The Rowanwood Curse (Hal Bishop Mysteries Book 1)

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “No further, please,” he said, words scarcely audible above the wailing. “I would be obliged if you would shut the door behind you and let no one else inside.”

  Reeves raised his eyebrows, but did not question, and backed out, closing the door. I could hear the footsteps in the passage, voices murmuring, but all my concentration was on the girl writhing on the floor.

  She had curled herself into a ball, still sounding that siren wail, and was clawing at her head, pulling her hair out in great chunks. When all her hair was lying on the floor around her, she began clawing at her face, nails raking bloody lines through the skin. Jenny had given up prayer and turned to weeping.

  “Hal,” I whispered. “This is dreadful—can’t you stop it?”

  He shook his head. “It must run its course. Be patient—it will be over soon.”

  So I sat back and waited, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, watching Cecilia tear herself apart. The klaxon howling did not abate as she scraped the skin from her face, twisting herself into pretzel shapes. Hal watched grimly, face set.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped—the wailing silenced, the twisting body frozen. Hal went and crouched down beside her, lifting her head to look at her face. He grimaced.

  “It’s done,” he said, gently letting her head fall back. “And if I wasn’t certain before, I am now.”

  Jenny had taken the apron from her head when the wailing stopped, and she went to Cecilia now, kneeling down on the other side of the body from Hal. She gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth, and shook her head.

  “Oh, no . . . no, no, no,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “She’s dead . . . she can’t be dead. What will the master say?”

  “Don’t be alarmed, Jenny.” Hal stood, and offered the maid his hand. “Your mistress is not dead.”

  Jenny stared at him in confusion, but took his hand and allowed herself to be helped up. He led her over to the little table and she sat, shaking her head and rocking. Hal went back over to the body, and I followed him, crouching down beside him.

  “What now?” I whispered, glancing back over at poor Jenny.

  Hal picked the body up carefully; it was so frail and thin that it could not have been very heavy. He carried it over to the bed and laid it down, then pulled the shawl over her face.

  “Now we wait,” he said.

  There was a thudding sound in the passage, and the door burst open with such force that it seemed a miracle that it did not fly from its hinges. There Sir Jasper stood, framed in the doorway, breathing heavily as though he had run up the stairs, his face red, and his eyes blazing.

  “What’s happened?” His gaze fell upon the body lying in the bed, and my brother standing beside it. “What have you done? What have you done to her?”

  Hal said nothing, and Sir Jasper went over to the bed. He reached out with a shaking hand for the shawl.

  “Don’t do that,” Hal said quietly. “You don’t want to see it.”

  Sir Jasper gave him a look that could have scorched iron, and pulled the shawl from Cecilia’s face. His own face went white as milk, and he swallowed. He made a sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob, and pulled the shawl back.

  “My God—what . . . what have you done?” His voice was low, trembling. “You’ve killed her—my daughter . . . .”

  Hal opened his mouth to explain, but Sir Jasper cut him off with another wordless cry, and sprang at him, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and shoving him against the wall with such force that the window rattled.

  “You bastard,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. He shook Hal roughly. “You said you would save her—I’ll kill you—I’ll kill you!”

  “It’s not her!” I shouted, stepping forward. “Now we know—we can save her.”

  He blinked, and turned to me, without releasing his grip on Hal’s jacket. “What did you say?”

  “It’s not her,” I repeated, my voice a bit unsteady. “We can still save her.”

  Sir Jasper shook Hal again. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Hal said, as calmly as though he and Sir Jasper had been sitting in the library and talking over tea, “that the thing that has died is not Cecilia. It is her fetch.”

  Sir Jasper shook his head, but he released Hal’s jacket. He ran a hand over his face and glanced back briefly at the body lying on the bed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you this part would be difficult for you.” Hal pushed himself away from the wall, straightening his jacket. “What is most important for you to know is that your daughter is still alive. I am certain of it.”

  Sir Jasper sat down heavily at the little table, where Jenny was still rocking, pale and wide-eyed. He looked again at the body.

  “What—what is a fetch?”

  Hal explained to him his theory about the changeling—explained that we could now contact the spirit with Cecilia’s fetch, and that he would then have the last piece of the puzzle. Sir Jasper’s eyes did not leave the body on the bed as Hal spoke. When Hal was finished, he sat silent for a long moment.

  “Are you certain, Mr. Bishop?” He said at last, his eyes very dark. “Are you certain that—that this is not my daughter?”

  “Positively so,” Hal said, putting his hands in his pockets. “If it had not been a changeling, my trick would not have worked.”

  Sir Jasper bowed his head, his large hands folded on the table in front of him. “Then what do we do now?”

  “We wait,” Hal said. “The body must be watched overnight—eyes must be upon it at all times. It will revert to its natural state—and once that happens, the spirit may be called.”

  There was another long silence, Sir Jasper looking at his hands. Finally, he looked up at my brother, dark brows lowered. “Then if you are wrong—we will know by the end of this night.”

  “If I am wrong,” Hal said, pulling his pipe from his pocket. “But I am not.”

  “I hope not.” Sir Jasper’s gaze drifted back to the still figure on the bed. “Because if you are . . . .”

  The unspoken threat hung in the air. I could still picture Sir Jasper’s hands grasping my brother’s jacket, and it was not too great a leap to picture them wrapped around his throat. I swallowed, and looked at Hal. He gave me a half-smile, and turned back to Sir Jasper.

  “I am not,” he repeated. “But time will bear me out. There is nothing for it but to wait.”

  Sir Jasper regarded him skeptically, but said nothing. Hal bent down next to Jenny and whispered something to her. She stood and began mechanically clearing away the tea things, her eyes firmly fixed on the task in front of her, and scurried out of the room as quickly as practicable with the tray balanced on her hand.

  Hal turned to me and frowned. “Sit down, Jem. You look as though you’re about to fall over.”

  I blinked at him, and felt myself sway. Now that the shock of the fetch’s death and Sir Jasper’s reaction had passed, I felt the bone-deep weariness that had been my constant companion since the beast’s attack settle over me again. My arm ached, and I felt a bit sick to my stomach. I sat down in the seat Jenny had vacated and rested my head on my good arm.

  After a moment, the door opened again, and the scullery maid came in with cloth and a bucket. She knelt down on the floor, her heavy brows lowered, and wordlessly washed away the blood, sweeping up the clumps of hair. When she had finished, she left silently, closing the door behind her.

  Jenny returned shortly thereafter, balancing another tea tray. This time it held tea—the strong medicinal scent of it filled my nostrils, and I sat up, feeling marginally less tired. Jenny set the tray down on the little table and poured a cup for me and one for Hal. Sir Jasper shook his head at the offer, eyes fixed on the still figure lying on the bed.

  I took a sip of the tea, and warmth spread through my chest. It soothed away the sick feeling in my stomach and eased the ache in my arm.

  “Better?” Hal looked at me over the rim of his own cup, lines
creasing his forehead.

  I nodded, turning back to the body on the bed. “How will we know when—when it starts changing back?”

  “We’ll know,” Hal said. He set the tea down and finished filling his pipe. “It will cease to look human altogether.”

  Sir Jasper made a strange noise, as though something were caught in his throat. “Please—don’t speak of her in that fashion.”

  Hal lit his pipe and took a deep pull from it. The smell of sage and tobacco filled the room. “It is not your daughter,” he said quietly. “You must know that.”

  “She—it—has her face,” Sir Jasper said, the words choked out. “I can’t—don’t speak of her that way.”

  I watched him, sipping my tea. He had a haunted, strained look on his face as he stared at the figure in the bed. He wanted to believe us—wanted to believe his daughter still lived, because what other hope did he have? But he was human, and for months he had lived with this creature, caring for it, comforting it, believing entirely that it was his daughter, and he could not put that aside so easily.

  Hal frowned at him, opening his mouth to speak again, but I shook my head. “Let him be, Hal.”

  We slipped into silence, and waited, through the long hours of the day. The shadows lengthened through the windows and the light faded to the golden-orange glow of sunset and into the soft dim of twilight, and the body on the bed remained as it was. Jenny returned to make up the fire, and lit a pair of lamps over the fireplace. The dim of twilight deepened into darkness, and still the body on the bed did not change.

  The tea was wearing off, and I felt weariness settling back about my shoulders. Sir Jasper’s gaze faltered, and he bowed his head, pressing one hand against his blind eye. Only Hal kept his eyes steadily on the creature, clouds of smoke building about his head. I was half-dozing when I suddenly heard him give a cry.

  “Aha!” he said, springing forward. “It’s begun.”

  He bent over the still figure in the bed, and I stood to follow him, my weariness forgotten. Sir Jasper did not move; his shoulders tensed, but he remained where he was, staring down at his hands.

  “Bring me a lamp.” Hal waved a hand vaguely in my direction, never turning from the figure on the bed. “This is it—yes, I’m certain of it.”

  I took a lamp from the mantel and went to stand beside him. He took the lamp from me and held it high, his eyes gleaming in its light.

  “The feet,” he said, gesturing. “Look to the feet.”

  I did as I was bid, and I saw—the feet had twisted, becoming gnarled, and turned brown. The brown was creeping up her legs, making them look like the branches of a tree. I put out a hand, just touching one of her feet, and drew in a breath. It did not look like wood—it was wood.

  We stood there in silence and watched. Now that it had begun, it was over in a matter of moments. The brown crept over the whole of the body, and it twisted itself, closing in, becoming denser, until the body in the bed had become the branch of an old and enormous tree, twisted and gnarled. A knot near the top that vaguely resembled a face and the nightgown and shawl still wrapped about it were the only reminders of what it had been.

  Hal turned to Sir Jasper, raising the lamp. “Come and see.”

  Sir Jasper looked at him a long moment before raising his great bulk from his chair. He came over to the bed with halting steps. Hal moved the lamp to illuminate the branch, and Sir Jasper made a choking sound as his gaze fell upon it.

  “It wasn’t her,” he said, his voice thick. “Thank God, it wasn’t her.”

  Hal handed the lamp back to me and took a sheet from the bed, wrapping the branch in it like a parcel. “Come along, Jem.”

  “What—what are you going to do now?” Sir Jasper’s voice faltered.

  “We are going to call the spirit,” Hal said, his face grim. “And we are going to put an end to this for once and all.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I followed Hal out into the passage, holding the lamp. He carried the branch before him, cradled in his arms. The staff, who had been gathered outside Cecilia’s door, listening, scattered as it opened, but I could hear them murmuring as we passed. Hal paid them no heed, looking straight ahead as he bounded down the stairs under the watchful eyes of Sir Jasper’s ancestors.

  At the door, Reeves waited for us with our coats and a lantern. Hal set down the branch carefully and shrugged on his coat; I set down the lamp and let myself be helped into my own coat. Reeves raised the lantern, the flickering light casting shadows on his grave face.

  “Godspeed, gentlemen,” he said, handing me the lantern, and then he vanished, into the darkness of the vast house.

  I shivered, looking back down at the branch that had, until lately, been the image of the girl we were meant to save. Hal picked up the strange parcel, looking back at me with a frown.

  “Are you all right?” His brow creased. “If you’re feeling unwell . . . .”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want him to suggest that I stay behind, because I might be tempted to do it—and I couldn’t forget his face when he had told me he would fix my arm. He’d said he would do whatever he had to; I didn’t know nearly as much about folk magic as my brother did, but even I knew that was a dangerous way to approach a fairy.

  He raised an eyebrow skeptically, but did not press the issue further. “Well, bring the lantern, then. We’ve a long night ahead.”

  I followed him out into the deep blackness of the night. The wind was howling over the fields, a distant, muted sound, over the blanket of snow that crunched beneath our feet as we hurried down the hill and across the moor to the Gilley farm.

  Mr. Gilley answered our knock, his sleepy eyes going wide when he saw who had wakened him. He raised a lamp, squinting at the parcel in Hal’s arms.

  “I don’t want to know,” he said, shaking his head. He shrugged on a heavy coat, then took his lamp and joined us on his doorstep, closing the door softly behind him. “Missus and children already abed—don’t want to wake them.”

  He rubbed his hands together and blew on them, his breath making clouds, and raised his lamp to look again at Hal’s strange burden.

  “What do you need from me?” He stamped his feet. “It’s that late, and all. Can’t it wait until morning?”

  Hal’s mouth set in a grim line. “No, it cannot. We need your pony cart.”

  The farmer blew out another cloudy breath. “Wait here. I’ll fetch it around.”

  He fetched it, and we climbed in, Hal handling the parcel he carried carefully, as though it had really been the body of the girl and not merely a facsimile. He helped me up into the cart, and Mr. Gilley slapped the reins.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go to the spot I showed you.” He shook his head and spat. “Magic. I’m glad I don’t understand it.”

  Hal’s mouth quirked up, almost imperceptibly. “As you should be, Mr. Gilley.”

  Mr. Gilley took us up into the high country, back to the heft, and stopped the cart at the stone where Hal had left his box of candles and salt. We clambered out of the cart, but Mr. Gilley did not follow.

  “I’ll wait here if it’s all the same to you,” he said, pulling the flask from his pocket. “I’ve never seen a spell laid in my life and I don’t see why I should start now.”

  “Very good.” Hal’s mouth quirked again. “We shall see you when we see you.”

  Mr. Gilley raised his flask, as though to wish us luck. Hal set the parcel down beside the stone, and picked up the box. He took it over to the cracked black web that we had seen earlier in the day, and beckoned me over. I brought the lantern and stood beside him; the magic was twining itself around my chest already, and my throat burned.

  Hal looked over at me, brow furrowed. “Not much longer, Jem. We’re coming to the end of this.”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice, and held the lantern higher. Hal pulled the salt from the box and took a knife from his pocket, slicing a corner of the bag. He poured a
circle of salt, walking clockwise from the north, and repeated it twice, so that the salt lay in a circle three layers deep.

  “Salt to bind.” He put the half-empty bag back in the box, and pulled out two candles, looking up at me. “Fire to call power.”

  He set the candles, four of them, along the circle—one at the north, one at the south, one at the east, and one at the west. He took the matches from his pocket and lit them, and the smell of beeswax burning pushed the cloying feel of the magic back. I took a deep breath, letting the beeswax-scented air soothe my throat.

  Last of all, Hal retrieved the parcel. He unwrapped the sheet from it and laid it in the center of the circle. I moved to step in beside him, but he put a hand out. “Stay where you are,” he said sharply. “The spirit can’t touch you if you’re outside the circle.”

  I stepped back, the hollow feeling of dread in my chest once more. If I wasn’t in the circle, I didn’t know how I could help my brother if—if something should happen.

  “Don’t touch anything,” he said. “If you disturb the circle, the spell is broken—and I’ll learn nothing.”

  “I know how a spell circle works,” I snapped. I rubbed at my forehead; there was a headache coming up behind my eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”

  Hal gave me a half-smile. “I know you aren’t.”

  He pulled a flask from his pocket, but did not drink from it—instead, he poured its contents over the branch in the center of the circle. He lit a match and dropped it on the branch, and it flared up into fire at once—a fire that was not merely gold and orange, but pink and green and blue, colors dancing against the night sky. A strange smell filled the air—something exotic and old. It made me think of incense, though it wasn’t precisely the same.

  Hal stood, his face bathed in the flickering colors of the fire, watching mutely. He had his arms folded over his chest, and he never took his eyes from the branch in the center. The fire suddenly jumped higher, and coalesced into a shape—almost human, but not. It had a head, arms, and legs, but all grossly out of proportion. The shape twisted, raising a keening cry in the language that belonged to the spirits—three times it was raised, and then the fire went out.