C H A P T E R : i don't like him

The uphill climb is brutal.

Damn this stupid village and their animosity towards technology!

If they only acted like normal people of this day and age, I would have been able to drive up this mountain without breaking out into a million droplets of sweat. The Fall weather attempts to soothe my troubles, and its refreshing breeze does its very best to cool my stubborn, irritated head. But its effort is fruitless in the end.

Because I'm terribly pissed at this point.

"We're close, Mie," I hear Isak say for the twentieth time.

"Liar," I huff. "You said that thirty minutes ago."

"Well, I speak no lies now. Look." The black-dressed butler raises his finger to the sky at an appearing building that peaks itself shyly behind the dark silhouettes of the mountain. As we walk a few more yards and turn right to a paved, cement road, a magnificent gate of sparkling gold reveals itself before us. A crest of a phoenix sits at the golden gate's center, and at one nod from Isak's head, it splits open and allows us entry.

"Grandpappy owns this?" I say, eyes examining the home. In a small countryside village, my grandfather's residence stands out like a jewel against a pile of coal, like a queen amongst a coalition of working class women. It's an enormous place, boasting at least four stories and walls made of glass. It's a very modern, LA-type house, contradicting the small village vibe of Epsersein, and quite similar to the summer home my parents own up in Beverly Hills.

The sight of something modern in this old countryside makes me feel at home, at ease, and a little bit homesick. But even though it has the same style and architecture like the expensive flats in the cities, something about the way it stands alone atop a big mountain gives it an eerie and disturbing vibe. Almost like an abandoned, forgotten house.

Isak leads me towards a narrow path that's guarded with tall hedges, bearing only leaves and turns. Following that path, I find myself staring at a flight of glass stairs that lead up to a huge patio and double doors made of the same material. Two, small and premature sakura trees stand on either side of the entrance to the home, and right above one of them is a large tablet guarded by a glass case.

"Do you or Grandpappy ever get lonely here?" I ask him as he fiddles with the tablet to unlock the doors.

"Lonely? Well, that's a question I haven't heard in a while," he says. A beep sounds and the doors slide open to reveal a small portion of the residence. "If I were to be frank, I would say that, at times, occurrences can be a bit slow in the Moriselle manor, especially since it's just your grandfather and I."

"Do you guys ever go to the village?" I ask. "And you know, maybe meet some new people? Have some friends?"

"Milord doesn't entertain much, and he's quite the solitary creature," he responds. "He likes to keep to himself."

"Then what about you?" I press as the two of us enter in. I watch as Isak sets my belongings down and turns to face me, the doors sliding behind us. Something about the way he stares at me through his black shades makes me fidgety, and I have the nervous urge to break contact and twirl my hair.

"What about me?"

"Don't you want to go to the village and meet someone? After all, you're young, with a life much more valuable than being some butler to an old, sad man." I wait for his reaction. But all he does is shift his shades up his nose.

"It has been a while since I've had a friend to confide to." Isak nods. "But I am bound by duty to Milord, and I cannot abandon him while I indulge in selfish pleasures."

My brows furrow.

Bound by duty?

The hell is he talking about?

I purse my lips. "I'm sorry for being pushy even though we've just met, Isak. But I'm curious…" I pause. "How did you meet Grandpappy?"

Something shifts on Isak's face. And I notice his eye twitch.

"Well, that's—"

"Is that Mielle?" A voice intrudes, followed by heavy footsteps descending down a flight of stairs. In our small scene enters another character, my grandfather, with his tall, slender, yet sculpted body and jeweled cane in hand. Not to my surprise, Grandpappy isn't any less odd than the butler beside me and the villagers down the mountain. He dresses as if he were a count from some nineteenth century novel, wearing a fancy, old-fashioned shirt, tucked under a dark green vest and coat, and topped with a red ascot hanging on his chest. Another coat drapes him, this one colored black with a tail that hangs right at his calves like a cape.

His hazel eyes, the same color as mine, glance at Isak. "Is this Margo's kid?" His smile is as sweet as a dessert wine, but too much of it can get me inebriated. There's also something about the way it widens too much that unsettles me.

I find myself disliking him.

"Yes, Milord," Isak answers, bowing slowly. He steps a little further behind to give us space.

I give him a nod. "It's been a while since I've last seen you."

He looks at me, confused. "Has it? I don't remember meeting you until now."

Now, it's my turn to look at him oddly. "You don't?" I say. "I don't remember much either, but I know I met you when I was younger."

"Oh, then I must have forgotten," he chuckles, holding out his arm and beckoning me for a hug. "Oh dear, I'm truly getting old, aren't I?"

To be polite, I accept his offer of a hug. As I wrap my arms around his torso, I notice how small his waist is.

"Mielle, Mielle, Mielle." He repeats my name multiple times as he releases himself from our awkward embrace. A disappointed expression replaces his Cheshire cat's smile. "I told Margo to name you Beatrice though." He frowns. "Nevertheless, Mielle is a beautiful name for a beautiful lady. Shall we acquaint ourselves over a cup of tea?"

Beatrice? Why would Mom name me that?

"Oh, I prefer coffee, thanks."

His frown only deepens. "Oh, that's a shame," Grandpappy sighs. "I have one of the best tea collections in the world. I'm surprised you don't take a liking to tea. Beatrice used to love tea."

Beatrice? Again?

Who is that woman?

I take a seat on one of the tall bar stools on the counter, leaning my elbows over the marble surface. Curiosity overwhelms me like a bucket of overflowing water, and I want to know who this Beatrice woman is. I have no idea what possessed me to formulate this question in my mind nor what urge compelled me to ask it, but I do it anyway, knowing that consequences will follow when I do so.

"I'm curious, Grandpappy," I begin as I watch him pour hot water over some flower-smelling tea. "You keep mentioning this Beatrice woman. Who is she? She isn't Grandmammy, right?"

My grandmother was named Mabel. But no one had ever called her that.

I watch as Grandpappy freezes at the mention of either Beatrice or Grandmammy. Either one, it elicits this strange and irritated reaction from him, making him turn to face me with a bone-deep, wrinkled frown. But in a split second, that expression disappears and is replaced with a more lifeless, disinterested countenance.

"She was a wonderful woman," he mutters quietly. His eyes don't look up at me when he answers the question, but rather stay fixated on the floor beneath him.

Again, I don't know who he's referring to, the mysterious Beatrice or my grandmother. When Mom cut her ties off with her family two years after I was born, she made it an ordeal to rarely have me visit Grandpappy. She allowed Grandmammy frequent visits, though, since the two of them were close.

But there was only one time I vaguely remember that I was dropped off here. That was my first and last time— until today, that is— where I was left alone with Grandpappy. It was when my grandmother died, and I was eight. However, strangely, I hardly remember anything that happened that time, except for meeting Grandpappy of course.

And I also find it strange that he doesn't remember our first meeting at all.

Something about him is off, and I don't like it.

I don't like him.

He seems like someone who would cause unnecessary trouble.

And that is the last thing I want on this year-long trip of mine.