Below lies the seventh chapter of the full-length novel, The Girl with the Strawberry Eyes. If you’ve not read the first seven parts, I strongly suggest you go back and do so. You’ve the option of choosing either an EPUB file or a PDF, or reading the work in the space below. New chapters will be added every Wednesday. Cheers and Happy Reading.
The Landlady
Lady Drusilla, whenever she visited, never knocked. She never yelled for anybody’s attention. She never peered through any of the house’s crooked windows. She merely strode up to the door and waited for somebody to open it for her. The longer she waited, the louder the black behemoth circling overhead shrieked.
Paginelle had never seen what happened when Lady Drusilla was kept waiting for too long, but there was a persistent rumor about a failed Scholar who had, years previously, lived at the other end of the valley; who had kept Lady Drusilla waiting for so long that her enormous pet had swooped down, knocked apart his house and swallowed him in one gulp. Unsurprisingly, as was often the case with these types of stories, nobody had actually seen the swallowing firsthand, but had heard it from somebody who had, in many cases, heard it from somebody who had heard it from somebody who had heard it from somebody … so on and so forth, world without end, amen.
“Papa,” she hissed, “she’s coming!”
“You think I did not notice?” her father growled. His fists clenched even harder on the desktop.
“But why is she coming?” Paginelle pressed. “I thought we were up-to-date on all of our bills!”
“Are you going to stand there barking questions at me,” her father snapped, “or are you going to go perform your tasks?”
“Sorry, Papa,” Paginelle said as she hurried to the door. The exhilaration she had felt while spilling her feelings to Frost seemed so far away, it may as well have happened a thousand years ago.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Frost said as she hurried with Paginelle to the door.
“Yes, just … just stay out of her way,” said Paginelle.
“Listen,” Frost said, lowering her voice a little, “if the issue is money, I can certainly—”
“No.”
Frost jerked with surprise. Paginelle, as well, was startled by the sharpness of her own response. “I—I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “It’s just that … you—y-your family’s money—has already helped us so much. Even if you don’t fully realize how, you’ve still helped us so much.”
“But I already told you that I don’t want our friendship to be just about money,” said Frost. “I want to be able to help in any way that I can—”
“Paginelle!” her father grunted. “Are you going to open the door or not?”
Paginelle gave Frost one last look and then turned back to the door. She twisted open the lock, turned the handle, pulled open the door and braced herself for the bite of the winter wind.
Lady Drusilla was, before anything else, tall. That’s the way she seemed, anyhow, as she was at least a full two heads taller than Paginelle, and a few inches taller than Paginelle’s father. For all Paginelle knew, Lady Drusilla could have been dwarfed by every other adult on the planet, but every other adult on the planet didn’t matter when that woman stood alone with them in their house.
She wore, as always, an elegant high-necked dress of deepest, darkest blue, a white ruff collar and slim leather gloves that matched the blue of her dress. Her thick black hair was pinned up in an aristocratic coiffure, and her face … was a mystery.
For, every time Paginelle had seen her, the woman’s face had been completely covered by a white dueling mask. It was an exquisitely carved thing, in the shape of an owl’s face, and that was it. It revealed absolutely nothing of the woman underneath.
And yet … and yet, for some reason, Paginelle could sense that Lady Drusilla was a great beauty. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, gliding from one place to the next with the ease and elegance of a seasoned dancer. Perhaps it was her perfume, which made Paginelle think of the Moon.
The woman in question swept through the doorway and glided right past the girls without giving them so much as a glance. She sailed right up to Mr. Babineaux, who, in turn, stared at her with cold, defiant eyes. “Babineaux,” she said, her voice still silky, deep and clear through the mask.
“Drusilla,” said Mr. Babineaux.
“I have to wonder, Babineaux,” Lady Drusilla said, tilting her face down at him, “if perhaps you’re suffering from the early stages of dementia. That might explain your failure to address me properly.”
Mr. Babineaux’s eyes grew a lot colder, and though he looked as if he wanted to spit all kinds of venom, he didn’t grunt or growl a single thing. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet and looked straight into Lady Drusilla’s mask. “Apologies, ma’am,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know where my manners are.”
“I’m not so much concerned by your manners, Babineaux, as I am about the three months of rent and utilities that remain, as of yet, unpaid.”
Paginelle’s heart started to beat a little faster. Three months? Her father hadn’t paid any bills for three months? All those checks she had given him and he hadn’t paid any bills for three months? She didn’t know whether to be shocked or angry.
“Explain yourself, Babineaux,” said Lady Drusilla. “And I’m warning you: it had better be a damned good explanation. That’s the very least I deserve, considering I’ve yet to toss you into the street.”
“Which is most appreciated, ma’am,” Mr. Babineaux muttered.
“I didn’t ask for your appreciation, Babineaux. I asked for an explanation. Now get to it.”
Mr. Babineaux’s jaw rippled as he ground his teeth. “The reason for the absent payments,” he said slowly, “has to do directly with the fact that … that for the past three months I have been developing a Talent that may very well change the world, ma’am.”
“In only the smallest ways, I’m sure.”
“You mock me, ma’am.”
“And you insult me, Babineaux, by presuming I possess far more charity than I am willing or able to give. I wonder, are you trying to take advantage of me?”
“I am not trying to take advantage of anyone, ma’am,” said Mr. Babineaux, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I am merely doing what I was put on this earth to do.”
“What you were put on this earth to do?” Lady Drusilla said, her tone contemptuous.
Mr. Babineaux stood a little straighter. “I am a Babineaux, ma’am. My family’s Seerish Tradition stretches back centuries—”
“I am aware of your family,” Lady Drusilla snapped, “seeing as how you never shut up about them.”
“Then why do you question the authenticity behind my motives, ma’am?”
“Oh, I don’t question it, Babineaux. Any idiot can see that you labor earnestly. But earnestness doesn’t equate to brilliance, does it. Your family is filled with genii—that much is clear. What I can’t understand is why you can’t accept you’re not one of them.”
Mr. Babineaux’s jaw rippled harder. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I don’t believe you know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know what I’m talking about?” Lady Drusilla said with an oily chuckle. “Babineaux, look around you. What do you see?”
Mr. Babineaux swallowed. “I’m not sure I understand—”
“Look around,” said Lady Drusilla. “Look at your living space. What do you see?”
Mr. Babineaux took a moment to survey the stacks of books and notebooks, and all of the unfinished machines. “What do I see? I see the fruits of my labor, ma’am.”
“I see wasted years and wasted resources,” Lady Drusilla countered with a sniff.
Mr. Babineaux’s jaw rippled ever the more, but he stayed silent.
“Why do you insist on continuing this charade, Babineaux? It has become a fool’s pursuit. Does it not shame you, to be made to look like a vagrant again and again? And in front of your own child, too!”
Mr. Babineaux remained silent.
“How are you able to live with such humiliation? Existing as less than a mediocrity is surely bad enough, but to throw destitution on top of that? How have you not destroyed yourself by now?”
“Because there are more important things in this world, ma’am,” Mr. Babineaux said, his voice hoarse, “than material wealth.”
“I’ve heard it all before, Babineaux,” Lady Drusilla said wearily, “and though you may find this difficult to believe, I do agree with you. Nevertheless, in the world we live in—the real world—material wealth, whilst not the most important thing, is still of very great import indeed. It is, for example, quite a necessary thing when one is required to pay three months’ worth of rent and utilities.”
“I don’t know what else I can say, ma’am,” Mr. Babineaux muttered. “I don’t have the money. If you had come to collect every month instead of every three—”
“You would still be without my money, and you still wouldn’t be any closer to building a Talent that actually works. Face it, Babineaux: your ambition has made you delusional. It’s almost karmic, how much of a failure your life has become.”
Mr. Babineaux said nothing.
“Well,” said Lady Drusilla, “if there aren’t any objections, I do believe I’ve spent enough time in this hoarders’ paradise. You have three days to pay what I’m owed. Three days for three months. I don’t care how you do it. Steal. Become a murderer for hire. Sell some of the junk in this room to failures more desperate than you. We both know there are plenty in this valley. I don’t care how it gets done. Just make sure it gets done.”
“You know you’re asking the impossible,” said Mr. Babineaux.
“I’m really not,” Lady Drusilla coolly shot back. “Give me the money in three days, or you’re out on the street.” And with that, she turned and started her glide towards the exit.
Mr. Babineaux’s fists clenched at his sides. His jaws rippled further and his eyes became harder. His brow furrowed and he started to tremble. “This is your fault, you know!”
Paginelle jumped.
The words had erupted from such a deep place in her father’s throat that they had practically been an animal growl.
Lady Drusilla stopped walking but did not turn around. “I beg your pardon?”
“You gave me that book!” Mr. Babineaux hissed. “You gave me that—that damned book!”
Lady Drusilla at last turned to face him, moving with her usual coolness and elegance. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific, Babineaux, as I’ve lent out dozens of books to dozens of men just like you.”
Mr. Babineaux’s face contorted into a scowl. “You know which one.”
“I don’t think I like this accusatory tone you’ve taken with me. Would you prefer to pay your dues now instead of in three days? Because that can be arranged.”
Mr. Babineaux swallowed, and some of the fire in his eyes dimmed. “The … the book on Tiresian Temporal Dynamics,” he muttered. “By Fio Fidelio. You gave me that book and marked the pages I should read. You knew those passages contained the theorems that had eluded me for months. You knew I would have no choice but to incorporate them into the design of my Linearity Fluctuation Engine.”
“I didn’t know a single thing,” Lady Drusilla said lightly. “I lent you that book merely because I thought you would find it interesting. And, clearly, you have.”
Paginelle could imagine the horrid woman smiling beneath her mask.
“Naturally,” Lady Drusilla went on, “if you would like to return that book to me, I’ll gladly take it.”
Mr. Babineaux’s jaw rippled some more, and his eyes grew harder, and a heavy silence stretched and stretched and stretched. Finally, he slammed his hand onto one of the books on his desk, yanked it into the air … and, for a moment, looked ready to shove the thing into Lady Drusilla’s hands.
However, in the end, he dropped his eyes and muttered, “I’ve not finished with it yet.”
“I thought as much,” Lady Drusilla said, a small note of triumph in her voice. “Ah! I almost forgot: speaking of books, I thought you might find … at least a modicum of interest in the volume I’ve brought with me today.” She slid a hand into one of the many folds in her dress and pulled out a small blue book. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve been having some difficulty finding the Pfirschbaum Interpretation of Sophie Babineaux’s Proof Number Seven.”
Mr. Babineaux’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Th … that’s really the Pfirschbaum Interpretation?”
“It really is,” said Lady Drusilla, her words more than a little smug. “Though, if you’re truly interested in Sophie Babineaux’s Proof Number Seven, I don’t understand why you can’t just go directly to the source and ask the woman’s ghost yourself. She is your ancestor, after all.”
Mr. Babineaux didn’t have a verbal response to that, but he did lick his lips as he stared at the little blue book.
“Would you like me to lend this to you, Babineaux?” said Lady Drusilla.
Mr. Babineaux clenched and unclenched his hands. “That book would, admittedly—ahem—it would, admittedly, be of significant help to one of my other stalled projects.”
“Oh, naturally,” said Lady Drusilla. “However, if I lend you this book, you must swear—swear—that you won’t use it as evidence that I’m trying to sabotage your life. I really have no stomach for such dramatics.”
“Yes, yes, I swear,” Mr. Babineaux gibbered. “I just … I won’t need it for more than a day, really. Perhaps two. Or … or a week, just to be on the safe side—?”
“Papa, no!”
Many thanks for reading(!) And now, on to Chapter 8….
Or,
if you liked what you read, and would like to devour a completed work in one go, why not give my romantic novella, Knits, a gander? Get it here.
