This next tale takes place in the early 1700s, over one hundred years ago in our Austermeer time. Though long ago, I can assure you it most certainly did occur, and the details are as fresh in my mind as the roses I set in the entryway of the manor this very morning.
Many of you by now know of my previous mistress Theodora Sinclair, having met her acquaintance through such stories as ‘The Ostrich Room’ and ‘The Servant’s Passage’. If you were perceptive enough, you may recall the tantalizing snippets revealed in ‘Mysteries of Thorn Manor’, and in the 2024 French L’Integrale Silas edition, within whose margins I annotated my feelings regarding her.
Again, as a gentleman I do not divulge all. But I shall share just enough to help you understand the lasting effect this incomparable woman has had on my life. She would not mind, I am sure of it.
Being bound to her in more ways than one was a singular experience, and with this story I shall endeavor to honor Mistress Sinclair as best I can.
Chapter 79~ The Theatre Box
“Silas…”
Mistress Sinclair’s whisper, quiet as the slip of a silk ribbon, reached his ears through the luminous soaring of the violin solo unfolding below.
They were cloistered high in the uppermost balcony box seats of the Royal Theatre, tucked away in secrecy amidst flaking gilded wood and inky darkness, where the demon did not require the effort of a glamour to conceal his startling appearance. The acoustics were superlative, the shadows deep and lush as a curtain of midnight velvet. It was one of Silas’ very favorite places to be.
He turned to his mistress and leaned in, attentive to her needs despite the intrusion into his bliss. Perhaps she wished for him to tuck her shawl closer about her arms, or fetch her opera glasses from her chatelaine. Though fiercely independent, Mistress Sinclair also knew Silas took pleasure in doting on her.
Her hand, feathery soft and warm as a little bird, reached to cup his cheek. Her fingers did not tremble, they were bold, yet tender. The shock of such an unexpected touch stilled his reaction, and in that split second of hesitation, her lips found the corner of his.
“Mistress.” He’d managed to utter one word only, one word that spoke volumes~ reproach, astonishment, curiosity….to which she’d responded with a soft lilting giggle, dark eyes merry.
The kiss had coincided with the crescendo of the solo, at the very moment the music had overtaken his entire consciousness with waves of pleasure. Silas suddenly wished to either loosen or tighten his cravat, perhaps remove it altogether…but he wasn’t sure which would remedy this peculiar sensation; indeed it probably didn’t matter, as the minute peck had rendered the fearsome demon quite incapable of moving even a single fingertip.
This can’t possibly be healthy for my heart, Silas thought, as a tumultuous flood of ice cold blood thundered through his veins like a glacier melting. On a positive note, this was, at the very least, confirmation that he had one.
Needless to say, he barely remembered the rest of the symphony, yet neither did he did feel any sense of disappointment over it. He sat beside her until the finale, gloved hands over his lap, still and unblinking as a marble statue. Indeed, one would’ve hardly noticed him breathing, but inside he was a tempest.
~*~*~*~*~*
The evening had ended, and Thorn Manor sat in that serene, muffled silence that only winter can impart. Lamps were extinguished and waitstaff asleep. After wordlessly taking down his mistress’s hair, gently loosening her stays and politely bowing his way out of her bedchamber, Silas had escaped to the blessed solitude of his room on the fifth floor. The demon busied himself with turning down his bed, smoothing the linen and fluffing up his mound of pillows. The textures of the fabrics somehow seemed more obvious to him on this night~ his hands paused to trace the finely rippled weave with a thumb, and lightly crush the plush depth of the down feathers.
He prodded a half-burned log in the fireplace back to life, and soon orange flames danced and crackled. Pops of sparks and the scent of birch sap filled his bedchamber, spicy and earthy and sweet. But even these soothing things failed to push away the thoughts teeming to the forefront of his mind like minnows darting along the edge of a riverbank.
What on earth just happened?
He knew ‘what’ it was~ a kiss. But how? And why?
The music must’ve mesmerized his demon senses to such a degree that he was momentarily unaware of Mistress Sinclair’s capricious plot. That was the only explanation he could think of as to how she’d been able to so cleverly blindside him. Dreadfully careless of him. Even worse, he’d been so rattled that he hadn’t pulled away until after the kiss was complete. And all this time he’d thought he was the dangerous one. The taste of her mouth still lingered on his with a slight fragrance of something like wild blackberry and mint.
To his utter dismay, Silas realized he’d enjoyed it quite a bit.
He’d rather have his heart served to him, stewed in a tureen of his own blood, than admit such a thing out loud. Silas had never held interest in consorting with mortals. In the past, there had been occasions when humans had tried to kiss him; and some, disrespecting his lack of desire, had tried to tempt him into even more amorous behavior. The consequences for their carnal missteps had been dire.
But Mistress Sinclair… the sorceress to whom he was bound in servitude through demonic bargain… well, this was a whole different story. He’d felt no prickle of annoyance dancing up his spine, no hunger for vengeance swelling in his throat. No revulsion at being touched. Brief and hardly salacious, the kiss had tingled with playful electricity~ it had obviously been meant to catch him off guard. Nothing more. She’d treated him no differently afterwards. Her soul had flared a brief magenta before pulsating back to its soft rose glimmer, but there had been no expectation, no pining need, no unseen motive to control him. It had felt pure in its innocent affection.
Though her lips had rested against his for no more than the intake of one stolen breath…it’d been long enough to open a Pandora’s box of questions for the demon. Silas truly believed he could spend his entire night pondering the elusive answers. So much for the cat nap he’d planned.
He considered the gravity of a mortal kissing a demon. Knowing full well what sharp-toothed dangers lay just behind the curve of his angelic lips, she must truly trust him, the thought of which brought him a heated flush of satisfaction. As if bundling him up and spiriting him off to the opera with her wasn’t proof enough.
Silas was accustomed to being in close proximity to his mistress. And not just to act as a conduit for magic. Many of his mornings were spent arranging her hair, claws carefully manipulating her long dark tresses into intricate braids, chignons and plaits. He’d learned to gently slip jeweled hairpins into place, lace up corsets and sort layers of silk and lace skirts. The sorceress preferred Silas’ assistance as opposed to a gossipy maidservant, saying his composed demeanor and quiet humor set her in a tranquil mood for the day. Their close rapport was widely deemed scandalously dangerous and deviant… but she cared not. And neither did Silas. As a superior creature, human rules of decorum did not apply to him. No one dared question the demon anyway; the tales of his proclivities for shocking violence were far-spread.
Silas became quite adept at attending her; over time he was the only one allowed to do so, and an impossible affection soon bloomed between them~ one of easy confidence and comradeship. He took tea with her, brought hot breakfasts to her bedchamber, devotedly escorted her wherever she desired~ her hand nestled in the crook of his arm was a familiar weight that caused him no unease.
Though she teased him often, her whimsy always blushed with fondness.
But she’d never ventured to touch his face, nor kiss him. Til now. It occurred to him then and there that there were different types of kissing. Perhaps also different comfort levels… a wide swath of unchartered territory existed between the far ends of intrigue, apathy and repulsion. Perhaps such a thing required more investigation.
Silas slipped out of his tailcoat and kicked off his boots. He gazed into the mirror over his dresser and sighed. He looked the same as he had for centuries~ frost pale, smooth brow, feline eyes, moonstone hair. Yet inside he felt oh so strange. Enlightened? Curious as a cat? Well that would certainly make sense. He rolled up his cuffs to splash cool water on his face, laughing to himself.
Loosening his cravat, Silas paused, head tilted. Light as rustling leaves, he could hear quiet treads on the staircase far below him. Tiny feet in silken slippers. After some time, they approached purposefully down the hallway, and paused outside the heavy walnut door of his room, which was a sliver ajar. He waited, still as stone, knowing dawning. The thin strip of cloth hung forgotten from his claws.
A shaft of silvery moonlight illuminated the worn floorboards as the door creaked open. The sound was no more than a mouse’s squeak, but to Silas’ ears it was the low keen of a well-rosined bow drawn slowly against the taut strings of a cello.
He already knew who he would find. Eyes merry, mouth inviting as sun-warmed blackberries. Strands of purest white twisting through her mane like a vine of moonflowers. Playful fingers tempered with infinite kindness.
The demon turned. Dust motes sparkled in the moonbeam like fireflies. His dry murmur was barely audible.
“Mistress.”
Art by Alle Page, Artstation 🤍
