The Scarlett Mark by Abby Lane

Author:Abby Lane [Lane, Abby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SPK Publishing

Chapter Sixteen

Lord Nicolai Graydon

Candlelight flickered on the library walls, casting shadows on the bookcases, derelict possessions, and a silent man whose memories were lost within the library’s rotten space. Nicolai sat on his chair, leaning against a grimy writing bureau with his head held in his hands, his elbows resting on the desk’s surface, and his face contorted with frustration. He loosened one hand from his aching temple and reached forward to finger filthy books and scattered parchment papers, whose words were so marred with dust and dirt, the passages no longer held meaning. Finally, he grabbed a quill and studied the ruddy edges held between his fingers. Regrettably, the feather held so much burn, it no longer had any semblance of a peacock’s tail.

“Dear lord,” he worried aloud. “How has your life come to this?”

Sighing, he leaned against the chair rest and stretched his aching back. He slid his naked feet underneath the desk and stretched them, too, while examining the quill held in his right hand. As if the quill were the fault for his disrepute, he sucked in a breath, grimaced, and threw the barb across the library.

“Nicolai Graydon,” he muttered into the empty space, “you miserable sod, you were almost a great man. Almost.”

Nicolai knew he had succumbed to his own ego. Nevertheless, he had also come close to building his stature as a grand gentleman. His hopes and dreams were dashed away with one wave of a witch’s hand. Now he sat with his ass cheeks buried in shat and his hands stuck in a quagmire of filth he could not wipe away.

“I have no one to blame but myself,” he whispered, recognizing his own truth.

Since the first transformation, he had permitted his own downfall and subsequent neglect to take its toll on his life. He reflected on the layers of dust soiling his once beautiful library, from a mud-caked floor to a ceiling that had changed from a pasty white to a tarnished buttercream. Books were strewn about the room with their yellowing pages and broken bindings. And spider webs, whose threads had long ago turned black, hung from the ceiling candelabra.

“Sixteen years have passed since my life was stolen,” Nicolai reflected, “and each year the filth increases, layer upon dirty layer.”

He might as well have climbed inside a coffin and committed the box to an early grave since his life was already buried in a hole, gasping for its next breath with no hope of survival.

Nicolai had become a man who permitted his mind to linger in depravity. But now a guest had arrived at his doorstep, reminding him of a time lost, a time when his life had been worth living. Her arrival brought discomfort, since he couldn’t see a positive view of his future. Nicolai Graydon, an older man now, sitting on an old oaken chair with his fingers tapping on the armrest. How had his life come to this?

He had not forgotten the woman who had buried him in this filthy ash.

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