Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1)

by Jeanine Croft

  Emma blinked and leaned her head backwards as a hand appeared before her nose, waving vigorously.

  “Are you all right?” asked Milli. “You’ve been acting very peculiarly since yesterday.” She then stopped suddenly and shrugged, her glove halfway on. “More so than usual, mind.”

  “And you,” said Emma, glancing down at her watch, “are behindhand, my dear, more so than usual. Come along.” She herded her sister out the door and down towards the waiting chaise where they dutifully kissed their guardians farewell.

  Milli beamed at the driver as he shut the door behind her. “An avant!” she cried and then kissed her hand to her aunt and uncle as the horses were roused to action. Their uncle shook his head as they sped off.

  The hiring of post-chaises were for those that preferred the convenience of a journey disembarrassed by strangers, or worse, the bourgeoisie; it was only the wealthy that could afford to indulge such inclinations. The sisters, however, could ill afford it, and they’d have ended up going by post had it not been for Victoria’s generosity. Traveling to Whitby by the diligence would have been a harrowing prospect indeed, for the stagecoaches were usually very uncomfortable, unsafe, and overcrowded. No, they were very fortunate in Victoria’s intervention on their behalf.

  Their private chaise was to make the entire journey in under thirty hours, without an overnight stop, and that was, in actuality, to her preference. She was sure that sleeping in the carriage was far more agreeable to risking the bedbugs that one was sure to find in the inns along the way. A more leisurely drive, no hurried stops, and better vittles—yes, she could well get used to private travel.

  The thunder of the iron tires, the powerful, clamoring hooves of the four-in-hand, and the jingle of the little bells on the harnesses soon lulled Milli into slumber as they finally left London and were whisked along the old Roman thoroughfare, Ermine Street. Even Boudicca, curled up on Milli’s lap, was fast asleep. Emma was once more left to her thoughts.

  Aside from bedbugs, the only peril she considered with any real fear, as the scenery transformed from city buildings to open fields, was the danger posed by highwaymen and footpads, and she wondered if the two postilions were carrying pistols or blunderbusses like the stagecoach guards were known to do. Whilst she ruminated over these morbid thoughts, the coach flew past a gibbet, from which were hung three lonely bodies. Emma shuddered, turning away from the carrion eaters picking at their easy fare.

  She drew the window blinds against the gallows and kept them drawn as the morning sun flooded the Great North Road in harsh light and heat. With the sunlight barred, Emma soon found herself transferred from Pasithea’s arms into those of the winged daemon, Morpheus, where thoughts of wicked viscounts and vanishing libraries could plague her no more.

  It was hours later when she awoke again, owing to the chaise slowing to a halt so that the horses could be changed. Realizing that they were already in Royston, Emma wondered how many other stages they’d stopped at. To have slept through all the staging stops between here and London, for they would have stopped every fifteen miles, was very unlike her. She was usually a light sleeper, or had been before coming to London.

  They partook of a light tiffin at the inn in Royston but did not linger and were soon underway again. Milli was garrulous after filling her belly and interrupted Emma’s reading again and again with postulations about the Solstice Ball, all aflutter at the possibility of seeing Mr. Valko again. When she had tired herself out, she joined her napping cat who was now stretched out on a pillow like an empress.

  Twilight crept in over the changing landscape, forcing Emma to abandon her book. By midnight, just outside of Doncaster, a dense fog began to quicken amongst the forest along the causeway, and the postilions were forced to slow their pace considerably thenceforward. While Milli slept on (it was remarkable how much the girl could sleep), Emma peered into the misty gloom where the coach lamp lights barely reached the hedgerows and woodland that stretched alongside the road.

  They had taken some supper and changed horses at the Red Lion Inn in Barnby Moor, but from Doncaster onwards, although newly horsed, their progress was no more than a brisk walk. By morning the pace was not much improved. She had looked forward to a leisurely drive, but this…?

  The grey dawn light that percolated through the trees and fog revealed little, if any, of the Yorkshire landscape, and it was well-nigh midmorning when they reached York. They crossed the River Ouse, a heavy brume floating along its banks, and finally alighted at the York Tavern.

  There they had ample time to rid themselves of travel grime, for it was not till dusk that they were met with an impressive, black barouche that Emma recognized immediately. “Vitam Aeternam,” she said under her breath, remarking the distinctive crest and its motto. Life Eternal.

  The Winterly coachman sat atop the bench like a somber shadow cloaked beneath his habitual wide brim, watching silently as servants hurried to transfer the traps to the barouche. The horses were as funereal as their driver, large black beasts that glared at the ostlers as though they might bite them if they dared come any closer. Emma and Milli were quickly ushered into the black coach by the wary innkeeper as soon as the last trunk was secured.

  At the crack of the whip, the four black steppers surged into motion. Emma shifted the curtain aside, hoping to see York Minster, even from a distance, but the cityscape was already filled with shadows. Light seeped steadily from the western sky as they left the city, throwing the limestone hills and hay barns and bog plants into darkness.

  It struck her as odd that, between the fifty miles that separated York from Whitby, they did not refresh the horses even once.

  “Would that we had stopped in New Malton,” said Milli, looking uncomfortable. “Apply to the driver to stop at the next village.”

  “You speak to him if you wish to stop,” said Emma, whispering, though she too needed to visit the water closet. “I am sure we shall break our necks if he continues this confounded pace.” By some tacit agreement, the sisters had been conversing in whispers ever since they’d left the tavern. Emma could not say why she did so, but she imagined the gloom of the night and the dreary coachman had something to do with their subdued moods. Or perhaps they were just overtired by the journey. Either way, it was plain that neither sister was inclined to draw the attention of their coachman.

  “The faster the better, I say.” Milli shifted in her seat, looking longingly out the window.

  Emma was sure that Winterthurse could not be much further and she peered keenly into the night, eager for her first sight of it. Steam rolled off the backs of the horses, their glistening coats catching the lamplights, as they pounded through the mist. Emma fancied she could see brimstone belching from their nostrils as the road curved. She was so hypnotized with watching the beasts that she did not at first notice the shadowed edifice materializing beneath the half light of the moon.

  “There it is!” cried Milli suddenly.

  Emma jumped. There it was, indeed. Winterthurse loomed like a slumbering dragon in the distance, its midnight buttresses like arching wings and it spires like great horns piercing the heavens. The windows were aglow with a watchful red. A trick of the light, perhaps?

  Emma fell back against her seat, her mouth agape.

  “What is it?” Milli considered her sister with a frown as she too sat back. “What’s wrong?”

  “Winterthurse,” said Emma, bemused. “It’s a castle.”

  “So?”

  “The wicked viscount lives in a castle after all.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Winterthurse

  My Dear Mary,—What is your opinion on vanishing libraries? Yours sincerely,

  Emma.

  There was a faint hint of wild hyacinth and heather as the carriage navigated the rise atop which the castle stood sentinel. Emma’s eyes rounded as they moved along an avenue of yew trees, the gnarled boughs stretching overtop like an embowered arcade.

  Torches had been lit at i
ntervals along the avenue, which did much in endowing the night with a sort of dark whimsy. The road was wide and the yews magnificent with old-world mystery, some of the branches having long since burrowed into the ground to form new roots. What stories these old giants could tell.

  They entered a stone gatehouse, rank with ivy, coming at last to a standstill in the graveled courtyard where a footman stood waiting before a heavyset pair of black, iron-studded double doors. Where on earth the Winterlys found their peculiar breed of ghastly servants, Emma knew not, but this fellow was as rawboned and sallow as their London retainers.

  He handed Emma down from the carriage without a word and then her sister. As it rolled away, Boudicca still asleep within it, Emma glanced up to see an old woman gliding down the steps towards them. A bag of bones in a black dress which, like its wearer, was spartan-looking.

  “Good evening,” said she, unsmiling. “Welcome to Winterthurse. I am Mrs. Skinner, the housekeeper.” She waved a spindly wrist and indicated that they should follow her up the stairs. “Your portmanteaus will be delivered to your rooms directly.”

  “The cat,” said Milli, “shall sleep in my room.”

  “As you wish.”

  Just then, Milli’s stomach roared with hunger.

  Mrs. Skinner answered it with a cold smile and said, “You shall, no doubt, wish to have a meal before repairing to your rooms.”

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Skinner,” said Emma, looking at her poor sister hopping surreptitiously from one foot to the other, “and a visit to the powder room, if you please.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is Miss Winterly home?”

  “Miss Winterly and master Valko, will be joining you for supper.”

  “Mr. Valko!” said Milli in an aside to Emma as they trailed the housekeeper.

  “Don’t excite yourself, Milli, or you might not make it to the water closet.”

  Milli snorted and elbowed her sister as they entered through the double doors. “Is Lord Winterly in residence, Mrs. Skinner?”

  The housekeeper received their spencer jackets and bonnets with a stony glare. “His lordship is out for the evening.” Satisfied that she had answered Milli’s query sufficiently, the old drudge stored their belongings in the coat room and turned to lead them deeper into the castle, unaware that Milli’s tongue was stuck out behind her.

  Emma pinched her sister and tried not to laugh. Mrs. Skinner led them along a stone gallery and Emma drank in as much as the housekeeper’s pace would allow, which was not much, for the lamps in the sconces were veritably medieval and offered very little light. Like the stone flags, and the dreadful housekeeper, the tapestries were manifestly ancient and much of the gold and silver thread had lost its luster, though all was in excellent repair.

  After the sisters had seen to certain necessities and repaired their appearances somewhat, Mrs. Skinner conducted them into the great hall and towards a long dining table. There were four places set at one end of the table overlooked by a branch of silver candlesticks. The fireplace was a welcome sight, aglow with heat, for the castle was drafty and the chill of the night had found a way through the stones and into Emma’s bones.

  “There is no fire in the drawing room tonight. I trust you will find the dining hall a more comfortable wait while I inform my lady of your arrival.” And with that the housekeeper was gone.

  “What a strange old creature,” said Milli hastening to the fireside.

  Emma joined her there, marveling up at the gargoyles staring down at them from the eaves. What had they seen and heard in all the centuries spent eavesdropping in the shadows. “It’s all perfectly strange,” said Emma.

  They both gave a start as the dining room door suddenly opened to admit Mr. Valko and Victoria.

  “You are come at last.” Arms wide, Victoria descended upon them with her usual kisses and smiles. “Come, come, sit down, you must be famished. Valko, you sit beside Milli.”

  He affected an obedient bow and guided a blushing Milli to her seat.

  A footman, who had stood invisible till now, so still was he, suddenly moved to seat Victoria and Emma. His face was eerie white in the dim light. He’d been in the room all along and Emma had not even known it! Like a wicked monk appearing magically through the wall! Emma bethought herself like a heroine in one of those dark and peculiar German fairy tales by the brothers Grimm. Was she, like Rapunzel, to awaken soon with a belly swollen with child, the work of some midnight prince scaling her window of a nighttime? Her skin puckered, and not from the cold, for the thought was too reminiscent of the incubus in her dream. It was best also to ignore the unwelcome thrill that had surged at the memory of her phantom lover’s carnal kisses, so unlike the chaste version bestowed by the flesh and blood Markus Winterly.

  Emma’s face colored, doubtless giving her thoughts away, but her companions continued their conversation, oblivious to her silence and blushes. A delicate china bowl was placed atop her service plate, distracting her, and thereat a ladle of soup was carefully poured within. The spoon was halfway to her mouth when she suddenly froze, and indeed so did the others. That sound…

  “Was…was that a wolf?” asked Milli. Her face had gone white as the footman’s.

  “I heard it too,” said Emma. “Howling.”

  “There are no wolves in England,” said Victoria, but her smile appeared unnatural.

  Mr. Valko lowered his spoon into his now empty bowl, the only one whose appetite seemed unaffected by the distant howling resonating through the castle walls. “Only the wind.” But his face too was different somehow, harder. In fact, he was so unlike himself tonight that Emma was sure there was something the matter with him.

  Milli must have noticed it too, for she looked much restrained compared to the last time they were together. Neither she nor Victoria touched their soup.

  “There it is again,” said Milli, casting a dubious glance at Valko.

  It was a very haunting sound indeed, thought Emma. No wonder her sister looked so spooked.

  “As I said,”—Valko was glowering across the table at Victoria—“only the wind.”

  “Well, my dears, you must be exhausted.” Victoria gestured to the footman who nodded in response and left the room at her silent command. “No doubt, you wish to retire now. I shall have Mrs. Skinner summoned to settle you comfortably in your suites.”

  Emma glanced down at her cold soup bowl, still half full, but found she was no longer hungry anyway. Disquietude had replaced her appetite. No wonder Mrs. Skinner was so wasted—it was unequivocally the castle and its haunted moors that induced a body’s abstemiousness.

  As though she’d conjured the woman up with thought alone, Mrs. Skinner appeared at the door and waited silently as Valko drew Milli’s chair back, the footman once more attending to Victoria and Emma.

  “I trust,” said Victoria, “you will not let the wind disturb your slumber; you are quite safe here, I assure you.”

  “So long as you remain indoors at night,” Valko subjoined.

  They bid their hostess and her cousin a good night and followed Mrs. Skinner and her feeble candlelight from the great hall. The stone passageway through which they were lead finally opened up into the grand foyer they’d first entered by. It was here that two curving staircases split off into opposite directions, like mirror images of one another, opening up into an upstairs gallery just above them that overlooked the marbled foyer.

  It was that marble that momentarily absorbed Emma as she paused to examine the detail of the polished flooring in the muted light, unheedful of the housekeeper’s continuing on without her. Onyx and ivory arranged like a giant chessboard.

  Milli’s insistent little nudge at her back soon brought her back to herself and they hurried after the housekeeper, hiking their skirts up and taking the stairs two at a time.

  They were taken first to Emma’s room, a comfortable enough looking chamber with fine appointments, though decidedly outdated, and a welcome fire murmuring in the grate. A t
ub of hot water had been placed on the hearthrug, the steam curling invitingly off the surface. The window dressings were dark crimson velvet and matched the hangings attached to the framework of the bed. The bedstead itself was made of the same handsome, black wood as the chiffonier and writing desk. Yes, she would be quite comfortable here and might even be inspired by this old castle to pen her own gothic tale of horror.

  Her portmanteau, Mrs. Skinner advised her, had already been unpacked for her and her belongings were all neatly folded or hanging up. There was really nothing for Emma to do but repose in her bath by the fire. Mrs. Skinner withdrew with Milli in tow, promising to return with wine after she had shown Miss Milli to her own chamber.

  As promised, Mrs. Skinner returned moments later with some mulled wine. “Will you be needing your stays loosened?”

  Perhaps it was a ghastly trick of the firelight, but for just a harrowing instant Emma fancied she’d seen an odd flash of animal green amidst the tourmaline glitter of Mrs. Skinner’s flat gaze, a momentary eyeshine.

  “Miss Rose, will you be needing your stays loosened?” she asked again.

  “No, I shall manage alone, thank you.”

  The housekeeper nodded once and quit the room, the flagstones silent beneath her boots.

  Emma decided she was overtired and made short work of divesting herself of her traveling clothes. She then sank into the tub with a satisfied sigh, her muscles and bones loosening instantly as she lay her head back against the side of the tub, the plaintive howling forgotten; Mrs. Skinner’s tricksy eyes forgotten.

  Outside, she could hear only the distant North Sea battering the eastern cliffs and she let the sound of the wild coastline lull her to sleep. But she woke up with a start hours later, shivering, and hurried out of the tub to wrap herself in a bath robe before scurrying into bed.