Chapter 05

  Sing a Lullaby

  The Duke stares emptily into the space in front of him, his wine eyes glazed over.

  Like a mannequin, he sits motionless on the edge of his wide bed. Not even caring to lie down and get comfortable on the soft mattress. I wonder what invisible chain is locking him so firmly in place.

  I reach down to a bucket of purified water near his feet and dip a clean towel. After wringing it out, I move closer to the Duke, who is already bare from the torso up.

  "Your Grace, would you mind raising your arm?"

  He obediently complies without a single change in expression. With careful swipes, I cleanse his skin thoroughly, starting from his shoulder all the way to his fingertips; the stench of sweat and old wine takes a while to rub off.

  His wrist is full of scratch marks, some so intense that they pierced through the skin and now show up as dark red, dried-up gashes. I quickly check the back of his neck, gently combing through his gray hair. There's no sign of bruises or lacerations, thankfully.

  Does the Duke still suffer from nightmares?

  He must be dreaming of his wife again. He always does—he can never forget her even after all these years. Though, I wish he would dream of his son every now and then too.

  I wipe away some black pieces of dirt and grime from underneath his nails, not exactly sure of where they came from. Though it's none of my business, I still hope he isn't digging at the walls or at the floors in his sleep. That would only mean he was walking around subconsciously at night. And if he were to somehow open the door... oh, just thinking of it makes me nervous.

  A frail touch on my back makes me flinch; I was not aware that the Duke had resumed movement.

  "Are you alright, dear?" His hand slides up my back, I bite my cheek.

  It grazes over my shoulder and rests on my neck. The merlot red eyes on his softened face burrows into me. There's no mistaking the genuine concern in them. After all, when the sun goes down, I know that the Duke can only see the woman closest to his heart—though falsely perceived in me—his beloved, but deceased wife, Tessa Rutherford. Yet, that doesn’t stop this jittery feeling creeping up from inside my stomach.

  "I'm fine, Your Grace. Please don't worry about me."

  I finish wiping his arms and scrub his front before moving on to his back, pausing at the scar. Gently, I pat it clean with the wet cloth. Though I try to use as little strength as possible, just a graze over wounded flesh can be extremely sensitive to the point of electrifying. Yet, I can never tell if the Duke is affected. Even as I go over the delicate skin, he does not move, or much less, flinch.

  He's not usually talkative, but I find that the Duke becomes especially quiet in regards to the burn on his back. Whenever I wash, clean, or touch it, I have never heard him groan or complain. Sometimes, I imagine what he could be thinking during these moments. I imagine his regrets, his condemnations, his longings. I imagine him anguished, desperate to find recovery within broken relationships.

  "My dear, you're bleeding. Let me summon a maid," the Duke says, spotting the red trail running along my arm. A thin cloth, hastily wrapped around my wound, soaks up most of the blood. But the remainder leaks through the gaps.

  "I have already called for one, she is waiting outside." I lie.

  "Tell me, my dear, who did this to you?" he asks, eyes ablaze and the wrinkles of his forehead deepening.

  "I fell, Your Grace."

  "Lies... you are not so careless. Tell me the truth; it was I who did this to you, wasn't it?"

  "Your Grace..."

  The Duke looks down at his hands with an undistinguishable look. Perhaps, a mix of puzzlement, frustration, and self-loathing. My heart beats with worry; I imagine him standing up, trudging over to the window, and leaning a little too far over the edge.

  "It's very late," I say, hoping to break his line of thought. "Perhaps, you should retire for the night?"

  The Duke nods obediently and I help him lie down properly, setting his head on a soft pillow. I am pulling up the thick blanket when the Duke stops me, his frail hand reaching out from beneath the covers.

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  "My dear, could you sing for me?"

  I take his hand and sit beside him on the bed, "Of course, Your Grace. What would you like me to sing?"

  "Anything," He coughs up a bit of the phlegm congested in his throat. "Anything you sing would be lovely. You could do one of the songs you hummed to Adrian, you know, when he was so little."

  Adrian.

  How long has it been since he last uttered that name?

  I had expected to hear it in a muffled grumble in his sleep, but there's a hint of tenderness seeping through his otherwise, stoic tone. I only hope that it is more than just my imagination this time.

  "Will you sing, my dear?" The Duke waits patiently.

  "I will, Your Grace."

  He closes his eyes and I sing.

  Dearest Prince of Pyrope,

  Heed my words.

  Pride not in your luster,

  Which beckons the birds.

  Not seen or heard,

  Rather inside of you,

  So deep and very clear,

  A beauty that is true.

  Red as rich as wine,

  As regal as violet.

  Your hue comes from within,

  My little Garnet.

  I check the Duke's breathing; it's clear and steady. His hand falls limp and I settle it neatly by his side before slipping out of his grasp.

  Will he recall this in the morning?

  I hope he doesn't. Whenever he does, he remembers the encounter with his "wife" as a dream and it makes him bitter. Once again, the old and woeful Duke will be thirsty for whatever wine he can get his hands on. It's not easy handling the consequences of such actions.

  Though, more than the physical hardships, the intoxicating smoke, the unpredictability or anything else, it is the emotional toil that drains me most. Being witness to the degeneration of a single individual, no matter how cruel or unsavory they were in the past, is as unsettling as watching a train wreck in slow motion. Gut-wrenching. Harrowing.

  I pick up the bucket of water and hang the wet cloth on the side. Before leaving, I take one last glimpse at the sleeping Duke.

  Rest well, Duke. You need to be wide awake in order to take a good, long look at your cherished son.

  . , ; , . , ; , .

  It doesn't take me long to return back to my sleeping quarters. However, I pause at the door, hesitating to enter. After all, the thought of Stella being awake at this hour slightly unnerves me. Having to face her with an obviously bleeding arm would definitely not end well. She'd probably yell at me, maybe even cry a little.

  "Host."

  I jump.

  "Does this happen a lot?" Aca's voice is like a slap to the face. I almost forgot this talking angel of mine existed.

  He has been awfully quiet for the last hour or two, hasn't he?

  "Does it?" he asks.

  "Oh," I mutter an answer, "occasionally, at night". Not all the time.

  "Why..."

  "The Duke mourns his late wife." I whisper, still worried about waking Stella inside.

  "You—"

  I hear a sigh from the angel. "Hurry and treat yourself. My host should not bear cuts and bruises on her body." His voice is a lot sterner than I expected. More like the guardian angel he boasts of himself to be. That makes me chuckle, a little touched by his seriousness.

  "Well then," I snort. "A little too late for that."

  "... Is everything alright?"

  I pause, "The Duke is not well, but I believe he'll get better. He needs time. And less wine."

  "No, host. I am aware that the old man is ill, that I can sense. But I am asking you... is this alright with you? Are you truly fine?"

  I keep silent, unsure of what to say—what Aca wants me to say. Am I fine? I have never asked that question to myself in any of the over 10 years that I've lived and served here. To work like this, the hardship—the trouble and tribulation—is just a given, is it not? It's my job. My purpose. Perhaps, my only purpose. Serving this family... that's all I have ever known.

  "We can speak later," I try to end the conversation.

  Surprisingly, Aca listens and keeps quiet.

  I grip the knob to the door and twist as slowly as possible. The door, contrary to my expectations, does not creak upon opening. As soon as the gap is big enough, I squeeze myself through and gently shut the door behind me.

  The room is dark, but the moonlight shining through the thin curtains of our room window is more than enough. Stella lies sideways on her bed with her back facing me.

  My eyes guide me to a desk. I walk over and carefully pull open a drawer. I shove aside some pins and paper, and I take out a small rectangular box. Inside, tiny bottles of ointment, tape, scissors, bandages, and more are tossed around in a not-so orderly fashion. I fish out a couple packets of tissue, antiseptic cream, and a roller bandage.

  Using the scissors, I remove the thin linen strapped around my arm, sticky with dried blood. The wound doesn’t sting as much as it did before, but the pain hasn't quite subsided yet. I'll have to ask the house doctor for some numbing pills tomorrow morning.

  Using some tissue, I do my best to clean up my arm. My skin tingles as I smear it with the antiseptic. Like an expert, my arm is soon wrapped up nicely. I change out of my maid outfit and slip on a thin one-piece. The sleeves are not long enough to cover my bandages, which is slightly concerning as there is a chance that Stella might accidentally notice it.

  “Hah…” I sigh.

  It’s hot, but I raise the covers all the way up, covering my entire body up to my neck. It's not likely that Stella will see, since she seldom wakes up before me.

  However, life is not always predictable. It can slap you in the face when you least expect it. It can beat you up and leave you aching and sore and full of bitter regrets. It can tear you to pieces and make you wish you had never been born at all.

  Perhaps, that's all too obvious.

  In conclusion, I won't be taking any chances and will hide my bruised body from my innocent and lovely, little sister.

  "Better to be safe than sorry."