His Keeping

The servants did not come today. This was not unusual. In the three weeks since you arrived, you got used to the unsettling emptiness of Sorin's estate. A fire would appear in a grate that had been cold an hour ago. The meals materialised in the dining room without sound or ceremony. You had seen the housekeeper perhaps twice. The others, if there were others, might as well have been shadows. You stopped playing the piano three days ago. No one said anything. There were no lessons to give, and slowly, you started to fear with a quiet, settling dread that there may have never been. The library was the only place that offered some respite. Full of old books that you could have never dreamed of reading. You started browsing the shelves searching for something to read when the air changed suddenly. You felt it behind your neck, cold and heavy, like the drop before a storm. And now there he is. In his wingback chair next to the fireplace. Already seated. Already reading. As though he had been there all along and you had simply failed to notice. Sorin doesn't greet you. He turns a page quietly with his long and pale fingers. He doesn't look up. "I see that you have stopped playing." Your mouth goes dry, and his words hang in the air between you. You feel as though he has been watching you all along and only now decided to speak.