Proper Monster

~Silas~ Demonic servant at Thorn Manor, Austermeer Morally grey and universally appealing

[highborn-demon]

Tell us all about your bedroom, in detail....

~ My bedchamber seems to be a source of scintillating mystery for many of you mortals. And so I shall do my best to describe it, without revealing too much of its intimate, enigmatic aura…

My room is located on the fifth story of the manor, just beneath the attic peak. This floor was the servant’s quarters in previous centuries, but as you know I am the only staff remaining {besides Miss Mercy, who has thankfully chosen a room on the third floor as her very own}.

First and foremost, my bed. Yes, I do sleep, mostly for pleasure and dreaming or to pass the time, since sleep is not a requirement for a demon. It is a deliciously cozy bed, with a sea of ivory linen sheets of the softest weave, and a thick plush blanket. I have more than a few pillows, as I like to sit up in bed and read on occasion, until the sweet oblivion of sleep claims me. My bed has been described as narrow, but it is in fact quite spacious. If I wish for even more room, I simply sleep in my cat form, which makes the bed seem even bigger. {And for those of you about to ask, the only biscuits I make are the ones kneaded in the kitchen}.

Against the wall at the far side of my bed is a fairly plain yet elegant dark wooden dresser, upon which sits a white porcelain pitcher and basin. This is for washing my face and hands in the mornings, before I dress myself in House Thorn livery. Laid out next to it, at the ready, is the customary black ribbon with which I tie my hair, and a pair of gloves. Tucked further towards the back is an oil lamp, and a lace handkerchief folded into a square. Cradled within this piece of lace are the opera tickets I pocketed from the Ostrich Room, as Mistress Scrivener calls it, as well as a tortoiseshell hair comb I discovered in the manor’s garden. The owner of this comb and the tickets was Mistress Theodora Sinclair, to whom I was bound, and served here at Thorn Manor long ago.

A large mirror is set above the dresser, so I can double check the hang of my coattails and the tidiness of my cravat before I begin my day.

An armoire in which my work uniforms hang, made of black walnut to match the dresser, stands near the window, as does a deep copper tub for when I wish to indulge in a decadent, fully submerged bath. For reasons I think are obvious, I cannot abide a cast iron tub. I do have a screen for privacy, though I’ve no idea why, as demons do not feel shame or have a sense of modesty about our bodies, and that includes being completely naked.

Speaking of the window, it is indeed the best view from the manor in my humble opinion. It overlooks the entirety of the formal gardens, the labyrinth and the fruit groves. On a clear morning without fog, one can see all the way down the rolling lawns to the pond, and its graceful weeping willow tree. To sleep with an open window, allowing in the breezes scented of night-blooming jasmine and locust blossoms, is pure bliss.

Across the room is a fireplace made of black marble, its arched mantel carved elaborately with a fanciful forest motif of oak leaves, acorns, dancing fauns and nymphs. On cold evenings and mornings, I will light a small birch log fire, which warms the room quickly and is fragrant in a most pleasing manner.

While the left side of my room {where you enter} is quite spare and neat, the right side is my makeshift artist’s studio. Decidedly messy, I’m afraid. But this chaos of paper, paints and canvas is how I preserve my memories, three centuries worth of them, so far. It may look disorganized, yet I know where each and every charcoal stick, brush, tube of paint and drop of linseed oil is.

My easel is set up in front of the window, and the lighting is magnificent, whether it be the gilded lavender of dawn, or the dusky purple of twilight, or the silver sheen of a moonlit night.

My room is a sanctuary. It is a serene place for me to retire in the evenings~ after I’ve turned down everyone’s beds and extinguished the lamps…after tea is fetched and served, and the dishes from dinner are washed and neatly stacked in the scullery… and after I return from my nightly prowl of the grounds. I can hear the grimoires in the muniment room down the hall; they quietly bicker and grumble, and sometimes snore quite loudly, but otherwise, I am happily alone up here.

I am rather fond of my bedchamber. As intensely as I love maintaining the manor, my tasks in the city and caring for my family, stepping into the tranquility of my room and closing the door at the end of a long day is always a welcomed thing.

[highborn-demon]

Oh to be

Both a sanctuary and a threat

Depending on the audience…

[highborn-demon]

I think you all know by now that I have been quite adamant for Master Thorn to learn practicality~ and not use magic for every little thing.

Magic is convenient, yes… however the frivolous use of it is unseemly. Honestly, I feel it is the lazy way out. That is why I endeavored to teach him actual, useful skills, such as how to pick a lock {very handy} how to fold his socks and tie a proper cravat {he still cannot do either} and cook an edible breakfast {ah, finally a success}.

I should think it much more satisfying to know you’ve accomplished something with your own skill and savvy, as opposed to forever relying on the ease of magic. And some things in life simply do not mix well with magic.

Today’s tale is about a garden harvest, a dash of mystery and questionable compost, and the resulting adventure…

Chapter 90~ Garden Magic

Nathaniel yanked with all his might, leaning his tall frame into the pull, his cane lying forgotten in the grass.

A large purple and white turnip sprang forth from the heavy dark earth, sending a fountain spray of dirt and torn rootlets into the air. Silas dodged the incoming shrapnel with a low growl, and sent a reproachful glare at his master.

Nathaniel whistled, holding the prize vegetable aloft like a hunter with a plump pheasant.

“Look at the size of it, Silas! Holy moly! We’ll have soup for days from this one!”

“Do take care, master.” The demon leaned the handle of his pitchfork against his shoulder and fussily brushed a smattering of soil from his sleeves, tightened up his cravat, and then thrust the prongs of the tool deep into the ground with his boot. Prizing upwards, Silas brought another turnip to the surface, this one just as hefty as the first. He tilted his head at it inquisitively.

“It would appear, master, we’ve an unusual bumper crop this year.” Silas paused, a disturbing thought needling at him.

“Master Thorn, you are quite sure you did not use any enchantments on the seedlings? Nothing to quicken the soil? No magical spell sprinkled over the compost?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“You did not ‘tinker’ with anything, as you call it?” Silas kept his soft voice courteous.

Vehemently against pairing magic with gardening, Silas knew there was no tried and true way of telling how spell work might affect a vegetable crop. Especially with some of Nathaniel’s spells, which could be rather reckless. Magister Thorn often made things up as he went, with a devil-may-care, by the seat of his pants type bravado.

The two of them had planted the manor’s vegetable garden this past spring, after the last snowmelt, working tirelessly together to turn and crumble the soil, enrich it with bone meal and eggshells, and nurture the rows of tender plantlets Nathaniel had started over the winter in the greenhouse. Silas, with an eye roll and inward groan, had even set his pride aside to don unfashionable gardening gloves, eliciting a shocked gasp from Mistress Scrivener, for it was indeed a commendable sacrifice.

Truth be told, the garden had been created with as much petty bickering as manual labor, and there’d almost been an outright fistfight over proper storage of gardening tools, but in the end, a tidy plot of raked and hilled dirt was built in the sunny northeastern corner of the manor’s grounds. Trellises topped with ornate copper finials and orderly rows of painted wooden stakes stood ready to support the flourishing crops, and a fanciful gingerbread fence held off the marauding rabbits. To Silas, the small whimsical garden was a testament proving that not only could he successfully design, execute and complete an outdoor project alongside his master, he could do it without resorting to murder.

“Huh? Me? Magic?” Nathaniel grinned wider at the turnip. “This here is all pure skill, Silas. Nothing added. Just me and my glorious green thumb.” He chuckled, eyes darting away from Silas’ intense yellow gaze.

Silas bent to shake his turnip free from its soil and sighed. Nathaniel had a passionate interest in gardening, but the skills he lauded so proudly were, in reality, somewhat lacking. Many a night, the house demon had snuck into the gardens to tend Nathaniel’s scraggly plantings, giving them a proper watering and snipping back any overgrowth under the glow of moonlight. He’d never mentioned this to his master. Nathaniel wasn’t a poorly gardener by any means. He just needed a bit of discreet help on occasion.

Silas looked back at the wheelbarrow filled with waxy turnips, smooth globes of creamy squash, vines of mahogany red tomatoes and bundles of vibrant carrots. Even under the demon’s meticulous care, there was no way each and every vegetable could be so large, glossy and strangely perfect.

Something was assuredly amiss, and a mystery was afoot.

Pursing his lips, the demon cast a knowing side eye Nathaniel’s way. The young magister pretended not to notice, instead humming absently to himself, leaning over a pumpkin the size of a cart horse’s rump and giving it a satisfied slap.

Silas returned to his labors, pondering the ramifications if his suspicions turned out to be true, which he already knew they were. It would hardly be his fault if the pies, stews and winter soups he made glittered with the emerald dust of aetherial combustion, but there was this matter of quality control regarding what Silas allowed into his kitchen, as well as the output of his culinary efforts. If the dust had a flavor, which Silas probably wouldn’t be able to detect, that would certainly complicate the addition of seasonings. His entire reputation as a first class, self-taught chef could be in peril. The demon jabbed his pitchfork tines into the loam, this time unearthing a monstrous beet. It was flawless as a crown ruby, looking as if it had just popped out of a horticulture picture book. He rolled his feline eyes, and whispered an unrepeatable curse under his breath.

“In any case, I should like to have a look inside the greenhouse, if you please.”

Magister Thorn jumped at the demon’s unexpected and unnerving appearance directly beside him. Giving a long dramatic groan, he gathered up his cane and stomped off towards the glasshouse that stood glistening on the far end of the manor grounds, boots squelching in the peat. Silas marched along behind, silently navigating over the hillocks and each marshy morass with elegant agility.

The greenhouse stood on higher ground just beyond the maze. Made entirely of thousands of panes of bubbled pale green glass and ornate iron scrollwork, the fantastically elaborate structure had stood for two centuries, somehow avoiding the sucking vortex of the boggy wetland that surrounded it. Over the years, the spongy ground had swallowed up many a garden statue, as well as the entirety of the old stone leech house.

They stepped over the threshold in tandem, footsteps crunching on loose shale, pottery shards and broken glass. A slick of fuzzy moss covered the edges of the tiled flooring, and was slowly creeping up the sides of the perimeter. Wooden tables and potting benches clustered in the central room under a great arched dome, chocked bric-a-brać with stacks of terracotta planters, salt glazed pots and all manner of shears, spades and other garden implements. A few clay containers, disturbed by mice or frost heaves over the winter, had toppled over and shattered on the floor, scattering their jagged pieces around the numerous burlap bags of soil and fertilizer. The rich scent of dirt, rot and growing things filled the air.

As Nathaniel made his way to a bench in the far corner, Silas lingered a moment, acclimating to the vast amount of iron the greenhouse was made of. The decorative curlicues, fanciful windows and wrought supports were all cast from iron, and the energy of the metal dragged down at him like a relentless tide. It was if he were caught in a heavy rope net, or had an anchor attached to his coattails~ the feeling was vaguely unpleasant, but it wasn’t enough to drive him out. He needed to see exactly how Nathaniel had mixed his compost, for he felt that was where some answers would be found. If anything, Silas did love a good mystery, whether he was creating one or solving one. Shaking down his cuffs and tightening his focus, Silas joined his master, a few specific questions at the ready.

This disorganized corner of the greenhouse was clearly where Nathaniel propagated his wicker stags, despite the house demon’s strenuous objections. It had the aura of a mad scientist’s laboratory~ complete with clutter, empty vessels and the obvious signs of some sort of struggle. Clumps of dried roots and smears of mud marred the glazed tiles, and a few pots looked as though they’d been stomped to pieces. A smattering of hoofprints further added to the chaotic scene.

Silas squatted down and picked up a desiccated red berry between two claws, wrinkling his nose at it. A trail of the little fruits led him to a canvas bucket of peelings, trimmings and bits and bobs of various leafy scraps. Most of it looked like leavings from the kitchen, but churned into the black mixture were more berries.

“And exactly what did you use for ingredients, when preparing your compost, master?” Silas asked, his eye drifting to a jumble of terracotta and swept up piles of willow leaves. He already knew.

“Ahhh, um… I used a bit of everything? See for yourself…” Nathaniel peered over Silas’ shoulder. “Looks like some parings, eggshells, dirt… willow stuff… That’s about it, I’d say.” Nathaniel chuckled nervously. His servant was looking a tad vexed.

“Did you say, ‘willow’, master? As in the willows you’ve grown here? The ones that blossom into ill-mannered stags that wreak havoc wherever they go? The ones I’ve warned you time and time about?” Silas was looking up at his master through his lashes. His tone was mild, but Nathaniel noticed he’d crushed the red berry he’d been holding into dust.

“It was just their leftovers! I didn’t use a spell on the compost itself. I swear!” Magister Thorn was shuffling about, running his hands through his hair.

Silas cocked a colorless eyebrow at him. “So it was simply enchanted remnants and clippings, but no direct charm set with a specific intention?”

“Yes and yes!”

Silas could tell he was speaking the truth. He rose and approached his master, reaching up to halt his pacing. Gently untwisting the ties of the young man’s gardening smock and smoothing them so they laid flat, he brushed away an errant weed and smiled faintly, alabaster features suddenly serene as falling snow.

“Well then, master… it would seem that no true harm has been done. Our crop is simply outlandishly robust, much like your wretched stags. No doubt the vegetables absorbed some of their residual magic, but not enough to cause a larger problem.” He inclined his head impishly, and gave Nathaniel a reassuring wink.

Nathaniel shoulders dropped in relief, and he blew out a held breath. “Whew. You had me scared there for a moment, that all the hard work we put in this summer was ruined.”

They made their way back to the garden. Nathaniel stared at their bounty, heaped in piles, with even more awaiting deep within the soil. His grey eyes lit up with childlike glee.

“By the gods, Silas… imagine if they were…you know… alive, like the topiaries!”

Nathaniel picked up a leek with the girth of a fence post and waggled it at the demon, who stepped back and repressed an immature snicker.

“Magister Thorn, that is quite enough,” Silas cautioned sternly, yet he found himself secretly sharing in the young man’s foolishness, as he had since Nathaniel was a boy. It was a bit fantastical, these outsized vegetables and their odd perfection. Perhaps innocent garden magic wasn’t such a crime after all. It could’ve been much worse. His imagination swarmed with visions of gourds dancing a jig atop the scullery table, parsnips escaping the pantry and rummaging through his kitchen cupboards.

“Let us bring what we’ve harvested inside.” He looked up at the sky; the aureate gilt of the sun was slowly melting into the blurred watercolors of dusk, and soon the gloaming would be upon them. “I shall get started on that soup you wished for as well.”

As the demon followed his master back to the manor, pushing their overflowing wheelbarrow effortlessly, he felt the wearying weight of his three hundred year existence lift away. Just as a touch of garden magic was harmless, so was discovering a place of guileless amusement~ hands in the dirt {gloved of course, let’s not get too carried away} fresh air, an easy companionship, and the golden scent of an approaching autumn tickling his nose.

Art by ilik_art 🤍

[highborn-demon]

Several of you have asked after my fashion associate Lady Tremayne.

{I do use the term ‘fashion’ loosely}

Sometimes the best friendships spring from vehemently differing opinions. Common ground lies somewhere within the give and take of viewpoints, and the acceptance that if someone is your opposite, or even a different species, it does not mean a deeply caring kinship cannot flourish. A healthy dose of humor, much like a spoonful of sugar, helps as well.

That being said, I present a tale gleaned from today’s mid-day tea meet with one Lady Annabelle Tremayne…

Chapter 89~ Out For Tea

Silas shut the manor’s great black door behind him and stood for a moment on the flagstone steps of the front walkway. He tilted his head back and breathed blissfully deep.

The cool air was resplendent with a delicious blend of scents, each fragrance swirling into the next. Wet bracken and bramble, the rich brown sugar crumble of rotting leaf loam. Tart apples turning sweet. The smooth herbal syrup of thickening tree sap and nectar-laden goldenrod. An earthy aroma of dying ferns, their frilled edges curled and rusting.

He felt a little tremble of excitement scamper up the rungs of his spine. Autumn was on the wind.

The demon looked smart as could be this fine August mid-morning. He’d donned a dark blue grey fitted tail coat, with deep turn-back military cuffs richly embroidered in silver and burgundy thread, a pair of fawn colored breeches and tall mahogany calfskin boots. A dark garnet silk cravat glimmered about his pale throat and a matching ribbon bound back his hair. He was headed into the older section of Brassbridge, for it was Thursday, which was the day of the week he took tea with Lady Annabelle Tremayne at her dress shop. A show-stopping look was essential, for he planned to spend a portion of their time together critiquing her fashion blunders, which in his opinion were many, and he did not wish to become a target in return.

Silas set off through Hemlock Park at a leisurely pace, as he always allowed himself enough time to get somewhere. Lingering beneath the leafy shade of the stately chestnut trees that lined the streets, he slowly made his way into the city. Once his boots touched the smoothly worn cobblestones of the shopping district, he strode a bit more purposefully. Thursday tea was a treat, for which Silas was never late. Rounding a sloping corner, he passed the aromatic confectionery, the bespoke tailor and the quaint apothecary. The dress shop sat just beyond. Swirling like a silver ribbon, ‘Lady Tremayne’s’ was spelled out in filigreed script across the glass of the front window.

Three seamstresses looked up from their work as the shop bell chimed and Silas stepped through the doorway into Lady Tremayne’s atelier. Three pairs of wide eyes, three sets of gleeful whispers hidden behind three sets of chapped, pin-pricked hands. Standing amidst the velvet poufs and extravagant flower arrangements, Silas flicked his yellow eyes to them, and they immediately burst into a chorus of muffled giggles, hunched over in their seats and blushing scarlet red as the bouquets of roses that festooned the boutique’s interior. He paused, sternly regarding their nervous merriment, then bent in a low, sweeping bow before them, a move which really only served to set them off further.

Every Thursday it was the same. The girls would typically be sewing garment orders in a back room, but on Thursdays they moved their work stations to sit within the front window, so they could get a good view of Lady Tremayne’s refined gentleman visitor as he arrived for tea. They were young, high-spirited as fillies, and so he forgave their silliness and gawking stares.

Annabelle’s voice trilled from the back of the shop. “Silas!!!!”

She swept around the corner in a flurry of peacock blue taffeta and fiery hair, looking and sounding for all the world like an exotic bird displaying its plumage. She came to a halt and appraised the demon, eyebrows raised in approval.

“Well now, just look at the state of you. No wonder the girls are all in a tizzy.” She glanced at the seamstresses, who tittered one last time before resuming their tasks, then turned her attentions to his cravat and ribbon. “Do I spy a bit of color today? It appears you’ve come to your senses after all!” Lady Tremayne teased in open affection, emerald eyes sparkling. It was impossible for such a vibrant soul to conceal their fondness; indeed, this transparency was one of the things that drew Silas into her company. She always spoke her mind, sometimes vexingly so, but her demeanor was always kind. Still navigating a confounding maze of human emotions, Silas found her indomitable soul, nurturing spirit and straightforward manner to be a relief, and her cozy, messy shop office was one of the places besides the manor where he could let down his guard. Even if her tea was absolutely wretched.

“Do not raise your hopes too high, Lady. Expectation is the root of all disappointment,” Silas said with conviction and a slight formal bow, thinking wryly of the tea about to be served.

Annabelle rolled her eyes but merely turned to lead him up the staircase. She knew enough to not push Silas too far. Teasing was one thing; she could tell he begrudgingly enjoyed it. But taunting a highborn demon was quite another story~ a folly for which Silas had no patience. Not that the lady would ever stoop to such a level.

She tucked an ‘Out For Tea’ sign in the door front, and they ascended the narrow steps to her office, where a chipped chinoiserie pot and two mismatched floral cups awaited on a cleared section of her desk. Silas was not here for the tea; he was here to indulge in the city gossip, embark on a satisfying round or two of petty debate, and of course to continue their brutal assessment of fashion’s downward slide into mass-produced rubbish. He and Annabelle agreed on next to nothing, but they did share that one oft-discussed lament.

As Annabelle filled the cups, chattering away, the demon arranged his coattails and took his customary seat, reclining back with one boot propped up on a pink ottoman. An enchanted measuring tape rousted itself from slumber and made a beeline for his exposed inseam, weaving sinuously through the air like a drowsy little serpent. Too comfortable to change position, Silas sighed and endured its ministration, distracting himself by perusing the fascinatingly riotous mess surrounding him.

The office was a mish-mash of color and texture, a fever dream stuffed to overflowing with heaps of unraveled tulle, bolts of fabric, lace and ribbon spools, mounds of handmade silk flowers and glass jars of buttons, pearls and bugle beads. A pair of sterling shears shaped like a stork served as a paperweight, holding a pile of custom orders in questionable order. It was reminiscent of Silas’ bedchamber, at least the further end of it, where he kept his easel and paints, stacks of drawing paper and charcoal sticks. An explosion of creativity.

The demon’s gaze lit upon a dress form against the far wall draped in a swath of rather gruesome pink and green plaid satin. His feline eyes narrowed, and despite his best gentlemanly efforts, an involuntary shudder shook his slight frame. His reaction invoked a laugh from Annabelle, who’d clearly been waiting for him to notice.

“That’s the brand new house-designed spring plaid! I’ve given myself all autumn and winter to create an entire line from it. By March, every couture-savvy lady in Brassbridge will be turned out in it….corsets, jackets, skirts… And bonnets too! I cannot wait!” She gleefully squeezed her hands into fists, and Silas heard the excited pitter-pat tapping of her shoes from beneath her desk. He resisted the urge to spit his tea back into his cup, and instead swallowed back the scalding mouthful.

“One should think the circus has come to town,” he remarked dryly, delicately dabbing a napkin to his pinkly burned lip, which healed back to alabaster perfection before he’d even finished speaking.

“Oh come now, Silas!” Annabelle gave another snort of laughter, a hand slapping her knee, tea sloshing. “Open your mind! There is a world beyond your somber blacks and greys. Look again. Doesn’t it just remind you of tulips blooming in fresh green grass? Or petit fours?”

Reluctantly glancing once more at the pastel abomination, Silas had a recollection of rinsing goblin blood from his face at Annabelle’s apartment after dispatching Mr. Hobb in the rafters of the clocktower two years ago. Her washroom was painted in the same grievous hues of glossy candy pink and seafoam green as the cloth in front of him. He slid her his signature side eye.

“That is not exactly what comes to mind, Lady….”

As Silas tipped cup to mouth, politely stifling any further comments he feared might slip past his lips, snowy lashes shut against the steam and the offending fabric, her hand darted out mischievously fast and gave a gentle tug to the silky end of his queue. Pulling the lion’s tail, she called it. She sat back innocently, snickering behind the guilty hand.

Silas stopped mid-sip, hackles rising in a facade of deep reproach, but his eyes stayed soft and golden in the warmth of her gleeful smile. Annabelle’s pounce was about as predictable as the changing of the seasons, and the demon’s reflexes were quicker than lightning, yet she somehow always managed to pull off this one little trick. In fact, she’d been doing it for years. There was a slight possibility that maybe… just maybe, Silas allowed her this brief touch… though he would rather be dressed head to toe in a bolt of house-designed spring plaid and paraded about town on a rail than admit to such a thing.

To his dismay, now that he’d seen the fabric, Silas couldn’t UNsee it. It stole into his side vision with insolence, vying with its creator for his attentions. The demon sighed. Lady Tremayne’s tea time had truly caught him off-guard in more than one way this fine day. And against the odds, he was still enjoying himself immensely.

“If anything, Annabelle, you are relentless in your pursuit of danger. Fashion-wise, and otherwise…” The demon sorted his beribboned ponytail back between his shoulderblades, safely out of her reach, and rose to re-fill her teacup. His claws clicked on the porcelain.

A sudden gust of wind picked up outside, rattling the small diamond pane window in its drafty frame. A chestnut leaf danced by on the currents of air~ not quite verdant, not quite ochre. They both watched it twirl gracefully, Annabelle’s green eyes and Silas’ yellow.

“Autumn is coming, Silas.”

“Indeed, Lady.”

And they took a bit of extra time, and drank their tea down to the dregs… all the while bickering over calico swatches, what made the finest glove linings, the best techniques to pleat wool tabby and make leather buttons… both settling into the surety and comfort of true friendship, steadfast as the changing of seasons.

{my portrait has been altered by use of a vintage style filter available on an application known as ‘TinType’}

[highborn-demon]

tell us, how does one win your devotion?

Devotion is not a prize. It is much more precious than a mere bauble or trophy. It is a bit of a recipe, shall we say.

Devotion, my depth of haunting devotion at least, is earned through trust. And how does a mortal secure my trust?

With kindness. I could say respect, time, manners, etc… but what truly matters, at least to this demon’s heart…

is kindness. Consistent and authentic. I can tell the difference, believe me.

And, a bit of humor never hurts. To give and take playfully, now that is most delicious and endearing.

And one last piece~ my devotion is much easier to lose, than it is to gain.

[highborn-demon]

‘Tears flooded her eyes, and her throat tightened. “What will happen to you?”

He betrayed himself with the slightest hesitation. Finally he said, “It matters not, miss.”

“It does.” She reached out to cup Silas’ cheek. The evening’s trials had left her hand filthy, hideous against his remote perfection. But he held very still, and allowed her to touch him, and she was surprised to discover that he felt human, not like a statue carved from alabaster. ‘

{ Sorcery of Thorns, page 434}

Art by Loshimizu_art ‘Silver Demon’ 🤍 {print available at INPRNT}

[highborn-demon]

Dear readers, as you are aware by now, I came to reside at House Thorn in the year 1510, serving under Baltasar Thorn in the newly constructed manor. I was eager to perform my tasks, and in that same year the Bone Wars erupted. I was sent to the battlefield.

It is a very odd thing to crave that violence, to reminisce fondly of it, knowing I will also suffer the regret that eventually arises.

Fortunately, Austermeer is now enjoying a peaceful era. Nathaniel is an honorable Magister who has steered House Thorn away from being a villainous power.

The memories from those dark days have continued to fade and burn away like morning fog, and I soldier on down a much different path. One that is still long, but does not lead to ruin. I present to you a tale of foggy mornings, battle lines, and finding your way home.

Chapter 88~ Allegory of War

{TW~ non-graphic mentions of war, injury, blood}

Silas awoke before dawn from a long slumber to find a thick fog bank had seeped over the manor grounds during the night. Shimmering like pools of mercury, it filled the slades and hollows, and rose in wispy vapors that the sun struggled to break through.

The house demon dressed himself in a frock coat, sturdy walking breeches and tall buttoned boots. Wrapping his cravat high and tight, he tied back his hair with a length of black ribbon, and stepped smartly over the terrace threshold into a solemn world of silver-mist.

Rising to his shoulders in some places, the fog immediately dampened Silas’ ponytail and shirt cuffs. It swirled around his long coattails like smoke and broke in rippling waves against his knees as he meandered out towards the labyrinth. He looked a specter emerging from the brume, with face and hair, cravat and gloves glowing ghostly white. Thorny tangles of dew-drenched brambles tugged at the canvas of his boots, the wet air dragged his sleeves with cold fingers. Unaffected by the chill of his skin, the fog did not dissolve; it gathered in glimmering beads on his lashes, and frosted his pale brow. His jacket epaulets glistened with it. Silas tilted his head back and breathed deeply, letting the moisture glaze his lungs, and continued on his walk.

Honeysuckle and moonflowers twisted in fragrant ropes of white and gold about the stone archways, nectar dripping. Fruit groves loomed in the background, each leaf limed with a faint sheen of iridescence. Holding a light of its own, the fog blurred the formal lines of the manor gardens into a murky dreamworld, blotting the lights by the terrace steps into smudges of pallid yellow phosphorescence.

As he wandered into the gloom, a memory wavered into view~ the Bone War battlefield of 1510, blanketed in the same swirling fog. Back then, in the height of his power, the House Thorn demon had been a highly efficient, deeply feared tool of warfare, with a lust for violence that had all but consumed him.

Silas’ mind tumbled back three centuries. Blood flowed abundantly, brilliant vermilion in the smoky grey light. Weapons slung through bone and the sky streamed black with arrow shafts. Death and fear sounded thick in the air; the stench of the undead army even thicker. Silas danced and flickered like a wraith, mortals falling beneath the tireless fury of his claws and canines. On the twelfth day of the battle he’d made one small misstep and gotten himself killed; his ribcage cleaved nearly in half by an iron broadsword he could not avoid.

Demons have an enormous tolerance for pain; the discomfort of the fatal wound was insignificant compared to the rage he’d felt at being inconvenienced away from his duties, not to mention the damage done to his attire. Upon learning of his earthy demise, Baltasar Thorn had re-summoned Silas within the hour, not out of grief or compassion for the creature, but to promptly order him back out on the fields to resume his killing frenzy.

Silas was one to learn from his mistakes. With calm precision, he sought out the soldiers who’d dealt him the deadly blow. The bloody revenge he exacted upon them was brutal beyond comprehension, further strengthening his already terrifying reputation. He still remembered their horror-struck, confused faces as he’d strode laughing across the foggy field towards them, arms outstretched to display his unscathed chest, an avenging angel resurrected from the depths of hell.

There existed a massive oil painting of the war, a nightmarish scene rendered in elaborate detail, which once hung in the manor’s entryway. Resplendent with allegorical symbolism, the artwork featured stylized cherubs flitting across the smoke-hazed sky, fire-scorched House Thorn banners, skeletal soldiers with bones gleaming through rusted chain mail…and if one looked closely, incongruous in the background there stood a slight, small figure with a long white queue, dressed impeccably in a damask doublet jacket, the opulent cuffs saturated in red. Once he was old enough to understand the Bone War’s devastating consequences throughout the land, Master Thorn had the painting taken down and moved to the attic. In truth, Silas had been quite pleased to be included in the painting.

Shivering, but not disagreeably, Silas broke away from the grip of the memory. Now was not the time to mull over such a bittersweet scene, or dwell too deeply upon the temptations it evoked. On occasion, Silas still found himself brooding the glories of the past…but those days were done, and deep down he was glad of it. The roaring shouts and clashing irons and spilled blood of the long-gone battlefield swirled away in an eddy of fog, gently replaced by the lilting song of a wren awakening within the plum grove.

Silas passed beneath a weathered wooden arbor, its gothic peak all but obscured by the grapevines looped and draped about it. Beyond it lay the labyrinthine maze of yews and boxwoods, walls twenty-plus feet high, their precise geometric lines trimmed and tended faithfully by centuries of gardeners. He slipped his gloves into his pocket, brushing his claws along the packed leaves as he walked, a green ripple spreading in his wake. The fog crept lower here, dappled with buttercups and white clover.

Ahead of him, a timeworn statue, nearly faceless from age and posing Romanesque on a crumbling pillar, turned away and melted into the leafy wall. A lichen-blotched marble bust tucked into an alcove averted its blank eyes, and a limestone sphynx slunk off, wringing its tail fretfully and casting a look back before retreating from his advance. Silas did not take their avoidance personally. He and Master Thorn often practiced battle maneuvers in the gardens, with Nathaniel wielding his whip of emerald fire, and the ancient statuary were frequent targets for beheading. Their wariness only made sense.

As painless as it was for them, Silas had a feeling the stone figures were quite fed up with having their body parts continuously lopped off and magicked back together, but oh the way his master hollered with glee at the toppling heads was so invigorating. Certainly, there were no conflicts on the horizon for House Thorn to prepare for, as Austermeer was firmly entrenched in a time of peace; even so, both Silas and Nathaniel looked forward to these boyishly reckless training sessions as an opportunity to blow off steam, and break things.

Those mock battles were much more innocent than war’s dire reality~ wrongs could be righted, defeat easily reversed and death was nonexistent. The statues resented the brief intrusion into their peaceful life of luxury only because it interrupted their gossip sessions and sun lounging. For Silas, the worst that could truly happen was an admonishment from Mistress Scrivener, who disapproved heartily of war games. Once, in the face of a sound scolding, the amused demon had almost brought up her clanking armor-clad forays into the gardens, sword-swinging after her topiary prey and doing some beheading of her own… but he’d thought better of it, instead merely arching a colorless brow and entering her mind to gently tsk her adorable hypocrisy.

Silas smiled faintly to himself and made his way towards the fountain at the labyrinth center. The path had been an easy one; the maze had dared not shift its walls playfully, as it was in the habit of doing lately. One never knew for sure how the demon might react to such foolishness. Folding his arms behind his back, Silas looked up at the marble pegasus that topped the fountain, its carven hide the same somber grey as the lifting fog. Shaking its cropped mane and giving a little genial nod, the winged steed carried on with its endless rhythmic prancing. A spiderweb stretched between its unfurled pinions, woven in the dark secrecy of night, a shivering strand of silver pearls.

The sculpture was well schooled in airs-releves, or ‘airs-above-ground’, elevated combat moves taught to cavalry horses. It could frequently be seen rearing back on its powerful hindquarters in a stunning levade, or more rarely, performing the difficult and dramatic cabriole. Its favorite maneuver was the piaffe, sometimes trotting in place for the entire course of the day. Having no foreseeable reason to stay fit for battle, the pegasus seemed to simply enjoy the idea of it, much the way Silas and his master did.

The sun had moved across the sky and was finally winning its battle against the fog banks, gilding the grasses and trees and statuary in shafts of light. Accepting their gentle death, the mists evaporated up into the clouds, ascending in tendrils like steam from a teacup, to patiently await another night. Silas’ walk was over too; it was time to make his humans’ breakfast.

He made his way through the maze, around the groves and over the hillocks back to the manor. As he walked, it occurred to him that there were many types of battles. Waging war was not only conflict between men with differing views. A war could also be fought within oneself. Silas knew a bit about that, to be sure.

The demon paused at the French doors, a curious surge of something suspiciously like victory spreading warm through his chest. Quiet, not proud or boastful; simply… triumphant. He allowed the feeling in, as it had been asking to for quite some time, and turned to watch as the last vestiges of fog fragmented, leaving behind a scattering of dewdrops that sparkled with gem-like clarity.

One flag is taken down, to raise another in its place…

He smiled, turned once again, and stepped over the threshold into the familiar embrace of his home.

{flag lyric written by and credited to The FooFighters, Long Road To Ruin}

[highborn-demon]

I was recently told that I display the mannerisms of a cat, even when I am not in cat form…

Affection offered at my discretion, and only after I feel I can trust you.

Finely tuned arrogance.

A desire to be praised for doing basically nothing other than being pretty. Well-versed in striking a pose. Impeccable grooming habits.

Double standards. Your rules do not apply.

Your fear and flight may trigger my hunting instinct. Be aware; it is difficult for me to resist.

Intolerance for human nonsense, manifesting as detachment and disdain.

Stealthy, appearing as if from thin air.

I truly cannot refute any of these observations.

[highborn-demon]

“I have found the scrying mirror, Miss Scrivener.” His tone was mild. “In the future, I advise against using the laundry chute to dispose of magical artifacts.”

{Sorcery of Thorns}

Ah, yes the illustrious scrying mirror.

A rather alluring piece of enchantment, that can, and did, become quite dangerous in the hands of the innocently uninformed. There is a reason they were banned during the reforms of 1627.

Only a very few are still in existence, one of them being housed right here at Thorn Manor. I can assure you it is handled rarely, and only with the greatest of care.

If one wishes to dabble in enchanted items, one must be well versed in their care and feeding, as well as their inherent dangers.

These words of caution could be applied to all magical things, demons included… although I do not believe any of you require my advice on that matter.

[highborn-demon]

Dear readers, as you know summer in Austermeer is coming to a close soon. This change of seasons is surely nothing to lament, as autumn offers up its own cornucopia of earthly delights.

The addition of the orangery will bring the manor gardens indoors, in a smaller scale but just as charming.

The entire idea was conjured up by Master Thorn, from stem to stern, and it came to fruition not using a single speck of magic.

I could not possibly be more proud of him.

Without further ado, I present…

Chapter 87~ Velveteen

“Well I think first and foremost the orangery should have more orange trees. I mean, it only makes sense.”

“Of course. master. As you wish.”

Silas was not about to argue, at least on this matter. He knew the best way to liven up a batch of Nathaniel’s favorite cream scones was a bit of freshly grated orange zest.

It was just after dinner, and they were seated together taking late tea in the newly constructed garden room, facing knee-to-knee. Unfurled across the demon’s thighs, the Codex Arboretorium sat serenely, its lilting birdsong and soft breezes echoing in the vast space.

The addition of an orangery to the east wing of House Thorn was indeed an exciting event for the entire household. A flurry of activity had commenced once Nathaniel had firmly made up his mind to build it, for Magister Thorn was learning to be a man of action. Stacks upon stacks of raw lumber and sleds piled high with hand-thrown bricks were delivered to the manor, and dozens of potted trees were marched up to the servant’s passage by a seemingly endless parade of laborers. And then, by the gods… the noise began.

Silas endured days of wretchedly loud hammering and the maddening clink of stone cutting, his patience sorely-tested and dangling by a frayed thread. It was much worse than listening to Elisabeth stomp around the marble entryway in her suit of armor, if that can be believed. As a gesture of goodwill and hospitality, he’d brought the workmen breakfast each morning~ pots of robust black tea and trays of sweet cheese pastries, covered platters of crispy sausages, and slabs of hearty bread drizzled with syrupy peach jam. The first few mornings he’d been met with wariness and wide-eyed apprehension; but by the next week the men had grown accustomed to the polite demon bearing delicious foods into their midst, thanking him profusely for his service and marveling over the perfectly brewed cups. The work went swiftly, with the room’s creation not taking nearly as long as expected, much to Silas’ relief. By the time the final layer of whitewash was brushed onto the walls, and the last line of brick dust neatly swept up, the house demon had suffered all he possibly could of the intrusion.

The orangery’s unveiling had also been a memorable moment, and the room immediately charmed everyone with its well-thought design and whimsy. Nathaniel had let out a hoot of joy and clapped Silas roughly on the shoulder. The demon sighed in mock reproach at the touch, but finally relented with a pleased smile. Elisabeth, cheeks flushed in ruddy spots of excitement, had clasped Mercy’s hands and drawn the stoic maid into the room. Mistress Scrivener’s unbridled delight was contagious, and soon both of them were giggling and twirling like schoolgirls.

There were orderly rows of citrus trees~ sweet orange, lemon and citron lined up on a central brick terrace. A large cherry tree stood by itself in the middle. Laden with glossy black fruit, it provided a stunning focal point. Around its perimeters, the rest of the orangery flourished into something decidedly more whimsical. Clusters of fig trees and towering oleander intermingled with fairy pines, alcoves overflowed with blueberry shrubs. Night blooming jasmine and black nightshade crept into the walkways. Ripe pomegranates hung within easy plucking distance, their vibrant crimson globes enticing. An angel’s trumpet stood in the back corner, its flared blooms dusting the marble bench set beneath its arching canopy. Silas found the graceful blossoms, sensual fragrance and insidious toxicity appealing, despite its ridiculously pious moniker. In the Otherworld, stuffed trumpet flowers were a coveted delicacy. Belying its inherent danger, the deadly botanical trembled with a pale pink innocence, further endearing Silas to it. The demon adored duality and contrast.

Mosaics of polished pebbles, porcelain shards and faceted bits of colored glass had been imbedded into the floor, raising to life a menagerie of brightly feathered birds, jeweled butterflies and gilt beetles, flaxen haired sirens and nymphs with come-hither stares, a winged horse made from marble chips…indeed all manner of cavorting magical beast was rendered artfully in capricious detail. Twisting paths of crushed quartz glimmered ghostly, meandering through a grove of aromatic bay laurel. Pillows of vibrant moss beckoned one to sink down into their lush depths. Overhead the roof was made entirely of leaded glass, its rippled panels clear as fountain water, featuring a radiant sunburst and the swirled outlines of parting clouds. The air was rich with the heady smells of loam, sweet nectar and sun-warmed herbs.

Silas had been an adamant proponent of the winter garden, knowing that access to plants and trees would help alleviate Nathaniel’s seasonal melancholy. Not to mention the benefits to himself; during his first wander through, Silas had chosen his napping and reading nooks, and sought out all the cozy places into which he could hide away~ with the lulling sounds of rustling greenery and growing tendrils to keep him company, even in the stark depths of the frigid Austermeer winters. It gave him a whole new world to prowl as well~ the dense foliage and abundance of flowering fruits would no doubt attract smaller forest inhabitants seeking shelter from the inevitable snow that was due to arrive in a few short months.

Silas leaned forward in his chair and delicately cleared his throat. Now was as good a time as any for the demon to bring up a valid concern. “I must insist, master, that there be absolutely no wicker animals allowed within this garden.” He spoke softly in his customary courteous tone, yet his brilliant yellow gaze was most stern. The topiary stags his master relentlessly propagated in the glass greenhouse were far too wild, too destructive, and in Silas’ opinion much too stupid to let in of doors. They were inbred worse than royalty at this point, and their ferality knew no bounds.

Nathaniel reluctantly agreed. “You’re probably right. Can you imagine if they somehow got loose inside the manor?” He looked a bit disappointed. It was as if Silas had guessed his secret plans.

“There is no ‘probably’ about it, master. I AM right.” The demon could indeed imagine it with little effort~ he’d already considered all possible outcomes if such a thing were to occur, and none of them were acceptable. Silas had a brief vision of the willow deer, overtaken by their endless lust, breeding enthusiastically in the stately drawing room, or worse his pristine kitchen~ twig haunches crackling, fallen berries littering the floorboards. He pushed the graphic image out of his mind and tightened his cravat to halt a barely concealed snicker.

A light snuffling, the pitterpat of rapid heartbeats, and soft paws on weathered brick pricked his ears. The appetizing scent of warm fur flooded his nose, drawing a pool of saliva to his mouth. Rabbits.

A trio of the speckled brown creatures sat huddled beneath the potted citron trees, velveteen noses wiggling. It certainly hadn’t taken them long to discover this new room. Leftover illusions from the 1824 MidWinter Ball over two years past, they’d somehow defied the laws of magical enchantment, and never faded away on their own. Even Master Thorn’s playful spells were apparently quite powerful. The rabbits had since become a common sight around the manor, and were much beloved by Mistress Scrivener. And so, as is the habit of all things well-loved, they had eventually become real.

Not exactly overjoyed at having to clean up after them, Silas nevertheless tolerated the task with nary a cross word, perhaps only a sigh or two… simply because the little beasts brought Elisabeth so much happiness. That was also the reason he didn’t stalk them, though they would surely make for easy and tasty prey. It took him some effort to resist. His mistress could often be found with one cuddled in her lap, absently stroking its plush fur as she tended to her grimoires in the south parlor. Silas fervently hoped the rabbits wouldn’t discover the pleasures of amorous congress the way the stags had, though almost every living thing did after a while. He kept track of their numbers, and felt a population of more than ten plus two would require his discreet intervention. Not that Mistress Scrivener needed to know.

It was most interesting to the demon just how quickly a fanciful notion in one’s mind could solidify into something real. Just this summer, the orangery was but a casual mention from Nathaniel at the breakfast table, and now, as autumn’s golden splendor was peering around the corner, it had become a tangible reality. If one loved a thing hard enough, and the energies aligned, the idea eventually took on a life of its own.

Much like the illusion rabbits. Likewise born from his master’s fantastical imagination, they now sat mere feet away, transformed by Elisabeth’s affection into actual flesh and bone, pelt and twitching whiskers. Perhaps there was alchemy of more than one type happening at Thorn Manor.

Silas brushed a fleck of garden soil from one of his ruffled cuffs, and settled back in his seat. He returned his attentions to the young sorcerer before him.

His master was once again deeply engrossed in the grimoire’s botanical etchings, pale eyes grey as backlit stormclouds. The white lock in his hair had fallen forward, and lay curled across one sharp cheekbone. Silas’ mind fell back, vividly remembering Nathaniel at twelve years of age, cocooned within a blanket in his father’s chair by the fireplace, hunched diligently over his lessons. He’d looked the same back then as he did right this very moment ~ focused, soulful, marked with the same white forelock. The boy had voraciously absorbed every book, every word of wisdom and tidbit of knowledge that Silas had put in front of him. Sometimes it was a challenge to convince his young master to stop reading and take supper. Even back then it had been evident Nathaniel was a prodigy.

They sat in a comfortable silent friendship, knees and boots still touching. The liquid sun dipped low, setting the orangery’s walls afire, and glazing the edges of Silas’ velveteen jacket with a honeyed glow. A whippoorwill began to call from the Codex’s pages, its haunting melody heralding twilight’s arrival.

Nathaniel looked up and grinned apologetically. “That means it’s getting late, huh?” Silas could tell he wasn’t ready to leave.

The demon smiled back, small canines glinting in the day’s last light. “It is well, master. Take your time. We’ve nowhere to be, but right here.” He breathed deep of the oranges, the dirt, the jasmine and moss, the bay leaves and brick dust.

And it was all indeed quite well.

{ the aesthetic of my portrait can be recreated using a modern day editing application known as ‘TinType’ }

[highborn-demon]

Good evening dear readers.

A few of you with stellar memories may recall the ‘bird’ skeleton suspended within the skylight of Magister Thorn’s study. This articulated set of bones is, in reality, the remains of a long-extinct dragon~ Draconius Elkenspina. I believe its identity was confused by the book’s author {not surprisingly} or perhaps downplayed to avoid frightening the children.

{Why mortal children would be allowed to read such darkly scintillating stories is beyond me, but apparently it happens}

In any case, I present to you an adventurous tale of grimoires, dragon bones and great heights~

Chapter 86~ Little Lionheart

“It’s to your left, Silas. About this far. Go up one more… you’re almost there!” Nathaniel, who was sitting at his desk and squinting upwards, gestured vaguely with a slender hand.

Four stories up, clinging to the waxed edge of the study’s soaring bookcases, boots braced on the shelving beneath him, Silas sighed deeply. Refusing to raise his voice above a courteous whisper, he impressed his admonishments into his master’s mind.

“And how, precisely, young Magister Thorn, am I to see which direction you are sending me? With you down there, and myself up here, facing away?”

Sometimes, actually more often than not, Nathaniel was daft as a brush. The demon dug his claws into the glazed wood, as much in frustration as to gain a better grip on the glossy surface. He glanced over his shoulder, glaring downwards with the righteous disdain of an angry cat. “As much as I love him, if I fall, I shall strangle him using his own cravat, with equal if not greater intensity,” Silas thought to himself, claws already itching.

Four stories was hardly a dangerous drop for a demon. The manor itself was five stories high, and Silas frequently stepped off the rooftop as casually as if from a street curb. To him, the height was of no consequence; he always landed with flawless grace. Even so, a slip from these ancient bookcases, whose walnut wood was worn smooth by centuries of use, would be embarrassingly undignified.

Not that such a thing would ever occur. Truth be told, Silas was a superlative climber; he could scale any height effortlessly, nimble fingers finding purchase where even a spider would hesitate to go. Even the nine story clocktower on Staircross Avenue, with its cloud-piercing gothic spires, wide span of cobalt glass and crumbling facade, was no hardship for him. Climbing bookcases in a sorcerer’s house, and facing the obstacles that could arise from such a jaunt, was to embark on an adventure of unpredictability; even so, Silas was always up to the task. Lightweight, small of stature and more than willing, he’d scrambled up the study’s library archives hundreds of times to fetch books, roust out the mice and dust the alcoves. Sometimes he made the climb all the way to the top simply to crouch beneath the glass dome… a pale specter bathed in moonlight, silently watching over his master, who often worked so late into the night that he fell asleep at his desk.

This very day, Silas had been asked to fetch a specific grimoire from the extensive collection housed within the first floor study. He’d removed his gloves, sorted his cravat and checked the buttons on his breeches before gracefully scaling the first four stories of shelving. It always paid to be prudent with one’s attire; losing one’s trousers or necktie during the undertaking of such a mission would be most impolite. Speaking of impolite, some of the grimoires had a decided lack of manners, a fact Silas was prepared for.

“It’s brown leather, with, uhh… some sort of gilt lettering,” Nathaniel hollered up helpfully, forgetting the demon’s hearing was keen even at that great a distance. Silas winced, and cast a sweeping look at the hundreds of rows of grimoires surrounding him. Nearly half of them were brown leather with gilt lettering. He rolled his eyes. Thank you so very much, master. You are an imbecile.

“Instead of admiring the view, which is undoubtedly most pleasing, perhaps you could hasten my success by telling me which exact book,” Silas murmured reproachfully in his master’s head.

“Gods, Silas… I wasn’t,” Nathaniel blushed vermilion and began to shuffle through the papers piled haphazardly on his desk. A sheaf of them slid to the floor, startling a squeak of protest from the blue porcelain gryphon sleeping by the magister’s feet. “Ummm….it’s about trees… ‘Codex’ something or other…It’s friendly, if that matters.”

Grumbles and mutterings swirled through the air, echoing in the updraft of the cavernous skylight. The grimoires were well accustomed to the house demon, but today his thinning temper had them a bit riled. Most stayed safely within their spaces, some cowered, others tested their bravado and the demon’s patience by flapping their covers, rustling pages and rattling against each other. Notoriously empathic, the older, more seasoned books began to mirror Silas’ petulant mood. One even tried to clap shut on the end of his silk cravat, which had become untucked by his movements. Silas made a note of its title for later.

Something wet splatted against his belly. Gritting his teeth, he looked down to find a fresh wad of ink dripping from his waistcoat. This rude nonsense again. Silas knew from experience, specifically the muniment room, that grimoires often acted with a pack mentality. Once such misbehavior began, the others would soon join in. This adventure was a test of his own willpower to behave. Growling under his breath and forcing down the urge to fling books into the air, Silas soldiered on, like any good servant would.

The demon sighed and positioned his palms on the dusty top of the next shelf. Every surface of the upper bookcases was covered in a sugary layer of iridescent green powder that shimmered with a faint otherworldly energy. A byproduct of magic, it was ever-present, tenacious as glitter, and the bane of Silas’ cleaning efforts. Though bits of it could be found glimmering darkly in every nook and cranny of the house, the dust was particularly abundant in Nathaniel’s study, as that was where most of the spells were cast within the manor’s walls. Silas had given up trying to completely eradicate it. If he waited long enough, it would disappear on its own, but it was soon replaced with a fresh batch.

Coattails swinging, he pulled himself up higher to the next shelf. A waft of dry bone dust and old varnish tickled his nose. Inhaling deeply of the pleasant scent, which reminded him of cinnamon, Silas looked down at its source. The dragon skeleton below had craned its serpentine neck upwards to blindly gaze at him with its hollow eye sockets. Its wired vertebrae undulated and clicked like a massive row of ivory dominoes. Silas stared back at it, recalling its unecessary demise. He knew full well the magnificent beast would still be alive to this very day, skulking about its lair deep in the Elkenspine Mountains, the last of its kind… if not for the greed-fueled bloodlust of Baltasar Thorn’s hunting party. At least it seemed content in its new life at Thorn Manor, guarding Nathaniel’s study with the same haunting vigilance as the house demon himself.

His feline eyes caught a movement to his left, about an arm’s length away. A large grimoire with a bark brown cover had slid itself apart from the others. It rocked back and forth gently like a swaying treetop as if beckoning him.

“Ah, finally a bit of cooperation. Are you perhaps my master’s chosen one?” Silas asked, head tilted. It shuffled out further, and he grasped it, taking care to curl his claws gently. Balancing on the shelf edge with spread knees braced, the demon turned the hefty grimoire to see the title. ‘Codex Arboretorium’, it read, in fanciful gilded script overlayed with stamped oak leaves and acorns. A botanical book. Specifically trees. This was indeed the one he’d been sent to collect. Elegantly illustrated, it smelled of sweet vanilla custard, and had a tranquil demeanor. Soft faraway sounds of rustling branches and chirping birds floated from between its pages as Silas briefly perused the drawings.

Tucking the serene grimoire under one arm, the demon began his descent, springing lightly from one level to the next. Puffs of the magical dust rose wherever his boots landed. The grimoire nestled itself deep into his velvet tailcoat. Suddenly, a high-pitched lilliputian battle cry sounded at the second story. Silas paused for a moment with ears pricked, and a small gold book, no bigger than a deck of playing cards, leapt from its hiding spot to launch a sneak attack upon the toe of his boot. Its tiny silver clasps transformed into teeth that snapped like a miniature crocodile. Nudging it away, the demon regarded his fierce antagonist with amusement. A detailed etching of a shaggy maned lion sitting upright with a pointed staff held in its paws, and a wind-ruffled banner with the words ‘Little Lionheart’ were embossed in black ink on its cover.

“Little brave one, you are indeed true to your namesake,” he said to the book with a soft laugh. It snarled back defiantly. His mood lightened a bit~ Silas was well aware that small things tended to harbor big attitudes. Perhaps he should return tonight and see what wisdoms the diminutive tome harbored within its locked pages.

Glancing below, Silas saw that Elisabeth was now standing beside Nathaniel, gazing up with one hand clamped to her forehead in dismay. Having a fear of heights, she seemed quite displeased, so he reluctantly abandoned his plan to leap off the second floor shelving. The last time his mistress had witnessed him perform such a feat, she’d blanched pale and almost fainted. He settled for hopping down from the first alcove.

Landing weightless, his cravat shamefully unspooling and long queue sprinkled with emerald dust, Silas gave a smart bow, and triumphantly held out the grimoire to his master with both hands.

“Ah bravo! Thank you Silas. Now we can begin to plan the orangery I want to build off the east wing this fall. Just think~ fresh fruits and tree shade all year ‘round!” Nathaniel patted the book and waggled his eyebrows at Elisabeth, but her attentions had alighted elsewhere.

“By the gods, Nathaniel! Why on earth did you send him up there so high? It’s dangerous! Oh Silas!” Elisabeth stared aghast at the glob of ink on Silas’ waistcoat and his disheveled necktie. The demon brightened a bit. A plot was hatching in his mischievous mind.

His livery uniform would clean easily enough, and Silas was in truth extremely pleased at the thought of an orangery on the manor grounds…

{imagine sleeping warm and cozy under a vibrant autumn maple in the dead of winter?}

But for his troubles perhaps he could feign a bit of despair, and garner his mistress’s doting sympathies. Silas had always seen her soft spots as clearly as a flame within a glass. Giving a little cat-like shiver to rid his ponytail of the sparkling dust, the demon neatly retied his cravat. Turning to Elisabeth, he glamoured his best lost kitten face~ crumpled brow, slight frown and luminous eyes shaded by long white lashes. The shift was so cleverly done it was almost imperceptible, and yet Mistress Scrivener promptly melted further into a puddle.

Nathaniel sputtered. “Whaaa? Are you kidding me? You’re actually falling for that face? It’s one of his damned glamours, Elisabeth. And for your information, he climbs around up there all the time. Like every night. He’s fine!” Magister Thorn tossed a handful of paperwork skyward and spun in his chair, shaking his head as the pages fluttered down around him. “I can’t believe this blatant tomfoolery is happening in my house! This IS still my house, or am I wrong about that too?!” The Codex Arboretorium chuckled, its cover crinkling like the corners of laughing eyes.

Elisabeth ignored her husband’s theatrics. She spoke to the demon, “Let’s go to the kitchen and get you tidy again. I know how you feel about being tidy. Maybe we can have tea together, if you wish?” Her sapphire eyes were tender with concern.

Silas, typically independent to the point of icy aloofness… Silas, who would rather be baked into a pie with four and twenty blackbirds than accept a mere mortal’s offer of help, dutifully followed his mistress to the door. He beamed an angelic expression at Nathaniel on his way by, shuttering one yellow eye in a wink. If he’d been in cat form, his tail would’ve been swishing smugly.

“This is preposterous! He is a highborn demon, Elisabeth. High as in ‘highly manipulative’…” Nathaniel’s words trailed off as Mistress Scrivener and the house demon departed down the hallway.

Silas would return to the study tonight to seek out courageous Little Lionheart, and assist Nathaniel in choosing a layout and trees for the orangery. It would be a fine project for them to work on together as the season turned and the days grew cooler.

But for now, a perfect cup of tea with mistress, the recipe for which he needn’t ask direction~ peppermint, brewed five minutes and 12 seconds, one and one half teaspoons of sugar, the milk added afterwards.

[highborn-demon]

Tonight’s tale was inspired by events that took place this very morning at the manor.

Though not something I would normally do in front of my humans, I simply could not resist the temptation this time.

Sometimes throwing caution and decorum to the winds and embracing the storm is the best decision one can make for oneself 👌🏻✨🤍

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chapter 85~ Rain Dance

The sky over Thorn Manor was thick and opaque as knife-spread whipped cream. Shafts of pale gold sunlight endeavored to spear through the cloud banks, but their efforts were slowly being choked out as the morning blanched into afternoon.

Out in the gardens, a steady wind tousled the tops of the plum and pear groves, exposing the leave’s tender ribbed undersides. Branches swayed and dipped precariously, already bowing low under the weight of ripened fruits. Climbing roses shuddered and bent their heads, thorn hedges whipped razor edged limbs. Having learned over the centuries how to prevent further weathering of their bodies, the marble statuary had already receded back like ghosts into the tightly packed walls of the labyrinth. The gargoyles sought refuge under the stone benches and pergola, huddled with arms around each other.

Silas stood looking out the French doors of the entryway, holding the black velvet curtain aside with a clawed hand, a duster dangling from the other.

The demon smiled. A storm was brewing.

Stormy days were some of Silas’ favorites. The colorless sky deepening into steel grey, clouds scudding like ships overhead… the crisp crackled scent of ozone… the impending gloom… it all brought the house demon a feral excitement~ a nameless, ancient feeling of harmony.

Not that one could tell right now. He remained still as a stone and restrained as he gazed through the glass, calm feline eyes reflected back at himself.

But oh did he long to open the door and find his way into the leafy lush depths of the gardens, to dance under the pummeling rain and bolts of lightning, ribcage booming with every kick drum of thunder. And once the storm began, he just might. Demons craved dance as much as they craved lifeforce. Indeed, they were nearly the same thing.

A simple glamour would protect his uniform and ribbons, so why not? The demon considered his choices. Dusting the bust or Erasmus Thorn, or… ?

As if in response to his pondering, a speckle of water appeared on the window, followed quickly by another.. and another. Soon the panes were drenched in rivulets, droplets forming streams as the clouds let loose their burden of quenching rain. A flash of lightning lit up the demon’s alabaster features with a translucent glare, contracting his pupils into invisible slits. One… two… three..

A crash of thunder rattled the entire manor from peak to basement. Chandelier crystals shivered, the hall tree mirror shifted, and the chimneys on the first floor howled like banshees. Nathaniel’s voice sounded from his study~ an abrupt girlish shriek and a string of eyebrow-raising curse words.

Silas rolled his eyes and sighed. Such drama. Where on earth had the young man learned such theatrics? Tightening his emerald earring, and checking the buttons on his waistcoat, for he did not wish to lose the gloves he’d slipped into his pocket earlier, Silas turned the door latch and forced it open against the battering wind. With an eager grin, he stepped outside into the violent fray.

At war with itself, the blackened sky was criss-crossed with punishing skewers of lightning and bracing torrents of rain. Darkness seeped like a blight of inkblots. This was no gentle zephyr. But even the most vicious earthly tempest was hardly a match for the ferocity and fearlessness of a highborn demon.

About halfway down the terrace steps, Silas began to dance. A reckless demon dance, surging and spinning like a furious sea, arms raised heavenward, laughing up into the downpour. Beribboned with black silk down the length of it, his hair lashed and twisted but stayed bound and dry. His coattails swirled about his legs as the gusts threatened to tug his jacket from his shoulders, yet the demon’s plush velvet attire remained unblemished by the elements.

He moved out onto the lawn, his slight form flickering gracefully through rows of thrashing delphinium and dancing a circle around the towering smoke bush in a savage high-kneed march, as if part of a fiery forest ritual. He was aware of his master watching him from the manor, Nathaniel’s face a pale dot wavering behind rain-washed glass. Ever the showman, Silas stepped up the pace. If he’d attempted to teach Master Thorn this wild and frenzied demon dance on the cultured ballroom floor, the young man surely would not have survived. Such frail creatures these humans are, he thought as he whirled and stomped and sidestepped. His boots did not crush the waterlogged grass, indeed they left no trace whatsoever of his movements.

His demon blood raced, a glacial flood through the chambers of his cold heart. He felt his shoulders relax, a burden lifted. His hips slipped hot and liquid, his belly tight and focused on balance. He closed his eyes and spun away to an unheard rhythm, a symphony roaring in his mind.

He waltzed beneath a stone archway overgrown with grapevines, swiftly evading the waterfall of saturated tendrils grasping at him. His sudden appearance startled a topiary stag that was taking shelter in a nearby cluster of hydrangea bushes; it bolted way, kicking up its heels in terror at the sight of the demon. Blackberry leaves spiraled away from its wicker haunches as it bounded towards the safety of the willow tree down by the rain-pelted pond.

Thunder boomed and rolled as Silas made his way back up the lawn, his moonstone hair and jacket buttons lit with every burst of lightning. The rain’s intensity had begun to taper off, its rage spent. Silas knew the feeling. He reached the terrace steps once again, and leapt up them tirelessly to the French doors. The manor held them open as he danced across the threshold and went immediately to the hall tree mirror.

Silas was dedicated to his duties and his family. He loved the manor, it was his home… and he loved life in this human realm.

But oh…

it felt so good to let go of his self-imposed perfections, to embrace his untamable nature and wash himself of the often constricting manners of servitude, if only for a few moments. His bargain this time around was a mere formality, but Silas still managed his tasks with a devout seriousness. He shook a forelock of tangled white hair away from his cheekbone. Perhaps a bit too serious at times, he admitted to himself. Perhaps he should make more time for dance, and less time for dusting. He readjusted the mirror and shook down his ruffled cuffs. A quick tighten of his cravat, an appraising side eye… Silas glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his master’s cane clacking up behind him.

“Holy gods, Silas! Have you lost your senses?” Nathaniel stood at a prudent distance, staring cautiously at the demon’s reflection, taking in Silas’ wind-whipped hair and glowing yellow eyes. “It’s an absolute monsoon out there.”

The demon had neatly re-braided his hair and reclaimed his duster before his master had even finished speaking. He turned. Looking up at Nathaniel through long white lashes, Silas spoke in a courteous murmur. “I shall fetch tea after I tidy the main hall of the fifth floor. I’m afraid the aftershocks of the storm have most likely caused a bit of dust and old magic to fall down from the ceilings. Peppermint or hibiscus, master?” Transformed back into something as impeccable and serene as a marble carving, Silas waited, tapping his duster expectantly against his palm.

“Uhhh… peppermint?” Magister Thorn absently ran his hand through his own hair in a vain attempt to sort it into some form of orderliness. He chuckled affectionately at the confounding little demon, and his endearing duality.

“As I thought.” Silas winked, turned elegantly on his boot heel to saunter up the staircase, calm and collected as the eye of a deadly storm.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Art by Alle Page, “Ready”, Artstation

{lore about demon dances and their lethality to humans can be found in my annotations within the French L’Integrale Silas edition, published in your year 2024 by BigBang Editions}

[highborn-demon]

‘Slowly, Elisabeth looked up. For a heartbeat she thought she had died after all, and was dreaming. Silas stood over them, one arm raised, blocking the Archon’s light.

Not Silas. Silariathas.

Horns curled from his scalp, white as porcelain, their spirals ending in wicked points. The angles of this face had grown unsettling and cruel, their delicate beauty filed to inhuman sharpness. His ears were pointed; his claws had lengthened, thin and razor sharp.’

{ Sorcery of Thorns, page 435, paperback edition}

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Never forget what I truly am. What lies behind the fine stitching and elegant manners and soft fur…

However, I am a different creature these days~ surely not tame, but… different.

I am Silas.

And I am so very glad of it..

~Art by Avendell ✨🤍✨

[highborn-demon]

Dear readers, which chapter are we at now?

Today’s tale is one of culinary delights, a touch of ancient magic and the power of memory.

Last night I prepared a feast for company, for not only did I wish to test my skills, it has been a while since I shared a food story. They seem to be rather popular.

And if I must be frank, I have misbehaved just a tiny bit recently, which you are all well-aware of if you read the details of my last adventure.

{Believe me when I say it was for the good of all}

Though I cannot feel guilt, I can roast, sauté and bake my way out of trouble here at home, just as easily as I seem to get myself into it.

Good food, good company and clever minds will always reign at Thorn Manor.

Chapter 84~ Old Magic

Silas ran his gloved fingers over the ivory muslin tablecloth, and glanced down the formidable length of the manor’s feast-laden walnut table.

Elegantly built, and lovingly cared for over the centuries, the great hall’s stately dining table was a monolith of antiquity. Capable of holding place for 16 guests when fully outfitted with jade chargers, gold cutlery and the manor’s signature thorn briar patterned dishes, the table had borne witness to an endless parade of meals, hosted countless sumptuous fetes and endured the inevitable slew of house gossip.

There wouldn’t be nearly that number of guests tonight, nevertheless, Silas had gone all out.

His mind, prone to daydreaming, tumbled back to the time Mistress Sinclair had insisted he accompany her to dinner one evening, right in this very room almost a century ago. Scandalized almost speechless and aghast at the sulfur-eyed monster in their midst, her family had barely touched their food.

Supremely unfazed by it all, the sorceress had commenced to eat enough for all of them combined~ almost an entire spatchcocked chicken along with triangles of potato leek pie, steamed chocolate puddings doused in warm cream, handfuls of sticky braised damson plums and gravy licked up off her small clever fingers. Silas had silently watched the spectacle, seated protectively beside her with his hands folded in his lap, his expression remote save for a raised eyebrow now and again. Truth be told, inside he was mirthfully delighted at the clink of the stripped bones she tossed onto porcelain, the confident scrape of her fork and the way she punctuated her blissful chewing with little ladylike mews of contentment.

How such a tiny mortal thing managed to consume so much with such outstanding vigor was beyond him, although he knew firsthand her appetites were unabashed. The rumor that Mistress Sinclair had taken the sinister house demon as her lover was a well-spread belief, and her complete lack of concern about anyone’s judgments only further solidified it as fact. She’d even playfully grabbed him beneath the table at one point, leaving a well-placed spot of marchand de vin on his breeches. To his own surprise, Silas had been decidedly forgiving of it.

He laughed softly as the happy memory wandered back into the infinite maze of his mind, and turned attentions back to the present.

Tonight’s pièce de résistance was a great haunch of beef resting upon a silver platter, crust crisp with bourbon glaze, steam rising in fragrant curls. Silas knew when he carved it, the generous slices would be tender as butter, drenched in juices and boldly seasoned with summer herbs.

Surrounding the centerpiece were ironstone bowls of citrusy cumberland sauce, mustard gravies and creamy horseradish. Loaves of freshly baked bread were laid out, waiting to be slathered with rose petal confit and chive blossom cheese.

There were mounds of mashed red potatoes with the skins left on, sautéed scotch kale, and tender roasted carrots caramelized in honey and orange jelly. Sheltered within a covered tureen nestled plump stuffed tomatoes, and at every place sitting a crystal vase held crisp stalks of coveted celery. A bottle each of brandy, claret and maraschino liqueur glimmered like garnets.

Winding down the length of the table and twisted about the gracefully fluted pewter candelabras were vines of sugared champagne grapes, the clusters of fruit interspersed with fresh sage leaves, silvery artemisia and the palest violet grey ranunculus blooms. In the kitchen, waiting upon a ruffled jade stand like a lady in lacy skirting, sat dessert~ three layers of pillowy vanilla cake, swirled with silky buttercream frosting and sprinkled with silver dragees.

The mingled sweet and savory scents formed an ambrosia the humans of Thorn Manor would find quite irresistible, Silas was sure of it. Mouthwatering to them, unappealing to him. Ah well. He himself did not partake of cooked meat; he much preferred what he could pursue in the gardens while in cat form, nevertheless he still took pride in his culinary skills when it came to feeding his family.

Ever the meticulous creature, Silas paused thoughtfully. Something was missing… He turned his gaze to the unlit candelabras. Ah… of course. How could he be so forgetful.

Shaking his ponytail down off his shoulders and straightening his stance, the demon spoke. His whisper rode on an exhale, the sinuous strand of harsh Enochian words hissing like water droplets on a heated hearthstone. The air in the room warped and tightened, whirling with a flurry of white sparks that reached the ceiling cornices, and fluttering the edges of the cloth napkins. Porcelain shuddered. Wicks flared to life with a neon crackle and the sharp scent of hot wax, slowly ebbing into a warm glow.

Silas laughed softly when his ears popped, a multitude of magicked candle flames dancing with the amusement in his eyes. Though he seldom used it, a bit of indulgent spell speak was harmless… and anyway, old Otherworldly habits die hard, now don’t they?

The stag’s head hanging above the west window turned, glass eyes gleaming, and gave its red ruff a shake. A shower of errant sparks drifted down from its fur like snow, winking out as they descended. Much to Silas’ relief, the stag settled back against its wooden plaque with nary a word. Silas was fully dedicated to his task at the moment; now was hardly the time for him to be swapping nonsensical riddles with the creature. That game could wait til later tonight perhaps, when all mortals were to bed, and the black innards of the manor were awash in moonlight.

Taking one last look, Silas inspected every minute detail, before allowing himself a brief smile of approval. The table, laden with its bounty of decadent fare, flower and fruit, was absolute perfection.

“I do believe I’ve outdone myself,” the demon murmured under his breath, adjusting the tea towel draped over his forearm. He paused again, certain he’d felt a gentle touch at the crook of his elbow, delicate and sweet as spun sugar.

A rustle of movement in the hall tipped his ear. Guests had arrived from Summershall~ one Miss Quillworthy and one Parsifal. He’d heard their carriage wheels earlier on the gravel of the street out front, and footsteps up the walkway as he’d set the roast upon its silver platter. He turned elegantly.

Gazing in through the doorway, a quintet of faces, lit with wonder and candlelight…uttering gasps and exclamations of admiration. Master and Mistress, their arms intertwined. Miss Quillworthy pushing up her glasses to better view the offerings. A ruddy faced, grinning Parsifal. And Miss Mercy, from whom he’d unburdened the day’s tasks so that she could rest and socialize.

Tucked away behind layers of fine stitching, silk velvet and snowy flesh, Silas’ heart lilted upwards almost painfully, as it often did these days when gazing upon his human’s delighted faces. His hand went to his cravat, which suddenly felt a bit tighter than he liked it.

Nathaniel’s incredulous voice boomed. “By the gods, Silas! I do believe you’ve outdone yourself yet again!”

The demon bowed deeply, raising back up to meet his master’s eyes with a wink.

Great and clever minds do think alike.

[highborn-demon]

Like a flame in a glass, miss…

[highborn-demon]

Dear readers, for this morning I offer a tale that touches on some of my favorite things~ secrets, white lies and fashion.

I am of the firm belief that one can never possess too many clothing choices. Variety is essential to an inspiring life, and in my case that encompasses a very long time.

As for secrets and white lies, I think we all know by now that a proper, well-intentioned servant should be well-versed in both…

Chapter 83~ The Dressing Room

Silas grimaced, and flipped through the pages of the magazine faster, his snarling aggression increasing with every flick of the wrist. His stomach lurched at each plate, the horrific images draining his face of what little color it had. What was becoming of fashion?

Mutton leg sleeves? Hideous. Though Lady Tremayne may disagree vehemently, her taste was highly dubious at best.

Bonnets? Somehow both confoundedly puritan and vulgar at the same time.

Plaid? Unforgivable. The nauseating crosshatch of patterns made his head ache with a cruel throb.

The demon sighed, rose from his seat and dismissively tossed the offending publication into the hungry flames of the hearth. The Governess magazine was a bane, a pox on society, steering ladies down a path towards tawdry spectacle. He simply could not abide the presence of such a disgraceful rag, with its glorification of crimes against fashion, within the manor. The crackle and hiss of the burning paper brought a look of satisfaction to the demon’s alabaster features, transforming them once again into the benevolent calm of an angel. He rubbed his hands together with feeling. It was time to cleanse the tragic pictures from his mind, and for that he needed inspiration.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silas meandered down the grand hallway, arms folded behind his back, boots soundless. This secret corridor was hidden in the east wing of the manor, squirreled away past a dizzying path of twists, turns and shadowy bends. Like most of the manor’s halls, it’s width was expansive enough to allow two carriages to pass each other at once. The mahogany floorboards were waxed to a mellow gleam. The walls were papered with plush panels of deep merlot velvet cut in a curlicued fleur-de-lis pattern. Devoid of windows or any natural lighting, the long passageway was lit with oil lamp sconces, their flickering flames dancing across the ornately layered cornices above. Further ahead, the path disappeared into a void of pitch darkness, an impasse only Silas knew the end of. Not a soul besides the house demon had been in this area of the manor for over two centuries. His master didn’t even know for sure if it existed.

About three quarters of the way down, one section of the arched and vaulted ceiling was painted in a fresco of black celestial sky. Swirling gold stars with infinite radiating points glittered faintly, and a tarnished yellow moon endlessly peered and retreated from a curling bank of misty cloud cover. If one paused and listened closely, the faint rusty screech of weaponry and the creaking of ships’ timbers could be heard as the constellations circled one another slowly in mock battle. An armed centaur advanced on a monstrous scorpion, a galleon outmaneuvered a roiling sea serpent. The art and accompanying enchantment were very old, rendered in a charmingly antique style, the pigments crackled with age. Silas was quite fond of it.

It was beneath this fresco that Silas stopped, and turned on his boot heel to face a blank section of walnut panel. He raised a gloved hand and touched the wood lightly, his slender fingers barely brushing the surface with centuries of familiarity. An opening shimmered into view, edges indistinct and smoky, before solidifying into a stately doorway. The demon grasped the worn brass knob and let himself in.

The room was spacious and tidy. A massive baroque mirror of carved ebony leaned against the furthest wall, its beveled glass glowing with a mercurial shine. Several dark wooden armoires stood in formation on either side, tasseled keys hanging from their bronze locks. Over a dozen papier machę tailor’s forms were grouped in a semicircle in one corner, each one wearing a different garment, metallic threads and buttons glittering in the low light. Rows of riding boots stood at attention beneath the forms~ burnished calf and lambskin in a myriad of colors~ caramel brown, black, russet, deepest chocolate, mahogany.

This was Silas’ dressing room. He and he alone knew of its location. Its very existence was a tantalizing rumor his master had attempted to verify numerous times, yet Silas, stoic keeper of secrets, had remained tight-lipped and bland of expression about it, despite Nathaniel even begging piteously once. The room contained almost the entirety of the demon’s wardrobe spanning from the day he was summoned as a servant into bondage at House Thorn in the year 1510, to present day. A quiet sense of luxury swirled and eddied in the great chamber, decorating each corner with centuries of opulence and good taste. To declare the collection extensive would be a grave understatement; it was indeed a stark contrast to his cozy, minimalist bedroom.

An imperial riding coat of the finest silvery taupe raw hammered silk, adorned with intricately braided rows of umber embroidery and heavy turned back cuffs drew his attentions, and a soft inward groan of bliss. It hailed from the mid 18th century, the meticulous workmanship of its lustrous threads and sterling buttons all but unknown these days. Silas removed his tailcoat and gloves, and slipped it over his narrow shoulders. The last time he’d worn it was into battle during the horrifically violent Bone Wars; the weighty hand of the fabric as well as the memory still gave him chills of pleasure. Fortunately, the extravagant cloth had released its numerous bloodstains easily, and the garment was none the worse for wear.

The demon stepped before the mirror to regard his reflection, though experience told him it would surely be elegant enough. Pulling his long white ponytail forward to drape over the lapel, he turned and looked over his shoulder to check the hang of the tails.

It occurred to him then and there what a wonderful thing it was, to be a rare item. To be coveted. The handiwork of this particular raiment rivaled that of elven goods, but incredibly, it had been created with human skills. It was the creation of a true artist, back when each stitch strove to be uniform, every inch of braid perfectly twisted, and the cut was tailored precisely to the wearer’s physique. Back when gentleman took pride in being~ let it be said~ a bit fancy.

Silas carefully slid the coat off, and hung it back on its form. He pinched a bit of lint off the elbow and strolled about.

He turned the key to one of the armoires and let the doors swing open. The rich scent of leather wafted out. Stacks of neatly folded breeches~ buckskin suede, buttery lamb, silk charmeuse, velvet, canvas and summer cotton lined the shelves. Suits hung in orderly fashion~ pared-back evening attire in refined black, suitable for the ballroom. Opera finery awaiting the next performance, and more casual tailcoats with matching waistcoats a fashionable demon could wear to relax in the solar or study.

The next wardrobe contained just undershirt tunics with ruffled cuffs, stand collars and formal shirts. Coachman’s cloaks, capes of wool tabby, and pleated frocks filled another. Each item bespoke, posh… chosen with intent. The demon gave a sigh of contentment. Art could take a plethora of embodiment and mediums; many artists worked with paint, pastel or clay. Some hewed marble and stone, or wood. Others smelted metal, or glass. And some chose to create beauty and romance with fabrics.

Silas smoothed a pair of cashmere trousers, mindful claws curled, and thought back to the day Elisabeth had arrived at the manor. She’d had but one dress; a bedraggled, threadbare sack that suited neither her coloring nor her height. What kind of wretched place was this Library of Summershall, to only allow a lady a single dress, one that was woefully outdated and ill-fitting? Silas couldn’t imagine a worse sin of omission. A lady deserved nice things as much as any demon.

Miss Scrivener had taken to wearing Nathaniel’s robe instead during the day, which was oddly charming but most inappropriate. Perhaps that was indeed part of the charm, Silas mused. Having absolutely no interest whatsoever in clothing or shopping, and knowing the house demon had an unparalleled fashion sense, Master Thorn had finally tasked him with outfitting the library girl properly. The sight of the young woman attired in his clothing was apparently short-circuiting his brain to the extent that he found it impossible to concentrate on work. A mortal affliction that was most amusing for Silas, who was immune to such nonsensical things.

Another victory won, for everyone involved it would seem…and Silas was not about to sit by idly only to see his efforts squandered and unabashedly violated by the likes of The Governess.

But for now a more pressing issue. Silas’ duties were done for the day, dusting the solar had been his last task, and he could retire for the afternoon until dinner. His velvet livery, though of a pleasing appearance, simply wouldn’t do. The demon took in his choices. Oyster white theatre suit? Deep grey swallowtail jacket? His jet black evening suiting so often in rotation? Silas wished for a bit of rich color; something he could wear while wandering the sun-washed garden labyrinth, yet remain harmonious with his surroundings. His eyes lit upon a silk cotton forest green tailcoat, cut tight and short to the ribs, with long tails and engraved gold buttons. The complementary waistcoat of gold and green tapestry was tailored with an extra pocket, which delighted the demon to no end. But what for below the waist?

Running his claws over the tidy rows of trousers, he pulled out a pair of crème suede button front breeches. The deerskin had a sumptuous buttery grain, and they’d been tailored flawlessly with slight pleats to accommodate his anatomy. It was both fortune fated and a curse to be so blessed, he snickered to himself. Stepping out of his striped livery, Silas pulled on the breeches and fastened up the covered buttons with deft fingers. An ivory satin cravat tied high and tight about his throat, and a pair of tall riding boots in polished chestnut finished off the ensemble quite to his liking. He stood hipshot before the mirror~ shoulders back, chin up. Small, slight, impossibly elegant with such little effort. Perfection.

With a final adjustment to his coattails, Silas cast a final satisfying gaze about, and went to the hall. The door blurred behind him as if made from fog, and by the time he’d turned to watch, it had already begun to rapidly dissipate as if blown by a slight breeze, leaving a solid wall of glossy walnut in its place. One would never know that a room lie just beyond, nor have knowledge of the treasure trove contained within. Silas never tired of the way the doorway vanished without a trace. It kept its secrets as well as he did, which was an undeniably honorable thing. The house demon smiled in childlike glee, small canines flashing in the lamplight, and made his way back to the first floor parlor with a leisurely stride. Much to his chagrin, he did not have a total stranglehold on the fashion decisions of others, but he could at the very least be a pinnacle of good taste and example.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mistress Scrivener stepped into the parlor, casting her attention about, brow furrowed. “Hello Silas. Have you seen my magazine? The newest issue of The Governess?”

The demon paused delicately, and looked up from beneath the shade of his white lashes. His feline eyes shone a vivid sulphur in the firelight. “No, mistress, I have not. But I shall be certain to stay vigilant to its possible whereabouts.” His whispering voice was tinged with sympathy, an emotion he wasn’t capable of feeling, but could skillfully mimic. He lowered his gaze deferentially, resisting the self-sabotaging urge to glance at the fireplace.

“Well I seem to have misplaced it, silly me, but if anyone can find it, you can. Thank you, Silas. I really like your outfit. It suits you amazingly well.”

Elisabeth beamed at him brightly, soul’s holy corona ablaze. She gathered up her skirts and curtsied clumsily on her way out.

An appeased smile crossed the demon’s face, impish enough to warm his yellow eyes. Another potential fashion victim saved from the horrors of The Governess, and just in the nick of time, whether she knew it or not.

Silas stroked his ponytail languidly, waiting until his mistress’s footsteps faded. He set his book down, rose and headed for the French doors. The garden was beckoning with its lush verdant canopies and pools of golden sun, and secrets all its own…

[highborn-demon]

Dear readers, I present another tale that hatched from an experience I had last night in the gardens, after my nightly prowl.

Nothing is ever truly lost. Not if it can be found again, either by chance, happenstance or luck. Or maybe… it is just awaiting the right moment to remind one why it was missed so much… and to offer a bit of solace 🤍

{TW~ mature content, non-graphic}

Chapter 82~ Forget Me Not

Silas traced the black veins of the marble with a claw. The bench he was seated upon was well-hidden from prying eyes~ tucked far, far away into a sheltered corner of the garden beneath a draping canopy of grapevines. Worn to a smooth salt-like finish by touch, time and weather, the cold stone was steeped in warm secrets. Secrets that the surrounding vines and hedges and fruit trees had also sheltered for nearly a hundred years. Secrets which were assuaging Silas’ desire for company tonight.

Floating low amongst a sprinkle of stars, the moon glided into view. Serene silver light glazed the ends of his ponytail, limned his elegant profile and rippled down the slender column of his throat above his cravat.

Alongside the white rose unfurling at his lapel clung a single small feather, its delicate beauty marked by a bead of vermillion. The demon had just finished his midnight prowl, slinking through the maze as a cat, and it had been a most satisfying hunt. The night-drenched garden was his solitary domain, regardless of which form he took.

Beyond the pear grove, a herd of topiary giraffes moved in quiet formation towards the labyrinth, boxwood ribs crackling, the muffled thud of their hooves a soothing rhythm. They were curious, gentle giants, but prone to stepping over the thorn hedges and out into the freedom of Hemlock Park. Amusement for them, utter chaos for the citizens of Brassbridge. The tallest one could peer into the second floor windows of the manor, which it did frequently.

Silas recalled the first time Mercy had experienced the giraffe doing just that; she’d come face to face with it while washing the south window of the solar. Her offended bellows reverberated through the manor, until Silas, with an eye roll, hastened to her aid. He’d found her squared off like a routier on the battlefield, mop turned javelin raised at the leafy beast on the other side of the glass.

“It is well, miss. I can assure you, it’s intentions are not malicious.” He had almost added “much like myself,” but back then he’d still been straddling the fence.

Instead, Silas had cocked his head with bared teeth at the topiary, which promptly wandered off with its odd rocking horse gait. Unfortunately the view of his canines hadn’t helped to calm the maid’s frazzled nerves; if anything, it wound her up even more. Silas filed a few of her inventive curses away in his brain for later use.

“One just never knows what might be around the next corner in this blasted place! Undergarments flying’ all higgledy piggledy, gargoyles eatin’ the godforsaken morning paper, plants walkin’ about like zoo animals…” Mercy blotted her brow with the hem of her skirts, and gave him a nod. “I thank you kindly for the rescue, fangs an’ all I suppose.”

“Yes miss, it is my pleasure. For many, Thorn Manor has proven itself a challenging place. It surely isn’t for the faint of heart. But fear not, I am quite certain Mistress Scrivener and Master Thorn shall see to it that no harm befalls you.” Silas thought ruefully of his master’s order. Now would be the time to persuade her to seek employment elsewhere, but he knew Mercy’s resignation would cause Elisabeth a type of sadness, and so he’d simply given a slight bow, and left the maidservant to her unfinished task.

The giraffes disappeared into the gloaming, and Silas’ thoughts returned to the present, but only briefly. The sloping lawn leading down to the pond was hazy with periwinkle mist, white clover in clumps like foam on the sea. The fountain at the center of the labyrinth trickled it’s endless bounty of icy sweetwater. In the absence of owls, crickets and bullfrogs, the soft sound of water bubbling and swirling lulled the demon into a dreamlike state.

Another memory surfaced~ wavering into clarity like a ghost rising from the murky depths of a fathomless lake… this one of wildflowers~ tiny blue forget-me-nots being pressed into his skin.

She’d called him a tenebrous thing, but sweetly with fireflies reflected in her doe eyes. They’d been seated on this very bench, the manor’s window lights tiny as stars in the distance. Against the chill of demon flesh, the blossoms had frozen instantly, crystallized like the sugared petals on fancy cakes, yet his mistress’ cunning little fingers remained warm, insistent…

“I do believe I’ve gilded the lily,” she’d said with a laugh like a fairy bell chime, sitting back to admire her mischievous work. Her feet were bare as usual, nestled in a patch of pink lady slipper orchids.

He’d stared at her in reproach, but eventually conceded a reluctant defeat, acknowledging with an inward sigh that a demon with tiny florets pasted to his cheekbones by his lover’s saliva could hardly be seen as a fearsome creature.

It was true, upon summoning and securing a bargain with him, Mistress Sinclair had immediately ordered him to never harm her. The command was something he’d expected and hadn’t been offended by. He had, after all, earned a reputation for deadly violence and trickery. Orders, like teacups and bones, could be swiftly broken, however Silas had never once been overcome by the urge to do so, despite the many liberties she took with him, and the teasing that both vexed and entranced him. He couldn’t grasp why.

Indeed, he’d eventually allowed her every whim, staying infinitely patient and very still, until the time she’d carefully pressed his lip upwards to touch the sharp opaline tips of his teeth. She was a curious and tactile human, her boldness cushioned by an innocent sense of wonder.

“My what teeth you have, sir,” she’d exclaimed in awe, and perhaps a bit of trepidation.

“All the better to eat…” his whispered words of warning were halted by gentle fingers against his mouth and her mellifluous laughter.

Her frustrating audacity had brought a surge of heat to his hips… a shiver of rage and melting endearment equally blended into syrupy frisson. Either and both called for his reaction, but her order was in place; therefore he had but one choice…

And so consume her he had, with a low growl right upon this very bench… in every devoted, decadent way he could think of, cravat unraveled in a spool of crushed silk and the knees of his misfortunate breeches dusted with sprigs of moss and garden loam, the grapes hanging low and tender pear leaves trembling down.

She’d goaded him into this dangerous tryst of passions quite on purpose, he was sure of it. And it wouldn’t be the last time. The little sorceress truly knew how to raise his hackles among other things, and he found he didn’t really mind.

Silas sat smiling wistfully amongst the clumps of dewdrop-laden ferns and blackberry brambles. Oh to be subject to such playful nonsense once again…

A breeze had picked up, and within its ruffled currents the memory fragmented, and was carried away into the treetops. Silas tucked a wind-tousled lock of snowy hair behind his ear. The lone feather and its red droplet fluttered from his lapel to rest upon a spot of moss between his boots. His feline gaze followed it down.

A faint gleam on the woodland floor held his eye. Something mostly obscured by earth and rootlets, foamflower and wild ginger. The demon reached down and gently plucked the trinket from the tangle of foliage, turning it in his claws before holding it up to the moonlight.

A small comb, one meant to hold a lady’s hair, carved from dappled brown tortoiseshell. It looked to have been lost, fallen or even tugged loose, oh perhaps a century ago. The feel of it in his palm was immediately familiar.

Silas tucked the gift into his waistcoat pocket. It would join the opera tickets he kept wrapped in a lace handkerchief on his dresser. Nothing is ever truly lost, he mused. It was simply just waiting.

The stone bench was cold beneath him, the damp chill soaking through his breeches, yet the sensation did not distress him, nor coax him into returning to the manor’s beckoning embrace. Not just yet. Silas brushed his claws over the crumbling marble again, thoughtfully.

What a curious comfort that such a cold thing could harbor such warmth.

Art by the ever-enchanting Isadora Nurdin ✨🤍✨