Left on Read

Abigail and I talk for a half-hour about all sorts of innocent topics, creating a sharp contrast with how we started off the night chatting about the specifics of raising the dead. I learn a lot of intriguing facts about Abigail during this delightful exchange.

After a bit of pushing, Abigail reveals the exact number of her pets as thirty. All of them are unique species, with no duplicates. Before I even had the chance to wonder, she openly admits that they are all dead. Abigail also acknowledges that she did have them all when they were alive. None of them were given to her as skeletons, which I had assumed. All of them are her favorite. I asked what kind of animals they all were, but she wants to talk about other topics and avoid rambling again.

Her favorite color is blood red, like the one on her family’s coat of arms. She tries to assure me that this isn’t out of stuffy pride in her nobility. She’s just drawn to morose and morbid things. I resist the temptation to tease her again in an attempt to make her giggle, fearing I might push my luck or lose control of myself. That would only make me fall into a habit of seeing what I can get away with.

Her hobbies include reading, poetry, calligraphy, and painting. I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume the Necromancer doesn’t share Meri or my own taste when it comes to literature. Gods, I’m bad at this. Despite telling myself that I wouldn’t tease only minutes prior, I teasingly ask if she’s ever painted a self-portrait. My surprise is great when Woe returns the following message wearing a black, frilly satchel tied to his spine. A medium-sized canvas pokes out of the top, begging me to take it.

The note attached says, ‘Don’t judge too hard, please. I painted this years ago, and my art has improved a lot since then...’ Upon inspection, the canvas indeed reveals a lot about its painter in an unconventional way. Unfortunately, her appearance is not one of them.

The self-portrait displays the skeleton of a girl, as evident by the shape of her hips and her shoulders. The frame is a little smaller than an average girl, which, if accurate, makes me think she has somewhat meek proportions. Abigail’s skeleton floats in a purplish yet greenish abyss where disgusting winds blow about this way and that like a putrid tempest.

Dark tendrils peeking out from the bottom of the canvas spiral toward her legs and engulf them up to her knee, blanketing them in inky black. Similar tendrils coming from both sides of the edge threaten to do the same to her arms, black bile dripping down off them and halfway coating the bones of her forearm, dying them a stained gray. Crimson red blood trickles down out of her empty, black eye sockets, covering her cheeks and collarbones in painful grief.

I’m far from an art critic, and there’s obviously a lot of symbolism and abstraction going on here. Regardless, from what I can tell Abigail seems to be very talented. My eyes notice the sheer amount of paint she used to paint the dark tendrils. This gives them a textured look, almost as if they’re being raised off of the canvas. Or perhaps she tried painting these areas so many times that the failed layers rest beneath.

Left almost stunned by the image, I default to humor and write back Abigail that she looks beautiful and any man would be lucky to have her. Luckily, she finds this amusing, and we dive back into more facts about her after she refuses to show me any of her poetry.

If she doesn’t get her tea in the morning, she’s prone to getting grumpy, but her insomnia also doesn’t help with that. As for her favorite kind, Abigail adores tea made from Deathwillow leaves. She warns me not to try it and judging by the name alone, I’m inclined to follow her advice.

Aside from Necromancy, the young lady doesn’t practice many forms of magic, and she does not partake in alchemy. She’s far from a jack of all trades type like Zutiria, which isn’t unheard of. Lots of mages specify in only one kind of magic. That’s just one of many reasons why Guilds designate classes, after all.

Abigail tells me she has trouble keeping herself on top of things. Unlike other noblewomen, she admits to putting less effort than she should toward her appearance but is too embarrassed to reveal any specifics. I imagine this means she has the typical ‘Mage’ look about her. Messy hair, ruffled clothes, and so on. I could be totally wrong, of course, but that’s just the impression I get especially since she’s an artist on top of being a Mage.

Eventually, the topic shifts to the other people who live with her here in Castle Mourneheart. In general, Abigail likes many of her father’s staff. Solomon Drisford, in particular, is essentially her uncle. He’s been helping take care of her since she was born. The Duke’s Marshal, Victor Kahnt, is apparently very kind to her as well. I haven’t heard anything about this Victor fellow yet, but if he’s got Abigail vouching for him, he must be a decent man. Abigail mentions that Victor’s sister used to be her closest friend but that she’s been missing for a very long time.

Abigail makes me promise to never speak a word of this but tells me that many of Arrark’s nobility resent the Marshal for being a commoner. She allows me to puzzle out her meaning behind this on my own, which isn’t hard. Nothing is guaranteed, though. If more of the nobles are as petty and vindictive as a particular Chamberlain is, I could imagine them being low enough to strike at a man’s weak point.

Speaking of Chamberlains, she goes on to tell me she shares a friendship with many of her maids. Abigail is grateful to the many people who take care of her despite how much of a burden she claims to be. Once housekeeping is brought up, I inevitably feel the need to ask what she thinks of Bertrand.

My new friend’s answer has me practically grinning from ear to ear.

‘I HATE Bertrand,’ She says, the word ‘hate’ emboldened, underlined, capitalized, circled with red ink, and written several times larger than all the other words. Abigail isn’t messing around when it comes to airing out her thoughts here. ‘He’s always trying to convince Father to give him my hand, and even as desperate as the court is to see me married, Father would never dream of taking Bertrand as his son-in-law... forgive me, just the thought of it disgusts me...’

‘Thank the Gods, I was worried you were fond of him. If it makes you feel better, Bertrand is beside himself with jealousy and depression upon learning you started speaking to me. On the other hand, Duke Gloomcrest certainly sounds like an incredible man. I hope to win his favor tomorrow and secure funding for my Guild.’

‘Oh, my. The thought of that... that spineless cur feeling miserable brings me a shameful amount of joy. Sully would tell me it’s unbecoming of a Lady, but I can’t help it. Goddess below, imagine how he’d feel if you actually came into my room. Oh. I didn’t mean to imply that I want you to... you know... great, now I’ve made a fool of myself... and I was enjoying our conversation, too. Anyways, as far as Father is concerned, I wouldn’t be too worried about winning him over. You’ll see tomorrow.’ Once again, the nervous Necromancer’s handwriting deteriorates the more worried her words become.

I know this goes against my earlier thoughts, but every time she talks like this, I can’t help but feel that the girl writing these words is outright adorable. It keeps getting harder to resist the urge to be playful and even flirtatious with her, despite my better judgment and not even knowing what she looks like beyond a pretty good understanding of her skeleton.

Suddenly deciding I need some guidance, I look to Misery. The cat notices my glare and returns it, her dark, hollowed-out eye sockets lit by a bright green flame. I ask the cat, “Just a little joke wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

Misery meows.

‘It really is a shame you don’t feel like making Bertrand more jealous because I can think of all sorts of different ways. You could come back to me with my Guild, for one. I’d do just about anything to have an adventurer with your powers, Abigail, and Bertrand couldn’t bother you if you left. Perhaps we could even shake hands once I certified you for a Hero License? Picture the look of horror on his face knowing that someone else held your hand.’ I start to panic once I reread the message, thinking that it’s way too direct. At the end of it, I tack on, ‘I’m mostly joking...’ before defeating the point of my addendum entirely by adding, ‘but it’s an open offer.’

Woe takes away my message and doesn’t return for a full five minutes. I feel awful, but at the same time, like I could get addicted to this strange rush of sending off messages and not knowing what the response is. The panic of worrying over whether I went too far or not mixes with the excitement of finding out if I didn’t, making the wait a confusing jumble of conflicted emotions.

When I read Abigail’s response, I look it over without knowing what to expect. ‘I can’t.’ Is all it says.

I look at the skeletal cat sitting by my side and narrow my eyes. “You’re a fucking liar,” I tell her.

Misery meows again.

Picking myself up off the ground, so to speak, I reply with a cautious, ‘I’m really sorry, Abigail. No offense was meant at all. I was only trying to be playful.’

Thankfully after the initial shock, she returns to writing at her usual speed. ‘I know, but I can’t. I don’t ever leave my room.’

Her words are starting to hit very close to home, and I’m not sure what to say back to Abigail. A lot of things suddenly start making more sense. ‘Your father, too?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’ She answers, confirming my suspicions. I did think it was weird for Duke Gloomcrest to not meet his guests in person, especially when Opalina claims to be close with him.

‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

‘So that no one can ever hurt us again.’ She exclaims, her words taking on an even darker connotation. Even through text, I can sense an upsetting distance growing between myself and the nervous girl sitting beyond the other side of the big red door.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to take such a serious turn.’ I tell her, a sinking feeling growing heavy in my gut.

‘Not your fault. Besides, even if I wanted to be an adventurer, I cant. My necromancy isn’t even that strong, and... I have to admit. Not many people know this about me, but I’m disabled. I don’t have legs.’

Oh, shit.

I didn’t see that coming, but it certainly clears up any lingering questions about Abigail’s self-portrait. Still, there was something about the way she worded her response that strikes a chord in me. Despite her admission of self-imposed hermitage and missing limbs, I ask her, ‘Do you want to be an adventurer, Abigail?’

While I don’t want to sound like I’m writing off or disregarding her disability, it has to be stressed that I find her situation odd. For a rich, noble girl like herself, there’s not much holding her back from getting magical help or even imported prosthetics from any of the advanced realms like Hal Moldirh or High Verne. I’m half surprised Opalina hasn’t grown the girl a pair of new legs in a vat somewhere.

Abigail writes back with surprising speed, saying, ‘What I want is to be done talking for the night. I really didn’t mean to ruin the mood like this. I’m sorry. It was nice chatting until now. If you aren’t still mad at me by tomorrow, we can continue. Goodnight...’

As soon as I read the young Lady Gloomcrest’s final response, Woe and Misery both retreat back to the doggy door before disappear beyond it. As I watch the two reanimated skeletons recede into the dark unknown of the Necromancer’s bedroom prison, I suddenly realize that I really need to stop trusting cats.

PunishedKom

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