Father (Blood Brotherhood 1)

“Understood, sir,” Crichton says. He lingers for a moment. “She is rather lovely, is she not?”

“Yes,” I sigh. “She is.”

“Of course, one could not pursue any form of relationship, carnal or otherwise with the young lady. To do so would be perverse in the extreme.”

“Thank you, Crichton.”

“You are most welcome, sir.”

Chapter Three

Nina

This house is amazing. When we drove up the rolling green hills toward this building shrouded in history, made of history, really, I couldn’t have been more excited. I mean sure, it’s foreboding. That’s the thing with all these old places. They were made to scare the hell out of anybody who was thinking about smashing the place up. Every gothic arched window and flared buttress is an elegant, classy, building way to say fuck you, fuck off.

I wake up to a beautiful morning. My new room is the most beautiful place I have ever had the honor of dwelling in. It is like a fairytale house, shrunk down to one pretty little turret with stained glass windows and walls fully encased with books. There must be hundreds. The bed fits into the room by entirely dominating it. When I open my eyes, it is to see up into the very point of the turret, another complex glass construction. I don’t know what the images in the stained glass are. Some of them seem floral. Others seem to be almost monstrous. I assume there is a religious context for all of it. Maybe I’ll puzzle all the meanings out before I leave. But the one above my head is simple enough to understand. It is a rising sun, and it channels the light from the actual sun to the bed, casting it in a warm glow.

There is a tap at the door. Gentle and unobtrusive. Quiet, so if I wasn’t awake, I wouldn’t hear it.

"Come in,” I call.

Crichton comes in, dressed in a tidy vest and perfectly tailored suit. He is holding a silver tray. It contains two soft-boiled eggs in their very own cups, two pieces of toast, butter, and of course, a pot of tea. He places the tray down beside the bed and turns as if to draw the curtains, but they are already open for I never closed them.

“I hope you slept well, miss,” he says.

“Very well,” I say, surprised. “I am not usually a good sleeper.”

“I am glad you enjoyed a restful repose,” Crichton replies. He’s an interesting man. He has one of those faces that could make him thirty or sixty or who knows. The aura of formality about him makes him seem older, but when I look directly at him, I’m really not sure. He’s handsome, but in a sort of predictable and comforting way. It’s more an absence of ugliness than an active attractiveness. Not that life is all about being good looking. There are other things that matter. I’m sure some of them will come to me after breakfast.

"The master has indicated you are to have more freedom in the house today. However, he requests that you stay out of any locked areas or rooms. The home is large and many parts of it are not what might be called safe.”

“I assume I won’t be getting into any locked rooms,” I point out. “Because of the locks.”

“Yes, quite. I will leave you to your repast, miss.”

“Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Where are we? I mean, I know where we are. But this place… My mother lived here?”

“Your mother was resident before she left for America. Direview Abbey has always been a place of retreat for those who are lost and seeking. It has provided shelter for the Brotherhood, the religious men who gather here, and it has also provided respite for the occasional member of the fairer sex.”

“What are you seeking, Crichton?” He doesn’t seem lost.

“Redemption,” he says.

That’s a bit heavy. I want to ask for what, but I also know that’s way too personal a question.

“Enjoy your breakfast, miss.”

I do enjoy my breakfast, but within the hour I have eaten. I have dressed. And I have become bored and begun to explore.

Father Bryn said not to go outside. I don't know what actually counts as inside and what counts as outside, because I soon discover that this is not a typical building. It's not a box. It’s a big… well, box, but there’s a courtyard in the middle. Overgrown. Not well tended at all. Roses have mixed with blackberry thorns and wrapped themselves around something that might be a statue. I can’t really see.

There is something empty about this place, something verging right on the very edge of decay. It’s not dead yet, but it is dying. I can see the other side of the building across the courtyard. Old windows. Gothic architecture. More glass hiding darkness.

On the outer sides of the building, the view is a little less depressing. There’s a valley on one side and a river at the bottom. A village has been built straddling the water. It’s pretty. We drove through it on the way up to the abbey, but I didn’t pay as much attention as I wish I had. I have a vague impression of stone buildings and thatched houses. England has so much history mashed up against so much modernity. I don't know why, but it makes me feel melancholy. I think I prefer America, where even old things are new.