Behind the Looking Glass

Seeds of Evil




Gregorio Alexi Roshenko, patriarch of the House of Roshenko, was respected, wealthy, and of distinguished lineage that could be traced back a thousand years. He held his elegant head erect and strode decisively down the corridor and past the many gilded framed portraits of his ancestors. The painted figures within breathed a sigh of relief that the rightful and just ruler of the estate had returned from being absent for so long. If he had paused long enough to converse with them as was his usual wont, they would have been able to convey to him the horrors they had witnessed before their stricken sensibilities forced them to flee to other portraits located as far away from the scene as possible. Seeing the rare look of wrath upon his face, they buzzed and whispered among themselves instead as to whether he already knew. He was headed directly for the room situated at the end of the long and wide, as well as richly furnished hallway, and his heels echoed loudly with each step along the highly polished marble floor.

He stopped before the door that was covered with a delicate filigree made of gold, twin mirrors on opposite walls reflected the image of a large man with broad shoulders to near infinity, and without his customary polite courtesy of knocking, he flung it open with a mere flick of his hand. He continued straight through the extravagantly decorated sitting room to his son’s bedchambers. Again, with a mere flick, the next golden door was forcefully opened and he stood at the foot of his son’s ornate bed. Crystal lamps flickered to life as he entered and his gaze swept around the lavish room and took in the plush furnishings, thick carpets, and priceless objects d’art that was scattered about the chamber as Vladimir slept.

It pained and incensed him to see how richly his son lived in comparison to that of Augusta’s modest chambers, which were not even as comfortable as that of a servant’s and merely contained the barest of essentials. Filled with repugnance at his only son, he moved around to the side of the large white silk-draped four-poster bed, and with one large hand, reached under and heaved the mattress up, rudely spilling Vladimir to the floor. Shocked out of his peaceful slumber, the younger Roshenko quickly scrambled to his feet and came face to face with his father’s stern and angry visage.

“Fa-father…” he stood and ran a nervous hand through his dishevelled hair. “You’re home.”

“How very observant of you, my son. Yet, you don’t seem pleased to see me at all,” he said tightly as he glowered at a younger and slightly smaller version of himself.

“Of course I am Father,” he lied. “Why didn’t you send word you were returning? I would have had the servants prepare a banquet in your honour.”

“I tired of the Riviera and only wished for the comforts of home.” He paused and studied the man standing before him then continued speaking, “Tell me, if I had sent word, would you have coerced them into assisting you in hiding your heinous acts toward the fair Augusta as well?” Gregorio observed as his son stiffened at the well-deserved and pointed accusation, and he knew his suspicions were more than justified. “Just moments after arriving, and after being informed by the servants that she was here, I found much to my concern my dear ex-daughter-in-law in a most grievous condition, caused no doubt by your own hands,” his voice had become pitched low in tone, which was a sure sign of his displeasure at which Vladimir took as an omen.

“She is my wife, and it is none of your business…” he raised his voice in defence of his actions as his anger began to grow at the old man’s interference with his plans, which he knew would soon begin to unravel.

“She – is not your wife! Augusta annulled the marriage long ago, and I always wondered the real reason for it – now I know exactly why, and it most certainly is MY business what goes on in my house!” Gregorio interrupted and bellowed in Vladimir’s face.

“Your house?” Vladimir laughed mirthlessly. “You’re hardly here long enough to even call it yours! I’m the one that’s been taking care of things around here – not you!” He snarled through clenched teeth and shoved the older man back away from him.

Flinging his walking stick aside, Gregorio Roshenko wrapped both hands in his son’s nightshirt and propelled him until he had him bent painfully over the back of an overstuffed chair. “And I see what a pathetic job you have done taking care of things around here. Now my dear boy, you listen very carefully to me. Where you got your streak of ruthlessness and hellish ways from, I shall never know, nor do I care to find out. Your mother – rest her soul; and don’t you even dare to roll your eyes at the mention of her, was unquestionably one of the gentlest natured beings I have ever known, and it is of a certainty you did not inherit your ill-begotten traits from me. You have one week, and exactly only one week from now, to gather your things and leave, and as for your inheritance, you are cut off. Where you go, I no longer care. What you do, I do not care, but you will not do it under my roof, and you will not fund it with my wealth or besmirch the name of Roshenko! You will choose whatever of your things you need or want to take with you, for I shall not allow you to return because you forgot something,” he released his son and stepped back silently summoning his walking stick from across the room back into his hand. “I suggest you act like a man during the time you still have left here for if you put one toe out of line, or interfere with Augusta in any way, you will regret it for the rest of your wretched life.”

They stared at one another for some time until Vladimir broke eye contact with his father and slowly rose from his awkward position across the back of the chair. Satisfied he had made his point, the elder Roshenko swept from his son’s chambers. The younger man glared defiantly at his father’s back as he left – yet he had not the courage to say anything in retort. He paced the room repeatedly as he fumed about how his father was spoiling his plans. Augusta was his, he had wanted her from the moment he first saw her, and he had finally found her again and no one was going to take her away from him, not even his father. As far as he was concerned, she was still his wife and it was her duty to give him a child. If only she just hadn’t have been so strong-willed and more deferring, things would have been fine, but she needed to be broken and taught to realize her place. He tried to think without panic, and suddenly an idea formed and a malicious smile began to play about his lips. Vladimir dressed quickly for he had to put into motion his plan much sooner than he anticipated he would, and little did he realize that his scheme would begin to fall apart and fail miserably before he could see it come to complete fruition.

In the meantime, Magda who had a full and extensive knowledge of potions and herbs that could rival any in the wizarding world, had given Augusta a potion of the old nurse’s own making. The extraordinarily mysterious brew had soothed and already had begun to heal the damage done caused by Vladimir’s wanton and continued cruel use of the younger woman without allowing her small body to heal from months of previous assaults. Magda’s gnarled hands expertly bathed Augusta’s abused body in a warm solution of St. John’s Wort and other much more uncommon herbs, and most of the bruises had disappeared with the worst steadily following suit. But, Magda did not possess within her the ability to heal Augusta’s gravely wounded heart and damaged psyche, and she lay propped upon fluffed pillows wearing a clean silken gown with her head turned to stare out the window. It was as if she no longer cared for things in this world and her broken spirit had already left for far better and much more gentler places. This caused Magda to fear greatly, not for Augusta’s sake, but for her own selfish preservation. For if she couldn’t get the woman to respond, even the slightest bit, she knew her fate would be sealed, so she gave the younger woman a dreamless sleeping draught. When Gregorio Roshenko returned, he would find a thin yet physically healed; peacefully sleeping woman, and it would stave off any punishments in the very near future.

Seeing that all appeared as it should with Augusta, and leaving one of the younger female servants to sit with her, Magda needed more of her secret remedies and also wished to ready her things should she have to take flight from the elder Roshenko’s ire. She quickly headed toward the lower levels of the estate and muttered to herself in the old language as she went down the dim passageway. A pair of hands shot out of the darkness and prevented her progress, yet these hands did not frighten her, they merely irritated her and she turned to face the owner of the hands.

“Do not stop me boy! I have things to see to. Things such as our survival depend on it,” she hissed at Vladimir.

“Exactly, old woman – our survival. We’re leaving sooner than I thought we would have to. Tell the servants that are loyal to me to gather their things, and make my wife ready for travel. We will leave before dawn for the ancient place while the old man sleeps – I have sent word to the few that survive who have been faithful, and they are gathering there even as we speak. Once my father is defeated, and I take the power he holds that is rightfully mine, then none shall equal me.”