Chapter 13: Revelations

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

— H.P. Lovecraft, Supernatural Horror in Literature, originally published 1927 (rev. 1933), in The Recluse, No. 1. Copyright © public domain.

The morning arrived as it always did, whether by invitation of a trumpet bugler or birdsong or by rejection of a pair of sleeping eyes. Mornings were inevitable, but that never stops its light from being troublesome for the weary when it filers in through a window to cast a warm, silver shade onto a man’s eyelids.

Silas stirred when the rays settled onto him.

He rolled over; the warmth beside him had long since fled, and in its place was only a faint impression in the linen, quickly cooling.

He turned, and there she was: Princess Sophia. She was no longer in silk or nude as they surely had been only the night before. In shadow, the woman paced with quiet agitation across the floorboards. Eerily, her bare feet scarcely made a sound.

“Sophia?” His voice was soft, rough with sleep. He rubbed his hands on his face to brush the crusty crumbs of sleep from his eyes. “Are you—are you well?”

She did not answer him at once. He could tell that she was deep in thought, but over what, he could not say.

“I am fine,” she said, waving him off. “It is nothing.”

Silas knew disquiet when he saw it; hers was not the melancholy of romantic regret, which was a concern given he did not get to use all the skills at his disposal, nor was it the stiffness of aristocratic propriety awakened after folly. That had also been a fear he had felt in his dreams.

No. While he could not be sure of what the thoughts were on or what for, he recognized that this was something else entirely.

He rose slowly and pulled his dressing gown around his shoulders. Then, with the unthinking kindness of a man who believed sunlight solved most human troubles, he crossed to the tall windows and drew the curtains back.

Golden morning poured in, and immediately, Sophia recoiled away by way of stumbling backward as if struck by the rays.

Silas froze, caught between apology and confusion. He looked from the light to Sophia. He knew that British royalty were frail by comparison to the average man, but he did not think a little morning sunlight could harm her. After all, she had been vibrant, powerful, and sturdy.

“Forgive me—I thought you might wish for some light.”

“I prefer the dark,” she said in a forced manner.

She was stiff, her words felt hollow, and her stance was defensive like a prey caught by a predator.

When she recognized her own chalance, she straightened her posture. There was grim elegance in her very bearing.

“That is not entirely true,” she said softly, meeting his eyes.

He looked at her, plainly bewildered. There was no accusation in his face, but she seemed to feel like she was facing some condemnation. She stepped forward, towards him with a pleading in her eyes.

“I feel I must tell you something about myself, Silas.”

Silas opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, but she held up her hand. Like most common men in the world, he complied even though he could not say why.

“You will hear it, so you can know I gave you this information of my own free choice.”

She looked at the window and then at him. There was a calculation of risk being made in her eyes. Silas had seen that look in the mirror at times, in his father when Silas was a child, and in students gambling on their exams without study. This was a deep truth with dangerous incertitude.

“I flinched from the light because I am not simply a princess, or a foreign guest in your country, but I also am a vampire.”

The words fell without drama. However, for whatever their intended meaning, Silas did not know what the word meant. He could recognize that this was a moment of importance for her, so he accepted the confession with its intended significance.

He recognized it being a new word for the English language. It must have been the eighteenth century when it had come into the vernacular. From what he recalled, it was related to Eastern European folklore of monsters that drained the blood of humans

Silas did not move. Was she saying that she was some mythological creature? That did not make much sense, and he would have held onto that notion; however, he had seen the basement, and Thomas had explained the use of actual magic.

If necromancy was real, why were fairy faced humans who drank human blood so absurd to him?

Then—

A knock came at the door.

Thomas Wilson ascended the stairs of the manor after speaking to the young man. Her story was a simple one, and it confirmed most of what he already suspected.

On the night where Silas had come in at the early hours of a morning after being out all evening, he had gone to the tavern with Jonathan Pellham. From there, he had gotten drunk, and he had come onto the barmaid of Lily.

While she was compliant in the union, she was younger and of lesser means. Did that remove her responsibilities to have said no? But one should judge with circumstances in mind.

As he made his way to Silas’s chambers, Mister Wilson thought of how best to bring this discussion up with Mister Wolcott. The butler did not want to shame his employer, but a child did not deserve to be mistreated because their father wanted to live their life.

Perhaps, if Silas wished to blame others, he might lay some on the young woman, but in Thomas’s mind, Silas should have known better. Nevertheless, by the time, he found himself at the door of Silas’s room, he knew that this would be a situation that required a hand to help guide the circumstances.

At the chamber door, he paused.

For a man like Thomas Wilson (who had served two generations of Wolcotts and paid attention to all that this entailed), to see the young man and talk about such sensitive subject matter was no ordinary errand.

He rapped his knuckle against the door twice in that deliberate cadence which marked his authority within the house.

“Enter,” came the reply from within after a moment’s pause.

He pushed the door open, but just enough to give Silas a modicum of privacy.

The master of the house stood, half-dressed and disheveled. In a different portion of the room, in the shadows, stood Princess Sophia. At the moment, she was adjusting her bodice, but also, there was the look of fearful concern on her face. Her eyes went from Silas to Thomas, and the servant could not assess as to why that was.

Silas turned toward Thomas.

“Wilson, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this early?”

Now, that question was strange. While Silas did sometimes speak to Thomas with a mix of casual formality and informality, the way he asked that question threw the butler off. Furthermore, the way the question had been asked was one such that it caused Thomas to blink at Silas. He was unsure as to what to do.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wolcott,” Thomas replied, his voice carefully neutral. He looked from the woman to Silas, and quickly, he decided that a mix of the truth and a deception was necessary in lieu of this new, untrusted company. “It concerns a serving girl, Lily. There was—an accident in the scullery. She is hurt.”

There was a look of shock, but not of concern on Silas’s face. It was as if this matter were altogether beneath him. Silas waved a hand in that easy manner of a man for whom the complications of life were not his business.

“Do what you feel is best, Thomas,” Silas remarked, trying to turn away and end the meeting. “I trust in your sound judgment.”

Thomas’s brow knit—but only briefly. He wanted to convey the importance to Silas. However,, Silas Wolcott seemed to have no more interest in Lily that a stuffed man at a banquet when offered more food. No, Silas’s eye was on a different prize.