Stalemate

Chapter 22

She stood in the middle of the room. Her toes burrowed in the green and gold carpet beneath her, the rendering of the pictures and swirls moving back and forth like a tide. She listened to the butler as he lit a single lamp and closed her inside the parlor. A gust of air chilled her exposed backside, and she didn't even have the mind to try to cover her exposed skin. The back of her dress hung open like a window shutter, for all to see.

The room was intimate and silent. Unnerving, almost. It was square and trite, identical to nearly every room she'd passed by before. As she and the butler approached the double doors, she recognized this room; she'd passed it each time she went to Gwen's suite, noticing how it always remained closed. The hitch of her breath when she'd first entered it, the suffocating air, the dust that flurried above her head told her that this room must not have been used much. She faced a white chaise positioned to face the west side of the room, opposite two green-upholstered armchairs that were clearly posed, perfectly tilted, further indicating their infrequent use. A mahogany coffee table sat between the chairs and the chaise, all evenly positioned in front of a barren fireplace, which wasn't even blackened with soot; even in the dimness of the room, the gold gilding smoldered.

On the east wall, three long windows let in the moonlight, casting sinuous shapes on the carpet. The draperies floated an inch above the floor, still as Ashtin's heart. She stared at the floor, felt the brazen stare of the stoic man in the portrait above the fireplace. In the dim corner, a grandfather clock ticked in unison with her heartbeat, as if its timbre was being broadcast for the room to hear.

What have I done? The question surged in her mind. Master Budrene had been polite—seemed pleased, even—to see her at the party. Gwen had told her he'd insisted that she attended. She'd tried to read the butler's expression, but she found nothing. He did not placate any sort of apprehension. But Gwen had, hadn't she? She'd paused there, at the doorsill for a moment. What did she know? What was going to happen to her?

The door opened, and Ashtin listened to the stride across the carpet. The room seemed to release a breath before she was closed inside once again. She did not dare turn around. She felt his presence, though, and heard the sound of his labored breaths. The soft scent of his cedarwood cologne. She stared at the mustached man on the wall. She waited for him to speak, a greeting of some sort.

But there was only silence.

Finally, no longer able to stand it, she turned her head to see behind her. He stood at a mahogany desk, centered perfectly on the back wall, surveying the selection of brandies and whiskeys set out. A mirror above the table revealed his focused expression as he chose a drink, his brows furrowed together like this was the most important matter he'd ever have to contend with. He hmmed and murmured as his deciding finger floated over the caps. Ashtin could only stare, wait for him to finish. The candlelight painted half his face in a golden hue. His slicked-back hair glinted.

Finally, he settled on a silver decanter and took a glass, already filled with ice, and spinned on his heel. Ashtin whipped herself back around to face the fireplace. She felt his stare. Wanted to somehow cover her exposed backside. A part of her felt completely naked, translucent. Ashamed.

Could they not have at least given her a scarf?

He approached one of the armchairs and sat down in the one closest to her, the cap in his mouth as he poured his drink. He set the decanter on the table and crossed his legs.

Ashtin, trying to mask her tremble, stared at his side profile as he took his first sip. Speak, she thought. Please just speak.

Finally, finally, he cleared his throat. "My apologies, Miss Mentley," he said. "A choice such as this is tough work."