Morning at Giltfort Castle

Twenty-five years later. I awoke to peace, quiet, and solitude, as was usual in Giltfort Castle. There was no window in my chamber, and thus no sunlight to greet my face, but the chandeliers in the room were dim enough to tell me that it was still daybreak. Only with some effort was I able to immediately make out the bounds of the stone walls and floor, the sandstone ceiling, and the many tapestries of humans, animals, and plants hung around the place.

I arose, very languidly, opened the faded turquoise curtains of my bed fully, and stood up to stretch. I don’t remember what particularly I was wearing — it might’ve been nothing, as is my frequent custom — but in any case I quickly traded it for one of my dressing-gowns.

Now, I’m confident that, once published, this book will include a portrait of me (and it shall serve well, since I have looked the same since I was about twenty-three or so), but I shall indulge the reader here in any case and describe my appearance, so they may have it in their head as they continue on:

I had straight, coarse, and very dark brown hair, cut just below the shoulders. My skin was pale, and my irises, likewise, were a pale gray, though they weren’t that way by birth.

I was of average height, as I still am, and on the slimmer side — at this point in time, I might even describe myself as having been a bit gaunt. I liked to think I didn’t need any make-up, what, with my face being clear and my cheeks and jawline already pronounced enough, but as I was in front of my vanity I applied a thin foundation — custom-made for my skin tone — a bit of black pencil around the eyes, and my favorite red lipstick. Then, after fixing my hair, I stepped out of my room, ready to greet the day.

My maidservant, in turn, stood in the hall ready to greet me.

“Good morrow, madame,” she said with a curtsy. “Awake early today, I see.” She was a taller, fuller woman, with neat gray hair and what may loosely be called a ‘matronly’ figure.

“Yes,” I returned with a wave and a smile, “good morrow. But I must say, I am a bit surprised to see you awake so early. You must have had your hands full with the laundry last night, no?”

The maidservant laughed softly. “Oh, worry not for me, madame. When you get to be my age, you find yourself ready to sleep and ready to rise at any time. I needn’t sacrifice my valuable time grasping at lost sleep when it would be better spent in your service.”

I stared at her blankly, hanging on two specific words she said. Blinked a couple times.

“Your…age—Ahem! Right. Your age.”

The maidservant’s eyes widened for but a moment as she caught her mistake, before resuming her usual pleasant, dulce demeanor.

She’s a professional, alright, I thought as I shot her a distrustful look.

“C—Come, madame, I mean that as only the highest of praise. Madame and I may be about the same along in years, true, but it is clear which of the two Father Time has favored.”

“The only thing that troubles me,” said I with a soft sneer, “is when and where Father Time might jump out and mug me. Now, then, my bedroom is ready to be serviced.”

The maidservant timidly bowed. “Yes, madame. Thank you, madame.” She slipped through the doors and disappeared for the time being, though that didn’t stop me from shooting another dirty look backwards, in case she was there and really felt like fretting about her job going.

Not that I would have let her go. No, I had sacked many a maidservant in the past for similar reasons, though not quite the same. Often, after only a couple years in my service, they would make some remark about how I ‘never seemed to age!’ After that, though, they’d grow uncomfortable. I could sense it, in every conversation we had, even in every time they entered my space. It would only be a matter of time before they started prodding, I figured, so I’d sack them.

The thing about those maidservants is that they were all young. This one was older, far older, and seemed to be much less bothered about my age — which I consider healthy when you yourself are likely to croak in a matter of a decade or less. When that happened, I planned to get another frail old maid and repeat the cycle.

As I walked the corridors of the castle, the chandeliers overhead matched my pace, flashing on one by one.

Every chandelier and every candle in this castle had been painstakingly tied to a local ley line decades ago by Lord Gilther. As my skin cannot tolerate the sun for long without getting burnt, even whilst under shade, he had magically ‘rigged’ the lighting in here to do many innovative things.

By default it mimicked the brightness of the sun, corresponding not only to the time of day but the time of the year, but the brightness in each room could be changed at will, using what he called a ‘dimmer’. He had also enlisted Wondhelm’s help in setting up ‘motion detectors’ to automatically turn the lights on whenever someone entered a room or stepped within the light’s range, as I was now.

The wax and wicks still had to be changed out, but that was a mere trifle, and my groundskeeper (whom the reader will meet very soon) was more than happy to oblige.

Under the glow of those chandeliers, however, lay an even greater spectacle. Not long after we were married, Lord Gilther had tapped into his vast wealth, inherited from his father, who as I’m sure the reader knows was an early investor in the T.M.C., and hired some of the finest painters in the country to cover every wall inside Giltfort Castle with murals.

The end result was a collage of what felt like everything in the world on a canvas: scenes of nature; scenes of society; scenes of night and day; scenes of Coegeles, of the Barthène, of the Luminaries and the whole cosmos; and here, just outside the master bedroom, a scene of our very marriage. No guest came through the castle gates without their palettes permanently altered. Furthermore, Wondhelm had once again used his elemental magic to seal the murals, protecting them from the weathering that often happens with such pieces.

Giltfort Castle might have lasted forever. Just like me.

That was why I loved that place.

Why I’d loved Lord Gilther.

There were, of course, many other reasons, namely the ways at night he knew how to—No. I think I’ll save that for another book, actually, and I believe I’ve written more than enough for one chapter. Shall we pick this up in the next?