His Black Wings by Astrid Yrigollen

suppose.”
     
    We walked out of the stable in to the afternoon sunlight. The air was sweet and fresh and even though Mr. Lowood was relating something sad to me I felt at ease. Usually things that were unjust or sad made me feel powerless and distraught. I would take them to heart and mull over them at night. My father used to call me a Wurtle , the title of a story he used to read to me when I was a little girl about a turtle who worried all the time. Perhaps, even though I had not been here long, I was feeling more at ease in general with my host and surroundings. I loved the rural setting of the house, my spacious rooms and the friendly staff. I felt that perhaps things were changing for the better for me and this was somewhere I could finally feel safe. Mr. Lowood continued his story.
     
    “I assume that I really wanted to protect him as she did, so I bought this place and whisked him away.” He gazed at the house and lawns and smiled wistfully.
     
    “You know, I liked the way this house looked but it was its name that sold me. It seemed terribly romantic and old fashioned in a sense.” Mr. Lowood murmured.
     
    “The house has a name? I can’t recall if you  mentioned it before.” I replied. He nodded and pointed to the trees that served as a wind break.
     
    “Note how at any time of the day, or night for that matter, you can come out doors and witness the trees moving to and fro.” He pointed a grey gloved finger towards the trees now. I followed his gaze to the trees. At this moment they were gently swaying in an unseen breeze.
     
    “There is always a wind that is blowing here from the west. The lane one must travel to get here is aptly named Westwind Lane. So naturally the house is called Westwind.” He smiled triumphantly as if finally revealing a great secret. I had to smile in return at my benefactor’s pleasure.
     
    “I hope that there might be a chance you can be happy here.” I nodded. This seemed to be a recurring theme for him I sensed. He wanted all those around him to be content. Mr. Lowood reached up and scratched his temple.
     
    “Now where was I?” He knitted his brows and looked at the ground in earnest effort to recollect where he had been in his story about his son that I had yet to meet. He snapped his fingers as best as he could in gloves and smiled.
     
    “Yes! My son, he grew up here from five years of age. The servants we have, have been here since then. The younger men you may see, like that fellow,” he pointed to a robust looking young man walking in to the servants’ entrance of the house, “that is Thomas’s grandson, or a relative of the Whitby’s. They all know that Etrigan is here but they have never seen him either. He hides even from them.”
     
    “So how does he eat or take exercise? Surely that cannot be healthy to always be shuttered away?” I asked. Mr. Lowood shrugged.
     
    “He eats when he feels like it, goes out when he feels like it I presume, but really I do not know.”
     
    “Surely, he can’t be happy.” I said in a low voice. I spied Mrs. Whitby’s plump form come out from the back of the house. She waved a dish rag at us.
     
    “Ah, your curtain samples must be here. I have kept you out here long enough for today. We should go in.” Mr. Lowood once again took my arm and guided me in to the house.
     
    I spent the afternoon picking out curtain samples for my room with a merchant from the closest town. According to Mrs. Whitby, the town was twenty minutes by carriage and forty by foot. After the fabric merchant left, Mrs. Whitby stayed behind to review my choices. I was left with the samples, but the merchant would be back in a weeks’ time to hang the drapes.
     
    “Oh this is a lovely pattern Miss. It’s not too thick, but not too thin either. Should do nicely for the winter as well.”
     
    “I was looking for something that matches the room.” She nodded and turned her lip down as what I noted was her habit.
     
    “Good