Ch 18: Countering the Host

After the dinner concluded, Fenrir allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection in the privacy of the guest chambers. The opulent room was a gilded cage, one meant to placate and distract its occupants. But Fenrir wasn't fooled.

"Do you feel it?" he asked softly.

Mary Ann, sitting by the vanity and brushing her long dark hair, tilted her head slightly. The Lady of Sorrow's voice emerged, low and laced with amusement. "The air is thick with her malice. She's desperate to be rid of us."

Fenrir chuckled, the sound low and unsettling. "She's clever, I'll give her that. But not clever enough. Her arrogance blinds her to the forces at play here."

Mary Ann set the brush down, her black eyes meeting Fenrir's. "What's the plan, then? Will we eliminate her outright, or are you in the mood for something more... theatrical?"

Unbeknownst to them, the servants were gathered just outside the room, listening intently. Fear radiated from them like a palpable force as they exchanged worried glances.

"Did you see the way they acted at dinner?" one whispered. "They ate everything as if it were normal!"

"It's like they didn't even notice the curses," another hissed.

"Or worse," the head maid muttered, her face pale. "They noticed... and they didn't care."

The group fell silent, the weight of the implication sinking in. If Lady Fourie's carefully crafted plan had failed, it meant one thing: the guests in her house were far more dangerous than anyone had realized.

The grand halls of Lady Fourie's manor had settled into an uneasy quiet as the maids carried out their late-night duties. Among them was Clara, a young servant whose hands trembled as she clutched a small vial of poison hidden within the folds of her apron.

Fear had gripped her since the arrival of the strange guests. She had overheard too many whispered conversations, seen too many unnatural occurrences. Fenrir's unnerving composure, Mary Ann's hollow eyes—these were not the traits of ordinary humans. Clara was convinced they were monsters, and she felt the weight of duty pressing on her: if Lady Fourie's plan had failed, perhaps she could succeed.

Clara entered the guest chamber quietly, her heart pounding in her chest. The vial was clutched tightly in one hand, a small dagger hidden in the other. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls as the curtains fluttered in the night breeze.

Mary Ann sat by the vanity, brushing her hair, her back turned to Clara. The scene was deceptively mundane, yet it made Clara's skin crawl.

"Lady Mary Ann," Clara said, her voice shaking as she stepped forward.

Mary Ann didn't turn around. "Yes?"

Clara hesitated, her grip tightening on the dagger. "I—I brought you some tea. To help you sleep."

"Tea?" Mary Ann's voice was soft, almost kind, but there was an unsettling undercurrent to it. She turned her head slightly, just enough for Clara to catch the unnatural glint in her dark eyes. "How thoughtful of you."

Clara forced herself to step closer, placing the teacup on the vanity. Her hand moved toward the dagger, but before she could strike, Mary Ann turned fully to face her.

"You're trembling," Mary Ann observed, her tone calm.

"I—" Clara stammered, but the words caught in her throat as Mary Ann rose from her chair in a single fluid motion. Her movements were too smooth, too unnatural.

"You poor thing," Mary Ann continued, stepping closer. "What are you so afraid of?"

Clara's knees buckled as she dropped the dagger, falling to the floor. "Please," she whispered. "Please don't kill me."

Mary Ann crouched before her, tilting her head as if examining a curious object. Her voice was soft, almost tender, as she said, "Kill you? Oh, my dear, I don't need to kill you. Fear will do that for me."

From the doorway, Fenrir watched the scene unfold, his expression one of detached amusement. He had sensed Clara's intent long before she entered the room, and he had chosen not to interfere. This was a valuable opportunity to observe Mary Ann—or rather, the Lady of Sorrow—in action.

"Mercy," Mary Ann said at last, her voice dripping with mockery. "I suppose I could grant you that."

Clara sobbed, unable to meet her gaze.

Mary Ann stood, glancing over her shoulder at Fenrir. "Should I let her go?"

Fenrir stepped into the room, his presence sending a chill through the air. "Let her live, for now. Fear is a far more useful tool than death."

Mary Ann smiled, her eyes glittering with malice. "As you wish."

Clara stumbled out of the room, her heart racing and her mind a blur. She knew she had failed, but she also knew she had seen something no one else had.

______

Clara stumbled into Lady Fourie's private chambers, her face pale and her breath ragged. The ornate room, filled with silken drapes and flickering candlelight, felt suffocating as she sank to her knees before her mistress.

Lady Fourie, seated gracefully on a chaise lounge, raised an eyebrow at the sudden intrusion. "Clara," she said coldly, her voice dripping with disdain, "to what do I owe this... unseemly disturbance?"

Clara clutched the hem of Lady Fourie's gown, her eyes wide with desperation. "My lady, you must listen to me. Lady Mary Ann—she's not what you think she is! She's no fragile woman; she's something else entirely! She—"

"Silence."

The single word cut through Clara's frantic rambling, and she froze, trembling as Lady Fourie rose to her feet.

Lady Fourie's expression was one of icy disdain as she circled Clara. "Do you take me for a fool?" she said, her tone sharp. "I am well aware of who and what my guests are."

Clara's heart leaped. "Then you know? You understand the danger—"

"Danger?" Lady Fourie interrupted, her voice mocking. "Do not presume to lecture me, girl. You overstep your station."

Clara stared at her, disbelief warring with terror. "But, my lady, they're unnatural! I tried to stop her, I tried—"

"You tried," Lady Fourie repeated, her lips curling into a thin smile. "And in doing so, you've proven yourself both incompetent and disloyal."

Clara's blood ran cold as Lady Fourie turned to summon her guards. "Take her to her quarters," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Ensure she doesn't leave them again."

The guards appeared almost instantly, their faces grim as they hauled Clara to her feet. She struggled, panic surging through her veins. "No! My lady, please! I was only trying to protect you!"

Lady Fourie didn't respond, her expression unchanging as Clara was dragged from the room.

Back in her quarters, Clara paced frantically, her mind racing. She had to find a way to escape, to warn someone about the horrors she had witnessed. But her room, once a place of comfort, now felt like a prison.

As the hours dragged on, Clara's fear grew, and she began to realize the true extent of her peril. Lady Fourie's wrath was cold and calculating, and Clara had seen firsthand what happened to those who displeased her mistress.

When the door finally creaked open, Clara's heart leaped. But the figure standing in the doorway wasn't a savior.

It was the head maid, flanked by two burly guards. Her expression was one of sorrow, but her words carried the weight of finality. "I'm sorry, Clara. Orders are orders."

"No!" Clara screamed as the guards advanced. "Please, I can help! I can—"

Her protests were cut short as one of the guards clamped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. The last sound she heard was the click of the door closing behind her.

In her chambers, Lady Fourie sipped a glass of wine, her mind already turning to the next phase of her plans. Clara's death was a minor inconvenience, a necessary reminder to the staff of where their loyalties should lie.

"She was a fool," Lady Fourie murmured to herself. "And fools have no place in my house."

______

Lady Fourie sat in her private parlor the next morning, her delicate features composed into a mask of regal calm. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden patterns on the expensive rugs. The previous night's events lingered faintly in her thoughts, but not enough to distract her from the task at hand.

The death of a disloyal servant was routine, a small ripple in the grand pond of her ambitions. Yet, as she prepared for breakfast with her guests, she felt a growing unease gnawing at the edges of her mind. Clara's frantic warnings replayed in fragmented pieces, whispers of doubt that threatened to unravel her confidence

By the time she entered the breakfast room, Lady Fourie had buried those doubts beneath layers of practiced elegance. The long dining table was set with pristine dishes and fresh bouquets of flowers, a picture of civility.

Fenrir was already seated, a steaming cup of tea in his pale hands. His wheelchair positioned perfectly, he gave the impression of both vulnerability and control, a dichotomy that made Lady Fourie uneasy.