by Ava Stone
Tilly blinked in surprise, touching a hand to her heart. “Me?”
“To your rooms. I don’t want to see any of you until supper.”
All three girls hung their heads and started for their rooms.
“Anna, a word please.”
Lila shared a worried look with Tilly and hurried up the stairs.
“What has him in a temper now?” Tilly complained as she dropped onto her bed.
“He’s in a mood,” Lila returned, sinking onto the edge of her bed.
“He’s always in a mood.”
That was true. “Yes, well, Lord Quentin took a fall from his horse and Anna went for Brighid Chetwey and…”
“That explains it.” Then Tilly pushed up on her elbows.
“We came upon him, lying in the middle of the road.”
“I knew he’d taken a fall, but I didn’t realize you were both there. Is he all right?” Tilly frowned.
He was better than all right. He was, in a word, perfect. But that wasn’t what Tilly meant. “He seemed it. Brighid went back to Marisdùn to look him over. I’m certain he’ll be fine.”
Her sister grinned unrepentantly. “You’ve a blush on your cheeks. Did something happen? Did he kiss you again?”
“Shh!” Lila waved her hands for her sister to lower her voice. Heaven help them both if Papa should overhear that. “He did not,” she added softly. “For heaven’s sake, Papa was there the whole time.”
“I’d wager that if you told him you’re his missing angel, he would kiss you again, even if Papa was there.”
Lila didn’t think that was true in the least. And she wasn’t about to have this conversation again. “Just stop, will you? Anyway, I had to make excuses for you at the Dorcas Society,” she began. “Did you retrieve your diary?”
Tilly cringed. “I went to Marisdùn to meet Mr. Garrick, but…” She sighed, looking truly tortured. “Well, he couldn’t find it. He thinks those ghost children have taken it or something. Oh, Lila, what will I do if it doesn’t turn up?”
Her sister was never without her diary. “The ghost children who took Lady Patience’s ribbon?”
“That’s what he said. But why would they want my diary?”
That Lila didn’t have an answer to. “Try not to fret. I’m sure it’ll be found,” though she wasn’t truly certain at all. But that would be the last thing Tilly needed to hear.
“Anna, a word, please.”
She stiffened and cast her cousins a look before turning back to her uncle.
“I’ve let you go about your way since you’ve come to live in my house.”
“Thank you for taking me in, Uncle Walter.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve been derelict in my duties to you.”
Anna cringed inside. Another lecture on behavior and decorum was about to commence.
“My brother did you a disservice, which I overlooked until now.”
Her father had given her a wonderful, loving, adventurous life, but Anna held her tongue. Uncle Walter was angry enough.
“From this moment forward you are not to associate with Mrs. Chetwey. You will discourage Lila in her friendship with Callie as she is entirely unsuitable now that she married one of them.”
Anna could only blink at him.
“And, you will attend Dorcas Society with your cousins, and go with them when they call upon my parishioners.”
She anticipated and dreaded that this day would come. So far she’d been able to avoid the duties as she wasn’t a daughter of the vicar.
“You will conduct yourself with decorum and grace. You will be a paragon in my flock, and no more sketches like this!”
In a blink of an eye he was holding the sketch she had made of Mr. Thorn last year. “Where did you get that?”
Her heart began to pound. Surely he had not gone through her room and found the secret compartment beneath the floorboard. Goodness, her drawings from yesterday were stashed there and if this sketch sent him into a temper, most assuredly the others would as well.
“It fell out of that satchel you carry around.”
Inwardly, she sighed. At least her drawings were safe for the moment.
“I’ve given you too much freedom, and today that will end.” With that, he tossed the parchment into the fireplace and all Anna could do was watch the sketch of David Thorn go up in flames and then turn to ashes.
She swallowed against the lump in her throat at glanced at her uncle. “Is there anything else, Uncle Walter?”
“That is all.” He brushed his hands together as if he was rid of her and the trouble she’d brought him. “Return upstairs until you’re called for supper.”
It was all she could do to hold the tears in check as she raced up the stairs. He was the cruelest man alive.
Instead of ducking into her own room, she went into Tilly’s and Lila’s and threw herself on Lila’s bed before breaking into a sob.
“What did he say to you?” Lila asked with concern.
Anna sniffed and sat up. “He is so mean.”
“Shhhh,” Tilly hissed. “He’ll hear you and the two of you are already in quite a bit of trouble.”
“What happened?” Lila whispered.
“He found my sketch.” Her eyes welled with tears, remembering how it burned. “Then tossed it in the fire.”
Lila’s and Tilly’s eyes both went wide.
Lila’s hand went to her chest. “Not the ones from yesterday?”
Anna could only shake her head, unable to answer because tears clogged her throat.
“The one from the masquerade?” Tilly asked.
“Yes!” Anna said, wiping her nose on her sleeve because, as usual, she was without a handkerchief.
“Here, use mine.” Tilly shoved the frilly lace in front of Anna’s nose.
She dabbed her eyes before continuing. “I’m now to accompany the two of you on your visits.”
Both of her cousins winced.
“I am sorry, but perhaps between the three of us, we can leave even quicker than before,” Lila offered hopefully.
“And I must attend the Tabitha Society.”
“Dorcas,” the two answered in unison.
“I like Tabitha better.”
“Yes, we know,” Lila ground out. “But it is the name my mother gave it.”
Anna narrowed her eyes on the sisters. “Are you sure it wasn’t your father? Because Tabitha is a much nicer name.”
“It doesn’t really matter, now, does it?” Lila asked a bit sternly.
“Well, they are one in the same if you read Acts 9:36. They are practically interchangeable,” Anna grumbled.
“And I suggest you don’t argue that point with Father. He didn’t take it so well the last time you questioned a scripture.”
Anna winced at the memory, but she had always wondered where all the other people came from since Adam and Eve’s children had managed to find spouses somewhere. Uncle Walter hadn’t taken it very well when she suggested that some pertinent chapter may have been omitted from the original text.
With a sigh, she sat up. The loss of the drawing was painful, but it wasn’t as though she didn’t have more. He simply destroyed her favorite.
“So, what do the two of you have planned to wear tomorrow night?”
Her cousins gaped at her.
“Surely you’re attending the masquerade?”
They simply shook their heads.
“Well, I am. You won’t tell Uncle Walter, will you?”
Her two cousins shook their heads again and made and X over their hearts.
“Oh, Anna, do be careful,” Lila said, her eyes full of worry and squeezed her hand.
Quent winced as the Chetwey coach found a hole in the road and jostled him against the squabs. The back of his head hurt like the devil. “I do appreciate you coming all the way from Torrington Abbey. Is Chetwey going to have my head for this?”
Brighid tilted her head to the side as though she was trying to sort him out. “Why would h
e do that?”
Because she was very clearly only days away from giving birth and she’d bolted across Cumberland on Quent’s behalf. “Your, uh, condition.”
At that, she grinned. “I’m not as delicate as you might think, Quent.”
No, she only looked delicate. The lady had taken down a malevolent ghost last year, almost single-handedly. But he still didn’t imagine she should be traipsing across the countryside this close to her delivery. And if anything had happened to her, Blake Chetwey would be well within his rights to murder Quent on sight. “Delicate is not a word that pops to mind when I think of you, my dear.”
Her grin only widened. “Are you planning on staying in Ravenglass now that Marisdùn is yours? Or will you head back to Buckinghamshire?”
He shrugged slightly. “I’m not sure of my plans.” He’d only thought as far as the masquerade and finding his elusive angel. Planning anything beyond that hadn’t even crossed his mind. But ever since he’d returned to Ravenglass, he’d thought of very little other than Lila Southward. How utterly strange was that? He’d always liked Lila, but…Well, she was the sort of girl a man could lose his freedom to. And Quent really did enjoy his freedom. Still, as he’d lain in the middle of the road and she’d clutched his hand in hers, the last thing he ever wanted to do was let her go.
“Should you stay, I’m certain Blake would be happy to have you nearby. Someone to talk horses and racing circuits with. He’d be thrilled.”
Quent nodded in agreement. “The two of you nearby is certainly a selling point.”
The coach rambled to a stop, and the driver opened the door and lowered the step. Brighid grabbed the basket from the bench beside her, accepted the coachman’s assistance and then Quent climbed out behind her. Just as he was about to direct her into the castle, the stable boy came running towards them as though his hair was on fire.
“Milord! Milord!” the boy cried. “Are you all right?”
As all right as he could possibly be considering the bump on the back of his head and the confusion swirling around his heart. “I am. “
The boy took a couple of heaving breaths. “When Falacer raced back, all skittish and wild-eyed, I didn’t know what to think. I just now got him calm enough to unsaddle him.”
“He threw me,” Quent said, relieved his stallion had found his own way back to the castle. “Not his fault. He got spooked. Cool him down and give him a little extra attention, will you?”
“Yes, milord.” The boy nodded quickly.
Quent patted the lad on the head and then directed Brighid over the main threshold. At once, she squished up her nose as though she smelled something awful.
“There is an odor, isn’t there?” Quent asked. “I think perhaps opening the windows and a fresh scrubbing…”
“Sàisde fiadhain,” Brighid said instead with the shake of her head.
“I beg your pardon?” Quent frowned. What language was she even speaking?
“You need to burn it as incense in every room. I have some in my stores, but I don’t think enough for the entire castle. Have Mrs. Small send out for more, Quent.” She glanced around the main entrance way. “Quite a lot more.”
“Sàisde…” He shook his head. “You’ll have to write that down, Brighid. I have no idea what you just said.”
“Yes, yes,” she agreed. “In the meantime, lead the way to your chambers, my lord.”
He quirked her a rakish grin. “Why, Mrs. Chetwey, you are forward, aren’t you?”
“And you’re an incurable flirt,” she laughed. “But I need to look at your head, so if you don’t mind…” She gestured to the main staircase.
Quent nodded in agreement, even though it did hurt to nod. “This way.” He led her up the stairs and then down one corridor and then another as they reached the family wing. Then he pushed the door open to the master’s chambers and held it wide. “After you, my dear.”
Brighid preceded him into the room and she looked around as though she was searching for something. Then she turned back around, smiled, and gestured to his four-poster. “Lay on your side so I can take a look at your gash.”
Dutifully, he followed her orders and laid down on the bed, turning on his side to stare at an old tapestry on the wall, depicting some scene from…What the devil? Was that an impaled Celt surrounded by a Roman legion looking on? How had he not noticed that before? Probably because he didn’t care for tapestries in general and had never been forced to stare at this one.
“Ouch!” he complained when it felt like she’d stabbed him in the back of the head with a dagger.
“Oh, don’t be a child,” she grumbled as she cleaned the back of his head with something that stung like the devil. “You’ve got quite a bit of gravel in here, and I have to get it all out.”
Quent winced as she poked at his gash again. Brighid Chetwey might be a very talented witch but she had the bedside manner of a jungle cat. “Brighid, have you ever heard the local story of Cynbel the Celt?” he asked, looking once again at the morbid tapestry.
“Of course,” she said. “Everyone in the district knows the story.”
“And is this tapestry a depiction of that tale?”
Brighid stopped her work briefly and then said, “Yes, I believe it is. That Roman General looks like Rufus Flavius. You can tell by his golden hair.”
Rufus Flavius? Quent had never heard that name. “Who was Rufus Flavius?”
“I thought you just asked me if I’d heard Cynbel’s tale.” She returned to cleaning his wound and making Quent cringe with pain.
“Same tale?” he asked, his voice an octave higher when it felt as though she’d scalped him.
“Rufus Flavius ordered the impalement of Cynbel and his family. He was dead himself within the week. His death attributed to Cynbel’s curse upon the invaders, uttered with his final breath.”
The impalement of Cynbel and his entire family. Lila and her sister had glossed over the gory details. Either they didn’t know them or they didn’t want to repeat them in front of Hope, Grace and Patience. “It’s an unusual scene to put on a tapestry,” he said.
“I’d imagine Mary Routledge either acquired it or had it commissioned. This would have once been her room, you know?” She abandoned his head and began to rummage around in her basket. “You’re going to need a few stitches.”
“Bloody wonderful,” he muttered under his breath, then steeled himself for the jabbing of her needle. Something niggled in the back of his mind. “Why would my great-grandmother want a tapestry of Cynbel and Rufus Flavius in her bedchamber?”
“Well, Cynbel was very powerful, and you know how she craved power.”
That was true. She’d held a séance in the dungeons and opened a portal to the other side in her pursuit of power. “Or she was mad.”
“She was never that,” Brighid said, pulling the thread through his first stitch. “Evil, clever, vicious – yes; but not mad.”
Quent snorted. “Then morbid. Who would look at this every night?”
“She was searching for him,” Brighid said matter-of-factly. “She might have thought it would aid her pursuit.”
“Beg your pardon.” Quent frowned in confusion. “She was looking for whom?”
“Cynbel.” She pulled the thread through once more. “The story I heard is that Cynbel was the reason Mary Routledge was trying to harness the power of the Marisdùn spirits. She was searching for his entity. Not that anyone knows for certain, but it was quite likely that his life was taken on these grounds.”
“I would have thought the fort.”
“Construction on the oldest parts of Marisdùn began during the Roman reign.” She snipped off the edge of her thread. “It is said that whoever holds Cynbel in his or her power can never be defeated.”
“Cynbel was defeated though, wasn’t he?” The tapestry clearly showed that.
“His mortal body, certainly. But he did take his revenge on Rufus Flavius from the grave, did he not?”
It coul
d have been anything that killed the Roman.
“They say in death Cynbel was more powerful than he had been in life.”
“That is saying something for a man with tree trunks for arms.”
Brighid laughed. “Yes, well, legends are legends for a reason, are they not?”
He supposed that was true. Quent rolled over and sat up, smiling at his friend’s wife. “Thank you for—” he gestured to his head “—this.”
“Anytime.” She smiled in response. “But you may have a concussion, Quent. So do stay awake for—”
“My lord,” Mrs. Small interrupted from the threshold. “Pardon me, but do please come at once. There’s been an accident.”
Just moments after arriving at the castle and climbing from the carriage, a ball of fire exploded in the sky. What in the world? Sidney couldn’t help but gape. “What was that?” he muttered to the driver.
“A fire, sir,” the man breathed out. “At the blacksmith’s.”
The blacksmith’s? Hadn’t Quent sent all their found jewels and relics to the blacksmith for cleaning earlier in the day? A strange feeling settled in Sidney’s belly, and he rushed from the carriage toward the scene.
Thorn was already there blinking at the charred building, as were a dozen or so servants who were huddled together in shock. A couple of boys were sobbing that they’d heard screams but couldn’t get to the blacksmith in time.
It was a gruesome scene, and Sidney was glad Tilly was safe at home, no matter how overbearing her father might be. As a matter of fact, that was a rather comforting thought in this moment. He’d rather her be safe and miserable than…
He looked again toward the man who lay lifeless on the ground, his skin burnt beyond recognition. People gathered around, some eager to help, but what was left to do? The fire was out now. The man was gone.
Sidney noticed Brighid and Quent racing from the castle toward the scene, and he winced when the little witch sucked in a horrified breath. A lady shouldn’t have to see such a thing.
Quent’s mouth fell open once he reached Sidney and nearly sagged from helplessness. “Damn it all,” he grumbled.
“Sounds like he slipped,” Thorn muttered quietly. “Then burned himself alive.”
