Sat May 10, 2014 11:53 am
It is a castle; a little castle.
In truth the building is more akin to a manor house, a sturdy stonebuilt structure with outbuildings that form wings to either side around a paved courtyard; a gated wall comprises the fourth side of the square, and a little bridge crosses the ditch encircling the whole compound in the manner of a moat, fed by a stream but for the most part choked by weeds and rushes.
It was a hunting lodge once, when it was first built; a folly, perhaps, constructed by some forgotten lord to add a touch of whimsy, a spot of charm to his estate. An outpost to which he might invite guests, and from which they might ride out into the woods in search of game. Deer, maybe, or boar. That was a long time ago, however, and since then it has passed through various sets of hands - most recently plump ones belonging to members of Councilor Treadwell's strange congregation.
The lodge had been empty for months before the fae Zilliah had, in some fit of caprice, purchased the property and passed it to Cherny's name; old leaves drifted in the corners of one room, driven in through a windowpane knocked loose by autumn storms; another bore traces of small creatures that had sought shelter over the winter, a sturdy armchair with holes gnawed in its upholstery, clumps and tufts of horsehair scattered over the floor.
On his first visit he creeps from room to room like one of those timid creatures, mapping out the chambers and hallways, picking through the detritus left behind by the previous occupants. A collection of chipped crockery, a few dented cooking pots - one nearly large enough for the boy to take a bath in - tinware and cutlery, a child's shoe and a woollen sock big enough for him to fit both legs into. A dining hall with a great fireplace at one end, comfortable armchairs still clustered around the empty grate; a gallery above, leading to bedchambers and servants' quarters; the back half of the building seems devoted to the kitchen - the pantry - the larder - the cellar; space enough to lay in provisions for a siege. A few hours of this and he flees to his nest above the tavern stables, struggling to understand how this could be his.
When next he visits he is to some extent better prepared; he investigates the outbuildings to either side of the house - stables to one side, kennels to the other, though the latter space has served more as a storage shed than as housing for hounds. Heaps of broken furniture - defeated by a surfeit of enormous backsides, the boy surmises - and neatly-stacked cordwood waiting for an axe which never came. A strenuous afternoon ends with a fire burning in each of the grates, sufficient to drive out the worst of the winter's damp, and he sleeps on an overstuffed couch in front of the great hearth.
Subsequent trips to the house - his house - see him putting it to rights as well as he's able; he brings nails, scavenged tools, and makes what repairs he can to loose shingles and weather-battered timbers; he assaults each room in turn, airing out the furnishings, taking a broom to the floors and a beater to the rugs and tapestries the former tenants had deemed too threadbare or faded to take with them.
When Zinniah finally leaves the Rememdium the squire guides her along the lakeshore, not telling where they are going, saying only that it is a surprise; they cross a little stream and turn into the woods - his woods, part of the lodge's property - and along the overgrown path to the bridge, the gate, the courtyard; they pause for a moment, and he unlocks the front door with an iron key.
Cherny takes the fae girl's hand and leads her inside, showing her the house - his house, their house - through his eyes.