Mesmer

The sun was setting as Yerla kept pace in front of the old, wooden cart. She had been trudging along the untended dirt road all day, stopping every few miles so the man in the cart could get out and move a log or a stubborn herd of goats. It wasn’t a bad job, pulling the cart, but Yerla was getting tired. She still got her oats on time and an occasional scratch behind the ear, but traveling would be much more enjoyable if there were still a soft bed of hay to plop down on at the end of a long day. She hadn’t seen a welcoming bed of hay in at least five sunsets.

She’d known the man in the cart for most of her life. He could always find the way back home after a day or so, but this time it seemed like he’d really gotten them lost. It occurred to her that perhaps if she just turned around now, she could get them back. She missed her barn nestled between the big pine trees and assumed he missed his as well, so she stopped and turned her head to the man. He looked tired, but that was normal for him. His short chestnut hair was disheveled, but that was normal too. He smiled at her with the same gentle demeanor she was accustomed to, but something seemed off. He was sad. 

“Not much longer, Yerla. I promise,” he said as he gently pulled the reins. She snorted and turned back to the road.

The last light of day pierced through the tree line and danced like fireflies on the ground. Typically, the man would have Yerla pull off the road so he could unhitch her from the cart and build a fire to keep them warm through the night, but it seemed like he’d forgotten this bit. Perhaps being sad meant forgetting things like sleep and warmth. She’d remind him about those if they didn’t stop soon. Luckily, the road was getting nicer. There was even a lovely sign up ahead, though she couldn’t read it.

“You are now entering the town of Marsh Haven. Welcome home,” the man recited with a sigh. “I don’t know if anyone will be happy to see us, Yerla, but we’ve got each other to lean on, right?”

The road in Marsh Haven was nice. It was lined with white picket fences and wasn’t marred with any annoying pebbles. The houses were nice too. Maybe not as homey as Yerla’s barn, but they had columns that held up roofs over large front porches and swings that hung from big oak trees in front yards. The lanterns along the road cast a pleasant amber light that spread out into the darkness where the droning of telling crickets filled the air.

An elderly couple sat on their front porch, rocking in chairs and drinking an amber liquid from sweating glasses. In a loud whisper, the old woman asked her husband, “That the Mesmer boy?”

“Seems that way,” the husband replied. His eyes lazily followed the man in the cart.

“Didn’t think he’d come back for it,” she said, resuming her rocking.

“Seems that way,” the husband said again.

At a crossroads, the man in the cart directed Yerla to the left past another lovely sign. This time, however, the man did not let her know what it said. The new road was perfectly straight. Large oak trees stood exactly two cart lengths from one another and met in a groomed canopy above. Ahead, a large manor loomed over a perfectly manicured and very edible lawn. Yerla considered stopping for a quick snack, but her attention was drawn to a figure emerging from the massive wooden doors ahead. A small individual in a tight white suit strutted down the steps as the man in the cart pulled Yerla to a stop. 

“Master Vaylen, it is…” the suited man stopped short of the cart and squinted his eyes, “good to see you,” he finished with an air of contempt.

“Ah, Mister Lusset” Vaylen replied as he stepped out of the cart and made his way up to Yerla. “My friend here is in need of your attention.” He winked at her before continuing, “I’ll take care of my own things if you see to it that she receives a good meal and a warm bed.”

“Sir, it is the stable hands that should—” Mister Lusset tried to retort before being cut off by a tired wave of Valyn’s hand.

“Mister Lusset, if you don’t mind, we’ve had a very long trip, and my faithful companion here needs the best care that Mesmer Manor has to offer. And that means you’re the right man for the job,” Vaylen insisted as he dropped the reins into Mister Lusset’s hands. While Mister Lusset stood there with unintelligible syllables bubbling from his frog-like mouth, Vaylen grabbed his bags, trudged up the granite steps, and swung open the front door.

As soon as he entered the manor, the smell of wood polish flooded his nostrils. Old memories of children sliding down the banisters and hiding in coat closets danced in his mind. Everything was so familiar. Too familiar, even. He hadn’t been gone long enough to not feel the pull of this place. To feel what it could be. He’d hoped coming back here would feel like visiting some dream.

At first glance, the foyer of Mesmer Manor was inviting. Vases of floral arrangements sat on immaculately clean antique furniture, and the pleasant ticking of the grandfather clock floated up past the massive windows into the crystal pendants of the chandelier far above. But to Vaylen, the room always felt cold. Every beautiful painting and masterfully crafted piece of furniture was ancient, but the room was staged and untouched. From the grain of the mahogany walls to the lines in the marble floor, it was all so perfectly ordered. 

“How long do you plan on standing there?” a posh but drawling voice asked from the nearby doorway.

“As long as it takes to decide if I should stay,” Vaylen replied without turning his gaze.

“It is a difficult decision, I suppose.”

“It truly is.”

Both men waited in silence. They understood the gravity of the situation. If Vaylen stayed, he’d have to face the family. If he left now, he would never come back. Neither situation was ideal, but those were the options.

“You could put your bags down and see how it feels,” the man in the doorway broke the silence.

“Perhaps it’s better to shout out that I’ve arrived and get it done—like diving into a cold lake.” Vaylen turned his head towards the man. “Hello, Aster.” 

From his position leaning against the doorway, Aster looked perfectly in place in the manor. His tailored evening jacket was unmarred by even the faintest beginning of a wrinkle, and his black shoes were more reflective than the gold-lined mirror on the wall. His smile, however, outshined everything.

“I am surprised you came, Vaylen.” Aster’s expression darkened as he looked down towards the glass of red wine in his hand.

“Well, you did invite me.” Vaylen finally set his bags down. The thoughts in the back of his mind told him he should leave. They were probably right. But if he didn’t stay, he’d never be able to show his face here again.

“That does not mean you would show. Do not get me wrong—I am glad. Then again, I guess I should always expect you when the farm is involved.”

Vaylen’s brow furrowed, and the lines above his nose deepened. “You know I’m not here for that.”

“Oh, come now,” Aster replied as he straightened up and took a sip of his wine. “You cannot expect us to be content with you living in self-exile forever. And you might as well take a bit of… all this.” He flippantly gestured around with his free hand. “The farm is humble enough. And if it does not go to you, then who? Winnie?” Concern settled on his face. “Me? The leaves would radicalize in the spring and revolt in the summer. That makes for bitter tea, Vaylen.”

“Some people like it bitter.” Vaylen set down his bags.

“You understood the metaphor.”

“I understood the sentiment.” Vaylen took a brisk stride towards Aster and embraced his adoptive brother with both arms. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you did not spill my wine.” Aster returned the hug with one arm. The other extended the glass away from the embrace.

“Is he here?!” The voice of a young woman called from upstairs.

“She knew you would come,” Aster sighed.

Vaylen stepped back from Aster and unsuccessfully attempted to smooth down the front of his travelling clothes. “I suppose I should go tend to your sister.”

“Our sister,” Aster corrected.

“You know what I meant.”

“I understood the sentiment.” The statement was terse. Aster was never terse. He raised his glass to his lips and downed the last half of his wine. “And now I must go see a man about the state of our wine cellar.” With a slow turn on his heels, Aster sauntered off through the dining room and into the expansive depths of the manor beyond.

Vaylen returned to his bags and lifted them from the floor. The staircase that stood before him was massive. He was certain it was the most imposing wooden structure ever built. And though he had climbed those stairs many times before, he wasn’t sure what was waiting for him at the top.

The last time he ascended the staircase was eight years ago. His clothes were finer, and his bags showed far fewer signs of wear. Thinking back on that moment, he could barely remember what was said. How he felt back then seemed so inconsequential now that the emotion could have belonged to someone else entirely. Yet the remnants of what transpired still lingered in every step. 

The stairs, of course, did not creak, but each step Vaylen took echoed out and danced with the ticking of the old clock before halting with a thud somewhere above. The climb never took as much effort as it did now, but Vaylen eventually made it to the landing of the second floor. Here, the walls were lined with doors to eighteen of the manor’s twenty-two bedrooms, each named after some duchess or earl who spent a night under the manor’s roof.

As he turned to the left, he saw her waiting. She stood there, ethereal. Like a pale ghost in a black dress, she almost seemed to hover above the floor as she rushed towards him. He was barely able to drop his bags before she flew into his arms. 

“I have had the maids draw you a bath, and I checked the temperature myself to ensure you do not cook in your first proper soak in eight years.” She pulled herself back and looked up at him. “I knew you would come,” she exhaled. “You stink, and I knew you would come.”

“I know, Winnie. I’m sorry.”

They both knew what he was apologizing for.

Gwyndolin was fourteen when she watched from her bedroom window as Vaylen stole away in the night. She felt guilty for being mad at him, but somewhere behind her guilt and anger, she knew he needed to leave. She tried her best to hold on to how he looked, but it got harder each time she needed to talk to him and he wasn’t there. Eventually, the only thing she had to remember him by was a dusty portrait stored away in the gallery closet.

She spent her days learning the ins and outs of the family business. Her father wasn’t keen on her involvement at first, but once he realized his eldest son could never handle the responsibility and his adoptive son might never return, he took comfort in allowing his daughter to shadow him. Gwyndolin would always know she was his third choice.

She’d proven herself time and time again to be capable, intelligent, and shrewd. Even a few of her father’s most esteemed partners spoke to her with respect and not the usual dismission many reserve for a child. She’d made more of herself in the past eight years than her peers would ever do in their lifetimes. And yet, seeing Vaylen tore all that away.

After all that time, she thought he’d change somehow, but there he was, the same as he looked in the portrait. She took a slow step back and wiped away the small tear trying to form in her eye.

“I did not think anyone knew where you were, but if Aster sent for you,” she pondered for a moment, “he must have known where you have been this whole time.” Her expression tensed in a flash of anger. “And he never told me?!”

“To be fair, neither did I,” Vaylen said, trying to diffuse the situation. As Gwyndolin’s cheeks reddened further, he could see he’d failed considerably.

“Why did you not? You had eight years to do so.”

Vaylen looked down at the ground. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Would you have ever been?” Gwyndolin’s expression softened. “Tell me honestly.”

“I’m not sure. I like to think so.” He lied. His gaze sank to his feet.

Gwyndolin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Well, you are here now, but you can never leave again without properly saying goodbye. Promise me.”

“I think I can do that.” He looked up and caught the faint smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Then I think I can forgive you.” She pulled a lock of blonde hair from her face, tucked it back into a tightly woven braid, and picked up one of Vaylen’s bags.

Vaylen didn’t believe she could forgive him. He didn’t want her to.

“You sure packed light. Is there even a suit in here?” She moved past doors with plaques that read Count Cicara, Earl Windom, and Marchioness Vistele.

“I don’t own one. Not one for this kind of occasion, at least.”

Gwyndolin stopped at a door with Baronet Hubbard engraved on the plaque. “Ah, yes. The high rank of Baronet,” she stated haughtily. “This is what replaced you.”

Vaylen looked at the plaque. He recognized the name. “Hubbard? I think I should feel hurt that the master of the house needed to scorn me so.” He tried to lace his words with sarcasm, but he was more than a little insulted.

“You really should. You really, really should. Hubbard’s name is on the door, and he has taken the opportunity to avail himself of our hospitality on no less than a dozen occasions since you left.”

“Twelve visits?” Vaylen made no attempt to disguise his shock. “That seems too many even for a man with as little social grace as Hubbard. Does he look to wed you?” Vaylen laughed.

“That is not funny.” The blood again rose to Gwyndolin’s cheeks.

“Oh,” Vaylen responded, slightly stunned. “No. That isn’t funny. Is it true?”
“True or not,” Gwyndolin regained her composure and ushered Vaylen into the room with his bag, “the room is yours for now, and you are in dire need of a bath. I would rather you not smell like your donkey when you come down for a drink. And you will be down for one in an hour’s time.” She shut the door and left him standing there alone in a room that was no longer familiar. 

Everything in there—the oak furniture, the velvet curtains, the landscape paintings—was exactly the same as when he left, but it all felt like a dream that you can only faintly remember when you wake up. He set his bags on the dresser and moved to the window. Lanterns illuminated the massive garden that extended out from the back of the house. In the moonlight beyond the well-lit garden, Vaylen could almost make out the rows upon rows of small, broad-leafed trees. He opened the window, and the sweet, floral fragrance of tea leaves wafted into the room on the warm night air.

The fluttering of paper on the desk nearby caught his attention. Vaylen stepped to the desk and brushed his hand across its maple surface, marred by the pen strokes of long discarded poems with terrible meter and stories with no endings. He found the brass knob of the desk’s single drawer and pulled. The inside was empty. “Of course not,” he sighed, closing the drawer.

A knock at the door drew him from his memories. The soft voice of one of the maids reminding him that his bath was growing cold. He closed the window and drew the curtains back together. As he walked past the things that were once his, he sighed, “I hate funerals,” and opened the door.