The Mistake

Kelantha

With winter came a renewed sense of complacency within the house, for it allowed me a degree more mobility with the skies overcast and darkness looming in the lower chambers of the castle. My son was pleased with this newfound time spent in my company and I used it foremost to observe. I had noted a keen understanding between the child and his governess, whose innocence was profound beyond the simple faith she placed in her crucifixes and prayers. She was infinitely eager to please, not only her ward and charge but his parents as well. I observed her with a common indifference that was cold in her plight for approval, forcing her to strive all the harder for recognition.

My son, it seemed, was almost too much for her to handle at times. He was willing in his tasks and normally prompt in his obedience, but I sensed in him a shifting interest in the world that encased them both, as though his devotion would wane. It did not displease me as much as it intrigued my senses, for I waited and watched to see what would become of it. Mirielle was a suitable teacher, no doubt educated in a rigorous school system, but showed tenderness when strength would have suited her more. Mihail was intelligent beyond most children of his delicate age, and more than once I saw him deliberately bring tears to her eyes. I was beginning to grasp the concept that our son was cruel. Not infinitely, but intentionally.

They were little things, such as hiding her prayer book so that she missed her evening stations of the cross, or tipping the ink lightly with his elbow onto her journal. They were such seemingly innocent deeds that she took no overt notice of them as malicious, and never approached me to seek council. She sought me on every other occasion, desperately craving my guidance. I gazed into her face, so much like a porcelain doll, and granted her leniency. She was somewhat wary and in awe around me, but positively glowed in the presence of my husband. It did not prevent her from being clumsy on occasion, something that my son took note of and used to his advantage.

It was nearing twilight and the last golden rays were vanquished by the darkness, lending to a pool of shadows that crept along the corridor and reached toward my skirts. I moved soundlessly down the passage, pausing to gaze out over the snow-coated forest that lay silent below. Soon it would be completely night and I would venture out into the wood, moving like a whisper in the silence. My eye caught a small figure standing near the tree line, nearly vanishing against the bowed limbs heavy with snow. He stood gazing up at the castle, hands in his pockets and face concealed with a heavy scarf and woolen cap. He gave me a sense of unease, soon vanishing into the darkness. I continued down the passage, the sound of my son�s voice bleeding forth into a murmur.

My hand fell on the knob of the nursery and it twisted beneath me. I opened it upon a room bathed in flickering candlelight, golden flames burning above molten wax as it warmed and dripped down the elaborate holders. Maps and books were spread out on every available surface, lines of string indicating the journey they were tracing. It was not history that reached my ears, but the soft whisper of abomination. Mirielle sat on the window seat beside him, our complacent little son so devout in his attentions, her words forming into a torrent that turned my blood cold. My fingers tightened against the knob, forcing my voice to remain level as I commanded, �Mirielle, come with me.�

She looked up, startled, her green eyes wide beneath a fringe of brown curls. The prayer book was handed to my son as she gathered up her flowing skirts and came to me meekly. I issued her out into the hall, and then turned on her and demanded, �What are you teaching him? We never gave you permission to instruct him in that way!�

�I am sorry, Madame,� she faltered, twisting her slender hands anxiously. �I did not know you would disapprove!�

�If I had desired my son to be taught in the ways of the Church, I would have sent for a nun.� My voice had become hard and distant, bringing tears to her eyes as she looked at the floor, thoroughly reprimanded. I could feel no compassion for her, this sanctimonious little governess attempting to instruct my son in the Lord�s Prayer. I had closed the door to prevent Mihail from listening and drew it open again. The sight that awaited me formed dread in my being, for he had his face pressed against the glass. I knew even before I approached that he was watching his father�s descent.

Picking him up beneath the arms and enfolding him against my body, I swept out again in the direction of the library, leaving the poor berated governess standing alone in the passage behind me.

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