The Strange Tale of the Winds and the Frown

So, this is a story in the gothic style that I wrote for English as an alternative for the "Jane Eyre essay. It hasn't really been edited and it's rather long, but I still like it. Enjoy!
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The Strange Tale of the Winds and the Frown
by H.M. Thurston

Most people said that she would have been pretty—nay, that her beauty would have exceeded human and approached the realms of the divine—had only she not been so cross. It must have been an unfortunate circumstance that so set the small Anabelle Townsend’s mouth in a perpetual downward slant. That marred her flawless olive skin with angry wrinkles and knotted her thick chestnut locks into irate whorls. But the problem stood: that not a single member of the Townsend household, nearby village or even the surrounding countryside could say for certain what single ill had so transformed their mistress.

Until the age of six Miss Anabelle was as a ray of sunshine in the frequently dreary moors. Every morning she would traipse about the fields in the pretty frocks her beloved Lizzie laid out to wear. The sun would glow off her hair as she stopped to gnash her perfect pearly teeth in greeting at farmers by the wayside. In return the coarsened men would sigh and bow their heads,

“What a beauty is th’ Miss Townsend this morning,” they would murmur, “And ev’ry day more pretty.” Never was there a man unmoved by that clear and innocent eye or those sweet cherry lips that teased about her shining teeth. Be not mistaken: these men had no vulgar intentions. Rather, they were overwhelmed by a desire to protect and aspire to that beauty that seemed at once fragile and robust.

But then, for three full days, no matter how many times the men looked up expectantly from their fields, the small angel did not appear. It was not a holiday, nor had the girl’s uncle (with whom she lived, as both her parents were dead) gone out to town. Because of this state of affairs, the men resolved to send a representative up to Hayfield Place that evening to determine that if aught was amiss, perhaps there was some way they could assist the little girl.

Though there was much bickering over who would receive this favored duty, they eventually reached a mutual agreement that the younger man, a Jonathan Hunt, by favor of being a distant cousin of the Townsends, should have a preference by blood.

Much aware of this honor and much in fear for his small cousin, Jonathan knocked with trepidation upon the door at Hayfield Place later that day. As he waited for a response, he remarked how much darker the house and grounds seemed this evening, as if also pining the absence of their mistress. The balding trees appeared to crook over the house with a malevolent intent, and the upper-story windows did not glow with a warm and welcoming light, but with something more of a sinister glint. A chill wind replaced the autumn breeze and Jonathan gave a slight tremble despite himself. Some graveyard bird cried out and in the encroaching darkness he felt certain that it called his name. Becoming increasingly frantic, it was something of an anticlimax when the oaken door was opened by a straightforward-looking maid.

“Are ye th’ doctor then?” she said cautiously with a broad Moorish accent.

“No, I am merely Hunt from down near ----caster,” said he in explanation, gathering his wits again, “But we have been worried that the little miss did not pass by today. Has she taken ill then if you have called for a doctor?”

“It’s none yer business as far I know’t. The miss needs her rest as all children do.” And she made to shut the door, as if afraid that something wicked would soon slip by the threshold otherwise.

“Please,” he said entreatingly, “You do not know what the Miss Townsend means to us, who toil daily at our fields. A man cannot help but feel refreshed when he sets eye on such a beacon of childlike beauty and purity. It seems, indeed, that when she passes by for that instant, every day, we cannot help but feel with the noblest part of our souls, and strain for something greater than the baseness human life implies. Is it so strange that we should feel an urge to protect, as a subject seeks to safeguard his beloved princess? We must know, and what ever has gone amiss, you will find us your ready allies.”

So taken was this maid by the young man’s urgent entreaties, and so moved by his sincere appeals, that almost before she could think clearly of it, she had admitted him to the entrance hall. For truth, every occupant of Hayfield Place could agree with the young man’s words. They all felt a singular devotion to that peak of beauty and innocence that was reached in the Miss Anabelle Townsend.

Mr. Hunt was led to the parlor and left to wait by the bewildered maid. Soon enough, he was joined by a tall and imposing man whose kindly eyes, despite this, belied his caring nature. This was Mr. Richard Townsend, elder brother to little Anabelle’s late father. He was an old bachelor—well into his middle age, but his naturally generous heart could not deny asylum for his younger brother’s daughter. He certainly did not expect, however, the way that the girl would return vigor to his life and soften the gruff words that are token to such old bachelors. She became as dear to him as if he had begotten her. Soon, like every man or woman who met her, Townsend had become fiercely protective. Mr. Townsend’s affection was well known, so it was a testament to the gravity of the situation when Jonathan caught sight of the man’s somber, almost wilted demeanor; his long body bent like the stalk of some beleaguered plant.

At his entrance Jonathan rose and doffed his cap anxiously, waiting for the man to speak.

Mr. Townsend sighed wearily and waved his hand as a sign for the young man to reseat himself. “Sit,” he said, “I have been told of whence you come, and I am afraid that there is little I can say to put your heart at ease.”

“Anything will do,” Jonathan said, forcing himself to sit, “Simply tell me, that I may recount it to the others: just what has struck the Miss Anabelle? If there is aught that we may do, you will find us merely waiting for the request.”

“Alas, we do not understand the whole of it, and on the surface of things it appears we are fretting over mere trifles. But I shall tell you the whole, for you strike me as an honest man. I have merely one request: that you listen to what I say in its entirety, else you think my worries groundless and foolish.”

Jonathan nodded, “You have my ready ear. Your countenance strikes me as too grave to be lightly ignored.”

“Indeed,” said Townsend, “Listen then, it shall not take long to tell:

“Three days ago, Miss Anabelle was as radiant as she could possibly be, as well you know,” he began, “and she took to her bed at the proper hour with a charming acquiescence. Somewhere in the night, though, a peculiar wind began to whirl about the house. At first I noticed from the extraordinary number of leaves being blown about past the window and the slight whine of the air through the eaves. As the wind began to increase in intensity, however, the whine rose to a piercing, whistling screech, as if of the moans of a thousand damned souls crying out from the depths of Hell. The panes of the windows too began to shudder dangerously. Worried for the safety of this house’s occupants, I told Frederick, the manservant, to warn the rest of the household away from out-facing rooms in case a window should break. I urgently sent Lizzie to rouse Anabelle as well, as her room contains a window, and because I feared the wind should frighten her.

“Lizzie soon ran back to me, shouting above the wailing tempest that the miss’s door was locked, and that she did not respond to her calls. Disturbed, I accompanied her up the stairs, to break down the door if necessary. Before I had taken three steps however, the most wrenching cry of all struck the night—it’s origin belonging to none other than the bedroom of Miss Anabelle. Numb with terror for her, I covered the remaining distance in seconds, and banged with my full force upon her door. I called her name repeatedly, but there was no response. I thought that I could hear something from within the room, but the storm masked noise utterly. I resolved then that break the door I must, calling one last time that I would do so if she did not reply. To my surprise and momentary relief, she did respond. ‘Go away!’ she shrieked in a hurt and angry voice that I had never heard pass her lips before; and the bitterness nearly broke my heart more than the silence had.

“As soon as the words left her mouth, the winds and shrieks instantly abated, followed by a rustle and a strange woosh from the room. A second later there was a small click in the lock and I opened the door with ease. There sat Miss Anabelle bolt upright in bed, the bedclothes thrown hither and thither, her only illumination the once again freely shining moon. The window had been thrown open. But something was horribly…horribly wrong.”

Here Mr. Richard Townsend took a shivering breath inwards, “Anabelle had the most fearsome countenance that I have ever seen. There was not a trace of beauty in the jagged slant her mouth made across her face. But her eyes, oh her eyes were worst of all! The brows had knitted together in a pained incomprehensible anger and beneath were two hollow pits. There was not a trace of innocence in their cold depths. What child has ever shown such eyes as those?”

Townsend shuddered and lapsed into silence. After a moment he resumed his story: “We were all momentarily struck by the sight,” he said, “and I will admit that it was Lizzie that regained her head sooner than I. She bustled over and laid the child back to bed, but even as Anabelle slipped again into shaky sleep, the frown never left her face. With the winds subsided, and her asleep, there was nothing to do but shut the window and retire to our respective chambers once more.

“The next day the Miss Anabelle refused either to rise or to speak a word to any person in the house. After a thorough tantrum, she finally rose, but remained determined to stay and sulk within the house. We thought it merely a mood, however disturbing, and so let it go, hoping that the next day she would return to her normal spirits and happy appearance. But that night, for the second time, the winds began to rise. The building shook violently and the wind screamed even more so, and once again Miss Anabelle cried out, and once again we tried to approach her chamber, but to no avail. Then the winds abated and the door clicked open and we laid her again to rest.

“The next day the entire process was repeated. Her mouth remained in a permanent scowl and her eyes frighteningly cold. And so it has been for the past three days and nights: the winds, the shrieks, the locked door. All of us are on edge and none have slept a wink. Stay for the night if you wish to see it for yourself; there is no reason that it should be any different. As you must have found out, we sent for a doctor out of desperation, thinking that perhaps Miss Anabelle was taken ill, although she seems fully fit, just cross. But I cannot help thinking that there is something more sinister afoot.” Here Townsend leaned back, drained, into his seat, “Call it foolishness, but I am worried." Then Townsend gave an odd laugh, as if in wonder at the words he had just uttered. "Well," he continued, "you are welcome to try your hand at solving the problem, for I will give anything to see the girl happy again.”

At the conclusion of the tale, Jonathan sat pondering a long moment. Slowly, he raised his eyes and spoke: “Your story both intrigues me and fills me with fear, for although I live some distance from Hayfield, I distinctly remember those past nights being calm and clear. It will be the least that I can do to see for myself what you describe.”

Mr. Townsend readily accepted and so they waited for the hour when the winds would begin to quicken. At nine o’clock exactly, the leaves picked up and the eerie whistling began. The night passed exactly as he described, but when it came time to enter Miss Anabelle’s room, Jonathan was struck dumb. Where was the angel that had so inspired the souls of hungry men? Where the muse? The sparkling eyes and the smiling lips? In her place was a cold and grimacing child. He could tell a trace of her beauty lurking somewhere, but there was nothing of the divine.

Haunted, Jonathan departed early the next morning, somehow more dismayed and disillusioned by this single incident than any multitude of sordid worldly affairs.

Knowledgeable of his duty, Hunt reported to his fellow workers later that day, but he did not stay to hear either their proclamations of disbelief or their rallying cries—he had already long departed.

As the years passed many things happened, but most stayed the same. The girl grew up, but her mouth stayed in its invariable frown. The farmers tried their best at cheering her, but soon gave it up at her persistent irritability. A doctor was sent for but could find nothing, physically, wrong with her. Neither was she determined mad, merely cross. Soon, Mr. Townsend moved their establishment to a more isolated region of the country, where the nightly wind would not disturb the nearby people. Over time, most forgot how pretty she had been, although many still clung to the ideal of what a beauty she would be if ever she should smile. Eventually, life slid back into its everyday motions, and only on those dreariest of days would they look back with longing upon that prick of the divine. And Jonathan Hunt never returned to that town again.

* * * * *

At the passage of twelve years a funny sort of rumor began to spread its way around the country. The details grew convoluted, but the basic gist remained the same: that there was a beautiful and wealthy girl just waiting to be married, if only there was a man able to overcome some bizarre circumstances. These obstacles varied from telling to telling, some saying they were merely lies to dissuade suitors, while others insisted that like a fairy tale, the girl was guarded by some fearsome creature. These were all ridiculous of course, but in many ways the truth was worse: enduring nightly winds was a task enough, but it was the second, that of getting her out of her moody quagmire, that was frankly impossible. Never once, in those long twelve years, had her lips ever quivered from their rigid fixture or her eyes shown any trace of warmth. Most daring men gave up at one sight of the young woman. A beauty? Pfah! Once rosy skin was pallid with outrage and those full lips were thinly pursed with pain. Some of the more persistent tried their broad grins and clever jokes, but Anabelle was unimpressed.

Or, the young men whispered in their inner circles, she was not hardhearted at all, but cursed. They found the idea exhilarating, but none would dare to face the girl again.

Because of this once again growing fascination with his charge, Mr. Richard Townsend was not surprised to encounter a strange man at his door one foggy evening. He merely found it ironic in an exhausted sort of way that now people should mutter about Miss Anabelle for her ugly looks as much as they once had about her beauty. What a fierce longing he felt at the memory of those happy days, when he even cared to remember them, that is, as long as it had been.

“How may I be of assistance?” he said in the measured voice he reserved for such men. In truth, he was not so sure that this man was among the young deluded masses. He must have been somewhere in his thirties and did not appear to have led a soft life. Two long rough scars ran the length of his left cheek, the smirk lingering about his mouth warping their shapes in an almost menacing way. The face was not wholly devoid of kindness, but it showed a harsh acquaintance with life. Mr. Townsend wondered for a moment if perhaps this man had some more ominous intention than cheering his ward. However, the thought was soon dismissed by the man’s next words.

“Do you have, sir, a young woman in your household by the name of Miss Anabelle Townsend?” His voice was wholly composed, without a trace of uncertainty. How unlike the young men that grinned smugly like schoolboys on a dare! Surely he must not seek to cure the girl if he contains such confidence, thought Townsend.

“I do,” he answered, “and what is your business with her?”

“I will tell you readily, if I may ask you a few questions first.” Townsend wondered if perhaps this man was some sort of authority to take the girl away; and he did not feel so unhappy at the thought. He gave a gesture indicating that the man continue. “Then, may I ask if this is the same Anabelle that has not once emerged from a fearful state of irritability in near thirteen years?”

“It is.”

The man nodded, “And is this the girl whose abode, without fail, is nightly surrounded by a wailing, spinning wind? And whose room remains locked until the winds let off their course?”

“It is. Now would you be so kind as to inform me of your intentions?”

The man held his head firmly and said, in a voice sounding as if it had been long preparing to utter the following words: “I have come to remove the Miss Anabelle from her plight.”

The old man sighed and his fully gray hair was tousled by a breeze passing through the door. “You may have a chance like any other,” he said, looking more disappointed than overjoyed, “But I warn you that there is no hope. The years have been long.”

The stranger appeared unconcerned at this warning, and merely waited to be let inside, which he was in good time. He noted that neither the interior nor exterior of this structure was particularly inviting. Chosen for its ability to withstand the brutal winds, the building was a heavy stone thing, the windows reduced to the smallest slits that would allow a trace of light and ventilation.

“The hour when the winds begin is not so far away,” said Mr. Townsend in what sounded like a memorized speech, “Would you prefer to speak to the girl before they begin or wait until the tempest has abated?”

“Now is best,” said the man, “But first, I am curious to know, has the girl been educated?”

“We have tried,” said the uncle, “Alas, no teacher was able to persist for long, and we could not blame them. In the end, the girl has done the most of her own education. She seems to find all human company and conversation repulsive, and because of this perhaps, she reads extensively. I believe she may have taught herself a bit of French and German as well, for I noted that her tomes are sometimes in these languages. That is the extent that I know of her education. Is that a problem?” Townsend sounded as if he thoroughly expected that it should be.

The man thought for a moment, “Not at all. And have you never attempted to send someone to watch over her in the night?”

“We have,” Townsend replied, “But no matter what, there was always a moment when we felt some urgent need to leave the room, and then the door would shut and not open until the storm had passed. We have given up on divining what happens during those midnight moments of isolation.”

A longer silence descended as the two men strode up the stone steps that led to the upper story. At the landing Townsend turned and enquired whether the man wished a moment to ready himself.

“I am ready,” was the only reply: and the man was shown in to the woman’s chambers.

What a wretched thing she has become, thought the man. The slight woman was hunched on a stiff wooden chair before a fire, her bedraggled hair running down her back untamed. Her hands clutched at a book possessively, but her eyes did not read. Rather, they stared harshly into the flames. Though outwardly composed, the man was disturbed by the way the light was not reflected from those dark pits, but greedily absorbed. Forcing himself to not be swayed, he shut the door resolutely behind him and stood, waiting for the girl to take notice.

Whether Anabelle was aware of his presence or not, she did not show it. But determined that he should not be the first to speak, the scarred man kept his silence. For two hours they stood in that position, not a thing moving except the sun, which soon faded from the sky completely. Never having experienced even this much persistence, the woman could not contain her hate of human company any longer.

“Get out,” she said simply, but venomously. The man remained silent. “Are you hard of hearing?” said the woman, “Leave this chamber now!”

“Are you the Miss Anabelle Townsend?” he responded simply.

“That is my name,” she replied, “But I have no wish to engage in your petty desires of marriage. Leave before I force you.” Her countenance did not change, neither did she avert her eyes from the fire.

“Is it true,” said the man, ignoring her remarks completely, “that you have not smiled in thirteen years?”

The corners of her mouth rose slightly in a hint of pride. It was not becoming. “It is,” she said.

“May I ask why?”

“No you may not,” she said mockingly, “It is a rude question and you are a ruder man. Your very presence is odious. Leave!” If it was at all possible, her eyes hardened even more.

“Does it look like I intend to leave, Miss Anabelle? And indeed, although my manners are coarse, it is you who is the rude one. Besides, I have no intent to marry you.”

“What a lie!” she said with hate, “If not, then you intend to put me in an institution or another. I will have none of it.”

“No, nor is that my intent. I wish only to douse this fire that has burned away your soul and has eaten up your heart.”

“Ooh!” she said, rising from her seat in a flash, and flinging her heavy book with a surprising strength square at the face of the man, “You mock me!”

Unfazed, the stranger caught the book in a single hand. “You mock yourself,” he said with an emotionless expression. Letting out a primal scream of fury, the woman threw herself with a full and wild force upon the man. Although of an athletic build, the stranger restrained the woman’s animal lashings with difficulty and, straining, forcibly reseated her in the chair by the fire. Removing a length of cord from his jacket, the man quickly and efficiently secured the woman to her seat.

“Now,” he said, standing across from her, and staring unflinchingly into those twin vacuums, “My name is Mr. Jonathan Hunt, and we shall have a chat.”

* * * * *

When the young man Jonathan Hunt left the town of ---caster, he could think of nothing to do but wander aimlessly, his mind full of all that he had seen, and not seen, in the poor child’s eyes. Disgusted at his cowardice and bewildered by how truly innocent he had seen himself to be, Jonathan vowed that he would come back one day when he was able to cure Miss Anabelle of her troubles.

In the time that passed, Jonathan led the equivalent of a hundred different lives, in each one seeking some sort of illumination or wisdom that would set him on to a solution. But after each he felt dissatisfied. At the start he was picked up by a rich young noble, who introduced him to the life of play, luxury and vice—where one could have the finest wines and sample the most beautiful women. So attached did the young man become to Jonathan, that he even offered to let him join the family so they would become as brothers. But a voice urged him on and away, to seek the secret of Anabelle’s happiness from a different walk of life. So Jonathan regretfully took his leave.

Saddened, but wishing him the best, the noble left Jonathan a purse and promise of aid should it ever be needed. So Jonathan took the money bought a passage to the strange and foreign land of Africa, where peculiar languages and ways abounded. Again, he did not stay long, but took up work on a passing merchant ship. It was in this time that he received the first of his two scars, in a battle with a group of pirates. The crew and ship were blown to pieces, but Jonathan escaped with his life barely intact, to be washed up again on the shores of his native country.

A fisherman that day brought in a large and surprising cast. The fish was warm, but it’s face slit and its flesh pale. Slowly, Jonathan regained his life, and once again moved on. Again and again similar things occurred. Moving from pickpockets, to a monastery, to a glassmaker’s shop and even a brief stint among some foreign revolutionaries (where he received his second scar), Jonathan was frequently drawn in by others before he, dissatisfied, cut himself adrift.

Until suddenly, one day, as his most recent life came to a close Jonathan realized that he had discovered what he had been seeking. His multitudes of existences had taught him everything there was to know about the workings of the human brain—and the workings of both God and the devil upon it. As for life? It was no longer a mystery to him. Now, he could look those pits in the face and have their knowledge be no incomprehensible horror. But for one key difference. For while Jonathan’s eyes would have no innocence, all the same would they have no anger. He understood, but somehow, his heart had not become embittered. Almost startled at the realization, Hunt finally set out to discover the whereabouts of the now grown girl.

* * * * *

“Do you not remember me, then?” said Jonathan to the woman, “How disappointing.”

“I should be happy to forget a man such as you,” she spat.

He paused, unperturbed by the woman’s comment. “And what sort of man am I?” he asked.

Anabelle Townsend was silent, her eyes communicating the full depth of her hatred. Jonathan saw that this thing, really hardly a woman in her current state, was more than simply cross; there was some deep pain in the bottom of her soul that lashed out at all that was human. Truly, he wanted to show to her how much her situation broke his heart, but he knew somehow that to display kindness would be his demise. This creature did not understand kindness. If need be he would wheedle, twist and pound that heart until, like a lump of hardened clay, it would once again begin to soften and flex. But he must take care, lest that heart merely smash instead and fully reveal some barely-checked beast within.

Mostly, Jonathan Hunt was curious about the unreal mysteries that surrounded the Miss Anabelle. What happened during those midnight hours of isolation? What caused the nightly winds? Why could no one seem to manage to enter the room in all that time? And most of all, what about these events had so frozen the girl’s heart, and could they be reversed?

“I’ll tell you the sort of man I am,” he said, “I am a persistent man, a determined man, and a man who cannot be shocked.” The woman reverted to her previous method of ignoring him. “And so I ask you: what happens in the hours after the clock strikes nine?”

“The winds come,” she replied simply.

“And?”

“And?” she said scornfully, “And why should I tell you anything else? That is all you need to know. Besides, you have already worn my temper to its thinnest edge; if you do not release me in this instant, then I shall scream with all my force and they will drag you away.”

“Did you not listen when I told you the sort of man I was? Every drop of hate in your soul will not be enough to sway me from my course.”

She screamed.

There was the sound of running upon the stairs followed by a knock on the door. “Is everything all right?” said Mr. Townsend’s voice. It sounded wearier than concerned.

“Quite all right!” said Hunt lightly, “It is a common practice for an animal to protest at the removal of a thorn, but in the end its complaints are proven unfounded.”

He gave an uncertain pause. “But are the both of you unharmed?” he said.

“The only wounds Miss Anabelle suffers are those of the heart, which at this moment I am endeavoring to fix. As for myself, I am thoroughly uninjured.”

“Ah,” said Townsend, still unsure, “Well, then…simply call if there is a problem, I suppose.”

“Have no fear, I shall.”

“It is nearly nine o’clock, you know?”

“I am aware of it. I intend to sit the whole night through, chatting with your charming ward.”

“Ah,” he said again, entirely wrong-footed, “Are you…getting on then?”

“Quite well, thank you. And with the greatest respect we should like to return to it. Do you mind?”

“Not-not at all!” said Townsend, who took his leave—a funny sort of bewildered, hopeful happiness beginning to bubble in his chest.

And where was Miss Anabelle Townsend all this time? Sitting mildly while her captor conversed with her uncle? Of course not, her fury remained at its full, but luckily Jonathan had had the presence of mind to firmly and instantly cover the girl’s mouth with his hand. For all she sputtered and strained, she could not remove it.

“Though I have infinite patience,” the man warned once the older man had left, “I have little tolerance for such stupidity. Control yourself. You insult the term of human.” She glared and struggled more, then suddenly stopped. He removed his hand, “May we continue our discussion then?”

But an odd triumph had filled her eyes. “No,” she said, an almost demonic light sharpening her features. “The clocks strikes nine.”

She was right. A long chime from the timepiece in the corridor had rung the ninth hour. Not an instant later, a familiar whine began to mount around the house. Suddenly, Jonathan felt his mind begin to blunt. There was something very important he had to say to Mr. Townsend downstairs that couldn’t wait, and perhaps they could have some dinner afterwards. He hadn’t eaten much on his journey, after all. Yes, some warm roast meat sounded like just the thing. He began to walk towards the door, then stopped. What was he doing? Deserting Miss Anabelle like that? He knew there was some devious force; he must fight against it!

He turned back to face the woman, who was staring at him fixedly with harsh wide eyes. The fire in the grate was roaring behind her as if it was the very gate of hell. He began to step stiltedly towards her, his scarred cheek convulsing. What of Mr. Townsend though? A sense of urgency struck him forcefully again. He must go down and speak with Mr. Townsend!

No! he thought, his will fighting up against the urge. He had to stay and see what happened in the night, he was sure that it held the mystery to all that had passed. It was surely not a coincidence that the girl’s troubles had started when she was locked in alone and that something seemed so keen to keep people out. Yes, in her room at night lay the secret.

Something like a war was waged between the man and the force. Against it he staggered to the girl who, bound, sat looking at him with a gaze of triumph. As he lifted his eyes he saw a sight that would have struck terror in the heart of a lesser man. In the roaring flames he was sure he saw the face of some devilish imp swimming in their depths. But what was more, that very expression seemed mirrored in the features of the Miss Anabelle. It was as if the girl was a puppet to the fire, their twin leers a thousand times more frightening than his own face could ever hope to be.

The winds and wails screamed and Jonathan was reminded of that night nearly thirteen years ago, and unavoidably, of his failure. His body chilled. What would he do with himself if it should happen again? As the force seemed to crush his will and lift his legs, so another one began to fill him. An almost inhuman determination began to steel his mind. Stronger than when he had fought the pirates, or the tyrants, or material temptations, this new strength was borne of the labours and the passions of a lifetime. Suddenly, whether it was because a heavenly force had intervened or because it added new iron to his veins, Jonathan’s mind was clear.

A tongue of flame leaped from the grate to the tied of girl, cutting her bonds with fire and crawling across her limbs. Where it traced patterns in that flawless skin, smoke rose and the girl screamed in agony even as her eyes stayed the same as the face in the fire.

“Well,” said a voice harshly from the girl’s lips, “If you shall not leave, then I suppose that you shall die.” And she raised her arm laced with flame to his face, perhaps to make a death strike, or maybe simply to let the fire do its work. But alas, we shall not know, for in that moment Jonathan did a senseless, instinctive thing.

Not comprehending quite what he was doing, he reached and held the girl’s fiery arms, heedless to his own burns, took in the empty, yet wicked eyes, the sneering, cruel mouth—and kissed her.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck the house. The entire building, for all it’s strength, shook down to its very foundations. The winds shrieked for one last time, then fell still. The fire flared, then went out with a wail of horror. Until all that was left in the dark was Jonathan, a sobbing girl in his arms.

* * * * *

Neither the girl’s uncle, nor the two servants he had convinced to stay on could believe the sight when Jonathan Hunt descended the stairs, carrying their mistress. In fact, what also had been that boom and crack? And, dear God, was this silence? Silence…in the middle of the night, why, it was incomprehensible.

Jonathan laid her gently on the parlor sofa as the other three began to crowd around him. Questioning murmurs rose from their throats, but he waved their words aside. Now that the worst was over, all the time in the world remained to ask their questions later.

When the young woman finally awoke with a single stream of pleasant morning sun from the slit of a window in her face, she was puzzled. Not least because there were four anxious faces gazing intently into her eyes, but because something felt incredibly different. She gasped, her hand to her chest. Her heart! Was what this feeling there? Why, it felt light, it felt free, it felt…no, not quite happy yet, but an incredible burden had been torn away.

“My Lady?” said a tall, strange and scarred man, “How do you feel this morning?”

“I feel…” she said hesitantly, “I feel—better than I have been.”

At this response there was much whooping and hollering and joy all around. For while the girl had still not smiled, no more did she seem cross! And there she sat, her beautiful eyes full and human and her countenance nothing to be feared. Assured of her health, it was a time before they could get her to tell them her story of the events. Jonathan had given them an account in the night while she slept, but there was still much that they did not understand. Frederick and the maid brought in a bit of tea and breakfast, and all five of them sat around the girl, eager to her the story.

Cautiously, and in an almost half-remembered way, Miss Anabelle Townsend recounted the tale of her youth

“It was so very long ago,” she began, “and much that passed between now lies within a haze, but that first night I clearly recall. I had scarcely lain down to sleep when a curious wind began to whip about the room and the dwindling fire by the bed began to pick up with a renewed vigor. I was almost positive that I saw some small, imp-like creature dancing in those flames with a horrid black scabbed body and a wretched little sneer. I would have cried out in fear but for some reason my lips did not want to move.

“The imp called out to me from it’s fiery grate and told me that I was a pretty thing. But it did not say it with happiness. I remember that it said it with a great spite and jealousy. It told me that such a pretty thing should not be allowed to live.

“I admit that began to sob and beg with it at that point. I was but a very little child, you see, and I begged that it should save my life. It seemed to reconsider then and was filled with a sudden, devilish glee. It told me that it would let me live, but that I should never be happy, and that my crossness would make me ugly. That I would be ostracized and unloved for the rest of my life. And the thought seemed to give it even more pleasure than the prospect of my death had.

“I began to beg again, realizing at even that age what a fearsome life that should be. Then it grew angry, and made a deal: that if any man should see through my ugliness, my temper, my nightly visits—in short, if any man should ever kiss me, then it would break me from it’s jealous lashings of the soul. But this imp was clever, for it knew that this added drop of hope should make my life forever more unbearable. To always have to watch my hope be continually dashed. But oh! In my youthful ignorance I did not see this, and cried out with thanks that he should so spare me from the whole of his wrath.

“The imp laughed them, and reached out with his fire to where I lay curled with fear, and layered my heart and soul with his spite. I cried out with pain then, for it was as if my heart had been broken a thousand times over.

“And so every night he returned, lacing my heart again with fire, and whispering in my ear how ugly I became with each passing day. So gradually the small part of myself that remained my own grew more hopeless as every day progressed, until I fear I gave myself nearly wholly over to the imp. Until last night last night, when something…but I am not sure what, something extraordinary happened. The curse was broken. How or why I cannot say, but here I am, my heart once again my own.”

All except Jonathan were shocked and horrified by the girl’s account, and they were quick to express it so. As for Jonathan, what Anabelle said had confirmed his mounting suspicions that somehow, something devilish had been at play. But now it was gone, and his mind and soul were once again at ease, his vow fulfilled. With joy, the knot of people filled the girl in on what had passed. The determination, the strength. And slowly, with the realization of the traces of love and caring that ran behind it; with the recognition of something other than hate and pain, something faint began to tug this way and that way at her lips. Until finally, after the passage of nigh on thirteen years…

She smiled.