Valletta
by Isabella Milner-Bradford
Content Warnings: Murder, Body Horror
The sun hovers high enough above the horizon to bathe the lake in a brightness, but the town is only just beginning to rouse. On a good morning, no clouds interrupt the warmth on his skin, on a great one, even the common breeze is persuaded to halt in its path. Today is a great morning, the only movement is the bobbing of his fishing rod rippling across the lake’s glass surface, aside for the occasional plop of a fish or landing of a water fly.
Finn inhales, and the fresh untainted air smoothes its way through him. He savors this tranquility in his own company, a delicious quiet, preparing himself for the day ahead.
A dragonfly lands on the edge of his boat, and he greets it with a tip of his hat. Its body is a stark metallic green against the darkness of the water. A rodent rustles in the reeds, and a frog croaks from somewhere behind him. The sun glints slyly off the water.
It is then that he sees her.
She perches aboard a smooth wooden boat, head tilted back, face illuminated by the morning sun. She might as well be sitting in the sky herself, the way she seems to glow as she drifts across the surface. Small strands of brown hair escape the bow tied behind her head, the rest of her hair cascading gently down her back. Her face is delicate as a deer, and utterly serene, as if she too savors these brief early hours before the day truly begins.
His fishing rod tugs gently in his hands but the thought of a catch echoes from his notice as she opens her eyes and he swears he sees them sparkle from a few leagues away. Bright and sweet she is, the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. And when their eyes meet, the world falls away.
Even long after her boat passes by and disappears through the reeds, he feels the air is still aglow where she had been.
⛧
The spring days arrive with a heavy thunder, and the docks are awash with mud. Finn’s boots are sodden, as are his smocks, but the work never ceases. Ships come and go, each bearing crates upon crates of cloth and food stacked within their holds. He often arrives home reeking of fish, or freckled with vegetable bits, or squelching from the muddy town roads, though he never pays any mind. There is fun to be had in his tiresome job. Conversation with the sailors never disappoints, their stories from across the seas told over a pint of ale, of exotic women and bar fights, sea beasts with glittering scales and waves the size of two homesteads stacked on top of one another.
Even the townspeople he delivers to have their fair share to say. The odd package from a loved one abroad oftentimes brings more joy than scandal, but what gossip he does overhear is often intriguing. Most of these conversations are incited by Clifford, a jolly old man he works alongside, delivering goods to folks all over. It is he that affords the listening ear, and the townspeople love to pour all rumors into anyone that will spread the news, which Cliff is most certainly bound to do. Finn highly doubts anyone truly believes in keeping private affairs… private.
It is usual business that Clifford stays moments longer, chin wagging with the storekeeper’s wife, whilst Finn readies the next delivery up the road. Milk and flour for the baker. He shimmies the drums to the side and stacks the powdery sacks on top of one another. As he always does, his mind wanders to peaceful places, and the world quietens around him until it is just him with his fishing road, floating on a tranquil lake.
Though lately, these daydreams are infected with a subtle anguish. He is distracted by the thought of sparkling doe eyes and a sweet smile. He has started to suspect that he launches his boat every morning anticipating the chance to see her again, rather than the calm of the waters. But nothing can calm the disquiet in his heart. He sees her in the sun rays glinting off lily pads, in the wind that caresses the reeds. He sees her until the sun sets, and even then he sees her in the stars, and in the moon bending low across the hills. He often catches himself searching for her in the town, as even the wealthy ladies liked to visit the shops along the dockside in search of new drapes, and sparkling jewelry. But not one of them hold the same grace and innocence as she.
“Moved from far across the ocean, I heard, the man and his daughter, into the estate past Middlebrook.” The storekeeper's wife is saying, piquing Finn’s interest. “I thought it was a ruin after the old Duke died. Oh, they must be wealthy, Cliff! But I’ll let you get on, I’ve kept you long enough. Do tell me all about it the next time you deliver there!”
And then Cliff is waving his goodbyes with a hearty guffaw and a twinkle in his eye. He checks the back of the wagon before heaving himself into the front.
“Alright lad?” He asks as he takes up the reins and urges the two mares on. They lurch forward. “Old Mary has the gift o’ the gab she has.” He chuckles and then leans in, “Though I wouldn’t wanna be ‘er husband, she talks more than a seabird cries!”
He erupts into a bout of guffaws and Finn cannot help a smile.
“Say Cliff,” Finn starts, “I may have overheard something ‘bout a family moved here?”
“O, yer right there, talk of the town. Family Beauclaire they say. Moved into the manor east of ‘ere not two weeks back. Gee, the house the size of the port, and the estate five times the size of that!” He throws his great hands in the air, incredulous. “Tradin’, I’ll bet he does. Else, what they be doin’ this side of the island?”
“Aye?” Finn attempts to suppress his eagerness, “and a daughter, they say?”
“Aye, a daughter. ‘Bout yer age, pretty little thing ent she. Took a wagon of supplies there a couple days ago. No mother I seen, they say she died in childbirth.” He eyes Finn and the faraway look that has fallen across his face, then offers, “Could bring ye along next week, if yer curious.”
Finn nods, a little light shimmering in his eyes. “Did you catch her name?”
“O’… somethin’ -etta… er… Val- Valletta… aye, thassit.”
Glitter on a lake, warm skin, the corner of a smile.
The sound of Cliffs nattering fades into one word on repeat. It wafts through his brain on an early morning breeze. His chest grows wings and soars up there with the seabirds. A name, tied with a bow.
“Valletta.”
⛧
She rests her head on her arms, watching diligently out the large window. From there she can see all the way down the tree-lined lane to the ornate gate that bars her from the rest of the world. She and her father moved in only a few weeks ago but she already hates it. Confined to a luxurious manor is hardly confinement, but she so longs to leave the pristinely manicured lawns behind.
Her one respite had been taken from her, a tranquil lake, so splendid and kind in its beauty. She had begged her father to allow her to enjoy it. It was all she asked for, and she wouldn’t ask for anything else, she promised.
He had agreed with a sigh, on the conditions that she only go out in the early morning before the town awoke, and that Fitzpatrick would accompany her from the moment they set foot outside the gate, to the moment they returned.
She had curtsied politely, but the glint in her big green eyes gave away her excitement. She was so like her mother, he had mused, to his delight and to his dread.
That evening he called Fitzpatrick into his library. It was dark, but for a single candle on the Master’s desk. The shelves that lined the walls were shrouded in shadow, only a pile of books remained dully illuminated, at varying stages of being read. Some old and dusty, some open and torn, others smudged from well-use.
Fitzpatrick approached, uncertain if the Master was there after all, until a voice crept out from the din.
“My daughter must not speak to another human being.” He leaned forward into the light, and it painted open his face in a yellowish hue. He would be menacing if it weren’t for the strange look that dragged at his eyes. “Is that clear?”
His words were frozen, though underneath the lilt in his foreign accent, lay something hard to decipher. Was it anxiety? Was it fear? Fitzpatrick suspected both, though it was not his place to enquire.
As the flame flickered, the drawings of strange creatures seemed to writhe on the pages in front of him. Tentacles reached across curling scrawl in a language unrecognizable to Fitzpatrick. A chill ran a frost down his spine but he took care not to express his unease. His discretion was what kept him employed by the Beauclaire patriarch after so many years. The trust he had nurtured had solidified into a loyalty he would rather perish than compromise. Had he not known the family for as long, perhaps he would mistake this cold affront for indifference, but he knew much better.
“Of course, sire.” He answered.
“Report to me after every outing.”
“Understood.”
Valletta looked forward to her mornings on the lake. If she turned away she could even pretend that she was alone—not that she despised Fitzpatrick’s company, only that he represented her father’s foreboding presence, precisely what she had come to escape.
Then one of those mornings, there was a young man in a little boat, enjoying the serenity just as she. He was fishing, his reflection wavering only slightly on the mirror of the water. She had not met many men, but oh, he was handsome. It was as if the illustrations of charming princes in her books had come alive. A mess of dark curls peeked out from under his cap, an angled jaw with a hint of stubble, and bright eyes staring… straight at her. His fishing rod sat loosely in his lap, and he looked as if words sat on the precipice of his tongue. She wanted to fold herself within her drapes. But their eyes met and a desire flickered through her, stirring the mixing pot in her stomach.
Only the lapping of the water broke through the silence. A hint of a smile toyed at the corner of the man’s lips.
Fitzpatrick hadn’t noticed the lad at first, though once he did, promptly quickened his pace. The boat drifted away, but not before a last lingering look. Valletta coyly stared at her hands in a furious attempt to hide the warming of her cheeks. She’d had a taste of something so difficult to decode, but it was sweet and tantalizing. She puzzled over the foreign feeling.
“My lady?” Fitzpatrick’s face was stoic as ever, but inwardly he cursed his negligence. They had not seen another human here all these mornings, and he had allowed his judgment to lapse. He had made a mistake.
“Please don’t tell father.” Her voice was a soft rain, and he was almost tempted to succumb. But he had given his word.
“I’m sorry.”
⛧
That was almost two weeks ago, and she has still not forgiven him. Father had immediately put an end to the outings, and so she locked herself in her room where her stomach ached and her tears were spent.
Those days in isolation she spent surrounded by her books, every one of them open at a picture of the prince, or the hero, or the loyal knight, come to save the damsel. They fought monsters, with ugly heads and squirming tentacles, holding swords and spears with a bravery unrivaled. They each conquered those monsters, and their ladies fell straight into their arms.
She favored those with the curly brown hair, each strand a perfect stroke of paint. Now she had seen one in the flesh, her heart glowed with a hope—perhaps it is my turn to be saved. She hugged the books tight and imagined his strong arms, waiting there, to catch her.
The storms passed outside her window, leaves strewn across the perfect lawns. In time, her father wore down her resentfulness and she allowed him to deliver her a new book, beautifully bound and gilded in gold. It was delivered from across the sea, she knew, from the delicate inscriptions marked only by the finest booksellers. Her heart had softened and she wrapped her arms about his neck like she did when she was a girl.
“You must understand, Lettie, that I only do this to protect you.” He brushed the tears from her eyes. “The world is full of monsters, and they hide in even the most unsuspecting people. You are too young to notice the difference.”
Even as she nodded her head, she was never inclined to agree.
⛧
The grounds are even grander than Finn imagined, green expanses of grass framed with sculpted trees, and sprinkled with flower bushes, a far cry from the muddy docks he traveled from. The manor itself protrudes from the green as a stone giant, ivy crawling up its sides. At three stories high it is not modest, and certainly the largest building he has ever seen in his simple life. He wonders why one man and his daughter would need such an exorbitant amount of space.
As he does, he sees her, reading her book perched upon a window seat on the second floor. So lovely a vision is she that he believes the clouds part just for the moments that pass by before they round the corner and she vanishes from view.
Cliff wastes not a moment in teasing him. “O, laddie, yer drooling like a chubby babe awaiting his ma’s teat!” Finn chuckles alongside him, suddenly bashful. Cliff gives him a hearty nudge, “I could tell, I did, that you were interested in something ‘bout these Beauclaire’s. Should’ve guessed it was the lady! Should’ve guessed.”
They work together to unload the week’s supplies. Crates upon crates of fresh produce, stinging spices, ink and paper they hand to the house servants, none of whom are friendly enough to chat, not even after Cliff’s regular attempts at a jibe. He excuses himself to speak with the head servant, and Finn is left to deal with the last few crates.
After all is completed, he turns to find her standing in front of the mares, admiring, albeit from afar. Her hair is gathered in a plait behind her, and her gown is a simple green, but beaded with a luxurious craftsmanship.
“My lady,” He bows low, recalling how his mother taught him to address the noble. Valletta only stares at him with a puzzled fascination. A few moments pass. He rummages around for something, anything, to say. He wonders whether she recognizes him from that morning on the lake, wishing he could express how she captures his every waking moment since he first laid eyes on her. Instead he takes a tentative step forward. “You can stroke her if you like.” To demonstrate, he runs his hand across the horse's mane, and motions for her to do the same.
After a moment of hesitation, she does. Her eyes fill with a wild delight, her smile a perfect crescent.
“She is beautiful.” She says in a voice of honey, lilted with a foreign accent, so quiet he strains to hear her. The mare whinnies, and she laughs like a song.
“I’m Finn.” He clears his throat, “I heard you moved in not even a month ago. Your house is beautiful. I ain’t seen anything like it.”
She laughs at that, but doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns away and walks towards a gap in a nearby hedge, only turning to check if he follows before disappearing through the foliage.
Finn looks around and finds himself completely alone, not even a manservant to be seen. Cliff typically takes his time with big deliveries such as these, even if the recipients are not the type for gossiping. Finn shrugs to himself, figuring he has a few moments to spare, and follows her through the hedge.
On the other side is a sight to behold. Here the grounds extend for acres, grand oaks leaning over one edge of a cobblestone path that runs along the outer edge. Small bushes gather about the feet of graceful statues permanently poised in dramatic poses, a beauty only rivaled by a mass of brightly colored flowers, and by Valletta herself.
“O, blimey,” Finn exclaims. He removes his cap, as if in respect for the sight before him. The front of the manor was grand enough, but it pales in comparison to this. Grandeur drips off every leaf, and with every splash of the fountain that sits in the midst of it all. He drinks it in while she watches in amusement. “Now this is a sight for sore eyes.”
He turns back to her and catches her gaze for a moment before she abruptly turns away.
“It is a prison.” She says, with a hint of sadness.
“A prison?” That stumps him a little. “What crimes do I have to commit to end up here?” He means it as a jibe, but he notices the high walls running along the perimeter of the grounds, no gaps, only impenetrable stone. The gate he entered through must be the only way in or out, and he recalls there being a lengthy discussion between Cliff and the attending guard before it was opened to them.
She laughs anyway. “The crime of being the Master’s daughter.” She starts along the path, brushing her fingers through the flowers that turn their faces towards her.
“Aye, that doesn’t seem so terrible.” He says, “Besides, if this were a prison, how is it I saw ye out on the lake that mornin’?”
She touches her stomach and looks up at him, “You remember that?”
Her reaction took him by surprise. She, who radiates a sunlight so blinding, her soft eyes piercing into his memory, truly believes she could be forgotten?
“Of course I do.” This time, when he meets her gaze, she stays there.
Cliff’s voice calling his name echoes across the gardens and startles them both. Finn shuffles his feet and replaces his hat, feeling a little lost for words. A breeze rustles the hedges about them. Cliff calls again, louder this time.
“Right, I’d better be off, but I’d like to see you again. Will you be here in a week? O, of course you will, you only live here.” He turns away, and back again, and then bows, remembering himself. “Until I see you again, Valletta.”
⛧
The week crawls by slower than the snails she watches inch across the grass in a futile attempt to distract herself. Even her books cannot keep her mind occupied long enough without thoughts of him seeping through. Her ladies maids report her as being increasingly distracted, dreamy, and inattentive.
Then, one day, as she sits on her windowsill, the book in her hand thoroughly abandoned, the front gate opens. The wagon ambles its way down the lane, and she watches in earnest. There he is, sitting in the front, next to the large wagon driver. Her prince.
She had relished every second of their time together, replaying his words over and over again, committing every inch of his face to memory. She had decided that the illustrations in her books do no justice. They completely omit the roughness of his jaw, the slight twinkle in his eyes, the veins that obtrude from such strong hands. And so, she had waited for the real thing.
He spies her in the window and stands with a wave and a grin. She waves back. She hopes her eagerness is not so obvious. Her stomach aches. She wants to hear him say her name.
⛧
So the weeks pass, each visit as coy as the last. She waits for the wagon to be emptied and Cliff to head inside the parlor before emerging. They stop to feed the mares an apple each before they disappear into the gardens together, arm in arm. There they stroll amongst the flowers taking a different route each time. Finn tells her all about life beyond the gates, and Valletta bathes in his presence, laughing wondrously at every clever quip and humorous story of the townspeople. She never offers her own, there is not so much for her to say, but Finn has plenty for the both of them.
Between visits, she grows impatient and bored. Her books are never so entertaining as the stories that come from Finn’s mouth. The way he weaves his words—she can imagine truly being there, watching it fold out before her. Never has she heard of such stories before. Her books are filled with grandiose adventures and glinting swords and cunning evil, but she finds herself more compelled by the small snippets of real lives. Like the butcher that fell in love with the barmaid, until she upended a flagon on him after finding him in bed with another. Or the woman whose husbands’ clothes went floating down the stream after the wind plucked them as they were drying.
But her favorites are of his morning visits to the lake. He tells her how muddy the waters were after the storms, how a family of frogs reside in a newly uprooted swamp tree, how the water lilies are now in bloom and how the dragonfly that landed on the end of his fishing rod had stayed there until he shooed it away.
She so longs to join him but knows her father would never agree to such an outing. He would never agree to her conversations with Finn at all and would send him away if he so heard a whiff of his presence. She doesn’t dare take the risk.
She lies awake at night wondering about what could be, what he would feel like if he lay right here beside her. His warmth, his scent. She would trace his every callus, every scar, every freckle ever gifted to him by that wondrous thing called life. Her stomach claws at her from inside. It aches as her heart does.
⛧
He has found it. The weakness in the walls. Between his visits with Valletta, he had crept along the outer perimeter of the manor grounds, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of the guards, but the thickness of the trees hides him well.
The stone stands tall and solid, utterly immovable and unscalable. But, obscured by the encroaching forest, beyond the gardens and view from the house, the stone wall has ruptured. The sweeping storms had toppled an old oak, and the wall was crumpled beneath it.
He wastes no time at all. The next moment he sees her, he whispers in her ear and watches as her eyes sparkle.
“On the third night from now,” He feels like a giant, her small hands swallowed in his. “I will be waiting for you.”
There is a slight fear nesting in the corner of his heart. Perhaps he is wrong. Perhaps she cannot bring herself to betray her father. He knows she yearns, hungers for the taste of freedom, and he so wants to be the one to serve it to her. But is it enough?
He waits under the shadows of the trees, his horse whinnying gently in his ear. A mist creeps its way across the sky, and the stars dull their light in response. From the brushes, insects chirrup their greetings and goodbyes. The night hides in anticipation.
The fear settles within him as the darkness deepens. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, the threat of battle rumbling across the landscape. Perhaps he picked the wrong night.
But then, all his worries melt at the sight of her, bathed in starlight, loose hair tumbling about her face as she climbs down the hill, across the fallen oak, and into his arms. Her dress is a plain white chemise, the least lavish of her garments he knew, but she could wear a sack and look as radiant as a mountain of melting snow. He holds her, and she is laughing, a relief spreading its wings.
He takes her hand and together they ride through the trees, the Beauclaire manor disappearing behind them with every second.
⛧
A few drops of rain threaten to spill from the clouds that follow them across the land. Finn had packed food and traveling clothes ready for the journey ahead, to where – the only question left unanswered. Safe passage over the seas had been bargained for with a hefty proportion of his savings, but after that? Well, he has enough to take them wherever they wish to go.
Before they leave their lives behind them, Valletta has only one request.
⛧
They fall into the boat, laughing and in a tangle of limbs, giddy with desire and rebellion. The crest of this night is not so perfect as the serene mornings Finn spent fishing on this lake, but it is the perfect place to bid farewell to a life so ordinary until she floated into it.
He holds her in his arms now, drifting across the shadows in the waters and cannot help but believe in magic.
The stars, though smothered by storm clouds, hang glinting in her hair, the breeze wafts through her dress like a gentle mist and the moons are orbs in her eyes, pitted and glowing.
“Valletta,” he whispers, her face a soft fruit plucked from the garden of Eden, staring ripe and ready up at him. “My Valletta. Oh how I love you.”
The sky rumbles, hungry.
The rain pours down then, in torrents, but all he can see is her. Their clothes suction to them, skin slick and slippery.
He bends his face low to kiss her. Heavy droplets splash about them. He anticipates her lips, waiting to fall into the pillowy softness.
But they never come.
He falls backwards against the boat.
Valletta’s mouth, a moment before a sweet smile, unhinges grotesquely from her jaw, unnaturally wide. Thunder crashes overhead. A rip of lightning brightens the surface of the lake for just a moment. In that flash her eyes pure white, looming over him, from the gaping hole where her lips were, burst forth a mess of tentacles, reaching for him, ravenous, slipping, grasping, thrashing against the boat. He opens his mouth to scream. And then—
Darkness.
⛧
The Master Beauclaire sits at the head of the elongated table, the meal set before him flickering in the firelight. Lamb, Brussel sprouts and potatoes from the garden.
On the opposite end, another dinner plate, going cold.
A stray breeze snuffs out a candle, and a house servant moves to relight it.
Outside the sky is wild with discontent, and a sense of foreboding hangs over the Master’s shoulder. Fitzpatrick had informed him that the Lady Valletta had not been in her chambers and looked mildly perturbed when the Master had met the news with nonchalance. Not a hint of emotion passed over his face, he simply motioned for dinner to be served regardless.
“Will you not wait for the lady?” Fitzpatrick inquired.
“No,” The Master checked his pocket watch, “She will be along.”
Fitzpatrick glanced out the window, at the weather growing unrestful. He was not convinced.
The house shakes slightly at the clap of thunder, the chandelier above the dining table clinking gently. The Master is halfway through his meal when the front door opens and slams shut, the storm whistling through the manor, just for a moment, before returning to stillness. The house servants yet again, move to relight any diminished flames.
The Master marvels at the tenderness of the meat, the pop of flavor with every bite. He had gifted the cook exotic ingredients and spices, and relished the intricate dishes she conjured as a result.
Even as his daughter, completely sodden, barefoot, and trailing mud and weeds through the house, enters the dining room and sits at her place on the opposite end, he does not cease enjoying his meal.
He glances up at her, hair dark and dripping, smudges across her face. He almost does not recognize her, as if the girl he saw reading in the garden that afternoon had been ripped out and a shell left behind.
The storm, dulled by the solid walls of the manor, continues to rage outside, but the dining room is silent, aside from the occasional plink of the master’s cutlery, or the gentle drip of her pretty white dress. Valletta does not move.
“Eat, my dear.” But the food set in front of her is cold and uninviting.
“I’m not hungry.” She whispers, in a voice so small he only just hears her over the sound of his own chewing.
“A shame,” He stabs through the meat, slicing it with his knife. Back and forwards, ripping through sinew and fat and muscle. “He was a nice boy.”
She does not reply, does not move as he continues his meal.
My Valletta, he thinks, as he swallows his last bite. How she is so like her mother.
Isabella Milner-Bradford (she/her) is a New Zealand/Filipina writer currently based in London. She spends her time photosynthesising with a pen in hand or immersing herself in the stories of indie video games. She can be found on Twitter @BellaMBradford.