I bit my tongue to ask of the cooking skills of Isabella Linton – the sister of Edgar Linton, who Cathy married for his wealth and affection – remembering in time that Heathcliff came to this world before he’d spitefully married her.
Heathcliff picked up his book again, and Morrie tapped away on his phone. Upstairs, all had gone quiet. I decided to pay Quoth a visit.
“Call me when the pizza arrives,” I called over my shoulder.
Grimalkin batted my ankles as I felt my way up the second flight of stairs. Quoth wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen. I clambered up the narrow servant’s staircase, and poked my head into his bedroom.
At first, I assumed he wasn’t there. The room was dark, and no one had disturbed the neatly-made bed. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed a figure in the window – a bare chest lit by a pale shaft of moonlight.
Quoth sat on a narrow wooden stool, his knees poking through Holly Santiago’s artfully-torn jeans. He held a paintbrush between his teeth and another in his hand. Both brushes dabbed at the surface of a canvas. It was angled away from me, so I couldn’t see the painting, but Quoth’s transfixed gaze was plenty arresting.
I moved across the room, trying to see what he was drawing with such single-minded focus. He didn’t even seem aware I was in the room. As I squinted at the square of canvas, my foot brushed an easel, sending a cascade of paintings crashing to the floor.
“Argh!” Quoth leapt out of his chair. Feathers burst through his cheeks and covered his arms.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just me.” I scrambled to pick up the paintings I’d disturbed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s…” Quoth gripped the windowsill, sucking in his breath. His back muscles strained. Slowly, the feathers retracted into his skin. His shoulders relaxed.
“You didn’t shift?”
“Sometimes I can control it.” He picked up his brushes. “Did you want something?”
“Morrie’s trying to hack a Cayman Island bank account before the pizza arrives. I thought I’d see if you were okay.”
Quoth flicked on his bedside lamp, positioning the light so it shone onto the bed. He patted the spread. “Sit.”
I obeyed, grateful for the light that illuminated Quoth’s features in stark highlights. His hair fell over his shoulders and down his bare chest in luxurious waves, the light revealing hues of gunmetal, orange sunset, and cornflower blue. I lost myself in the depths of his brown eyes, searching for the storm that raged there earlier, but I could find no trace.
“I do not care about what Morrie said,” Quoth told me. The stillness in his eyes didn’t waver – he wasn’t lying.
He should care. I hated that he didn’t care.
“That wasn’t what I saw. You looked upset when he called you useless, which, by the way, I don’t believe for a second.”
“Why? It’s true.” Quoth leaned forward, and the light danced off his hair, this time shooting it with jets of pale blue. I sat on my hands, hoping that would temper the urge to run my fingers through those luminous strands. “I offer nothing to the world I’ve found myself in, and I remember so little of the world I left that even if I were somehow to return, I would be a stranger.”
I snorted. “You’re being sarcastic, right?”
“I am not.”
“Dude, you realize you’re an amazing artist, right?” I pointed to a painting hanging over the bed, of two skulls nestled amongst a field of blood-red roses. “That is sick. It could be an album cover.”
“Thanks.”
“I have a tattoo that’s kind of similar.” I turned around and lifted the edge of my shirt to show him the ink on my lower back. “Ashley and I got matching ones. I love it, but the artist is nothing compared to you.”
“I’m nothing compared to the artists on the walls downstairs.” Quoth stared at the floor, deliberately not looking at my tattoo. I sat back down again.
“You mean all those prints of Picasso and Rembrandt? When you compare yourself to the greatest artists of human history, yeah, you’re probably lacking a bit. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have talent. Did you choose the prints downstairs?” I studied the juncture of Quoth’s earlobe, marveling at its exquisite beauty. Why was everything about him so perfect, but so… breakable? Despite his sinewy muscles, Quoth moved as though he were made of glass.
I guess I’d feel like that, too, if at any moment my body could burst into pieces and remake itself into another shape.
“Morrie put them up for me after he caught me reading books in the Art History section.” Quoth smiled, but like everything about him, that smile bore a fragility that made my chest ache. “They are not prints.”
Of course they’re not. I decided to leave that revelation for now. “I know – even if you don’t – that they’re your way of borrowing some surcease of sorrow, but why don’t you sell your paintings?”
Quoth groaned at my poor attempt at humor. “Tease me with that poem and you may find a present on your shoulder when you least except it. I cannot sell my paintings. No one wants them. Morrie says they’re too morbid.”
I grinned down at a bird’s eye view of a cemetery, where a groundskeeper dug a fresh tomb while mourners lined the aisle between graves. “They’re morbid as fuck, but that’s a selling point. Plenty of people would have something like that on their wall. I know I would. You could even take commissions, maybe offer your services to bands and fashion labels. You wouldn’t feel like you were useless if you contributed something, left your mark on this world.”
“You don’t have to be nice to me, Mina. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Say it one more time like you believe it.” I slid my hand from under my ass and patted his knee. Big mistake. The warmth of Quoth’s skin seeped into my body, wrapping around my heart and squeezing. Fire flickered in the corner of his eyes. For a moment, he let his guard drop and I glimpsed the despair hidden in plain sight, the loneliness written across his porcelain skin.
My breath hitched. I recognized Quoth, because he was a mirror of myself – he was the ghost of young Mina who escaped to Nevermore Bookshop every day because she had no friends, who sought solace and friendship in her imagination, who drowned out her screams with loud music and covered her scars in torn clothing.
When I first met Quoth, he’d frightened me. But as bit by bit he’d revealed himself to me, I knew I had no reason to be afraid. I didn’t need to be saved from Quoth. He was the one who needed saving.
“I am fine,” he whispered. “You are here, and I am happy.”
His words burned through me. Bile rose in the back of my throat. I drew my hand away, desperate not to feel his pulse quicken or sense the depth of his wanting. “You’re happy I’m here?”
“You fill me with fantastic terrors never felt before.” He smiled at his own joke.
“Well, you’re the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,” I shot back.
A grin spread across his bleak face, genuine and haunting in its fleeting beauty. As soon as it appeared, it was gone. “I hear your thoughts sometimes, when I’m a raven. More than the others. I’m sorry about it; I don’t mean to disturb your privacy. I can’t control it.”
“I understand. I’ll try not to think anything filthy while you’re around.” I’d meant it as a joke, but Quoth winced. My cheeks flushed as I remembered what happened back in London. “I know you saw Morrie and I… that was so wrong. I shouldn’t have done that while you were there.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, not to me, or to Heathcliff.”
I stared at him, not understanding. Quoth winked, and my cheeks burned as realization dawned on me. He’s heard my thoughts about Heathcliff. He knows all the filthy things I imagined…
“You should embrace the chaos, Mina. It’s okay to not know what you want.”
“And you should do something with your paintings.” I rubbed my cheek, trying to get the heat out of it. “Another few weeks and you won’t be a
ble to move in here.”
“If I sold them, I’d have to talk to people – a gallery owner, an agent.”
“I’ll help you. I’ll act as your agent, if you like. A lot of Marcus Ribald’s haute couture customers are big in the art world. I bet I know some people who could help you get started.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Embrace the chaos, Quoth. Isn’t that what you told me? Why do you hide up here in the attic anyway? There’s that whole bedroom downstairs that would fit a lot more artwork inside.”
“Bedroom?” Quoth’s voice rose an octave.
“The master suite at the end of the hall. I peeked inside when I was searching for you—”
“You didn’t go in, did you?” Quoth’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
“Of course I did. I had to check you weren’t hiding under the bed.”
Quoth leaned so close, his face hovered an inch from mine. His breath caressed my lips, and I struggled to suck in air. “What did you see?”
“Just… a bedroom. There was a four-poster bed and a some furniture covered in drop cloths. An pentagonal bathroom in the turret. Oh, and a beautiful wardrobe. I’d kill to have that room.”
“Mina, you can’t go in there again. This is serious. It—” Quoth’s plea was interrupted by a bellow from downstairs.
“Pizza’s here!”
Quoth ducked his head and made his way to the door. The spell had broken, leaving my skin flushed and my head flummoxed. I picked my way through the dark space and down the narrow staircase into the living room.
Heathcliff had already settled into his chair and lit the gas fire. Morrie pulled two tiny coffee tables together, setting all the dirty coffee cups into the corner of the room and opening out the pizza boxes. The smell of garlic and cheese hit my nostrils and my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. Morrie and I hadn’t eaten on the train – neither of us had a suicide wish.
“I take it from your gloating smile that you won our bet?” I asked Morrie as I collected a slice of Hawaiian pizza and settled into my own chair.
“It took me all of eight minutes.” Morrie leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head, that wicked smile playing across his face. “I didn’t break my record, but it’s still respectable. I’ll have a bottle of Château Lafite 1869, if you please. Our blackmailer’s name is Roger Cox.”
“You’re getting a £3.99 bottle from the renowned wine region of South Dakota, and you’ll like it.” The name Roger Cox sounded familiar. “I think I know this person, like maybe they were part of Marcus’ Rolodex. Go to this address.” I rattled off a URL and Morrie pulled up a page of glittering filtered photographs of Marcus’ office and various fashion events and fancy cocktails.
“This your social media influencing?” Heathcliff frowned over Morrie’s shoulder.
“No, I deleted mine after I lost the internship.” I shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “I’m not gonna be able to take selfies for much longer, anyway. This is Ashley’s.”
“Whew,” Morrie scrolled down the page, which was ninety-five percent selfies of Ashley pouting at the camera in the latest designer clothes she borrowed from Marcus’ studio. I tried to push down my jealousy as Morrie scrolled past her most recent pics – of her standing outside Broadway premieres, her arm draped around B-level celebs, her modeling an amazing leather jacket, her waving at the camera as she waited in the airport lounge. “L8rs h8ers. I’m off home for a vacay.” Her final words.
I scrolled back to the gala dinner where Holly found Marcus’ drawing. The whole office had been invited and Ashley and I spent hours perfecting our outfits and makeup. Every moment of the event had been captured by Ashley for prosperity, and many of those moments featured me – teetering around the room in my too-high heels, beaming over my cocktail as Ashley pointed out all the A-listers, hunting through my goodie bag for the free Gucci scrunchie. I tried not to focus on how happy we looked hanging out together, instead scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
“There he is,” I jabbed my finger at the screen. Luckily, Ashley had diligently tagged Roger Cox in her picture, along with every other fashion person she could identify. He sat at the table behind Ashley and I, staring straight at the camera. “He was definitely there the night of the gala. I remember him now, he’s a British fashion writer, although I believe he’s retired. Marcus said they were ‘old friends’ but he didn’t ask me to send Cox a bottle of Champagne, which he’d done for other distinguished guests.”
“Get this, gorgeous. He lives nearby.” Morrie turned around his phone to show me a map. “Do you want to violate a police request for the second day in a row and pay him a visit tomorrow?”
I bit down on my pizza, my mouth filling with delicious cheese. Finally, we were getting close to finding Ashley’s killer and clearing my name. “Hell yeah.”
Chapter Twenty
“I’m not convinced this is the best plan,” I said as we stared up at the imposing facade of Roger Cox’s Georgian manor. “This guy is a big deal in fashion circles. He’s not just going to admit to blackmailing Marcus Ribald.”
“Trust me,” Morrie twirled his phone through his fingers like he was a punk drummer working the crowd. “I’m taking a page out of your book for this one. Cox is going to topple like a house of cards.”
With Quoth’s cage in tow, we’d taken the bus from Argleton out into the Cotswolds, then hiked up the hill from the tiny villages of Simsonhenge to reach Roger Cox’s home. Morrie complained the whole way about the wind and the rain and the cow dung on his brogues. I wished Heathcliff had been able to come with us – I imagined him completely in his element, wet clothes clinging to his body, his posture straight, his broad shoulders squared, the weight of the world lifting from him as he relished the brutality of the natural landscape he loved.
But then, I was thinking of the Heathcliff from my favorite book. The Heathcliff I knew – my Heathcliff – seemed to be just as happy to sulk behind his desk and yell at customers as he was to frolic on the moors.
Quoth clung to my shoulder and croaked away in my ear. Stop laughing at my thoughts, you ungainly fowl.
Nevermore, Quoth thought back. I pretended to punch him in the chest, and he pretended to peck out my eyes.
Morrie rung the doorbell. A few moments later, the man from the photograph answered.
“State your business,” he demanded. “I’ve already told Vanity Fair I won’t be giving any interviews.”
“Oh no,” Morrie tsked. “We’re not here for an interview, at least, not the sort you want printed anywhere. Good evening, Mr. Cox. My name is Professor James Moriarty. I presume you’ve heard of me, being a fine, well-read gentleman such as yourself.”
“James Moriarty, as in the villain from the Sherlock Holmes stories? Is this some kind of joke?” Cox peered around behind us. “Is this one of those stupid telly shows where my brother jumps out from behind the topiary and yells boo?”
“Not at all, sir. No cameras present here, just a friendly chat between gentlemen. Speaking frankly, since I don’t wish to waste your valuable time, my sources have noted you’re doing a spot of blackmailing, and I thought I’d come to offer my expert services.”
“Blackmailing?” Red spots appeared on Cox’s cheeks. I almost believed his outrage until I noticed him shove a trembling hand into his trouser pocket. Got you, you bastard. “I’m a fashion writer, not a bloody Baker Street crook. Just who do your sources claim I’m blackmailing?”
“The designer Marcus Ribald. That is why I’m here to offer my services as the world’s foremost consulting criminal. I believe you’re being shortchanged by Ribald, and I can secure you additional funds. For a nominal fee, of course.”
“That’s the most preposterous claim I’ve ever heard,” Cox snapped. “Marcus Ribald is a no-talent hack who’s spent his entire career making a farce of everything haute couture should stand for. I have no reason to blackmail him because any day now he’ll fall flat on his face from
sheer incompetence. The fact that you dare set foot in my home and accuse me of such an act is ludicrous. Get out and take your stupid bird with you, before I release the hounds!”
“Croak!”
“Ah, well, of course that clears everything up.” Morrie pushed me back down the steps. “We must have the wrong information. Sorry to take up your time, must be getting on, plenty more potential clients to meet, pip pip!”
“Well, that worked super well,” I muttered when we were safely outside the gates. “I can’t believe you tried to drum up business from our murder suspect, and that he threatened to unleash the hounds on us like some cartoon criminal.”
“Croak,” added Quoth.
“You all have such little faith in my abilities.” Morrie clicked on his phone, and a recording of Roger Cox chastising us started playing back. He tapped a few buttons, breaking the message down into specific sounds and notes and feeding it through some kind of loop. A couple of moments later the phone clicked the word MATCH. “Now I have the key to the voice recognition lock on his secret underground vault full of secret underground things, which I discovered by downloading the floorplan of his house. Quickly now, there’s an entrance around the back we can sneak in.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Why are we doing this?” I hissed as Morrie led us through the scratchy hedge that wound its way around the perimeter of the property.
“Think of what he could have in that safe!” Morrie grinned. “Counterfeit diamonds! Blackmail ledgers! The Ark of the Covenant! If we can get evidence to prove Cox is involved in nefarious deeds, we’ll be able to solve this murder mystery before the police think to question your story.”
“Any evidence we find is going to be tainted by the fact we broke in to retrieve it.”
“Who said anything about breaking in?” Morrie held his phone up to Quoth, who grabbed it in his talons. “I was simply taking a walk in the country when this raven flew off with my phone. I can’t be responsible for what a stupid bird chooses to do with it.”
A Dead and Stormy Night Page 16
