Sepia and Silver (Tragic Silence Book 3)

by E. C. Hibbs

  “Eva, what on earth is the matter?” Norman asked, coming over to me. “Did you have a nightmare?”

  I looked at him imploringly and shook my head. “Nem! Volt egy demon itt!”

  “Calm yourself, child! I can’t understand a word you are saying. What happened?”

  I swallowed hard to make myself concentrate, and forced my voice back into English. “There was a... man in here. I woke up and saw him right there!”

  “A man in your room?” Norman gasped. “George, find him at once! Are you hurt, dear? What did he do?”

  George immediately sprang into action, tearing back the wardrobe doors and bed curtains. The warm light of the lamp bloomed into life and Christine came to me, clutching my fingers in comfort. I glanced between her and my grandfather, my free hand still hovering shakily near my eyes.

  “No sign of him anywhere, Sir,” George announced. “I haven’t got a clue how he could’ve got in here.”

  “The window!” I cried, pointing at it.

  “The latch is secured, Miss,” insisted George, holding the curtain folds aside so I could see. Indeed, the lock was shut firmly, clearly bolted from the inside.

  I shook my head weakly. “Nem... He was here! Really, he was just here!”

  “There, there, now, dear,” Norman said in a gentle voice. “You’ve had a bad dream, that’s all. We all have them from time to time; it’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

  I looked at him, practically feeling the expression of dismay falling over my face. It was like the moment when I had tried to convince my cousins of the angel, all over again. If the odds hadn’t been in my favour that time, then there was no chance of my truth winning through here, now. If I had learned anything thus far, it was that the new society I had entered into carried hardly any of the simple facts that I was used to. By Zíta’s standards, Hattyúpatak was barely aware enough anyway; but it was a wealth of knowledge compared to the forced ignorance of this land.

  Realising I was not going to be believed, I let the matter drop with a despondent nod.

  “Yes, Grandfather. I am sorry for waking you so abruptly,” I said softly.

  “There’s no need to apologise,” replied Norman, stroking the underside of my chin. “Just try not to be so alarmed by dreams, Eva. Nothing can harm you. Christine, please pour her a drink of water.”

  “Aye, Sir,” Christine said, and moved to the dresser, where a ceramic jug was standing. As she tipped the contents into a glass, Norman and George wished me a good night and pleasant dreams, then left, pulling the door ajar behind them. I watched them go wordlessly, pressing my lips together so my breaths wouldn’t tremble.

  “‘Ere you go, Miss.” Christine held out the glass to me, and I took it with a smile of thanks, but even to me, it felt more like a grimace.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, drinking deep, forcing my throat to relax. “I am sorry for all this commotion.”

  “Ah, no worries about it.” Christine smoothed the front of her nightdress. “It sounds like it was an awful nightmare.”

  I turned my attention on her firmly. “It wasn’t a nightmare,” I said. “I swear to you, everything I said was true.”

  Christine’s brow creased into a small frown. “But... Miss, there’s nobody in here. George would’ve seen him, like. There’s no way you would be left alone in ‘ere if there were any danger.”

  “He’s gone now,” I maintained, “but there was a man in here with me, right where you stand now.”

  “Miss Éva, I can’t do anythin’ more,” said Christine, obviously confused as to how to react. “I’ll listen to you when I can, but please, do not ask anything more o’ me. It’s not me place.”

  She cleared her throat. “And I don’t wish to overstep my bounds, like, but please be wary of what you say. Tongues may wag against you, perhaps even under this roof. Please, try your best to curb your ravings; else they may see fit to take you away t’ be with the lunatics.”

  She made sure I was calm before leaving me alone, shutting off the lamp as she passed it. When I heard the door catch back into position, I quickly whipped a book of matches from the nightstand and lit the candle atop it. I started intently at the flame, suddenly feeling like a child again, scared of the dark, and the multitude of creatures that swam within it.

  I regarded Christine’s serious expression in my memory. I was sure she had warned me mainly against Margaret, but right now, Norman’s wife was the least of my worries. Even though the maid’s words struck a chord with me, and I appreciated the gravity of their meaning, I couldn’t help my eyes flickering in the direction of the window.

  I knew right away that I would not have another wink of sleep. So I simply sat, with one hand resting nervously over the scar on my neck, and waited for dawn.

  CHAPTER IX

  After the longest night of my life, I forced myself to swing my legs out of bed, and snatched a thin shawl from a side table before walking slowly to the window. I covered my shoulders, eyes never leaving the hook-like latch. I warily ran my fingers over it, checking its firmness. It was cold and a little wet with precipitation, but definitely closed.

  Swallowing nervously, I lifted it and eased the panes open. Holding them both wide, I stepped out onto the little balcony, clutching my hands to my chest so the shawl wouldn’t flutter away in the wind. Even though I was sure the intruder was gone, I couldn’t help checking.

  Then my thoughts turned to how he could have possibly managed to get inside my room in the first place. Forgetting the mystery of the lock, there were no handholds which he could have used to climb up here.

  Noticing for the first time that the street was buzzing with activity, I drew back inside and shut the window, aware that I shouldn’t be seen in my nightclothes. So I changed into my undergarments before lacing the corset myself. Christine had explained to me that there was a knack of fastening them without help, and since she knew how much I loathed them, she since left me alone to dress on my own. Needless to say, I always kept the corsets looser than they were supposed to be, only pulling the strings tight enough to allow me to slip into my clothes.

  After donning a blue morning dress and pinning up my hair, I made my way downstairs. I joined Norman and Margaret for breakfast, accepting a cup of tea from Christine with a smile.

  “You seem better this morning, Eva,” said Norman. “Did you manage to sleep again?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “What were you making such a racket about, anyway?” Margaret asked, elegantly stirring her tea with a spoon. “If the neighbours didn’t know any better, they would think there had been a murderer in the house!”

  I bit my tongue, James’ fangs flashing in my memory.

  “I had a nightmare. That is all.”

  Margaret gave a derisive sniff. “Children are scared by nightmares, for heaven’s sakes. Not grown women.”

  “Now, now,” Norman interjected, “let’s not have such words over a meal. The poor dear simply had a fright, and she is fine now, you see? Come, let’s eat in peace.”

  I glanced between them. Margaret raised her eyebrows and took a sip from her cup; then I caught Norman giving me a subdued wink. I smiled in response before turning to my porridge.

  Following breakfast, I collected some paper and ink, and set about writing my reply to Zíta. Aware of Margaret sitting at the piano behind me, I had never been more thankful of having the ability to fall back into Hungarian while corresponding with my cousins. There was no way she could peek over my shoulder and read what I said, and I definitely didn’t want her to find out the contents of this letter.

  After congratulating Erik on his engagement and giving my good wishes to the neighbours, I addressed Zíta seriously, writing down everything that had happened last night. If anyone could give me answers, it was her.

  My hand shook as I held the pen, the events still vivid in my mind. It brought a fresh wave of fear just to think about, and chased away any lingering tiredne
ss. I described James; then mentioned about my eyes turning red, before demanding to know what it could mean. In reflection, I also requested more information on the Final Purge. I knew that James couldn’t be any kind of Hungarian vampire, but there were some traits that all the demonic dark ones shared, and never had they been as concentrated as on that night.

  I placed the letter inside an envelope, addressed it, and then sat back, waiting for Margaret to finish playing. I recognised the tune as a concerto that she had tried to teach me before moving me onto Für Elise. I had to admit, her music was beautiful. I supposed she had been learning from a very young age. Listening to her, I always felt a small stab of shame that I was taking so long to grasp the instrument; and that I could barely manage the simple Chop Waltz.

  “Miss Lockwood,” I said after Margaret had taken her fingers from the keys, “I was wondering if you would please accompany me to the post office?”

  “Of course,” said the old lady, getting to her feet. Then I glanced at Margaret, knowing she would be coming too.

  “Have you anywhere else to visit?” she asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  She shook her head. “Fine, then. Let’s go now; then you will catch the midday postman.”

  We returned to our rooms, changed into outdoor clothes, and met in the hallway before heading through the door. Descending the porch steps, I watched as an omnibus rattled down the road and disappeared around the corner.

  The strong briny smell of the sea filled my nose, and a faint breeze swept beneath my hat to disturb the front of my hair. I had become used to it now; it didn’t elicit the same strong reaction as when I first experienced it in Fiume. In the same manner, the taste of English tea no longer bothered me; and the hubbub of city life, which I had balked at, now seemed a hive of exciting activity.

  It was an overcast day, and dark clouds filled every inch of the sky. I could tell instantly that rain was on the way, and Miss Lockwood whispered to me that we would have to be quick in case we were caught in it. As we walked through the streets, more traffic hurried by: carriages of every conceivable type, as well as chugging motor cars, the drivers squinting through tiny goggles. The houses rose high overhead, and a maze of tall chimneys and sails loomed in the distance from the dock road.

  I drank it all in as though it were the best wine. I hadn’t been outside much, and viewing the advancement of this country never ceased to amaze me. I couldn’t help but compare everything I saw to the unassuming life I had led in Hattyúpatak. In their own ways, each was beautiful and fascinating, standing at polar opposites across the seething mass of Europe.

  I bought a stamp at the post office and slid my envelope into the foreign delivery box. Then Margaret ushered me away towards the kerb, insisting that we get back. On the return, we passed a policeman, who smiled graciously at us and doffed his helmet.

  I nodded in appreciation, but even though it wasn’t James, I shivered uncontrollably. For the rest of the walk, I couldn’t help glancing at every passer-by and into all the side alleys, sure that he was going to jump out at me. Despite myself, I instantly felt a wave of relief when we arrived at the house and George closed the door behind us.

  I was happy when Margaret left me to my own devices in the parlour, going to the drawing room so she could carry on at the piano. Glad for the solitude, the afternoon went comfortably, with me working to repress my lingering anxiety. I finished my embroidery of the violets before taking up a copy of Bewick’s History of British Birds.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  I jumped violently, spinning around to see Norman standing behind me. He held up a hand in apology.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear! I didn’t mean to startle you!”

  “It’s no problem, Grandfather,” I replied, bringing my racing heartbeat back under control. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

  Norman grinned at me. “Could you please come with me into the library?”

  My eyes lit up. “Of course,” I said, putting the book on a table and getting to my feet.

  I followed him up the first flight of stairs and past the bedrooms, to a door on the far side of the landing. He held it open for me to walk through, and invited me to sit. I obeyed, settling in one of the thickly upholstered chairs, and gazed around.

  This was one of my favourite places in the house: every wall was lined from floor to ceiling with dark walnut shelves crammed full of books. A small ladder ran along a rail, allowing the highest tomes to be reached. The only part of the room not taken by hardbacks and serials was the large fireplace, above which hung an impressive painting depicting a battle scene with soldiers on horseback.

  Norman sat in a larger armchair opposite me, quickly moving the book that had been resting on the seat. He smirked guiltily.

  “Sorry. Margaret hates it when I leave things lying about. But she doesn’t come in here all that often, so I can get away with it a little more.”

  I smiled to myself. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Feel free to take anything you care for,” he said, noticing my wandering eyes. “You are more than welcome in here; all these books are as equally yours as they are mine. And you can use them to practise reading English, if you like. Although I must say, your fluency is rather masterful already.”

  I blinked, humbled by his compliment. “Thank you so much. That is generous of you,” I said, and then awkwardly held a hand to my hair to make sure all the pins were still where they should be. I found one that had worked loose and pushed it into position.

  I decided to change the subject, and suddenly thought back on the Christmas party at Weaver House.

  “Grandfather, may I ask how it is you know the Jones family?” I asked. “You seem on very friendly terms with Mr Jones.”

  “Friendliness is the least of it, Eva,” said Norman, sitting back and crossing his legs. “We were brothers in arms, the two of us. We both served in the same regiment during the war in the Crimea, about forty years ago.”

  I felt my eyes widen a little; then stray to the hearth. “Is that what is in the picture?”

  Norman glanced at it over his shoulder. “Yes, that’s supposed to be near Sevastopol in 1854. The Battle of Alma. I was there with Harry.”

  He stood, walking to the shelves stacked in the alcove beside the chimney breast, and pulled out a thick book without hesitation. It was an unassuming thing; I wouldn’t have looked twice at it. But when he sat down again and opened the covers, my mouth fell slack in surprise. The pages had all been precisely cut through the centre, and lying within them was a sleek metallic handgun.

  “This is my old revolver,” said Norman. “Beaumont-Adams; fifty-four bore. It saved my life on more than one occasion.”

  I stared at it. I’d never seen a weapon like it up close; the only things back home that could inflict real damage often relied on blades. But I had to admit, it looked oddly attractive in a simple way; nothing like the illustrations of other firearms that I’d occasionally glimpsed through my life.

  Norman replaced it, put the book on a nearby table; and then turned to look at me, lacing his fingers together in his lap.

  “Eva, why do you think I was so determined to have you come here to live with me?”

  “To speak truth, I don’t know,” I replied. “It is not as though we knew each other prior to me receiving your summons. So I can only suppose it has something to do with my father.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn that I also never knew him?” asked Norman.

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. At least not past his infancy. What about you?”

  “I have no memory of him,” I said. “He was killed during a mugging in Buda-Pesth when I was a baby. After that, my mother, Mirriam, lost a lot of money, so she took us to stay with her relatives in Hattyúpatak.”

  Norman gave a small grimace upon hearing that, and cast his eyes down sorrowfully. “He’s dead? I suspected it, I suppose, but I was hoping I’d be wrong. I searched for
him as best I could, but there was no sign of him, or his mother.” He raised a hand and scratched the side of his nose with one finger.

  “You see, Eva, I never planned to have a family when I was in Crimea. Harry and I went over there as young men before the war even officially began. And I happened across a girl who was about your age at the time: Henrietta. She was Magyar; she had sought refuge in Ukraine from the Hungarian Revolution of 1848. I had never believed in the idea of love until I met her. We had a child: a son, who I named Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan?” I repeated, unable to keep the confusion out of my voice. Then I realised what had happened: just as the English mispronounced my name, my father’s had been given an anglicised version. “He was never known as that in Hungary. He was János.”

  “Yes, that was one of the reasons why I found it difficult to locate him. Do you have any idea of what he was like?” Norman asked, leaning forwards in eagerness. “I have absolutely no clue about him.”

  I thought back, feeling a small frown creasing my brow. After Anya’s death, Zíta had rarely spoken of my father, insisting there was little point because I never really knew him. The most she had ever said was that both he and Anya were both extremely fair of face, which had definitely worked in my favour. But Erik had mentioned my Apa a few times, and I quickly brought those memories to the fore.

  “From what I’ve heard, he was very stern – domineering, I think, is the right word,” I said. “I was told it wasn’t wise to cross him. But he would lay down anything for those he cared about, especially his family. That’s why we knew something must have happened to him in Buda-Pesth, because he would have come home otherwise.”

  I cleared my throat, looking at the painting again. “Grandfather, please, could you tell me anything more about the Crimea? I’m afraid I don’t have anything else I could say.”