Salvation of Ignorance

Chapter 3: Your Desire To Deny

Phoebe came to the conclusion, that following morn, that sleep was a deplorable task with its wicked temptation and denial to those who desired it most. Flipping her pillow over, she tried to seek compassion against the burning pressure in her left temple by burying it in the cool side of the pillow. There was only a spiritless nature in the recess of feathers hidden in a cloth exterior and she was exposed to be played the victim by plagued thoughts.

In this world, there were gods, there were mortals, and then there were Phoebe's. The latter being the runt of the group that Spartans cast on a journey for Poseidon's judgment. At least that's what society should enact upon her kind.

She harbored no love regarding Mr. Claremont. This did not supply denial on her part, for she would have acted upon romantic beliefs if any had inconveniently manifested after all these years of withholding. No, this was the muses taking the strings of her puppetry to contrive a harp that would play the tune of Ares and Aphrodite's love with improper timing.

No, that was a drastic assumption. She would be too hasty if she were to degrade the emotions with such a title. Not to imply that she was inclined to judge those who found pleasantries out of wedlock, but merely that she could find no motivation for her own participation in the hobby. Preoccupied in attempting to resolve her distress of social decorum, she couldn't imagine enduring the hardship of fearing the possibility of being found a hussy. Then being branded by it.

Then there was the act itself. Her conversations being passable at best, any comfort to be found in an embrace seemed lost upon her. No, it was certainly not lust.

Phoebe felt pain. Not the pain inspired by influenza, but the pain of having one's chest hollowed like the trunk of a tree rotten out after the harvesting by carpenter ants. This was not the feeling prophesized in many a sonnet and serenade.

Sitting up, she felt her temper cool to equilibrium as her bare feet grounded themselves on the wooden floor. She wiped the moisture off her brow with the palm of her hand and a thought of Mr. Talwin surfaced. Even in thought, the man could numb her. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to steady the pulsating veins in her wrists.

Mr. Talwin and she were not courting, and any bindings they had were in gossip. If she was smitten by Mr. Claremont, she was free for subjecting to his pursuing (the occurance of such a design being a matter of its own entirety), but that was not her desire. This anonymous emotion was painful and terrifying and if anything, she wished for Mr. Claremont's existence to dissipate.

Reaching for her jacket and recently completed book, she quickly left the room and made her way downstairs. Perhaps she could exhaust herself to slumber with a walk.

"Was that an apparition I saw just now?" A voice halted her as she was making her way out the back door.

Biting her inner cheek, she backtracked and redirected to the kitchen that harbored the owner of the previous utterance. Upon entering the room, she felt pins of heat prick the high corners of her cheeks and a dry sweat emerge through her temples. Two sources of illumination made exception to this room compared to the dark and musky cloak over the remainder of the manor: the windows adorned with unceasingly opened curtains and a fire seeking air that was excessively dwarfed by the wall-engorging fire place.

Outlined in the window's light were two figures. The first was a middle-aged gentleman who was more occupied in a jar of smoked sausage than aiding in food preparations. Homer Hans Barrettmore wore his sleeves rolled and boots muddied for the fall harvest. Despite owning their max of seven slaves, Homer still felt inclined to give aid during the busiest season. It gave him an appropriate refusal to the season's festivities in favor of early rest. Not that the inaccurate acceptability of the excuse detoured him from enacting them any other season.