Chapter 10 – The Soft Lie of Peace

  The Lennox estate settled into a profound hush after dusk, wrapped in the soft murmurs of the evening. The gentle wind rustled against the paneled glass of the solarium—a serene space adorned with lush potted plants and delicate, embroidered cushions—where Mara Lennox often indulged in her afternoon tea rituals. Maisie stood hesitantly at the threshold, her fingertips grazing the intricately carved doorframe, feeling the cool wood beneath her touch. The late afternoon had slipped away as she wrestled with her apprehensions, gathering the courage to confront her mother once more. This time, she was determined to present herself not as the headstrong and defiant daughter from that contentious morning, but as someone braver, ready to peel back the layers of past grievances and reveal the raw honesty buried within her heart. The air was thick with possibilities, each breath she took amplifying the weight of her decision to step forward into the dimly lit room.

  She knocked softly, a tentative tap that barely echoed in the quiet room. "Come in," Mara's voice beckoned, light yet tinged with weariness.

  Maisie stepped inside, the door creaking slightly on its hinges. The air enveloped her like a warm embrace, infused with the soothing scents of herbs and a hint of citrus, perhaps lemongrass. It was a familiar aroma, one that reminded her of sunlit afternoons spent in the garden with her mother.

  Her mother sat in an upright chair by the window, the sunlight casting gentle patterns across the room. A delicate porcelain cup, adorned with intricate floral designs, was cradled in her hands. As she looked up at Maisie, her eyes held no surprise—only an ocean of fatigue that suggested a long day behind her. The faint creases around her lips hinted at smiles once shared, but now they seemed overshadowed by her exhaustion.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk,” Maisie said, her voice barely above a whisper. She fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth, her fingers tracing the floral pattern absentmindedly.

  “I wasn’t sure if you would,” Mara replied, setting her cup down with a gentle clink that echoed in the quiet room. The steam from her tea curled softly, dissipating into the air, much like the unspoken words between them.

  Maisie lingered awkwardly for a moment, searching Mara's face for a sign, then finally took a seat across from her, the cushion giving a slight creak beneath her weight. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy, wrapping around them like a tightly drawn thread waiting to snap.

  “I... I wanted to apologize. For this morning,” Maisie began, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of regret. “I was angry and... well, foolish. I said things I shouldn’t have, hurtful things.” Her eyes dropped to her hands, twisting nervously in her lap as she recalled the harsh words that had been exchanged.

  Mara nodded slowly, her expression a carefully crafted mask that kept Maisie on edge, unsure of what lay beneath. For a fleeting moment, there was a flicker in her eyes—was it pain or deep-seated regret?—but the emotion vanished as swiftly as it appeared, like a shadow retreating from the light. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, each woman grappling with her thoughts and feelings. The weight of their shared history settled heavily around them, amplifying the charged silence. “You said things you meant,” Mara finally whispered, her voice barely breaking the quiet, leaving Maisie to ponder the implications of her words.

  Maisie flinched at her mother's words, a wave of guilt washing over her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Her mother sighed, the softness in her tone contrasting sharply with the tension in the air. “No,” she replied gently, yet with an undercurrent of resolve. “But you wanted to prove you could.”

  Silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating. Maisie glanced down at her hands; they were tightly clenched, her fingers pale and strained. With a deep breath, she willed herself to relax them, forcing her fists open one finger at a time.

  “It feels like you always treat me like I don’t understand anything,” she said, frustration creeping into her voice. “But I do understand. I know something’s different with Dad—something isn’t right. And I can sense there’s so much more you’re not telling me about Leo. About everything. I’m not a child anymore.”

  Her heart raced as she spoke, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavily between them, and for the first time, she demanded to be seen by Mara.

  Her mother didn’t answer right away, and the heavy silence stretched on, thickening in the air until it felt almost palpable. Maisie, her heart racing, began to wonder if her mother had retreated into her world again, shutting down emotionally as she often did. Just when the stillness felt unbearable, she finally spoke, her voice steady but laced with tension.

  “You want to be treated like you’re not a child,” Mara said, her gaze piercing through the dim light of the room, “but the second things get difficult, you retreat, running away from responsibility, from the consequences of your actions.”

  Maisie blinked, caught off guard. “That’s not—” she started to protest, but her mother’s voice rose sharply, cutting her off.

  “You’ve been hiding behind your grief, Maisie,” Mara insisted, her tone firm yet tinged with a hint of sadness. “You've cloaked yourself in a performance of helplessness. I’ve allowed it, despite knowing it’s just a mask. Your father encouraged this, thinking it would protect you.” She paused, the weight of her words hanging heavily between them. “But if you genuinely want answers, if you crave truth, then you must be prepared to shoulder the burden that comes with it.”

  Maisie felt a mix of emotions swirling within her—anger, frustration, and a flicker of understanding. The truth was, she had been avoiding the hard realities of life, choosing instead to dwell in the comfortable shadows of her sorrow. Her mother was right, even if it stung to hear it.

  The words hit like cold water. Sharp. But not cruel.

  Maisie yearned to make a meaningful impact in the world around her. She once believed her opportunity lay with the White Angels, a group dedicated to eradicating poverty and liberating the enslaved Alucards, a marginalized community suffering in silence.

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  The propaganda disseminated by the group stood in stark contrast to the unsettling behavior of their underling puppeteer, who was likely manipulating Alucards with the disturbing intention of eradicating their very own ranks. This revelation clashed violently with everything Maisie had envisioned for her future, an ideal that suddenly felt unattainable. She had only recently come to this realization after a troubling conversation with her mother, which had cast a harsh light on the situation.

  Initially, Maisie couldn’t recall how she had made her way home, but the nagging feeling that something was amiss lingered in her mind. Perhaps it was Igor's strange demeanor after the rally that tipped her off; his behavior seemed off-kilter, suggesting that events had spiraled out of control. The more she reflected on it, the clearer it became that something had gone disastrously wrong, and the implications of that chaos weighed heavily on her.

  As she dove deeper into her aspirations, she began to realize how naive her dreams were. Her mother, with her cautious nature and protective instincts, often reminded Maisie of her youth, casting a shadow over her ambitions. The gap between Maisie's fervent desire to enact change and her mother's lingering doubts made her question whether she was ready to undertake such a monumental challenge. Get rid of the poverty, free the enslaved Alucards, but it was all naive; her mother made her feel like she was still a kid.

  Maisie nodded slowly, her heart racing with anticipation. “Then tell me,” she urged, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Mara fixed her gaze on Maisie for what felt like an eternity, the weight of unspoken memories visible in the deepening lines around her eyes.

  “There was a man,” she began, her voice trembling with emotion. “Years ago, long before you were even a thought. He was not your father. He was not... entirely human.”

  A chill ran down Maisie's spine, and she froze, a mixture of curiosity and fear flooding her senses.

  “I loved him,” Mara continued, her voice soft yet laden with regret. “Once, a long time ago. And I paid dearly for it. So did he.”

  Maisie swallowed hard, the name that lingered on her lips feeling heavy with significance. “Leo...?”

  Mara nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth tightening. “Yes. Leo is his son. And the truth is, your father, Harry, has known about this all along. From the very beginning. He chose to raise Leo as a Lennox, a part of this family, to safeguard our family’s reputation. But make no mistake, it was never out of love.”

  Mara's eyes darkened with memories. “I lived here with your father, in this estate that has been in his family for generations. But Leo's father, the man I loved, was one of our first Alucard servants, a shadow of a life we never could have.”

  Maisie's breath caught in her throat as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, each fragment illuminating a tapestry of hidden truths woven deep within the fabric of her family's history. The weight of long-buried secrets pressed down on her, revealing the sacrifices made by her ancestors—sacrifices that shaped their lives and, by extension, her own. With each revelation, she felt the threads of love, betrayal, and resilience intertwining.

  Maisie swallowed hard, her heart racing as she searched Mara’s face for answers. “Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

  Mara shifted, her gaze darting to the window where the last remnants of daylight spilled across the street. “Because the world you live in is about to change in ways you can’t even imagine,” she replied, her tone grave. “The White Angels are not who you think they are. They wear a mask of purity and righteousness, but beneath it lies something far more sinister. And your father... he’s not what he seems either. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up being used just like I was, or worse—you’ll find yourself complicit in their schemes.”

  Maisie stared at Mara, confusion and fear mingling in her chest. “But why would Dad lie about Leo?” she pressed, desperation creeping into her voice.

  Mara’s expression darkened, and she leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. “Because the truth makes Leo a part of something your father desperately wants to protect you from. It connects him to a shadowy world that’s been hidden from you, one filled with peril."

  The weight of Mara’s words pressed down on Maisie, leaving her grappling with a deep sense of unease. She felt as if the ground beneath her was shifting, threatening to pull her into a reality she wasn’t ready to face.

  They sat in silence, the remnants of their once-hot lemongrass tea now a tepid reminder of the conversation that had fizzled. Maisie gazed out the window, the dull light of the afternoon casting a soft glow that illuminated her features but left her reflection as a mere shadow. For the first time, she found herself grappling with a thought that had lurked in the recesses of her mind: who would she be once all the lies-the little ones and the monumental deceptions-had—had been stripped away?

  With a shaky breath, she turned her attention back to the room, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” The weight of uncertainty hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, as she spoke the words that had spiraled in her thoughts for far too long.

  Mara quietly excused herself not long after, her voice tinged with a weariness that suggested more than mere exhaustion. She slipped away with a faint smile, leaving Maisie to linger in the solarium. The moon had ascended into the sky, round and luminous, casting ethereal silver tendrils of light that danced across the wooden floorboards. Outside, the garden swayed gently with the breeze, and the hedges, with their tightly clipped edges, shimmered together as if choreographed in some eerie ballet. The night air was thick with the scent of jasmine and damp earth, enhancing the surreal stillness that enveloped the space.

  She hesitated at the thought of returning to her room, the sanctuary that felt oddly stifling at that moment. With a soft sigh, she began to wander through the elongated hallways, her footsteps barely making a sound on the polished wooden floors that gleamed under the dim light. An eerie stillness suffused the house, which seemed emptier than usual; the absence of bustling servants and the muffled sounds of life left a hollow echo in her heart. The silence pressed against her, growing heavier with each step she took.

  As she reached the end of the west corridor, a flicker of movement caught her eye near the servants' wing. Intrigued and slightly apprehensive, she paused, straining to see through the shadows that danced along the wall.

  Igor.

  Igor stood there, his eyes glassy and unfocused, a chilling testament to the struggle that gripped him. Shadows danced across his face, concealing the turmoil lurking beneath his stoic exterior. He remained frozen, his body taut and rigid, as if every muscle was held in place by an invisible force.

  While he seemed oblivious to the world around him, there was a faint tremor in his hands—a flicker of the man he once was trying to break free from the unseen chains binding him. Deep down, a battle raged within, one that he could neither fight nor escape. His thoughts were a chaotic storm, drowned out by relentless whispers echoing in his mind, leaving him powerless and trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

  Maisie stepped forward, her voice steady and resolute. “Igor?” she called out, unwavering as she held his gaze.

  He startled slightly—not in an overt way, but with a subtle tension that flicked through his shoulders. When he turned to face her, his expression was smooth and perfectly composed, as if he had rehearsed this moment countless times. The soft light highlighted the sharp angles of his jaw, underscoring the calm confidence he exuded. Yet, despite his serene facade, Maisie felt a surge of bravery wash over her. She sensed an undercurrent of complexity beneath his polished exterior.

  “Yes, Miss Lennox?” Igor’s voice broke the silence, low and steady.

  Maisie hesitated, a crease forming on her brow. “What are you doing here?” she asked, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

  “I was just passing through,” he said, his tone calm. “Making sure the doors are secured.” He shifted his weight slightly, a hint of tension in his posture.

  A pause settled between them, stretching a moment too long.

  “I thought the evening crew handled that,” she replied, her voice laced with skepticism.

  “They did,” Igor affirmed, his gaze drifting momentarily towards the ground. “I was verifying their work.”

  Maisie studied him closely, sensing an undercurrent of unease. His eyes flickered away from hers, and when they finally connected, they felt distant, as if he were looking past her, trapped in a thought far removed from their surroundings.

  “Are you all right?” she asked softly, concern creeping into her tone.

  “Of course,” he replied too quickly, a slight stiffness in his words.

  He stepped forward, and for a moment, the light caught his face at a strange angle. Something in his expression flickered—gone before she could place it. A strain. A conflict. Something tightly wound and unraveling.

  Maisie stepped aside, allowing Igor a clear path as he turned to face her. “Good night, Igor,” she said softly, her voice tinged with an uncharacteristic concern.

  He dipped his head, a slight shadow crossing his features. “Good night, Miss Lennox,” he replied, his tone formal yet distant, as if the words barely touched the surface of his thoughts.

  As she watched him stroll away, the echo of his footsteps faded down the dimly lit corridor. It was only after he rounded the corner and vanished from view that she realized she had been holding her breath, the air thick with unspoken tension.

  Something was undeniably wrong with him. A sense of unease brewed in her stomach, tightening like a vice. She couldn't shake the feeling that he had been more than just preoccupied; it was as if he had been listening intently forsomething—or—somethinge—before she had called his name, the moment hanging in the air like a fragile thread waiting to snap. Doubt crept in, but the certainty of her instinct compelled her to follow this unsettling line of thought.