by Ava Stone
“What the devil are you talking about?” Sir Cyrus bellowed.
“I’m not explaining myself well.” Quent heaved a sigh. “Mrs. Small said—”
“The housekeeper?” Braden interrupted, not liking at all where this conversation was going. He had warned that woman not to say Callie had been taken by the castle even one more time if she wanted to keep her post.
“I know you think it’s madness, Braden,” Quent said softly. “But what if she’s right? What if the castle has taken Miss Eilbeck? Are you going to let your logic and reason, your pride, stand in the way of getting her back?”
As though he’d been smashed in the face with a cudgel, Braden gaped at his brother. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to get Callie back. He’d walk across hot coals, swim the English Channel, climb the Himalayas with his bare feet. And he’d listen to madness, apparently. “What does Mrs. Small say?”
“She says there’s a portal in the dungeons. A portal that our great-grandmother opened and is the cause of most of the spirits filling the corridors of the castle.”
“A portal?” Sir Cyrus echoed.
Quent nodded. “And that midnight on Samhain the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead will be at its thinnest. That we can get Miss Eilbeck by then or…” His voice trailed off as though he didn’t want to say anything further.
“Or what, Lord Quentin?” Miss Southward prodded.
Quent shifted a bit in his boots. “Or she’ll be lost to the other side forever.” Then he shook his head as though to shake the maudlin thought from his own mind and a smile lit his face. “But we have a witch, Braden. Mrs. Small said we needed one. That a witch opened the portal and another witch could use it to get Miss Eilbeck back.”
“A witch?” Braden shook his own head. There was no such thing as witches. Or ghosts. Or castles that stole the living.
“Miss Glace.” Quent almost beamed. “She’s been right here at Marisdùn since we arrived and we are quite lucky for it.”
“Brighid Glace is a healer,” Miss Southward said, frustration lacing her voice. “She’s not a witch.”
Braden looked from the vicar’s daughter to his brother. Was Quent’s master plan resting on the shoulders of a local healer?
“Chetwey says she is.” Quent kept his gaze trained on Braden. “He’s talking to her now.”
Blake had never felt more useless in his life. What could he offer? Refill her cup of tea, place a plate of food at her elbow, and write notes when she spoke? There had to be more, but Blake knew there was nothing he could do.
The woman he loved was a witch. Not some creature from a storybook, but a living, breathing, enchanting, beautiful woman, who now had the weight of the castle upon her shoulders.
He didn’t understand how she could read the scratches in those books and he might never. This was a part of her he could never touch, but it was who she was. It is what her mother had been, and the women before them.
He studied the gentle tilt of her jaw and the way she bit her lower lip while concentrating. If they were blessed with a daughter, would she also carry the gifts of her mother? Would Brighid still need to come here, to Marisdùn Castle, or could a herbarium be created for her use at Torrington Abbey?
What a fool he had been to tell her that he would have nothing to do with her if she were a real witch. Even as he had uttered those words, a part of him knew the truth. On one level it was frightening. Yet on a clearer and larger level it was comforting. There was nothing evil about Brighid. She was all that was good and light, and she was about to battle, if that is what one called it, a great evil. He had no doubt that she would somehow have to fight Mary Routledge to get Miss Eilbeck back.
Brighid hadn’t said that there would be a confrontation, but the ghost had taken the young woman and he surmised she would not give her up without a fight, which left Brighid with the task of seeing it done. Blake’s main concern was how dangerous this would all be for Brighid. Could she be harmed? What if Mrs. Routledge took her, then where would they be? He hadn’t the foggiest idea what would need to be done. He couldn’t even read the blasted books.
He clenched his jaw to keep from speaking. Brighid needed to concentrate, but all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and beg her not to do whatever she was planning. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not when they had a chance at a future. Yet, he knew no matter how much he begged, she would fight to get her friend back, even if she were harmed in the process. All he could do was stand by helplessly and watch.
Damn and blast! Why hadn’t he just taken her when he was twenty-five? They would have had a few years together already. He wouldn’t have sailed away and gotten malaria and they wouldn’t even be in this damned castle now.
He corrected the thought. No doubt Braden would have invited him here, so they would have ended up here anyway and Brighid would be doing exactly what she was doing right now. The difference was, they wouldn’t have had the wasted years.
Braden, Sir Cyrus and Miss Southward followed Quent back into the castle and then around a maze of corridors towards the kitchens. If this healer or witch or whatever she was could save Callie, it would be foolish not to see what she had to say. It was, after all, the very least Braden could do. And he hadn’t done much thus far. He’d actually never been as helpless as he’d felt this entire day.
“Here we are,” Quent said affably as the reached a small door off to the side of the kitchens.
Half a second later, Blake Chetwey stood in the threshold, arms folded across his middle as though to bar Braden from the room. Before Braden could tell his friend to get out of the way, he spotted Miss Glace inside the room, bent over a scarred, wooden table, reading old books.
“My eye is much better, thanks to you,” Quent called cheerfully into the room at the girl.
“I am glad to hear it, Lord Quentin,” Miss Glace replied softly.
For God’s sake. Callie had been missing for hours and Quent was talking about his blasted eye? Braden brushed past his brother and his gaze landed on Blake Chetwey, still standing sentry in front of the room as though to protect Miss Glace from anyone or anything in the castle. Honorable as that was, Braden didn’t have time for it. He frowned at the girl who was still sitting at the old table. “Are you really a witch, Miss Glace?”
She pushed to her feet and met Braden’s eyes as regally as any queen and said, “Yes.”
“And can you help me get Callie back?” Braden took a step towards the door, prepared to push Chetwey from his path, but he couldn’t move an inch further. It was as though some invisible barrier meant to keep him in the corridor. But that wasn’t possible. He pressed his hand against the barrier, but a force as strong as iron kept him firmly in place. “What the devil!” he cursed. “Why can’t I get in there?”
“It is not permitted,” Miss Glace’ s lyrical voice hit his ears. “You are blood of the castle.”
Chetwey glanced back over his shoulder at the girl. “He is what?”
“Blood of the castle,” she repeated. “This room was sealed off by my ancestors to keep it safe.”
“Safe from me?” Braden frowned. He did own the damn place. It wasn’t the least bit acceptable that someone was able to seal off his own rooms from him. But someone most definitely had. He couldn’t penetrate the invisible force in front of that room with all his strength.
“Safe from any descendant of Mary Routledge. Her blood runs through your veins too, my lord.” His veins? At the mention of his great-grandmother, Braden’s blood ran a little cold. What did his missing ancestor want with Callie?
“I was in there,” Quent said, breaking Braden from his thoughts. “We have the same blood.”
Quent had been in the mysterious little room? Braden cast his brother a sidelong glance.
“A mistake on my part, Lord Quentin,” Miss Glace replied, sounding quite contrite. “The room has been sealed once more. You won’t be able to enter it again.”
Sir Cyrus snorted out
in frustration. “Unless Callie’s in there somewhere, I don’t care one whit about who can or cannot enter the damned room.” He puffed out his chest. “Can you find my sister or not, Miss Glace?”
And truly, that was all Braden cared about as well.
The pretty witch swallowed a bit nervously. “I’ll do everything in my power to bring her back, Sir Cyrus.”
A bit of hope sparked in Braden’s heart. Before this jaunt to Marisdùn, he’d laughed off the idea of ghosts and witches and disappearing great-grandmothers. But the force around that mysterious little room was quite real. He couldn’t see it with his eyes, but it was there. And if that force was there, then who knew what else was real? Who knew what might bring Callie back to him?
Miss Glace seemed to think she could pull off such a miracle, and Braden prayed she was right.
Candle in hand, Braden descended the steps into the dungeons, lighting the torches along the staircase as he went. A portal. Mrs. Small was adamant that a portal between their world and the next was down here, that Callie was trapped somewhere in between. If there was a portal, he’d find it. He had to.
The warm glow of the torches bathed the cavernous room in a golden hue. He glanced around at the hearth in the center of the dungeons, the smalls cells, the eerie stone walls. What the devil did a portal look like? He started at one corner of the dungeon, running his fingers along the cold stone. He looked into the hearth, pressing at the bottom with all of his might, but nothing budged. Nothing in the cavernous set of rooms seemed otherworldly in the least, though he imagined there were years when those kept in the dungeons certainly welcomed their passing to the other side, if for no other reason than to leave these stone walls behind them.
Braden walked the perimeter, searching every inch of stone, every crevice, every discoloration. He was beyond exhausted and the stone walls all seemed to blend together. But he couldn’t stop searching for Callie. There had to be some way to find her, some sign of her existence. Somewhere.
Blake Chetwey seemed to believe in that witch of his, and though the whole thing was the height of madness, Braden didn’t have many choices other than to put his hope in the girl as well. He’d certainly exhausted all of his ideas today and this…whatever this was, seemed quite out of his realm.
As Braden passed one cell, a faint scent of gardenias hit him. “Callie?” he called, hearing the panic in his voice. “Are you here?” He pulled open the door and stepped inside the small cell. Had he imagined the scent because he wanted so desperately to find her? Perhaps, or perhaps he really had smelled her scent.
Braden ran his hands all along the cell walls, pressing on stone, hoping beyond reason to find some evidence of Callie or the portal—something to give him hope. But there was nothing. Just cold stone and iron bars.
Defeated, he sank onto a bench that must have seen its fair share of despair over the centuries. “Oh, Callie,” he whispered. “Where are you, sweetheart?” If he could just get her back, if he could see her once more, he’d never let her go.
Tears trailed down Callie’s cheek as she reached out to Braden, though her arm went right through him. She dropped to the floor at his feet and rested her head on the bench beside him. She’d give anything she had to touch him once more, to have his gaze meet hers. She wasn’t even certain how she’d ended up in this predicament, but it was the most tortuous experience of her life. No one could hear her. No one could see her. But watching Braden’s anguished expression tore at her heart. If she could just reach him somehow.
Braden shifted on the bench and Callie felt the movement against her head. It was so odd that the bars could keep her in this cell, that she could feel the bench against her head, but she couldn’t touch Braden. Was it because he was among the living? Callie had no idea, but sadness washed over her at the thought of never being able to touch the living, of never being able to feel Braden’s touch again.
They sat there, the two of them, for quite some time in the silence. After a while, Braden pushed back to his feet and started for the doorway. The open doorway!
Oh, Callie didn’t want to be locked away in the darkness here any longer. She scrambled to her feet and followed him, beyond relieved when she stepped from the cell and into the large dungeon.
Heavens! It was so wonderful to not be locked up in that little cell any longer. The main dungeon room wasn’t much better, but it was larger and she didn’t feel quite so trapped.
Braden started for the staircase, and a bit or panic settled in Callie’s heart. She didn’t want to be trapped in the dark dungeons. So she hastened after him, following quickly in his wake, up the steps towards the main castle.
She slipped through the large iron door before Braden closed it behind them, and released a breath of relief as she strode after him down the corridor. Joyous sounds filled the castle, and as they passed parlors and salons, there were dozens and dozens of faces she didn’t recognize. None of these people were from Ravenglass. Heavens, where had they come from? And who were they? Ghosts? Or…
“Braden!” said Viscount Heathfield as he stepped from inside a parlor. “Good to see you.”
“Heath,” Braden said to his old friend, reaching out his hand in greeting. “I didn’t realize you and Emma had arrived already.”
“Earlier tonight.” Heath gestured towards the parlor with his head. “We brought Damien and Isabel with us.”
“Are you all settled in?” Braden asked, only marginally caring about his friend’s answer.
“Yes, but is everything all right?”
Everything was far from all right, but Braden wasn’t about to divulge all that was wrong to Heath. The man would think he’d lost his mind. Besides, he’d arrived after Callie disappeared. Heath couldn’t offer any help in that regard. “Why do you ask?”
“Quent seems a bit off, stressing we should each keep our wives within sight at all times. He won’t say more than that.” Heath shrugged. “Just seemed odd. I spotted Kilworth when we arrived and David Thorn has been about. Are the two of them on the prowl or something?”
A mirthless laugh escaped Braden. If only the trouble at Marisdùn was simply a few reprobates within the castle walls. “Kilworth brought his own entertainment,” he said instead of divulging the truth Heath wouldn’t believe anyway. “But it’s always wise to keep an eye on one’s wife with Thorn about, I would think.”
It didn’t seem as though Heath believed that answer any better than he would have the tale of disappearing ladies in the castle garden. “I suppose,” he said slowly.
Braden nodded towards his old friend. “Anyway, long day. I’m certain I’m a terrible host, but I really should retire. Unless you need something.”
“No, no.” Heath shook his head. “Rest well, Braden. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He left his friend in the corridor and was quite relieved to have made it to his chambers without encountering any other guests along the way. He tore at his cravat and dropped onto his bed, then tugged his Hessians from his feet. Damn it all, he was simply too exhausted to change clothes, at least not completely. He certainly wasn’t going to sleep in his jacket or waistcoat. He shrugged out of both and tossed them to the floor in a heap. Then he fell back against his pillows and stared up at the ceiling above him.
Exhausted as he was, his mind kept whirring, wondering what else he could do to find Callie. Wondering if Chetwey’s witch was really his only shot. Wondering when exactly the world had stopped making sense. Tomorrow, he’d have to get Brighid Glace to make him some assurances as far as Callie went. He needed something to go on, something more than he had at this moment.
Then, just like in the dungeons, the soft scent of gardenias swirled about him and Braden took a calming breath. “Callie?” he whispered.
The scent only got stronger and Braden felt the worry seep from his bones and his eyes finally drifted closed.
Callie laid her head right above Braden’s heart. She fell right through him, her head only stopping once it reach
ed Braden’s pillow. She wished she could feel him, wished he could put his arms around her and promise that all would be well, but she’d settle for being close to him for now. Being here with him, in his bed, was much preferable to being all alone in the dungeons.
Blake stayed with her all through the night and finally fell asleep, his head rested in his folded arms upon the table. What she wouldn’t give to sleep, but she didn’t have time. The books had given her some answers, but not all. And, there were still two more to read. The tomes were lengthy, handwritten by the ancestors before her, and not all of them had the neatest penmanship.
Would she one day write spells and incantations into the book for her descendants to read? If she were successful in bringing Callie back, then she most certainly would. The concern lay in the if.
Brighid blew out a sigh and slid the empty plate away. She had eaten enough hazelnuts to help with her magic that she was quite certain she never wanted to eat another again.
But, books, spells, tea and hazelnuts weren’t the only thing that could help and as much as she should probably remain in the herbarium, she needed to leave. She tiptoed into the kitchen so as not to wake Blake and then rushed to the room she had been given to change into an appropriate dress for attending Sunday services. Mother always said, “Prayer comes before all else, and then rely on the gifts you have been given.” Brighid had never really understood until now.
Before leaving the castle, she checked on Blake one last time. He still slept, so she left him and hurried into town. She normally attended the church in Tolbright with her grandmother and brother, Clive. It was the one Blake attended too, when he was in residence at Torrington, but that was nearly a half hour away, and further by foot. She just didn’t have that kind of time, so she decided to attend in Ravenglass instead.
