Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

Another night without sleep, yet Crispin did not feel the lack. In fact he felt energized, euphoric. Nothing vexed him - not his leg, the preternatural gloom [his eyesight appeared even stronger than it had been last night], nor the gnawing cold. They had become mere irritants - things he couldn't be bothered to acknowledge, not when he had Mirella to brighten the hours, warm his thoughts, soothe his pain.

Mirella. He tossed the pillow into the air, caught it and hugged it tightly against his chest. Just the thought of her brought such lightness to his heart that he wouldn’t have been surprised to find himself levitating. Only one thing kept him earthbound – the knowledge that Elena had made no mention of having a daughter. That she had kept Mirella’s existence secret was bitterly disturbing and he made up his mind to face her that morning.

He was dressing by the window in the hopes that Filch would happen by when he spied Mutch, an empty burlap sack slung over his shoulder, heading for the trail. Upon being hailed the hunter approached and, learning Crispin's needs, set off, reappearing shortly with a bucket of steaming water, soap, a cloth, a hunting knife, a bone comb - and Filch. Depositing his items on the night table, Mutch picked the table up and carried it to the window, then turned expectantly to Filch. The little man remained by the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest and a pained expression puckering his face. When the hunter raised an annoyed eyebrow, he scuttled forward. Standing before the table, he hesitated a moment then with a heavy sigh uncrossed his arms and placed a human fist-sized fragment of mirror next to the other toiletries. His long fingers hovered yearningly above the shard and Crispin was astonished to see a tear skate down the sharp nose. Hastily he assured Filch that he'd take good care of the mirror and return it as soon as he was finished. The little man sniffled loudly and left. Mutch gave an amused shrug at Crispin's questioning look, clapped him on the shoulder and went off to his chores.

Crispin surveyed the items with pleasure. Sitting down he picked the mirror up and starred aghast at what it revealed. It was worse than he'd feared and he physically cringed, imagining what Mirella must have thought – and that she might, at this moment, be regretting their meeting. Last night, he’d been puzzled by her insistence upon remaining outside to talk rather than withdrawing to the coziness of the kitchen-house but now he was grateful, perhaps the shadows had served to cloak a little of his slovenly appearance.

Quickly he propped the scrap of mirror against the windowsill and studied his beard. After much consideration he decided to start with his neck. After wetting and lathering he picked up the knife and cautiously began to scrape. He jerked as an inch long segment of skin dislodged along with the whiskers. Annoyed, he blotted the oozing blood then tried again. The beard resisted stubbornly, coming away in scraggily clumps while his skin seem to peal off at a mere touch. The knife was plenty sharp but unwieldy and at the rate it was going he'd be all day and probably end up looking as though he had bloody mange. Thankfully he'd had the presence of mind to start on his neck so at least most of the damage could be hidden behind his shirt's collar.

With no other recourse he put the knife aside and dunked his entire head into the bucket. The water was now tepid, making the soap harder to rinse out, but he was able to give both hair and beard a good scrubbing. After a vigorous drying and combing he checked the results in the mirror. Sighing heavily he placed the mirror facedown upon the table. There was no more that could be done, except - he snapped his fingers - he might present a more reputable figure clad in his uniform.

Filch had placed the uniform in a clothespress at the foot of the bed. Eagerly Crispin raised the lid. Shaking the clothes out he was more than pleased with their condition - the tunic had been a total loss but Elena had worked wonders with the jacket and pants - the splits and bloodstains were nearly undetectable. Quickly he pulled on the pants - the rough shirt he wore would have to do - then reached for the jacket. His hand stopped - he blinked in disbelief - then grabbed up the garment. Of the more than fifty buttons that embellished the jacket's handsome front and sleeves only about a dozen remained! Thinking perhaps he'd been mistaken he gave the garment another once over. No, they were definitely gone.

He remembered the fight with the troll well enough to know that his jacket had never come open during the struggle. Only the sleeve and shoulder where he'd been wounded had sustained any damage. He would have expected to find a few buttons missing but to lose so many - no, the jacket had been vandalized, intentionally. Angrily he tossed it onto the bed and began a mental list of suspects. Elena, Mutch, Hyacinth and Mirella would have no reason to do such a thing and were immediately dismissed. Toddy, also, was discounted, as Crispin knew that the cottage was off-limits to him and rather suspected the child would be too wary of his father to disobey - that left Amadeus and Filch.

Amadeus. The boy set Crispin's teeth on edge. He was arrogant, solitary, and sneaky. There was no predicting when or where he'd turn up. No footfall ever betrayed his arrival. You'd be alone one minute, turn around and he'd be there, watching. He’d had ample opportunity during Crispin’s daily sojourns in the kitchen-house and the subtle spitefulness of the act suited him. Yet an image was forming in Crispin's mind – he, convalescing in bed; Filch playing nursemaid, sitting bedside, cooing softly, jacket draped across his knees.

How many times had he awakened to observe Filch’s long delicate fingers obsessively stroking, plucking at the garment? So often that he'd come to find it annoyingly amusing - just one of Filch's copious peculiarities. Crispin’s jaw clenched. Pulling on the despoiled jacket, grabbing his crutch - last night, enveloped by Mirella's presence, he'd forgotten his leg but with anger-fueled stress, the limp was reasserting itself. He went in search of the little thief.