Where There Is Nothing

Chapter 6

Warm rays brushed against Arthur's face, slowly arousing him from his slumber. A sense of rejuvenation washed over him as he stretched his limbs and yawned.

"At last you've awaken," a voice interrupted his repose, its timber melodious, yet with an undercurrent of disquiet.

Startled by the abrupt intrusion, Arthur's eyes darted towards the shadowed corner of the room. There, an elderly woman sat comfortably, her eyes intently fixed upon him. She bore sharp, almost angular features, and her stern countenance was swathed in a black dress, which clung to her ample figure under a lace apron. Her raven hair was severely pulled back into a tight bun, further intensifying the sense of unease that coiled within Arthur's chest under her scrutiny.

"Excuse me, madam," he stammered, struggling to regain his composure. "What are you doing here?"

The women's eyes remained locked onto him with an unsettling intensity. "I am asking myself the very same," she said, her voice laced with a hint of amusement.

Mr. Dolling could feel a twinge of embarrassment, for he could scarcely recall the events of the previous night. "I must have lost my way while exploring the manor," he said, hoping to explain his presence.

"Lost your way, you say?" the woman replied, eyebrows arched. "I find that hard to believe, as I hold the only key to this manor."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "I must apologize, then. I seem to have caused you some trouble," he said, feeling like a schoolboy caught in a lie.

The woman smiled, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth. "No trouble at all, sir. But since you're here, perhaps you'd care to join me for breakfast?"

Taken aback by her sudden invitation, he accepted with a mixture of reluctance and curiosity. "That would be most gracious of you, madam, but first, I must know your name."

"My name holds no significance," she declared, gripping her walking stick firmly, its gnarled wood giving way to her dependence. "But for the sake of formality, you may call me Annabelle. This is the home of the young Eliza Svensdotter," she added, standing upright with an effort until her frail legs wavered.

He looked straight at her as she revealed he hadn't made an error in direction and was indeed all along in the right place. "Where is the young Miss Eliza? I've come here on account of her letter" he broke in and said, as he simultaneously climbed out of bed, "I arrived late last night and saw no one."

She nodded her head, as she had once again composed herself. "What I wonder, is how you managed to get in?" she said, reaching into her apron to take out a silver key looped on a long string.

As the previous night had become a haze and a puzzle he wasn't able to piece together, Mr. Dolling was unable to answer however hard he tried to remember.

She smiled. "This place has always been a curiosity to me," she said, dropping the key into her pocket.

Mr. Dolling followed her out.

She was at the stairs about to descent, and grasping both the cane and railing when Mr. Dolling caught up to her, "Allow me to help you down."

"I made it up," she said, placing her cane in elbow, "I can certainly make it down."

"Of course."

"I hope that you don't find me inhospitable," I simply wasn't aware that the miss would have a guest over, as she rarely invites anyone to the manor,"

"Why is that?"

Having made it down the flight of stairs successfully, she put her cane out in front and leaned against it. "You must excuse me, I haven't got time."

"Then let me pay in whatever you may need done."

She reached out to him, and said lowly and out of breath, "To understand you must first know the history of this place."

"Can you tell me?"

"Not here," she said, loosening her grip.

She guided them, as they walked together, and Mr. Dolling began to remember some of what had happened the prior night. And still, the foyer and the hallway had changed, everything that he had seen truly seemed like a dream, as if what happens in the night can't continue living in the day.

"You must excuse the state of the house," she said, leading Arthur into a room where table set for eight was adorned with a rug bearing intricate, swirling patterns. At its center, a kettle emitted wisps of aromatic steam, with an array of crushed coffee grounds, displayed on a beautiful floral platter, offering a tantalizing offer.

The room itself was still empty and unkept, but different now that the open windows brought in the sunlight, and directly across the entrance was the destination. A table of eight was laid over a rug of free moving swirl patterns that grounded the outside room, and a kettle of brewed water was laid out with a mix of aromatic crushed coffee grounds, in a beautiful floral platter.

As they took a seat opposite of each other, Annabelle began to serve coffee.

"I was born an orphan and in a miserable state of affairs, and on my twelfth year, I was brought on to the services of the Svensdotters." Annabelle began, her voice tinged with a sense of nostalgia.

Intrigued, Arthur leaned forward, his gaze locked onto her, hungering for the truth. "Who were the Svensdotters, exactly?"

A furrow creased her brow as she contemplated the question. "The patron was a man of mystery, shrouded in secrecy. His lineage and wealth were subject of much speculation, but it was widely believed that he hailed from noble blood—a scion of a duke or an earl, perhaps."

Arthur couldn't help but wonder, "What could he possibly have been doing here?"

Annabelle took a deliberate sip of her drink, her gaze drifting to the window, as if peering into the memories of those bygone days. "He came to construct the Marriott," she replied, her voice filled with a sense of reverence. "It was a venture unparalleled in Rosenberg's history, in some hundred years or so. It was said that his extensive travels to far-flung lands had captivated his spirit, so enchanted by what he experienced on his voyages, that he yearned to recreate that exotic allure in this very place."

Arthur couldn't help but imagine the astronomical cost involved in such an extravagant endeavor. "It must have been a remarkable undertaking."

"Indeed," she confirmed, her voice laced with a touch of awe. "The patron spared no expense, pouring his inheritance into this venture not once, but twice over. The manor stood as a testament to his extravagant tastes and relentless pursuit of beauty."

Curiosity burning within him, Arthur pressed further. "What was the townsfolk's reaction to this grand endeavor?"

She took a languid sip of her now cold drink. "The people were both captivated and bewildered. Some who were employed hailed it as a marvel, a beacon of prosperity. Others were envious, resenting the patron's opulence amidst their own struggles. Whispers of envy and admiration mingled in the taverns and marketplaces, I learned some time after, giving birth to countless rumors."

"And what became of the Svendotters?"

A silence hung in the air before she finally spoke, her voiced laden with a hint of sadness. "Miss Eliza, is the last living Svensdotter."

Mr. Dolling leaned back into the leather chair, as he absorbed the weight of her revelation. Suddenly, an unusual chill was felt and filled the room, as they both noticed the gray clouds gathering outside, casting an eerie pall over the landscape.

"Well, enough of the melancholy," she declared, breaking the solemn mood. "Shall you be staying another night?"

Arthur hesitated for a moment, the allure of unraveling the manors secrets tugging at his curiosity. "No need. I have accommodations at the inn in town."

She stood from the table without another word and walked slowly with a limp back in. He waited until she was out of sight and left alone at the table with his thoughts before he too left.