Serial Saturday: "The Dragon's Mark" Part 2

Part 2

"The Maid With The Scales"

Southern Italy, 1925

The dew had only just fallen, and the city of Kadros, a municipality in the Calabria region of Italy, lay blanketed still in the thin fog that would soon evaporate under the sun that had not yet risen.

At the back of a stately, rust-colored villa, a young woman in a faded blue dress pulled a frayed shawl closer around her shoulders as she stepped, barefooted, down to the flagstone path that led to the tiny well tucked among the trees at the back of the yard. Deep in the shadows, she arrived at the wide hole, covered with a wooden lid and surrounded with extra water jugs. Rubbing her hands and blowing on them to restore circulation, she reached down and hefted the solid-wood cover off with one hand. With the other, she grabbed the rope that held the bucket and began pulling. Her palms stung, but she ignored them. Her skin would be red and raw for a while, but it always faded back into the uneven, leathery surface it had been for as long as she could remember.

The bucket arrived, brimming with water. She filled two jugs of several gallons each, closed the well again, and dragged them back to the house. Behind her, the sun had just peeked over the horizon.

She poured some of the water into a pot and set it boiling for porridge. From the cold cellar, she brought out a basket of fruit and began preparing them for eating. All too soon, she realized that the sun was up, and a moment later, the bells began ringing, and high-pitched voices commenced their squealing.

“STELLA! WHERE IS MY COFFEE?”

“WHY ISN’T MY BATHWATER RUNNING?”

“WE HAVEN’T GOT ALL DAY, YOU KNOW!”

Frantically, the young brunette fluttered around, grabbing the hot coffeepot from among the coals with her bare hand and pouring the beverage into cups, which she arranged neatly on a tray, along with the day’s mail in one pile, and a gaudy periodical for the other. Sweat beaded along her hairline, but she forced her hands to steady as she carried the tray up the long kitchen stairs to the main floor of the villa.

Her first stop was the smaller of the two rooms, on the left. Still, it was plenty large enough for the massive four-poster bed, a long couch, an armchair, and a wide vanity with a large mirror. Upon the bed reclined a young woman with waves of dark, curly hair, flipping petulantly through yesterday’s periodical.

“About time you got up here,” she grumbled at the maid.

“I’m sorry, Miss Agatha—“ Stella began, but the girl in the bed snatched the coffee cup away from her and took a long sip with her eyes shut.

“Ugh, Stella!” she groaned. “We talked about this. Don’t ever address me first thing in the morning, because when you say something, I’m obliged to look at you, and when I look at you…” She left the statement hanging to curl her lip in disgust, and give a shudder, just enough to clank the coffee cup against its saucer. “Your cheeks are doing that flaking thing again,” she muttered.

Stella swallowed back another apology and hung her head.

Agatha waved her away. “Just leave my new periodical on the bed and go see to Mother.”

Stella obeyed and turned her back on the woman before replying, “Yes ma’am.”

Out in the hallway, she rubbed a hand across her jawline. Sure enough, a small piece of translucent, dead skin sloughed off in her fingertips. She studied the scale-like texture of it; for some reason, certain parts of the year seemed to yield these things more frequently, and her skin would scar over worse than ever—but why?

As she approached the gilded doors that led to the master suite, she paused to collect her thoughts. Sometimes she felt like Lady Jacintha could read her mind, or if she couldn’t, she very much wanted to.

“Come in!” The harsh command reached her through the door, before she’d even touched the handle.

Stella inched into the room. Lady Jacintha stood before the grand fireplace commissioned for her by her late husband, Lord Farfalle. She was a tall, graceful woman, hair neatly wrapped in a silk scarf, the soft folds of a satin dressing gown draped over her shapely figure. She didn’t lift her eyes from the mantel.

“Just set the tray on the table and go about your business, Stella,” Lady Jacintha murmured. “The bathwater won’t warm itself, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stella murmured, and hurried to do her mistress’ bidding. When the tub was filled to Her Ladyship’s liking, Stella hurried out to inform her.

Lady Jacintha reclined on the velvet lounge, sipping daintily at her coffee while reading over a letter. The envelope with its broken seal caught Stella’s eye: A lithe dragon, clutching an embossed letter D—the seal of the Drakistos family, who governed the affairs of Kadros very closely.

“Stella?”

She froze and looked up suddenly, meeting the gaze of Jacintha, who had ceased reading and caught her staring. The older woman squinted ever so slightly, pinching her lips into a frown.

“Are you snooping among things that have nothing to do with you, child?” Jacintha’s words carried a deadly, warning edge.

Stella knew what her answer should be. “No, Lady Jacintha.” She dropped her gaze. Horrors! The hot bathwater had caused the skin on the back of her hands to flake up, making more of the dry “scales” on her skin! She clasped them behind her back and bowed. “It is none of my business.”

Jacintha’s face relaxed and she sat up, setting aside the letter face-down so Stella wouldn’t be tempted to read it. “Remember, I am the one connected to the Drakistos Family, by my late husband, who served as a lieutenant alongside Sir Sigmund's cousins in the Great War. I took you in as an unwanted babe, deformed and wretched as you were; I gave you a home, I provided for you—and I alone vouch for you in the presence of the Family, so don’t be getting ideas in that scaly little head of yours, because you can just as easily wander the streets among men who would kill you or worse as soon as look at your ugly little face!” Jacintha leaned in close, so close that Stella might have almost felt the dressing gown brush against her fingertips, if they hadn’t already hardened into oblivion. Her voice was as cutting and warm as a flame as she whispered, “You are nothing, Stella. You serve my daughter and me, and we serve The Family. That is all.”

Stella felt as if her face had turned to stone, it was so heavy and immobile. She bowed again and turned away to finally escape the woman’s presence.

“Stella.” Jacintha’s voice curled around her like a whip, halting her in her tracks. “What do you say to me?”

Stella bit down hard on her tongue, but her teeth barely left a mark. Jacintha went through this exchange every morning, constantly reminding Stella who truly owned her life, as though Stella may have forgotten over the course of her daily duties. And every time, Jacintha demanded the same thing of her.

“Thank you, Lady Jacintha.”

The regal woman swept toward her bathroom, unfastening the tie of her dressing gown as she did. “That’s better. Now see that breakfast is ready in the sunroom. Agatha and I have a full day of social calls ahead of us.”

Stella bit the inside of her cheek to keep her expression neutral. Social calls… That was what Jacintha called it when she and her daughter wandered from house to house amid the elite of Kadros, exchanging gossip in an attempt to ingratiate herself to one or another of the Drakistos’ extended connections, as if to remind herself that she was still “part of the family” now that Giorgio—the only actual “blood connection” she had—was gone.

Stella’s face softened when she reached the kitchen level once again, and she recalled the atmosphere that had pervaded the home while “Uncle Gio” was still alive. One could almost say things had been happier then.

Stella had not known any life outside of servitude to the Farfalle family, but at least the boisterous, gravel-voiced, paunchy old man had made it seem less like an indentured position, and more like the way she heard people at the market refer to their servants as “the help.” She was helping Uncle Gio and Milady (Jacintha never once allowed Stella the use of any other title, and always frowned when her husband insisted on being called “Uncle”) with the upkeep of the home, with the daily chores, and the meal preparations. He was always laughing, always finding ways to make his wife and daughter smile, and as long as he was within hearing, Jacintha could not lay a hand on any of the servants, because Giorgio maintained that such practice was demeaning and far less effective than outright telling the servant the nature of the offense. In his eyes, the servants were more than just errant animals needing to be trained with a slap or a push; they were rational people who could be made to see the error of their ways, and ensure that such a thing never happened again. Indeed, the servants treated thusly would never forget what he told them, and quickly amended any wrongs, even going so far as to try and avoid future mistakes based on past reasoning.

Stella poured the grains into the boiling water and chopped the fruit into a bowl. She set two bowls on the small table in the sunroom, along with spoons and cups. Down in the kitchen, she measured more coffee for a fresh pot. Giorgio had the coffee habit, while Jacintha tried to maintain her faithfulness to tea, but by the time Stella was old enough to start helping around the hot stove, the kitchen maids were instructed to reserve tea for guests only. Stella would always think of him when she smelled coffee, and it made her happier.

One unfortunate duel and an unlucky stroke of pinpoint accuracy, and all happiness in the Farfalle household promptly withered, like the last flicker of a candle.

Stella was still young at the time, and as long as she made sure she fulfilled her duties, she could continue alongside her fellow servants, seeking refuge from them when Jacintha grew too overbearing.

Then the servants started leaving, one by one; some by dismissal, others escaping voluntarily. Soon, only Stella remained—but by then, she was well accustomed to every facet of running the Farfalle villa, and so Jacintha never bothered to replace the absent servants, and so they had lived for the last few years. So long as Stella complied with every request, she could survive.

By the time the ladies finished breakfast, and Stella had cleaned most of the main level of the villa, a knock sounded at the door, and Madame Tiffenay arrived to return Lady Jacintha’s visit from the week before.

Stella made a point not to listen too closely and be accused of snooping, but she was mopping the floors just outside the sunroom when she heard the slender woman’s whining voice mention the name “Drakistos.”

“I hear Lord Drakistos is taken ill again,” Madame Tiffenay trilled conspiratorially. “No one’s seen him for several weeks.”

“Dear me,” Lady Jacintha murmured sympathetically. “They were just saying, over at the Promenade, that His Lordship has finally succumbed to a rare disease.”

Madame Tiffenay snorted, “Oh, I can’t say anything to that—word has leaked from the Drakistos Court itself that Lord Sigmund is afflicted not with disease, but with a curse, something to do with dragons…”

“Oh! Speaking of dragons, I’ve just had a notice from Sir Bern,” Jacintha attempted, but Madame Tiffenay didn’t let her get much further.

“Of course, we received that too; the notice, it seemed, went out to everyone in the city. Frankly, I don’t know what to make of it; dragons? Who has seen dragons?”

“Perhaps the rumors of the curse aren’t so far off, do you think?”

“Jacintha, dear,” the affluent Madame delivered the epithet with absolutely no feeling attached, “you really should know better than to believe everything you hear. Why, next you’ll be telling me that fairies live in the Sila Forest!” She let loose a high titter that wasn’t very good-natured at all.

Stella tore herself away from the doorway as the clicking, rustling steps heralded Miss Agatha’s approach. By the time the flouncing young woman reached the sunroom door, Stella crouched half the remaining distance down the hall.

As her hands moved the brush that pushed the suds back and forth over the floor, Stella’s mind returned again to the words she had overheard. “Who has seen dragons?” She caught her reflection in the bucket of water and sighed. I have, she thought. Every time I see my reflection.

The hard, leathery skin, the strange, uncomfortable shapes it pulled her features into—what else could they be but dragon-like? Those “scales” that the harsh soaps and the constant scrubbing, brushing, and toil didn’t wear away, she attempted to pull off, but it always seemed to allow new patches of dead, hard flakes to grow in their place. If anyone suffered under a dragon-related curse, it would be her—but why?

She knew, from the many times Jacintha recounted the events of that fateful night, that her mother had left her behind, abandoned her on the steps of the Farfalles’ villa, with nothing but a blanket and a note bearing the name Stella. Custody of the babe had gone to the jolly laundry-maid, and Stella knew no other life than the one she now led, deformities and all. The kind servants had never mentioned it, praising her character and her kind heart, and shushing the rude younger maids who sought to make Stella feel ashamed of something over which she had no control. As the number of servants gradually dwindled after the death of Giorgio Farfalle, Jacintha and Agatha both took up the role of belittling Stella for her unfortunate appearance, and demanding that she take on more and more of the tasks and responsibilities of maintaining the home and its inhabitants.

Madame Tiffenay soon took her leave, and Lady Jacintha departed soon after, to return other visits from the days before. Before they left, Lady Jacintha had some last-minute instructions for Stella.

“I will be hosting a dinner party tonight,” she said. “I have invited the Regannes and the Bishops. See that you prepare enough food for everyone, and I want the presentation to be flawless, do you understand?” She narrowed her eyes, though Stella noticed that when she looked up at Jacintha’s eyes, the woman’s gaze pointed to the climbing ivy trellis over her shoulder, and not at Stella herself.

Jacintha finished, “I want you to do your absolute best, so that I can be free to be the good hostess everyone expects.”

Stella ducked her head. “Yes, ma’am.” She would need to visit the Market, to see which dishes were in season; but before she could do that, she needed to finish the washing and the scrubbing. Stella helped the two women into their walking clothes and saw them down the flower-lined lane to the main, paved road leading into the avenues of stately dwellings. As soon as they were out of sight, she returned to work. It was going to be another long day.

>>>>>>>>

Drakistos Castle overlooked the whole of Kadros. Inside, the servants garbed in clean linen whisked back and forth down the halls, maintaining everything in readiness for their master.

High in a tower, a lone advisor in a suit of dark silk rapped gently on the door.

“Your Lordship?” he called. “I bring news.”

“Enter!” rasped the voice from within.

The advisor obeyed, stepping into the room. Against the far wall stood a bed, with high posts on the corner, and a thick canopy, closed tightly.

“What news, Sir Travis?” Hissed the voice from within the canopy.

Sir Travis clicked the heels of his leather shoes. “Sire, according to this report… the sightings are growing closer. A farmer reports scorched ground as near as Messina.”

No one could ever quite explain the faint crackling sound that seemed to follow Lord Sigmund. One could only hear it in complete silence. “Scorched ground—it must be time, then, hey?” Lord Sigmund grunted.

Sir Travis gulped. Not even he could understand what was this thing that Lord Sigmund sought—but perhaps it would bring relief from these shut-in spells he underwent. “If indeed there are dragons about—“

“Not dragons, Travis,” His Lordship corrected. “Just one. The Dragon.”

“Apologies, my lord.”

“You are pardoned.” His Lordship’s voice slurred slightly. Soon, he would stop responding altogether, and they would need to post guards outside the door until he awakened once more. “Now… How fares young Henrik?”

There, at least he would have some good news to share. “He is well, Milord. Every day, there are more scales, but as long as we do not let them develop, the Curse has not taken him.”

“Ah, the Curse…” Lord Sigmund moaned. “My time is coming soon. Give word, Sir Travis, that there will be a Festival—call it the Dragon Festival, and announce that all the Family and everyone connected to us may attend.”

Sir Travis tilted his head. “A festival, milord?”

“Yes.” The crackling grew worse, as Lord Sigmund’s voice grew fainter.

The advisor shifted his posture. “I mean no disrespect, your Lordship, but—why a festival?”

“It will be a Dragon Festival, because the arrival of the dragon means that this Curse may be lifted soon. Perhaps before my next term of isolation.” A savage coughing fit interrupted the man’s words, and his voice came more strained than ever. “Let the festival take place in the Piazza, at the very heart of town, in front of this castle. Let the gates be open to anyone living in the city, under the protection of the Drakistos Family, whether citizen or stranger, regardless of class or standing. And…” Lord Sigmund paused for so long, that Sir Travis actually took a step closer and leaned in to hear his words. “Let it be known that Lord Sigmund seeks a bride for his son.”

“A bride,” Sir Travis echoed, “for Henrik?”

His question received only silence. The crackling, rattling had ceased, and Lord Sigmund lay dormant under the specifications of the infamous “Drakistos Curse.” Sir Travis exited the room, locking the door behind him. He paused briefly at the foot of the stairwell to consider his strange orders: Lord Sigmund insisted on a Festival—what was all this about a bride for Henrik? What sort of woman did Lord Sigmund expect to find, who would consent to marry a young man with strange flakes of dead, hardened skin to scrape off every day?

Sir Travis made his way to the copier’s office. He relayed the proclamation to the Chief Scribe and directed it to be sent out to every resident of Kadros the following day. The Festival would take a few days of preparation, but at least no one could fault him for failing in his duties while Lord Sigmund lay in isolation!

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