by Kelley York
“I’ll behave for now.” He grins, stealing another kiss. I catch his lower lip between my teeth gently when he pulls away.
“Yes, yes, go on. Try to get some rest.”
After James has fetched his nightshirt and departed, I strip out of my clothes, wash, and change before crawling into bed.
And, oh, it’s a terribly comfortable bed. I sink into it with a groan, face buried into the pillows. Still, as comfortable as it is, it’s been quite literally months since I’ve slept without James beside me and it feels downright unnatural. Repeatedly, I reach for him only to find him not there. Were it not for the laudanum working through my system and the fact I am a touch drunk, I fear I would not be able to sleep at all.
I WAKE FEELING surprisingly well-rested and far too comfortable to crawl out of bed immediately, preferring to savour the moment a bit longer. I’m tempted to stay here and feign sleep for a few hours.
Except we have things to do. I drag myself from the warm cradle of blankets and ready myself for our day, washing and dressing before crossing the hall to James’ room. He is, of course, still asleep. At least, until I open the door and announce, “Up, James.” At which point he groans and pulls the blankets over his head and mumbles at me to go away.
“If you want breakfast, you’ll need to get up.”
“No, sleep time.”
He’s impossible. I glance either way down the hall, step into the room, and shut the door behind me before moving to kneel upon the edge of the bed. “I will eat your share if you don’t get up.”
“No.” A wayward hand darts out to grab at me and I lean out of its reach.
“We have work to do, darling. Unless you would send me off to a murder scene alone?”
That hand thumps to the mattress. “Have fun.”
I scowl. Then I grab the edge of the blankets and yank them right off of him. James responds with a sharp, hollow whimper as he blindly gropes for the covers. “Why?!”
“Because you’re being terribly rude,” I say, flinging the blankets as far to the bottom of the bed as I can. “Please get up.”
“You’re terribly rude,” he whines. “I was having the loveliest dream.”
Well, that must be nice. I take a seat upon the bed and fold my hands in my lap. “You can tell me all about it while you dress.”
He does sit up, albeit slowly. “But it’s cold. Why am I being punished for you taking this job?”
My mouth thins out. My patience is running thin. “Hm.”
“Let me get dressed, you brat,” he relents, chucking his pillow at me, which I catch and tuck behind my head. I’m already dressed so I can afford to lounge a bit while he prepares for his day.
“What did you dream about?”
James gives a pitiful sniff and shuffles over to his wash table. “I dreamt that I used our payment for this job to buy the most delicious cake in the world.”
“That dream can become a reality if you continue getting up on time.”
“I take that as permission to use all of our earnings to buy cake.”
“If you do, you’ll be finding yourself a new lover to keep you warm at night.”
“After all that cake, I shall be large enough to warm myself, thank you very much.” James glances over his shoulder, beaming, positively chuffed with himself.
There’s little I can do but to tip my head back and let out a long, suffering sigh.
We tuck in for breakfast alone, as Lord Wakefield is a late sleeper. No surprise there. I recall being at home with my family and how normal it was to stay up all hours of the night and sleep late. Before Whisperwood, my days rarely started before noon. Such is life for the well-heeled. I’m fine with that; it means no pressure to make casual conversation. Filling my belly for a second meal in a row is heavenly, and I will miss this when we return to London.
After we’re done, Foss is ready and waiting to take us to the Brewers’. He greets us with a curt bow, holding open the carriage door. “Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you slept well?”
“Like a dream,” James responds, slipping inside.
“Excellent.” Foss steps in after me, settling in the seat across from us. Momentarily, the driver flicks the reins and the carriage lurches forward. “Lord Wakefield wishes to extend an invitation to join us for mass today, by the by. He loathes the idea of you missing out on the Lord’s day for work.”
I grimace and look out the window to avoid being the one to answer that. Church is an uncomfortable place for an atheist, a discomfort I only suffer through for special occasions when James wishes to go, because I’m not heartless enough to make him go on his own. I hardly believe in God, and even if I did, I would find no comfort in the walls of a place that believes us and what we share to be sinful.
“That was very kind of him.” The amusement in James’ voice is evident to me but goes unnoticed by Foss. Despite it not being any sort of a commitment, Foss smiles and seems to take it as one.
“Wonderful. It will also grant you the opportunity to meet several other families who knew the Brewers.”
I must grudgingly admit that it would be convenient to have everyone in one place to speak to but, ahh… I push the thought aside for now. I suppose we’re going to church after all.
The Brewers’ farm is about fifteen minutes down the road. Not far, really, though it’s slow-going due to the snow. The carriage comes to a halt at the end of the long driveway, which has not been shovelled and therefore is in no shape for the carriage wheels to make it through. Foss steps out and holds the door for James and me to exit, and he seems prepared to accompany us.
I hold up a hand. “We’re all right on our own, Mr. Foss.”
He frowns deeply. “Are you certain?”
“Quite. If we have any questions, we’ll file them away for later.” We don’t need someone getting underfoot, after all. “If you’d mind sending the carriage back for us in a while, that will do just fine.”
He glances to James but nods reluctantly and fishes a key from his pocket, which he hands to me, and then clambers back into the carriage to return home.
It’s cold and the farm is so eerie in its silence that my stomach is already in knots, but I offer a tight smile to James and begin heading through the snow. He falls into step alongside me, hands crammed into his coat pockets.
“Are you well?” he asks.
I glance askance at him. “A question better served for after we’ve looked at the house. I imagine this is going to be a bit…messier than our usual jobs.”
“Would you prefer if I went in on my own first?”
My insides somersault at the mere thought, making me feel ill. “Over my dead body.”
He chuckles. “Well, I offered.”
“You do enough reckless things even when I’m present.” I survey the area. The horses and whatever other animals the Brewers possessed are notably absent. No doubt the neighbours took them in to avoid them starving to death, left here alone.
Under Miss Bennett’s guidance over the last several months, I’ve grown quite good at attuning myself to the atmosphere of the places we work. Here is no different. The uneasy sensation rolls off the Brewers’ farm in waves, making my vision momentarily blur and my stomach roll. Needing to give myself a moment, I slide the key to James. He unlocks the door and steps inside without hesitation, and as I always do, I keep on his heels.
Before we can even take in the scene, the smell crashes into us in one overwhelming wave. I clamp a hand over my nose and mouth. It’s cloying, nauseating. The source being the copious amounts of blood soaked into the flooring amid the overturned furniture and dishes strewn about. It looks less like the scene of a murder and more like a pack of wolves tore through a herd of sheep. “Christ…”
James wheezes, yanking a handkerchief from his pocket to cover the lower half of his face. “Did the thought of airing this place out
occur to no one?”
“Clearly not.” I leave the door open wide and promptly move to the nearest window to shove it open. James follows suit.
“Should we examine the outside for a bit?” he asks.
Although I think he’s attempting to be kind for my sake, I say, “No point. Everything happened in here.”
Beyond the smell and the horrifying smear of gore and blood all over the kitchen, I try to remember my training with Miss Bennett, closing my eyes and focusing. It’s difficult to describe, like the subtle tug of a single thread wrapped around someone’s finger, except that thread is tied about my ribs and sometimes figuring out the direction it wishes me to go is nigh impossible. This time, however, it leads me out of the single large, main room that serves as a living space, kitchen, and dining area, and into a bedroom.
A children’s bedroom. Which, at first glance, appears to be in mostly decent shape—save for the crudely made bassinet in the corner, with its blood-soaked blanket hanging half out.
Immediately I turn away, and James is right there, his shoulders tense as he takes in the sight before us.
“Whoever did this deserves a far worse fate than any law is capable of doling out,” I whisper.
“I’m not certain there’s any punishment worthy,” he softly agrees.
I place a hand against James’ chest, the feel of him there helping to ground me and slow my racing heart. “What sort of monster kills a baby?”
James covers my hand with his own. “One we’re going to find.”
I’m glad one of us is confident about that.
Before I can respond, the flicker of something on the edge of my sight snags my attention. The hair along the back of my neck stands to attention. “James.”
His grip on my hand twitches tighter. He turns to follow my gaze. “What did you see?”
I don’t know. Something. Nothing. It doesn’t feel malicious, whatever it was, but I’m hardly as adept at telling the difference as someone like Miss Bennett. “Something back in the other room.”
James’ jaw tightens briefly. He releases me and moves out of the doorway. In the main room, a small, silent wisp of a shadow slips through the front door. There’s no mistaking it’s a young boy, which gives me pause because I’m not so certain my stomach can handle seeing the ghost of a mangled child—especially if it turns out to be an angry one.
We follow it back out into the cold. The pale boy nearly vanishes against the snowy backdrop. He does not halt, however, moving toward the treeline. My heart lurches into my throat. This is too reminiscent of Whisperwood, of following dead boys in the woods to hidden tunnels…
Except we don’t get more than a few paces from the house before the child ducks behind one of the trees, out of sight, and a long, low wail pierces the air and makes my spine go rigid. It even serves to still James for half a second—and then he’s dashing forward, heading straight toward the sound. Because of course he does. I shake off the chill settling into my bones and give chase, swearing under my breath.
However, the spirit seems to have left us. Upon reaching the trees, we halt, turning full-circle, searching the towering trunks and branches and endless grey-and-white and find...nothing.
James scowls. “Damn it! Do you see anything?”
I grab his arm, lest he try to run off on me again. “No, nothing. We’ve lost him.”
“There’s a reason he ran out here,” he mutters, beginning to move further into the woods. I tighten my hold on his arm to halt him. The last thing we need is to wander into unfamiliar territory in the cold and get turned around without lanterns or any means of finding our way back.
“We’ll have better luck making contact at night. We’ll try to speak to him next time, now that we know they’re still here.”
For a few heartbeats, James lingers, and I worry he’s going to insist on giving chase to ghosts we cannot see. Finally, he sighs. “Let’s head back inside.”
I permit myself to relax and ease my hold on his arm.
Back inside, the smell is still strong, but dissipating slowly. The last, unexplored room we check is another bedroom, looking to have belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Brewer themselves. A lone bed is shoved against the wall. It is the only space here that appears free of blood and gore, so I suppose this is where we’ll sleep tonight, although we will need to take turns keeping watch.
The blood on the floor has long since dried, but I still hesitate to walk where it has soaked into the floorboards. I put the kitchen table upright again, stooping to pick up objects that were scattered in the struggle; a few eating utensils, bowls, knives, potatoes. I don’t know why I do it, just that seeing everything in such disarray is too unsettling.
James leans against the doorframe as he watches me clean up, arms folded across his chest, the cogs in his head no doubt working a mile a minute. I can always tell by the look on his face. “I’m still convinced a human is responsible for this.”
I frown at that, leaning to draw shut the kitchen windows. They had the house locked up when we arrived, and it seems only proper we leave the place as we found it. “What makes you so certain?”
“Because a spirit would make no sense. How long had they complained of strange sightings? A few weeks? They’ve clearly lived here awhile, not just some family who moved in without knowing the house had a bad history. I’ve not heard tell of a spirit just…showing up and slaughtering a family.”
“It could have been something lying dormant, but…” He has a point. This farm doesn’t look particularly old, not like Whisperwood was, not like some of the manors and homes we’ve worked in. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Brewer himself built the place. “But just one person, though? You think one human was capable of slaughtering an entire family? It’s obvious they put up a struggle.”
James shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Case in point, a man by the name of McConaughy, some years back… He killed an entirely family of six, all on his own.”
Despite myself, I can’t help but smile. “Look at you, doing your research.”
He grins and bows. “I do what I can.”
What a charming brat he is. “We’ll see what the spirits have to say tonight, hm? For now, let’s lock up and await Foss’ return. Perhaps we can get some more information from the neighbours at mass.”
He chuckles, straightening up and turning to shut the remaining windows. “I had been attempting to drag things out so you wouldn’t have to go, you realise. I know you do worry about bursting into flames upon entering a church.”
I sniff indignantly. “I could feign illness and make you go alone.”
“By all means.” He smiles sweetly.
I give his arm a shove as I move to the door. “Why are you so eager to leave me behind?”
“I’m not, but I do enjoy your adorable indignation.”
Would he whine at me if I shoved him face-first into the snow? Likely. I settle for casting a sullen look his way instead.
We trek back up the path, taking our time to examine the outside of the house as we go. No sign of someone breaking in anywhere. Once we reach the road, it’s a waiting game for the carriage to return. When it does, there’s only the driver to greet us and no Mr. Foss. He hops down from his perch to open the door for us.
“Sirs, am I taking you to the chapel, or returning you to Lord Wakefield’s?”
James steals a look at me. “To church, please.”
I don’t mope over it, at least not much. I did say it was a smart idea. My only regret is that I didn’t take more of my laudanum this morning to get me through this.
Since we have the closed carriage to ourselves, the moment it’s in motion, I wrap my fingers about James’ and squeeze. He turns his head, lips brushing against my temple and his voice low. “Would you like a little more medicine, darling?”
My gaze snaps to him, unable to help the
hopefulness creeping into my expression. “You’ve brought it?”
He smiles a little. “In case the house was too much for you, yes.”
A relieved sigh finds its way past my lips. “You’re an angel. Please.”
James slides the bottle from his pocket, doling out a dropper full for me. I swallow it down and rest my head against his shoulder, feeling infinitely grateful for him in that moment. No matter what the situation, James is always concerned for me, always a step ahead in trying to ensure my comfort as much as he’s able for a person who is never comfortable in their own skin.
His cheek comes to rest atop my head. “So perhaps now when you burst into flames, you’ll not feel it as much.”
I chuckle. “Mm, a possibility.”
“Hopefully it won’t last long.”
“It’s mass. It always lasts forever.”
I can feel his mouth curve into a smile as I nestle my face into his throat. “You’re always so dramatic.”
The drive to church is not terribly long. The chapel’s bell tower stands tall, but otherwise, it’s a quaint little building, far smaller and simpler than the churches I’m used to in London. A number of people are in various stages of arriving. As we exit the carriage and follow them inside, my chest begins to tighten in that familiar ball of tension and nervousness that nothing but my laudanum knows how to untangle.
James takes the lead, as he’s prone to do when he senses my discomfort; with him as a barrier between me and the world, it makes things a little more bearable.
Inside, small as the church might be, it’s quite lovely. Well-lit, and the sunlight through the stained-glass windows casts everything in a beautiful prismatic glow. A brief scan of the chapel reveals that, while there are indeed quite a mix of people here, only the richest of the bunch are seated up front.
I spot Lord Wakefield and Adelia in the front row. Wakefield is chatting amiably with the occasional parishioner who stops by to greet him, and I nudge James in the right direction. When Wakefield spots us, he rises to his feet with a smile. “Glad you could make it.”
