In Her Element

She gave him a sweet smile that was contrasted by the malicious look in her eyes as she slipped off her cloak and shook it free of dust. She looked as she always did; the woman that everyone disliked—dislike being a generous term—with her austere features and her hair pulled back in a tight, neat bun at her neck that rivaled any self-respecting school mistress’s. Her eyes, so unnaturally black, were cool and calculating and could frighten anyone and anything from an adult in prime years, to a man in his old age, to a lion in the heart of a forest.

“And should I not call you by the name that I gave you? No? Well, definitely not Master.” She gave him a look of mockery and scorn, that made him feel silly for having the boys call him that. “You are not my master, nor will you ever be. If anything,” she said as she pretended to examine her fingernails—obviously pretended, for they were covered in black, lace gloves, “I am yours.” She let out a harsh laugh, knowing he flinched without even looking.

His mother advanced on him, menace emanating in the very manner that she did so, and he retreated until his back hit his writing desk.

“You, my son, are a coward,” she hissed. “A sniveling, filthy coward; you are your father’s son. You are as undeserving as he was to carry the family name of the great Lord Brent. You are unworthy of even speaking the Brent name. You,” she took her long, bony finger and stabbed him in the chest, “are failing, Howard, in your last chance to redeem yourself.”

The Master blanched at this notion of failure and began to tremble, his eyes wide with blatant terror. “But Mother, I have the girl,” he pleaded. He grabbed hold of her arms and she shook him off, giving him a disgusted look. He gasped in dismay and continued, “She is in this castle. I just need to—“

“Then why is it not done yet? Why are we still weak like others? Why. Am. I?” She spat out those three words, her face turning puce in her anger. “Why do I not have all the Powers of the Old?”

She turned away from him and moved to stand in front of the fire as he had done before. Facing it, she clasped her hands behind her back and stared into the depths of the bright light, almost wistfully.

“I married your father because I knew deep down that the time had come to return the world to the way it was in the Old Times, with the Brent family line leading, and the only way that would happen is if we would merge the family in a way that would allow one of our line to have Spirit. But,” she turned to look at her son, her expression dangerously calm, “your blood is not pure because of it.”

She started to press forward again. “Perhaps that is why you are disappointing me so. Two days, Howard. Two days and then you join that idiot non-Brent father of yours in his grave. Two days to restore that Power to its legacy—to me.” She was staring at her hands, as though, if she looked long enough, they would change before her eyes. She raised them, and the Master cringed, but she just stroked his hair like she never did to him as a child; it felt worse than the slap he thought he was getting.

She turned back away to pick up her cloak and pulled it over her old, wizened body. Walking to the side of the fireplace, she pushed on the false wall of bricks, which slid forward to reveal a hole of darkness. Over her shoulder she said, “Do not worry; I shall stay hidden until then, like you asked”, and was swallowed into the dark abyss.

The Master stared after her, or rather, where she had been, for a long time before shaking himself back to the office. He moved around his desk in a sluggish manner and collapsed into his chair. The stiff, wooden back did nothing to help him relax and he gave up trying with a deep sigh. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, and was certain there were lines there that had not been present before this little meeting with his dear mother. He probably had some newly acquired gray hairs as well.

His mother was cruel and manipulative, and she got everything she wanted, one way or another. He knew she had married his father just to bear a child with Spirit, but only now was he realizing the extent of her thirst for power.

Now, she wanted him to use the girl to restore everything as it was in the Old Times, with Lord Brent’s family line in control. This specific girl, for she was supposed to be the key-holder—the only one of this generation who possessed the control over the four Elements in addition to a strong sensitivity to Spirit, that alone giving her the power to bring back the old way, just like his mother wanted. And what his mother wanted, his mother got.

So what he had to do was get the girl to trigger the energy in the crystal so it could be released to its “rightful” owners. This crystal had conveniently been in his mother’s family for years, though his mother had never told him how. Nor had she told him how the crystal had come to hold all the missing energy.

All he knew was what he had to do; the girl, the oddly shaped purple stone, both mysteriously powerful, both to be the catalysts for the coming change; a transition into a new era. Whether it would be good or bad, the Master shuddered in realization, was entirely up to his dear mother.

Damien set down the tray that held Miss Almyra’s first meal of the day. This morning, the Goddess’ daughter was even more preoccupied than usual, sitting by the vanity table and silently staring into the mirror. Every so often she would blush and then slide her hand across her cheek in a sort of wonderment, as though she had never seen that happen before. Damien found himself following the hand with his eyes and wishing his own cheeks were as smooth and unblemished as hers.

He moved slightly, unconsciously, and his hand brushed the tray, pushing it so the mug of tea wobbled and made a faint noise. The soft clattering sound brought Miss Almyra out of her trance and she gave him the same gentle smile that she always did, although this time there was a hint of, guilt, maybe? Whatever it was, Damien could not put his finger on it, but its cause had been good, for he could sense the pleasant, though conflicting mood of her thoughts. He respected her, and so her privacy, and so he did not try to read her thoughts.

She turned the chair around to face him fully and reached for the plate on the tray. It held two slices of bread with butter already on them; they would not take the chance of her getting her hands on a knife—a potential weapon. This was her usual breakfast, along with the tea, but this morning, Damien had managed to get a hold on some cherry preserves, which Miss Almyra had mentioned she had a particular love for. It was worth the hassle with the angry cook to see the small pleasure that lit Almyra’s face when she finally noticed. With no knife, there was only one possible way for her to smear the jam; with a sly grin at Damien, Miss Almyra stuck a finger into the porcelain cup that held the jam and then spread it over the bread slices. Lifting one to her mouth, she took a bite and sighed, content in that moment to just let go and relax.