Chapter Text
Darkness is a castle.
Or at least, that's the simplest way I could put it as I beheld the sophisticated structure before me. The regal establishment was shrouded in shadows, shaded by the overcast twilight. Hues of bruised purple lingered in the sky behind it, furthermore sharpening each exterior wall and tower of the castle.
It was black. From top to bottom, the castle was black. The gothic architecture was mesmerizing; I noted the intricately framed windows, impossible to see behind, the highs and lows of the building, from elevated towers to jutting balconies. It was massive, to say the least.
"Castle Riley," the coachmen bellowed, as our carriage came to a halt. The horses' hooves' click-clack ceased; they snorted and huffed. As we stopped, I became acutely aware of the chilly air.
"Father?" I whimpered, turning my head to look at him. Damien Barker. A man of few words, but always words of intelligence.
"Jezebel, calm yourself," he said shortly, but my father's reassurance was enough to relax me slightly. I huffed a gust of air, and looked through the door of the coach, where the fat coachman waited to take my hand to help me out of my seat.
He opened the door. I grabbed my long white hoop skirt, so it would not grow dirty, and stepped cautiously out of the carriage by assistance of the coachman. Once I was out, and my father had joined me by my side, the coachman retired to his seat atop the carriage and whipped the horses. I looked behind me, the pounding of the horses' hooves deafening. The coach disappeared into the shadows.
"Father?" I called again, as the stillness of the night became more noticeable in the absence of the carriage and the coachman. Fear left my legs numb and my mind hazy.
"Come, Jezebel." He folded his hands behind his back and approached the iron-barred gate. I scrutinized it, and my observatory gaze revealed a most potent insignia in the center of the gate. An elegant R.
We came only a mere inches from the gate before my father touched it lightly with his gloved hand, testing to see if it was locked. It was not. It creaked open agony. My father and I pushed through the gates and onward onto the mossy stone-brick bridge that led us further and further towards the castle the longer we proceeded.
"Father," I stated as we walked for what seemed like a millennia. I peeked over the barred fence next to me, keeping wanderers from falling off the bridge. Below was a murky river, looking grey and colorless from the distance.
"Jezebel," he sighed in vexation.
"Father, I don't like it here," I said, praying that my words would cause influence upon him, that maybe, just maybe he would heed my pleas and take us elsewhere for residence.
"We don't have a choice but to live here," he said sharply. "At least until we can find a place of our own. The economy is struggling at the moment. Residency is a hard feat to achieve."
"But-"
"No 'buts,' Jezebel," my father said with a wave of his white-gloved hand. "Dr. Price said he had a friend for you to meet. His child."
"A friend?" I perked up immediately. I would find my stay here much less insufferable at the possibility of having someone to accompany me through my inevitable boredom. "A girl? Oh, Father, will I get to have a girl friend?"
"His son," my father corrected himself. My excitement deflated like a party balloon. "Well, somewhat."
"What?" I said incredulously. "How 'somewhat?'"
"I don't know much, Jez, but that boy is not truly his flesh and blood," Father said, looking to me with a frighteningly serious countenance. "I'm not certain of his origins at all, really, and it scares me so. But Dr. John Price is a dear friend of mine, so I trust his judgment. He seemed very excited to introduce the two of you when he wrote to me."
"Oh," I said, my shoulders sinking. That sounded scary. The whole thing.
"You're fearful to meet him," Father observed quietly. "Well, anywho, there is always the owner of the castle. He is a suitable bachelor."
"Who?" I grew excited once more.
An expression of regret befell my father's wrinkled face; he was quite old, but acceptably handsome. I always prided myself on my looks that I was certain came from him.
"Forget I said anything," he spoke quickly. "I... shouldn't have."
"Why, Father?" I said curiously. "Why what's wrong? Is he devil worshipper?"
My father's brows raised. My mouth dropped.
"Oh, oh, he is!" I cried. "Oh, Father, he is a devil worshipper! Why dare you take us to the home of such a monster! I thought you disapproved of that!"
"Hush, Jezebel," my father said, pinching the bridge of his nose as he walked. The action forced his half-moon spectacles upwards, so much so they almost fell off his face. "He is not a devil worshipper, though it would not matter much if he was."
"What?" I said in disbelief. "What do you mean it would not matter! I..." I shook my head, rethinking all that I have learned, the religion I had been brought up with. "...I thought we were good Christian people! I'm so..." I trailed off, assuming the worst of my father right then. I had to. He had ventured us out to this dark, wretched place after our entire family had died. It's not mad to assume he's lost his mind at this point.
"Jezebel," he said strongly, and came to a rough halt. I stopped alongside him, my brows raised and my mouth agape. He took me by the shoulders and looked sternly into my eyes.
"...Father?"
"Jezebel," he repeated, enunciating his syllables warily, "there is much you do not know about me and our history. I need you to be aware of this."
"What the Dickens are you talking about?" I said, stitching my thin brows together. "I've lived with you and your wife since I was an infant. I've never known my real mother. She's dead. Whatever. We've always been good Christian people. What else is there to say about our history?"
"You're right," he said. "Your mother is dead. Our family is- were good Christian people, but, Jez..." He shook his head. "Please understand that I may have seemed a certain way all these years to assuage my wife when I remarried. If I did not, you would grow up with only me. No mother. No family. Just me."
"What the hell are you..." I said again, shaking my head. "You're saying..."
"I'm saying that there is much you do not know about me," Father said. "Or about who we are. Me and you. You are at the age of twenty-one. That's all I can say at the moment." He then released me, and then continued to walk forward. Despite my itching desire to ask him questions, to yell, to cry out in confusion, I bit my tongue and continued alongside him.
My father has always been an enigmatic man. Silent. He never spoke much, not even to my adoptive mother, his wife. My father and his wife never had much of a relationship, but my father was also a working man. He was very often busy, and even more so away from our home in the English moors. It took him nearly an hour to get to work at Bakewell in the mornings, so he would awake at the crack of dawn, and be he home at dusk.
Very much in my life I have had to take upon his role. My adoptive mother did not work, so it was up to my father for our income. While he was away, and my adoptive mother would clean the cottage and cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I would tend to the children and raise them to be fair, respectful young lads and lasses. They were two boys and one girl.
I felt the urge to weep. They were all dead. For twenty-one years, they have been the only family I have ever known, and now they were all gone. I wondered why God had allowed my father and I to live, and only us. I also wondered what secrets my father was hiding, why suddenly, he had spoke to me with such mystery and fear. And also, why it had been brought upon by this dark castle.