Page 7 of Eternal Craving

And it did.

Roelle and I had never spoken about the events that had led to my brother’s death, though on several occasions I’d felt compelled to open up to him to try to find the truth. But doubt kept me silent.

Somewhere far off in the house, Roelle could be heard shouting at a servant. Trying to retrieve even more from my shaky memory, I stole into the well-stocked library. I seized what time I could to read – devouring stories – while kindly staff would, on occasion, lend a hand in my learning.

Eventually, I slept in the servants’ quarters. The firm, musty bed felt like a luxury.

Once a week, Roelle arranged for one of the city’s finest teachers to visit. Senor Machon provided much of my early education and under his strict tutelage, I studied hard. Such an indulgence was unusual for a lowly servant, though thegossiping staff soon became accustomed to my schooling. Roelle reassured them that he had every intention of putting my education to use as his office boy. He hated dealing with the boring details of running the estate and thought it a fantastic idea that he could educate me to do it.

I looked forward to my lessons. Eager to present my teacher with numerous questions, I hauled large books borrowed from the library down the corridor. Machon patiently answered. He shared his belief that the world, previously considered to be flat, had been proven to be round. He presented ancient Greek texts that supported this theory. Swearing me to secrecy, he warned that such thinking would bring accusations of heresy.

Wide-eyed, I’d nodded and although I’d hesitated to question the meaning of heresy, I fully understood that I’d been entrusted with something very special. Señor Machon reported to Roelle that he considered me his most gifted student.

Shortly afterwards, I found the courage to request a visit home. Cook had told me my village could be reached in half a day.

“Maybe,” Roelle said.

I looked past the confines of the estate wondering if my mother would ever visit. Jealousy seeped in when I thought of my sister nestling in my mother’s arms, receiving the love I craved, and I wondered if they’d forgotten me.

Living this new life absorbed my time, the passing of which blurred the faces of my past.

I remained here, not by choice, but because fear had claimed me – and the ceaseless threats bound me within the walls of my own mind.

Chapter Four

As an eighteen-year-old, I towered over Roelle.

Being well over six feet, wearing the clothes he’d purchased for me, I presented the very image of a young gentleman. Although my quiet demeanor disconcerted the staff, my dark locks, hazel eyes, and sharp features easily enamored them.

And sometimes, for my own amusement, I’d bewitch the female staff with my charisma.

But I quickly slipped back into the torment of thoughts and memories that haunted me, relentless reminders that I was nothing, as my future stretched out before me in all its bleakness.

Head down, I engaged in my duties, often avoiding interaction with others.

For my birthday in October, Roelle gifted me with one of the estate’s finest stallions. He personally taught me how to ride – but boredom made his wickedness show. He’d startle the horse, causing the animal to rear up. As I hit the ground with a thud, I could hear his laughter.

I burned with quiet fury that he’d risked my safety for a jest – silently swearing that one day, the fear would be his to bear.

I sought revenge while cleaning Roelle’s office. I’d rummage through his private papers, eager to discover something that might embarrass him. I soon found where he hid the key to a secret compartment in his desk. Inside, he’d stashed letters.

Reading one of them by candlelight, it became clear that my progress had been followed by a friend of his, Felipe Grenaldi. Puzzled, I replaced the letter, wondering why this man would be interested in me.

Shoved behind a stack of wooden boxes, half-hidden, rested an upside-down artist’s canvas. I’d never noticed it before. I eased it out, turned it over and laid it on the desk, examining the portrait of four men standing close together, all dressed in matador apparel.

One of them was my brother, Ricardo, his likeness masterfully portrayed. My heart ached and my throat tightened as I gazed at his familiar figure.

In the picture, Roelle had flung his arm affectionately around the shoulders of a man whose face had been blacked out with what looked like ink. On hearing someone approaching, I quickly put the painting back in its hiding place.

Something about that painting had me thinking it could be a clue to why my brother was no longer alive. Or maybe my own guilt was too heavy to bear, and some part of me needed to believe it wasn’t my fault. Guilt sunk its claws into me deep, dragging me down with every thought, until even silence felt like punishment.

I deserved this place.

Despite my seeming promotion, Roelle never let me forget my place and often provided chores that would easily remind me. One wrong move could result in a threat of returning to that cellar. Therefore, I strived for perfection, very often going over tasks I’d already completed to make sure I’d done my best.

One late evening while I was tidying Roelle’s bedchamber, he entered carrying matador apparel. I recognized the embellished gold braid that swept up the breast of the jacket and down along the shoulders. The small, black buttons had been fastened with fine, scarlet ribbon. This outfit had belonged to my brother. Roelle slid it into the wardrobe.

I reached for Roelle’s black leather shoes and began polishing them.