Ravenwood(37)
The sound of a quill scratching along parchment had her eyes sliding sideways to watch Caleb surreptitiously. He was slightly bent over his work at the desk, the back of his neck exposed to the open window behind him. The sun was just starting to creep around the edge of the house, shrouding him in light, like a halo. His hair seemed darker, silkier against the blushing sunlight. Elinore had the sudden thought that his hair was likely quite soft and smooth - probably smoother than her own, which had a slight wave to it and needed to be tamed back. Caleb turned his head slightly, reading something from one of the ledgers and then dipping his quill to make a note in another. He moved with economical precision - not wasting motion or frilling it up unnecessarily. Elinore didn’t think she’d ever seen a man as handsome as he. That first night, in the woods, she really had thought he’d sprung out of the forest like some kind of dark fae creature. But since coming to the manner, he’d been considerate and straightforward with her. She’d even told him about her writings and he hadn’t laughed at or teased her. He’d suggested she consider publishing. Publishing! There hadn’t seemed an insincere bone in his body when he’d said it.
If she kept staring at him, she was likely to get caught. Her heart thudded at the thought of him looking up and catching her. Something in his posture stilled, his pen pausing on the page and she hurriedly looked down, able to see out of the corner of her eye that she did so just at the right time. As if he’d read her mind or heard her thumping heart, he looked over at her. She thankfully already had her nose buried back in her book.
Elinore read with fascination, becoming more engrossed as it was foretold in the tale that Psyche should be married to a dragon-like creature. Her mind was a flurry of dark fabrics, black roses and haunting music as she pictured the details of the myth - Psyche attired gothically and taken to the place of her wedding. From there, Psyche was taken to an impossibly beautiful house where a disembodied voice told her to eat. Of course, in Elinore’s mind, the beautiful house looked like Ravenwood and the dinner served was just as she had been fed last night. It was all too easy in her imagination to place herself in Psyche’s role. After dinner, Psyche retired to the bedroom where she was to meet her husband. Elinore shivered slightly, reading how the room was black as pitch so Psyche could not make out the physical appearance of her betrothed and how Psyche was forsworn not to look upon him.
Elinore paused, eyes staring blindly at the page, soaking in the details of the story and letting it steep in her mind. Would Elinore eat from the table as the disembodied voice bid? Or would she rally against it and demand to see the face belonging to the speaker? Would she take herself to the bedroom with trepidation and resignation in equal measure? Or would she shriek and cry in fear and outrage? Or perhaps fight like a banshee, clawing and biting against anything that came her way?
Once in the room, would Elinore stay still, lying on the bed prone like a sleeping beauty, while her new husband came into the dark, unseen and unknown to her? A strange feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach, as she imagined being secluded in such a room, her eyes only seeing blackness in front of them. Her ears would hear every whisper of fabric against fabric, of footsteps against the floor, of the door against the jamb. Would her secretive spouse be silent as he crept into her room? He would have to say something or how would Elinore know she wasn’t to look upon him? Would he speak the words, calmly and carefully from a few feet away? Or would he whisper like rustling silk against the shell of her ear? Her eyes drifted again, over to the desk where Caleb sat. The strong outline of his shoulders contrasted against the trim line of his waist and Elinore could imagine how the slope of his torso would feel against her hand in the dark. She would be able to tell that he was broad of shoulder and narrow of hip even if there were no light. She would also know the softness of his hair, the rasp of his stubble against her fingertips or possibly against her lips. His body would be a heavy weight on top of hers. Such things she’d never dared think before, but now, after reading of Pasiphae and then of Psyche, Elinore could imagine how the heft of Caleb would feel pressed against her skin. He would be warm, almost hot, against her. In her heart, she would know she was there because she wanted to be where she was, under him, under his bulk, pressed into the mattress.
Caleb’s eyes flicked up and met hers, suddenly and shockingly. She felt trapped by the force of his gaze, unable to look away. The piercing clarity of his irises locked her in place. She didn’t want to look away. His nostrils flared slightly and she had the sudden fear that he knew exactly what she was thinking. That he could somehow tell just by looking at her and she felt her cheeks flush with heat.
“So this is where you’ve ensconced yourself,” a voice broke from the doorway. “Hiding away amongst these dreary pages.”
Hayter stood in the entrance to the library and how distracted Elinore must have been to not hear the door open as he entered. She turned quickly away from Caleb, standing and giving Hayter a perfunctory curtsey.
“Good morning, Uncle.”
Hayter waved a hand. “Bah, I hate that term. It makes me feel old, though I’m still as young and vigorous as ever.” Hayter turned to look at Caleb and Elinore realized their eyes were of the same shade. Although the shape and expression of Caleb’s made his eyes seem open and waiting, Hayter’s always seemed predatory and calculating.
“Enjoying your morning, nephew?” Hayter asked. Elinore felt uncomfortable at the snide tone. Caleb appeared not to mind it at all.