The afternoon’s rainstorm left humidity and muck in its wake. Lenna trudged through the puddles, the wicker basket in her arms heavier with each step, as she tried to ignore the small creeping pain forming behind her eyes. Keeping her head up, she rolled her shoulders back, attempting to relieve some tension, while praying the muck would easily wash from the hem of her dress.

Rounding the corner of the narrow dirt path, the tall stone wall surrounding the brick manor came into view, its arched roof jutting out above the embankment. Heavy fog clung to the branches of the silent trees leading up to the Doortan Estate. It was as if the untamed forest appreciated the recent winds and rain and now slumbered until the sun once again warmed their bark. The only sounds left were the heavy swish of Lenna’s mud-laden skirts and her labored breathing as she ascended the small hill to the front gate.

Ivy covered the stonework - broken up only by the twisting metal archway of the gate itself. Passing through the yawning mouth of the entryway, dirt and puddles gave way to pebbled white gravel. It was a vast and well-manicured difference from the wildness of the path leading back from town.

Overhead, the sky reflected Lenna’s mood.

Gloomy, dreary, dull, grey.

Chewing her lip, Lenna looked longingly to the side of the manor where she could sneak in through the servant’s entrance without being fussed over. Ultimately, she didn’t want to chance running into her husband. This late in the evening, he would be hunkered down in his study right across the hall from the less-used entrance, either pouring over the latest shipping reports or drowning himself in brandy. With a sigh, Lenna trekked on towards the arched front door. She knew he would throw a proper fit if he saw her disheveled and muddy after walking back from the town’s bakery.

By the time her boots hit the first stone step, the grand doors swung open with a groaning creak. The entrance hall was a flurry of movement as servants dressed in the dark colors of the Doortan manor surrounded her, taking the basket of baked goods to the kitchen for dinner service, tsk-ing at the mire coating Lenna’s dress and boots, and calling for a bath to be drawn.

In hindsight, she should have taken the private side entrance after all.

Less bustle, less notoriety, less acknowledgement.

She extended a small smile as she relinquished the basket and allowed herself to be steered from the front door to her chambers. Once inside her bedroom, muck dripping onto the cool tiled floor, Lenna’s head twinged with fresh pain. A heartbeat later, her hand matron, Olivera, strode into the room, took one look at Lenna’s sodden appearance, and disappeared into the connecting washroom with a huff. Lenna heard the splash of water filling the bathtub, accentuated by Olivera’s veiled grumbling. Too exhausted to decide if she should apologize for her disheveled state or dismiss the woman, Lenna mutely stripped off her mud-soaked coat, followed by her dress skirts and undergarments before standing in front of her bedroom mirror. Though the edges of the silver rimmed glass had long ago begun to tarnish, she paid them no mind.

Her hair, usually well maintained, lay frizzy and matted beneath the light green head scarf she tied it back with for her walk. The reddish-gold curls were dull, reflecting the weather and the now consistent thudding head pain that progressed from just behind her eyes to the whole front of her skull. Ripping off the scarf, Lenna shook out the curls with her fingers and locked eyes with the reflection staring back at her. Her hands smoothed down her soft stomach, where no trace of abs or muscle definition remained from when she was younger, when she lived on horseback, racing, hunting. When she had been so full of life. Soft lines marred loosening skin below honey-brown eyes now perpetually rimmed in purple from lack of sleep and sun. A woman of fifty-one. Though she loved the lush curves that graced her hips, she missed the strength and tenacity of youth, where a walk to town wouldn’t tire her out so completely. Her body felt too weak, as if it was unable to keep up with the march of time itself. Lenna couldn’t tell if the tears welling up in her eyes were from drifting thoughts or the persistent throbbing in her temples.

Her pale hands gripped the fluffy robe thrown atop the mirror, and Lenna belted it tightly, screwing her lids shut against a particularly sharp burst of pain. Half-staggering into the bathroom, she shuffled across the ice-cold floors, to sit on the narrow bench next to the bathtub. With her head in her hands, she waited on Olivera to finish filling the tub with warm water.

“Is there any peppermint oil left?” Lenna asked as she rubbed the tautness out of her shoulder. It lessened the onslaught of a violent thud that radiated from her head down into her jaw for a single, blissful moment.

“Another headache, my Lady?’ Olivera questioned - but without waiting for an answer, she pulled a small vial from the shelf next to the tub and added some drops into the now-steaming water. Lenna groaned in confirmation with her eyes closed. She rubbed her face with her fingers, trying something, anything, to get a sliver of relief. Olivera shut off the squeaky tap before taking her leave. ‘I’ll give you some privacy and come back to check on you in a bit.”

Lenna raised her head out of her hands just enough to watch Olivera depart through pain-slitted eyelids.

The headaches started their merciless assault last month.

At first, they were short pangs of discomfort that blurred her vision and made her dizzy. But as the days progressed, the headaches increased in agony and length, and her husband, Leon, called upon the town’s healer to request any concoction of salve or oils that could bring Lenna comfort.

Neither the recommended peppermint oil, nor the crushed herbs and increased water intake, lessened the pain at all. The healer also recommended shoulder massages to pull tension out of Lenna’s head and neck muscles. Of course, Leon made a snide comment of how Lenna had zero stress on her shoulders and the headaches were probably some “womanly” problem from getting older. The healer had pointedly ignored that since Leon paid handsomely for house calls and usually let him leave with some rare bottle of brandy.

Some nights, Lenna would lay in bed, curled up in a ball, quietly sobbing until sleep dragged her into a deep slumber where agony was replaced with disorienting nightmares of winged demons and monsters lurking in the shadows.

As the water in the tub grew cold, and the sickly-sweet aroma of peppermint dissipated, Lenna gingerly made her way out of the tub and back into her robe.

Sleep. Darkness. Quiet.

All she wanted was to lie down and beg the gods to allow the pounding in her head to subside before morning. Olivera greeted her once she stepped back into the bedroom. The hand matron had closed the curtains, making the room as dark as possible. Lenna would have considered that sweet if it wasn’t for the fact both women knew Leon was currently entertaining Olivera’s daughter in his study, and Olivera had been told to let Lenna “rest” until morning.

Which was a very polite way of saying “Keep Lenna out of Leon’s hair for the night.”

The newest affair had started months ago – but it was not the first affair, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She felt nothing for her husband or the young woman he was fucking. Honestly, Lenna couldn’t remember the last time she “felt” anything. She was desensitized to the affairs that had been going on for years. By the time the third woman had come and gone, Lenna found herself wishing Leon would hurry up and find another. She knew it was selfish, but she despised the man her husband had become. He was quick to anger and had used his fists to convey that rage onto Lenna on a few occasions.

But life went on, and the abuse happened further and further apart. Lenna wasn’t by any means happy, but divorce was out of the question in Doortan. No holy folk would grant one and no court would accept Leon’s infidelity as an excuse. So, Lenna went on, confined to the doldrums of hiring servants, running the domestic chores the estate demanded, and gardening.

Gone were the days of riding swift horses through the woods, hunting the sure-footed bucks bedded down in the lush forest, adventuring. Gone were the days when Lenna’s blood would pump fire into her heart as she embarked on mighty ships and sailed the coast of the Slate Kingdom. Gone was any other life purpose besides being the obedient wife and Lady of Doortan Manor.

“Is there anything else I can get you, some tea perhaps?” Olivera offered, interrupting Lenna’s brooding and pulling extra blankets from the linen closet by the bedroom door.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” The small talk made Lenna want to crawl out of her bones. She could deal with the fact her husband only enjoyed two things – alcohol and young woman. She could even deal with the headaches – to a degree. But nothing got under Lenna’s skin more than the fake concern slipping out of the hand matron’s mouth.

Olivera left the room to fetch tea as Lenna sank into bed. The weight of the extra blankets sucked her down as sleep beckoned from the edges of her fuzzing vision. The velvet curtains blocked the sinking sun, casting the room in dancing hues of dark reds and purples.

Almost thirty years of marriage, yet it became apparent after the first six months that Leon had no intention of sharing his bed with her long-term. Which was fine by Lenna. The ache to feel loved and comfortable dulled over time - from a razor-sharp dagger between her lungs to a blunt dinner knife. Lenna felt the years slog by, the times of revelry and excitement far behind her.

Thirty years and still Lenna felt like a guest in the Doortan estate. Leon refused her many pleas to change any of the visceral décor of the manor, where his vividly disturbing paintings of the gods’ monster-like protectors dismembered and tore apart non-believers.

Lenna only wanted to replace the painted gargoyles ripping apart immodestly dressed women with something a bit more tasteful. The grotesque postures and snarling faces did little to calm her mind, reminding her incessantly of folklore her mother would recant about gargoyles snatching disobedient women from their homes if they did not heed their parents or kneel before the temple gods every week. Leon had been raised with the same ideals, though his lackluster attempts at swaying the temple priests into believing he was a spiritual man were only slightly more convincing than stories of demonic gargoyles crawling up from the ground to swallow one whole for not paying the tithe on time.

Even the dark colors of the fabrics and upholstery were off-limits to change. Lenna wished for just one room, one corner, to call her own. But to Leon, the request alone deemed her an unruly wife trying to interfere with the integrity of his iron will.

This manor would never feel like home.

And Lenna had learned to accept that.

Pulling herself from the haze of memories, she focused on her breathing, willing her body to calm. Even the short walk to and from the bakery had worn her out and made her legs sore. In and out, relaxing her muscles, in and out, deep breaths. She shoved down any thoughts of what her husband could be doing. Pushed it away and breathed. The banging in her head quieted. The blankets felt warm, the room silent.

By the time the tea was delivered, Lenna was already asleep.