Page 43 of Fragile Wicked Things

Marred by death and shrouded in darkness, the castle beckoned me to remain, the familiar stench of murder a welcoming companion.

While searching for shelter nearby, I uncovered an old, abandoned hovel; the lingering scent of the animals once housed there, undetected by the human nose, wormed its way through my nostrils and down my throat.

I fashioned it into a home, gathered straw into a pile to make a bed, and bolted the door from the inside to ensure no one would disturb me while I slept and have daylight pour in.

For me, life had become simple and again I hunted animals for sustenance, to carry on one day longer, to temper the creature, but their blood never satisfied me and the pain returned.

Yet, it did not devour me as violently as it had before and I began to feel in control for the first time.

One night, having returned to the hovel after toiling about in the ground chasing a squirrel, I was startled at having been discovered.

"You there! Ge' off th' land." His voice was gruff and demanding.

I had seen the man before when he had bent over the body of the young Rochester to say a few words in prayer.

Now, he shouted at me and waved me off, swinging his torch to show me the way, but my feet remained frozen to where I had been standing.

He came towards me, threatened me with the fire and became increasingly angry when I did not flinch.

Out of breath, he stared at me hard at first, and I could only presume that the darkness in my eyes made him shy away.

"What's happening?" the old man asked as he approached us, holding a jagged cane while his young servant boy guided him.

Encouraged by the company, the man said, "A thief hidin' ou' in the cattle barn. Go on, you animal."

"I am not an animal!" I said.

"Leave him," the old, blind man said. He turned his head in my direction and reached out his hand, but he was quite some distance away. "You, come near so I may have a look."

"Go on 'en," the man said, shoving me towards the old man. "You heard 'im. 'e wants a good look atchu."

The old man reached out his hands, found my face, and ran his fingers over my flesh, feeling for distinguishing features. "You are cold. Are you hungry?"

"Yes," I answered to the matter of hunger.

"Come in then and be fed well. Take my hand. I will guide you to the hearth."

Into the castle he brought me, counted the stone steps in front, turned left, then right into the kitchen where a fire blazed, casting a red light throughout the room.

A servant girl prepared a meal of mutton and potatoes on a tin plate, poured out ale from a jug and motioned that I should sit.

She was pale and small, her fingernails dirty, her face sallow, her hair made of string.

The old man sat at the opposite end of the table from me.

I ate hungrily at first but slowed, keeping my eyes on the old man.

He wore fine clothes, like that of his son, and although the son's handsomeness did not come from the father, I knew they shared the same good heart.

"You're from England?" he said.

"Yes. Outside Sheffield."

"You're a long way from home. So am I. I was born in London but traveled everywhere, always searching to escape England and her reaches. Here I am, settled in Scotland, far from those I knew." He fell quiet, lost in an old memory and then shook himself free. "You sound youthful."

"I am an old man of thirt'-six."

The young servant girl glanced my way, her hard eyes inspecting me as she scrubbed down a blackened pot. A strand of hair fell in front of her eyes, and she wiped it away.

"Family name?" said the old man.

"Dylan. Edward Dylan."

The old man knotted his eyebrows and pursed his lips, considering for a moment if he knew any Dylans. "Dylan. Dylan. I cannot say that I know of them unless you are a relation to…no, no, their family name was not Dylan. Have you family?"

"My parents are dead, long time now, and I ne'er married." I was struck by the ease at which the lies flowed out.

"All alone then. I empathize." He gave his cane one good pound against the dirt floor and held up his left hand.

"Welcome, Edward Dylan, to my home. I am George Rochester.

The castle is not what it once was, aging right alongside me.

Miriam!" he shouted for the servant girl, who stopped scrubbing the pot straight away.

"Yes, sir."

"Set up a chamber for our guest, the warmer one on the east side."

Miriam stood still and looked from me to the old man, perplexed but reluctant to speak.

"Miriam, are you still here?"

"Do you mean Lord Jonathan's room, sir?"

He hesitated for several moments. "I do."

Miriam wiped her hands against a somewhat filthy rag and left.

George Rochester stood, looked in the general direction where I sat, and held out his hand. "I take my leave and shall see you in the morn." He shuffled away, leaning against his cane, and I hurried to him, stepping in front of him.

"Mr. Rochester, sir, I thank you and 'ccept your generous offer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness. With your aid, I shall no' be driven from society and its sympathies."

I reached out to him and offered to be his guide, but he would not hear of it. I stepped aside as he carried on towards the steps, telling me he knew every inch of the castle he used to hide in as a boy and could see more than I ever could.

Later, Miriam returned to take me to my chambers. We traveled up the stone steps, guided by a small candle in her hands. She didn't speak or look at me, but I was mesmerized by her white skin, the blue of the veins in her neck, and the blood flowing through.

When we arrived at the room, I turned to her and asked, "Will Lord Jonathan mind?"

"The Earl's son is dead."

I feigned surprise. "How terrible."

"They found him out yonder, by the gate of the castle, chewed up by a wil' animal 'e waz. He had jus' returned."

"And who is the Earl?"

"Ay, did he not tell yer? George Rochester 'imself, master of this castle and the lands.

" She droned on and told me about the Earl's family and history, but I heard nothing and continued to stare at her neck, listening to her heart thump against her chest. She looked at me, her hand sprang to her neck.

"Is there somethin' there?" she asked, wiping at her neck.

Inside the room, Miriam lit the candle by the bed and then left me alone.

I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the waves break against the rocks outside my window. Yes, Mr. Rochester's kindness would not go unnoticed by me and I determined to become the man I longed to be.