Coincidence or not, unsolicited gift from one of the Sisters or not, I find myself at the gates of Karaki, boots muddied from the walk.
I could have rented a horse from one of the many stables in the port town of Narioma, but I wanted to feel the pressure of the wet earth against the soles of my boots. The portion of me that wishes to be good, inherently changed by the love I have for my wife, would have me believe that I wanted the resistance of the mud to steer me away from my path, wear me down until I turned back around.
I did not turn back around.
Karaki is about how I’ve always imagined it. It’s not a well-known town, more of a small village. In fact, it’s sounremarkable that I might not have bothered to remember its name had I not received intel on who resides here.
The gates are hardly functional. They’re splayed open. The rust corroding the joints paired with the ivy snaking up the metal bars gives the impression they haven’t been closed in quite some time. Inside the village, the stone cottages are just as overgrown. Normally, I find the overgrown look appealing, lived in, but here, it seems more unkempt than anything.
It’s the type of place that would be less sad if it were abandoned.
A few villagers hobble through the streets. Most of them possess some version of a limp, and all carry baskets, the contents of which aren’t exactly overflowing.
They cast me wary looks, and though I tuck my hook into my overcoat, it’s the coat itself—well-oiled and tailored—that seems to give them pause.
A few turns down the snaking cobbled streets leads me to the base of a hill, where the number of cottages dwindles and the overgrown brush characteristic of the town warps into carefully tailored hedges guarding both sides of a neatly lined stone staircase hewn into the side of the hill.
At the top of the hill is a home. A manor, really. It’s nothing in comparison to the mansions I’ve dined in during my time abroad, but compared to the rest of the village, it might as well be a palace.
It’s formed of the same gray bricks. The same ivy curls across its facade. But there’s no crumbling in the mortar, no sense of decay in the foundation. The roof is sturdy and unpatched, and even the ivy seems to follow a predetermined path.
I make my way up the steps, sensing the smell of gardenias in the flower beds, and knock upon the massive oak door.
Taking a step back, so as not to overwhelm the servants with my size, I close my eyes and breathe.
By the time a plump servant woman opens the door, I’ve somehow managed to unclench my jaw.
“Why, hello,” I say, making my best attempt at being cordial.
Apparently, my feigned smile is not quite warm enough, because the wrinkles around her tight mouth deepen at the sight of me.
“Hello there,” she says. “Yer late.”
“My apologies,” I say, too cynical by this point in my life to believe I’ve struck any sort of luck. If the master of this house was expecting a visitor, I imagine such visitor will arrive exactly when it is least convenient.
For now, I’m too numb to care.
The rather hostile servant woman ushers me in with a cluck of her tongue, but I don’t begrudge her for her lack of manners. Not when I know firsthand exactly the type of master she submits to.
The manor is well-kept, impressive, if not a tad on the empty side. There’s a door to the left that the maid hurries to close, but not before I observe that the room itself is completely bare, not a piece of furniture in sight.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“Hurry on, then,” says the maid. “The master doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Her tone is full of vitriol, though I get the sense it’s less out of a sense of loyalty to her master and more to do with a knowledge that she will likely suffer his moods due to my tardiness.
The staircase creaks as I follow her, her wrinkled hands clinging to the banister. When we reach the upper floor, she leads me down a hall, decorated with ornate wallpaper but lacking portraits, and to a cherry wood door.
The maid knocks, and the voice beckoning us inside raises the hair on the back of my neck.
The door moans open, and the maid introduces me with a name that flees my mind as soon as it reaches my ears.
I can hardly hear her anyway. Not with the roaring in my ears, the boom of thunder fighting with the roll of a tidal wave.
I hardly notice the woman leave us. Hardly notice the click of the door behind me as she pulls it closed.
The man at the desk doesn’t look up from his neatly stacked papers. My first coherent thought is that he’s smaller than I remember. Frail, almost, which seems like it should be impossible.
The office itself is sweltering. That would be due to the fire going in the hearth. The coals in the bottom of the fireplace glow a deep red, daring someone to touch them.
