
Nathaniel halted, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Calm yourself, cousin. I have no intent to ruin your work, I just wanted to take a look at it."
"You wouldn't even dare try to ruin it," Dorian said lazily, reclining further onto the red couch, but he was no longer watching the sunset as his focus was now on the piece he had just created. He then closed his eyes as though Nathaniel's presence were a mild inconvenience.
"Why are you here?" he asked after a pause, his voice carrying the air of command even in its quietness.
"Do I now require a reason to visit my own blood?" Nathaniel replied, feigning offense.
"You wear that look," Dorian murmured without opening his eyes. "You come with tidings."
A smile crept upon Nathaniel's lips. "Indeed. Mr. Evernight is to host an archery party at noon tomorrow. You are, as always, invited."
Dorian's lips twitched. "Archery, you say? At last, something to stir me from my solitude. Tell him I will attend."
"Sometimes I wonder if I am nothing more than a messenger for you," Nathaniel said with a false pout.
"Did I bid you deliver such news? If you have taken up the post yourself, then so be it, you may as well continue in it." Dorian's tone was as relaxed as his posture, but the words carried a sting of command.
Nathaniel only chuckled, shaking his head. The two men sat in silence for a moment, the quiet broken only by the faint ticking of the clock and the slow drying of oils upon the canvas.