one a little better. It was homelier, cozier. A bright fire was burning as she cross the threshold. Books were strewn across a dark, oak desk in the far corner and lying messily along the other shelves and against the wall in stacks.
Someone had been here looking for something. Possibly Gregor? She couldn’t imagine Monsieur Wolfe as the culprit. He, himself, admitted that he loathed reading. She began with a stack by the wall and, picking up a blue bound book, began to leaf through the pages. They were old, extremely so, but in wonderful condition. Some were in French, others in German. One was even Danish along with several English texts.
“He is extremely educated,” Ellena whispered. “Especially if he knows all of these languages.”
She couldn’t help but be impressed, although she would never tell him.
One promising book caught her eye, lying off by itself in the far corner. What struck her first was the vibrant red color. The title Folklores Français was etched across the cover. It was the oldest that Ellena had come across so far. The stories were hand written, which struck her as strange, and the cover was woven together with nothing more than pieces of sturdy string.
Ellena cradled it gently, scared that any sudden movement would cause it to crumble. She hadn’t always loved books the young woman whimsically recalled. It wasn’t until her mother married that beast of man did Ellena discover her love for them. She had used them to escape, escape from the never ending barrages of fist and hateful words. She clung to the book tighter as she tried to push the disturbing memories away. These quiet, solemn objects had been her sanctuary.
“This is my personal study.”
The voice startled her and Ellena jumped to her feet. Monsieur Wolfe entered with a billowing pipe in his hand. She was about to mumble a weak apology when another thought occurred to her.
“I thought you hated reading? Why do you have a personal library?”
“Do you have to like something to want it?”
She knew he was not just talking about libraries.
“I suppose not, but it seems rather meaningless and exhausting to live in such a way. It’s like endlessly feeding an appetite that will never be satisfied.” She began toward the door. “Sorry, for imposing on you.”
“Where are you going with my book?”
Ellena had forgotten about it still in her arms. “Oh, Gregor said—”
“What did he say?” he asked in a less than pleased tone.
“He said I should be careful and always ask your permission before taking a book from any room.”
Not ever wanting to bring any disfavor to the gentle old man, she lied. Gregor may have told her she was free to come and go as she pleased but, as much as she detested it, Lord Wolfe was the master of this house.
“Well then, this will be your punishment for not asking first.” He snatched the book up and, giving one quick look of disgust, threw it into the fire.
“What are you doing?” Ellena screamed as she dropped to her knees, trying to pry the burning pages from the licking flames.
“Get away from there!” Lord Wolfe roared, snatching Ellena to her feet and dragging her away. An earsplitting rip followed and she looked down to see that he had torn her dress to shreds and pieces of its green, lush fabric were still dangling from his hand.
Ellena was trembling as she snatched the pieces and fled. The blood was rushing to her face, tears swelling in her eyes as she tried to find the way back to her room. He was exactly like her stepfather she fumed, a hateful man who was delighted in bringing everyone around him misery.
Her skin felt unbearably hot and she stopped to lean her forehead against the cold glass of a small window. It helped to calm her breathing and she slowly regained her composure. She would be leaving tomorrow. Come hell or high water, she could not stay here another day.
When she finally made her way back to her sleeping quarters, her belongings were waiting
Someone had been here looking for something. Possibly Gregor? She couldn’t imagine Monsieur Wolfe as the culprit. He, himself, admitted that he loathed reading. She began with a stack by the wall and, picking up a blue bound book, began to leaf through the pages. They were old, extremely so, but in wonderful condition. Some were in French, others in German. One was even Danish along with several English texts.
“He is extremely educated,” Ellena whispered. “Especially if he knows all of these languages.”
She couldn’t help but be impressed, although she would never tell him.
One promising book caught her eye, lying off by itself in the far corner. What struck her first was the vibrant red color. The title Folklores Français was etched across the cover. It was the oldest that Ellena had come across so far. The stories were hand written, which struck her as strange, and the cover was woven together with nothing more than pieces of sturdy string.
Ellena cradled it gently, scared that any sudden movement would cause it to crumble. She hadn’t always loved books the young woman whimsically recalled. It wasn’t until her mother married that beast of man did Ellena discover her love for them. She had used them to escape, escape from the never ending barrages of fist and hateful words. She clung to the book tighter as she tried to push the disturbing memories away. These quiet, solemn objects had been her sanctuary.
“This is my personal study.”
The voice startled her and Ellena jumped to her feet. Monsieur Wolfe entered with a billowing pipe in his hand. She was about to mumble a weak apology when another thought occurred to her.
“I thought you hated reading? Why do you have a personal library?”
“Do you have to like something to want it?”
She knew he was not just talking about libraries.
“I suppose not, but it seems rather meaningless and exhausting to live in such a way. It’s like endlessly feeding an appetite that will never be satisfied.” She began toward the door. “Sorry, for imposing on you.”
“Where are you going with my book?”
Ellena had forgotten about it still in her arms. “Oh, Gregor said—”
“What did he say?” he asked in a less than pleased tone.
“He said I should be careful and always ask your permission before taking a book from any room.”
Not ever wanting to bring any disfavor to the gentle old man, she lied. Gregor may have told her she was free to come and go as she pleased but, as much as she detested it, Lord Wolfe was the master of this house.
“Well then, this will be your punishment for not asking first.” He snatched the book up and, giving one quick look of disgust, threw it into the fire.
“What are you doing?” Ellena screamed as she dropped to her knees, trying to pry the burning pages from the licking flames.
“Get away from there!” Lord Wolfe roared, snatching Ellena to her feet and dragging her away. An earsplitting rip followed and she looked down to see that he had torn her dress to shreds and pieces of its green, lush fabric were still dangling from his hand.
Ellena was trembling as she snatched the pieces and fled. The blood was rushing to her face, tears swelling in her eyes as she tried to find the way back to her room. He was exactly like her stepfather she fumed, a hateful man who was delighted in bringing everyone around him misery.
Her skin felt unbearably hot and she stopped to lean her forehead against the cold glass of a small window. It helped to calm her breathing and she slowly regained her composure. She would be leaving tomorrow. Come hell or high water, she could not stay here another day.
When she finally made her way back to her sleeping quarters, her belongings were waiting
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