by Tamara Berry
“In fact, you might want to stick to city living from here on out,” she says. “Not everyone is cut out for life in a village like this one.”
“Noted.”
She sighs and shakes her head, the sharp edge of her bluntly cut hair swinging like a curtain. “You have no intention of following my advice, do you?”
“Not really, no.” I smile and then immediately wince. The stitches render every movement of my face an agony. There are five stitches in all, extending from the edge of my eyebrow toward my temple. The one thing my witchy reputation has been without all these years is a gnarly facial scar, so I’m not too upset at having them. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Yes, well.” She clears away the tools of her trade, which have been laid out on my kitchen table. “It’s the least I could do for a friend.”
I highly doubt it’s my friendship that brought her out for a house call as late as this one. She smiles up at Nicholas, thus confirming that belief. The people around here can’t seem to get enough of the man, exalting him like a hero. Considering he saved me from an untimely death tonight, I can understand why.
“I don’t see any signs of concussion, but I’d feel more comfortable if she didn’t sleep alone tonight.”
He nods once. “I’ll take her up to the castle with me.”
“No thanks,” I promptly reply. “I need to be here in case Beast returns.”
Nicholas looks as though he’d like to argue, but, like Dr. MacDougal, he’s too dignified to do it in front of an audience. He closes his mouth in a tight line.
“Beast—that’s the missing cat you were out searching for?” Oona asks.
The nonchalance in her voice is impossible to miss. It’s careful, calculated—which, in my experience, means it’s not nonchalant at all. “Yes. She’s been gone for five days, and I’m starting to get really worried. Lenora told me that your cat disappeared recently, too.”
She frowns at the mention of her stepdaughter’s name. “Yes, unfortunately.”
“That makes your cat, my cat, the cat on the hill, the Gilfords’ dog, and Mr. Worthington’s pig,” I say. “That’s an awful lot of animals in peril.”
“Please don’t tell me this is part of the werewolf legends you’ve been having Lenora research.”
“There was something out there. I saw it. We saw it.”
Dr. MacDougal casts a disbelieving look at Nicholas, making me fear that I’m about to be cast in the role of wayward hysteric, but he heaves a deep breath and hunches his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not saying it was a werewolf we chased over the cliff’s edge, but there was something out there.”
“Something?” she asks.
“Someone,” he corrects himself. “Bipedal.”
She sighs and starts prepping the tetanus shot. “Well, the next time you see bipedals scampering about at night, I highly recommend you call the police instead of chasing them through the darkness. A few more steps, and that could have been a nasty accident.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that there was nothing accidental about what happened to me out there. That person—that creature—had been trying to propel me over the cliff’s edge on purpose. Near-death experiences have a way of bringing wisdom, however, so I hold my tongue.
On that topic, at least.
“By the way, Lenora told me that you confiscated the notebook she and Rachel had been working on,” I say.
“Yes, I did.” Oona stabs the needle in my arm.
My only reply is a wince. She doesn’t have to be quite so enthusiastic about this whole thing.
“While I understand that the nature of your work is steeped in the occult, I’d thank you not to introduce my child to Satanism just yet.” She smiles, but it’s a wan thing that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s at least wait until she’s a teenager for that, shall we?”
The shot complete, Oona makes quick work of cleaning and packing up her supplies. “That arm will probably feel tender tomorrow, but not nearly as tender as your head, so I doubt you’ll notice.”
I’m not ready to let the subject of the notebook drop. “I absolutely agree with you about Lenora, and I’m sorry to have let them run away with the project,” I say.
Oona looks only mildly suspicious at my meek acceptance at having my livelihood thus disparaged, but Nicholas is watching me with a curious lift of his brow. I’m careful not to look at him as I add, “I don’t suppose I could come get the notebook from you, could I? If I promise to keep it out of their reach? It was kind of important.”
“Oh, dear,” Oona says with a sympathetic cluck of her tongue. “I wish I could, but it’s long gone by now. I tossed it out with the medical waste at the clinic today.”
I get to my feet, ably assisted by Nicholas’s waiting hand. “You did?”
“I never would have presumed, but the girls told me it was only a copy they made. They said you had the original safe and sound.”
“I did, but—” I cut myself off, unwilling to divulge more while I’m still so unsure of my ground. I think of a quick lie. “But Rachel did the drawings in that one. I like to hold on to her work whenever I can. That girl is going to be famous someday.”
“But a copy would never be worth as much as an original, would it, Madame Eleanor?” she asks, emphasizing my name with careful deliberation. “It carries none of the value, none of the importance. Take care of that wound, and don’t hesitate to call if you have any more questions.”
I do have more questions—dozens of them, in fact—but I don’t dare voice them aloud. Something about the way she phrased that last bit, almost as though she was leveling me with a threat, gives me serious pause.
Moving as one, Nicholas and I walk Oona to the door and bid her a grateful good night. Pressing my back against the door as it comes to a close, I shut my eyes and try to hold on to the moment for as long as I can. Something the doctor said is niggling at the back of my mind, an unsettled feeling taking shape.
“My poor dear,” Nicholas says with a low, soothing tsk. “Let’s get you to bed. Does it hurt very badly?”
My eyes fly open again, and it takes me a second to register that he’s showing genuine concern for my well-being. “No, I’m fine,” I say, giving my head a small shake. “It’s not that. I mean, it does hurt, but that’s not what’s bothering me.”
He makes another comforting noise and begins propelling me toward the stairs. I let myself be led, but only because I’m busy thinking.
Or, rather, I’m busy trying to think. That blow to my head must have taken more out of me than I thought, because although the threads of an idea are still there, I can’t seem to make them take shape. Especially not when Nicholas gives up on my slow tread up the stairs and whisks me into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I find myself weightless and encapsulated against his chest. It’s warm there, and reassuring, and I find myself burrowing sleepily closer. “You don’t have to carry me. I can walk. In fact, you can probably go back to the castle despite Dr. MacDougal’s dire warnings. I promise to call if I start seeing unearthly spirits moving through my vision or anything like that.”
Nicholas continues his easy trot up the stairs and to my bedroom, then deposits me tenderly on my bed. At some point during the day, the roofers must have come in here and cleared away the debris, because there’s nary a piece of plaster to be seen. Or rainwater. They must have made some good headway up there.
“You heard the woman,” he chides. “Doctor’s orders. It’s either spend the night in your old room up at the castle, or deal with me sleeping on your couch.”
The thought of sleeping in the castle’s yellow bedchamber sends a shiver running through me. That room might only be haunted by unpleasant memories now, but that’s enough paranormal activity to keep me away—especially since I’m starting to feel battered and bruised from my fall. Dr. MacDougal had warned that it would take a few hours for the full aches and pains to settle in, but that it
would hit with a vengeance when it did. She wasn’t wrong. My body feels as though it’s been tossed into a dryer set on high.
I suppose that’s what happens when a man throws himself at you and knocks you to the ground in a frantic effort to save your life.
“My hero,” I say and pat the space on the bed next to me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay nice and close tonight? You can keep a much better watch on me that way. And I guarantee you’ll like what you see.”
His eyes flare with interest, but he’s immovable from where he stands. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t looked in a mirror yet.”
My hand flies to my temple. “Oh, no. Is it awful?”
“Like you fought a werewolf and lived to tell the tale,” he says and traces the line of my stitches with his finger. “I rather like it. Very medieval.”
I laugh, but it’s only a token effort. “I don’t trust Oona,” I say. “That notebook we were talking about—it’s not just a notebook, Nicholas. And I think she knows it.”
“Probably. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you about it yet, but I think it’s tied to the murder.”
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
“And we’ll need to make a survey of the evergreen crossroads in the morning,” I add. “The werewolf may have left some clues behind. I want to get out there before they’re washed away.”
“We will,” Nicholas promises. He also presses a soft kiss on my forehead. With it comes a bone-deep exhaustion I’m finding more and more difficult to suppress. “But first you need to get some rest. Sweet dreams, Eleanor. After a night like this, you’ve earned them.”
Chapter 16
“You villainous traitor.”
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”
“You overbearing sludge-demon.”
“I took the liberty of preparing a tea tray downstairs. It’s ready whenever you are.”
“You primeval juggernaut.”
“That one sounds rather nice, actually. Thank you.”
I throw back my covers and launch myself out of bed. Well, to be strictly accurate, I start by launching myself out of bed, but I make it only a few steps before every part of my body screams its protest. There’s enough stiffness in my joints and in all the places where I hit the ground last night to turn me into a zombie, but even that pales in comparison to the dull, steady throb in my temple.
And to the throb of anger I feel at the sight greeting me outside my bedroom window.
“It’s well past noon,” I accuse as I point at the dim bulb of the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. One of my many strange skills in this world is my ability to tell time by the movement of the sun. In this case, I’m not pleased by what it’s telling me. Half the day is gone already. Not only will all signs of the attack last night be washed away, but there’s a full moon in less than twelve hours.
I whirl on the man sitting calmly next to my bed, a stack of newspapers at his side. “How could you let me sleep in so late?” I demand, although the meaning of those newspapers isn’t lost on me. He must have been installed there for quite some time. “And why aren’t there roofers banging around overhead?”
He closes the paper he’d been reading and adds it to the stack. “I also took the liberty of asking them to reschedule. I thought you could use a lie-in. Before you tell me exactly what kind of a tyrant that makes me, will you please swallow these?”
He holds out his hand and drops two pills into my palm. I’m tempted to give them back to him on principle, but my head aches sickeningly. I’m also profoundly thirsty, my mouth like sour cotton. Settling for a meaningful glare, I accept the painkillers and gulp down the entire glass of water by my bedside.
“Do you think you could manage some toast with the tea?” he asks. “Or perhaps an egg?”
“Toast sounds good, thanks,” I say and, before he can gloat about it, “but only because I know you’ll sit there being polite and distant until I eat something. Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Enough,” is his mild reply. “You were snoring too loud to notice, but Rachel came and sat with you for a few hours this morning.”
“I don’t snore.”
“My mistake. Your airways must have been taken over by a demon. Temporarily, I’m sure.”
I ignore him as a matter of principle. “Where’s Rachel now?” I ask.
“Attempting to persuade my mother to let her melt down some of the silver to make bullets for a gun that, as of yet, doesn’t appear to exist. It didn’t seem worth dissuading her.”
Despite my determination to stay annoyed with this man, I have to fight to stifle my laugh. “How can she make bullets for a nonexistent gun? Does she think they’re a one-size-fits-all deal?”
“I didn’t think to ask, and, considering my mother has taken it upon herself to barricade not only her person, but every piece of silver we own, in her bedroom, I doubt she’ll have an opportunity to find out.” Nicholas rises to his feet in one elegant movement, holding out his hand and keeping it there until I slip my own into it. I think he’s going to turn mushy and maudlin, but all he does is give my palm a quick squeeze. “I’ll go down and get your breakfast ready. You’ll want to freshen up, I’m sure.”
The reason for his hasty departure down the stairs—and his somewhat lackluster gesture of affection—is made clear as I enter the bathroom. Someone has also made an attempt at repairing the ravages of the roofers in here, but I hardly care about the dusting of plaster or the strategically placed pots. I’m far too horrified by the vision presented in the mirror.
I know, from my long experience of head injuries, that outward swelling is a good sign. It means the wound is external, pushing out where there’s plenty of room to spread. My brain, though still a little foggy, appears to be fully intact.
To be confronted with the reality of what this looks like on the outside, however, is another thing altogether. Especially when my sleep was being watched over by a man whom I hope will someday see me naked.
“I look like Frankenstein’s monster,” I moan as I finger the stitches along the side of my brow. They protrude painfully from my swollen flesh, the skin red and stretched around them. That alone wouldn’t be too bad, since I can just swoop my hair over most of it, except that the entire side of my face around it is a huge, puffy purple bruise.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Dr. MacDougal did a bad job on purpose, trying to make me look as much like a hag as possible out of spite.
“It would be just like her,” I mutter to no one in particular.
And it would be, too. That woman is obsessed with appearances. I’ve known it from the start. I’ve never met anyone so determined to present the image of a happy, unified family to the world, so resolved on foisting her stepdaughter into the Hartfords’ path. She wants everyone to believe she’s the perfect wife, the perfect doctor, the perfect everything—when really, she’s just as petty and fallible as the rest of us.
“Son of perdition,” I mutter, catching my own eye in the mirror’s reflection. For the briefest of moments, I feel sure it’s not me looking back, but my sister. Before the accident, there was always a calm assurance to her gaze, a wisdom I doubt I’ll ever manage to duplicate. I’m so certain, in fact, that I lean forward and press a kiss on those cracked, dry lips. “Winnie, you brilliant minx. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before.”
There’s no answer, of course, but that doesn’t dissuade me. If anything, it only makes me move that much faster as I rummage around in my makeup kit to repair the ravages of last night’s mishap.
But not too fast, mind. Some things aren’t worth rushing.
* * *
“I figured out Oona’s cake.”
I reach the bottom of the stairs a few minutes later, my makeup intact but my hair still undone, the long strands hanging heavily to my waist. Nicholas prefers me to wear my hair down like this, but it’s rare for me
to style it in anything but my usual ornate braids and coils.
“I thought you said you just wanted toast.” Nicholas appears in front of me bearing a tray with my breakfast. As was the case with yesterday’s eggs, he’s taken his time over the task. Not for him a mere scrape of butter across a piece of bread. Oh, no. The tray he’s holding bears a pot of marmalade that I know didn’t come from this house, a folded napkin made of linen, and even a single daffodil nodding its head at me from a small vase.
A daffodil. Because I once said, in passing, that they were my favorite.
My knees grow weak, and I falter. Once again, Nicholas is there without my needing to ask, one hand holding his tray, the other holding me.
“To the sofa, my dear,” he says. “And then I’ll get you all the cake you want.”
“I don’t want cake,” I protest. Still, I let him guide me to a seated position while he sets the tray in front of me and begins preparing my tea exactly how I like it. “I’m talking about Penny’s cake.”
“But you called it Oona’s cake. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”
“Oona’s metaphorical cake.” My hands shake as I lift my teacup and sip, but it has more to do with excitement than exhaustion. “Nicholas, what do you know about the MacDougal marriage?”
He pauses in the act of applying a generous helping of marmalade to my toast.
“Are she and Ian happy, do you think?” I ask. “As in, really happy?”
As is his usual custom, he gives my question serious consideration before he answers. He waits until he hands over my toast and settles back in his chair before speaking. “It can’t be easy, losing a wife in childbirth the way he did,” he eventually says. “And remarrying so soon after.”
“But people do that all the time. Plenty of blended families and second marriages are happy ones. What I want to know is, is their relationship a successful one? In the eyes of the world, I mean?”
“In the eyes of the world, yes.”
The careful diplomacy of his answer tells me much more than he realizes. “But not in your eyes.”
My astuteness doesn’t cause so much as a blink. “No.”
