A moment passed, and after some muffled sounds from inside, the door began to slowly creak open, the young Lord Lachenal straining to open the massive steel-reinforced timbers. The housekeeper gave the stubborn door a good shove, and together they got it fully opened.
“Cooky and I were thinking that the two of you were getting hungry, what with all the racket Paul's been making.” Mrs. Blanchard chatted amiably, sparing her employer a concerned look. The young Lord Lachenal was handsome, in the way of pale young men the world round, with his alabaster skin and mane of rich, black hair. Even with his perpetually half-distracted look, Master Jean had no shortage of admirers. A fact which amused the staff to no end, seeing as the young Lord Lachenal was wholly unaware of his own looks.
“Er, thank you. And thank Cook.” The young Lord Lachenal favored Mrs. Blanchard with a swift smile, then looked around the cluttered study. Absently, he twisted the Lachenal signet ring on his left hand. “Just put them down... anywhere, I suppose.”
This was easier said than done, as the study, never a bastion of neatness and organization in the best of times, was currently being invaded by a small army of workman's tools. A collection of hammers and saws sprawled next to antique letter openers and correspondence from old school friends. A tray of cement occupied the floor beneath the lilac-curtained window, while the stout, oaken door had been given a backbone of steel. Leftover iron bars were stacked haphazardly in a corner, beside the gilded end table. It was onto this last that Mrs. Blanchard placed the tray of sandwiches.
Paul the footman paused in his struggles with the bars he was placing in the last window to reach over and swipe one of the sandwiches, grinning unabashedly as Mrs. Blanchard sent him a black look. “Those are for Master Jean first, you layabout, not you!”
“Sorry ma'am, but this is hungry work!” Paul smiled, wolfing down the sandwich in record time, then returning to working the steel bar into the Chateau Lachenal's stone window-frames.
“It's... it's alright Mrs. Blanchard, it really is.” Lord Lachenal waved it away, sparing only a glance at the sandwiches before beginning to pace about the room. “Paul is doing very good work, truly. How much longer, Paul? It's almost ni--, it's getting late.”
“Nearly done, sir.” Paul the footman braced himself and gave the steel bars gracing the window a firm push. They didn't so much as twitch, which was a fair achievement considering that Paul served Chateau Lachenal as both footman, groom, and general groundskeeper, and had a build that would make a Falkovnian marauder jealous. “That ought to do it, milord. This'd stop a cannon ball, it would.”
“I can call Professor Bellec, Master Jean, if you wish.” Mrs. Blanchard offered. Her sister had been doing the cooking for the elderly academic for a good fifteen years now, so he would come if she asked politely enough. “He can cast a few wards around the windows, keep out anything you like, sir.”
“NO! No mages.” Lord Lachenal shouted, causing both servants to stare at their young master. the aristocrat continued hurriedly. “I mean, it's no necessary to bother the professor. It would... just cause more trouble, there's no need.”
“I'm sure it wouldn't be any trou--” Mrs. Blanchard began to say, but a look from Paul cut her short. If their employer didn't want any mages around, then that was his affair, and none of theirs. “But as you say. Shall I tell Cook to get dinner started?”
“N-n-no...” Lord Lachenal glanced at the wall-clock. Six thirty nine in the evening, it proclaimed. He looked at Paul, who was gathering up his tools, and at Mrs. Blanchard. “It's... I won't be coming down for dinner.”
“Shall I have Cook send something more substantial up, sir?” Mrs. Blanchard offered. It offended her sensibilities that Master Jean should skip a meal. It wasn't as though he had much meat on his bones anyway.
“No. In fact, please, both of you, take the rest of the night off. And Cook as well. You deserve it.” Lord Lachenal said, his voice quivering. He looked so very young. Suddenly, he threw his arms around Mrs. Blanchard, burying his face in her shoulder. “You deserve so much more. I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You've been my family, since... since I... Since Father died. I'm so sorry.”
The two servants exchanged another confused glance, and the housekeeper patted Lord Lachenal on the back, even as he let out a couple of helpless, wracking sobs. “There, there, sir, it's alright... we love you too. Been like our son.”
“I'm...G-goodbye, Mrs. Blanchard, Paul.” Then the door closed, and the two servants could hear heavy deadbolt being pulled shut. “Goodbye.”
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The next morning, Mrs. Blanchard collected the quick breakfast Cook had prepared and went to find young Master Jean. The dining room was empty, and a glance inside the bedroom confirmed that the Lord Lachenal had not been there that night. It was with a vague puzzlement that Mrs. Blanchard went to check the study. Surely Master Jean couldn't have spent the whole night there. It was with a stern talking-to about the young Master's unhealthy sleeping habits in mind that Mrs. Blanchard ascended the stairs to the study.
Her scream roused the entire household.
When Paul and Cook arrived, they found the breakfast tray in shatters, as Mrs. Blanchard pointed hysterically at the door. From beneath the massively reinforced oak doors of the study, a large pool of blood had seeped out, staining the beige hall carpet a deep, rich burgundy. The door refused to budge when Paul tried. It was only later, when the gendarmerie had arrived, that Paul was able to kneel in the pool of blood and slowly take the door off its hinges.
The study was a scene out of nightmare. The thick steel bars that Paul had installed just yesterday were torn from their moorings and tossed contemptuously aside, the metal rods twisted apart by brute strength. Two of the three bookcases had been knocked over, spilling old family records and modern novels itnto an untidy heap, while the third had simply been torn apart, the wooden frame shattered into so much kindling. The thick, solid desk, which had served the Chateau's study since Master Jean's grandfather's time, was still in one piece, though the surface of the desk was gouged with long, deep marks. And everywhere one looked, there was blood.
Blood had pooled out from the body, congealed into a thick sludge by the time the room was opened. Blood had been splattered onto the portrait of Master Jean's great-grandfather, the painted face of that distinguished gentleman now covered with slick, crimson droplets. Blood had soaked through the fallen books, land records and family trees now fit only for destruction. The Lachenals' massive, leather-bound Book of Ezra had fallen open to one of the early passages, but Ezra's words were illegible, coated over with dried, red-brown blood. There was blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood on the furniture, even a handful of splashes upon the ceiling. There was blood everywhere around the unrecognizeable corpse.
It was only by the Lachenal signet ring upon the hand that the inquest was able to conclude that the corpse was that of the young Jean Lachenal.
