by Eve Silver
The remaining two birds began to chirp madly, a crescendo of sound, and he jerked his head to the side, pinning his full attention on them. They peeped louder and faster as he carefully set the little corpse on the log and reached into the nest for the next.
To his right, a twig snapped.
He whirled, fury biting deep. Someone watched him. Someone dared to disturb his play.
There. He saw a flash of pale hair. Madeline, or someone else? Following instinct rather than design, determined to protect his secrets, he snatched a stick from the ground. The heft was just right, the end pointed and sharp.
With a snarl he lunged for the shadows.
* * *
Night crept in on silent feet. Dark shapes twisted and writhed along the walls, slashed by the flickering tongues of amber and gold cast out by the fire that burned in the hearth. The door to the chamber was cracked open just wide enough for a rat to squirm through, or a sly lad to peer in unnoticed.
Curling his fingers around the edge of the door, the boy eased closer and breathed deeply. The fragrance of blood drifted lightly on the current of cold air, a subtle perfume, inviting and mysterious.
Enthralled, he held very still, his body quivering like that of a hound after a scent.
Beside the bed, on a hard, straight chair, sat a woman. His mother. Her back was hunched, her thin shoulders sagging. She sobbed, the sounds grating and harsh, dragging across the boy’s senses like a file. At her back—stone-faced and silent—stood her husband, his hands fisted by his sides, for at last he had recognized the futility of his efforts to comfort her. Shadow and light played over the pair, actors in a twisted tableau.
But this scene was part of no fictional play. The participants were real; their torment was real, and the boy found joy in their suffering, pleasure in their pain. The thrill of it danced through him.
After a time, a different sensation invaded, the prickling unease of unseen eyes watching him. From behind came a faint sound, a sigh or a footfall. The rustle of fabric.
Someone there. Madeline. Anger surged. He was the watcher. He was the dweller of darkened doorways and niches. Twice now in one day his role had been usurped. He turned slowly, narrowed his eyes, and searched for some sign of movement. His heart pounded a hard, steady rhythm as he held his rage in rigid check.
The long, empty hallway unfurled like a black ribbon, and the skulking shadows swallowed him whole.
But his cousin was not there. No one was there.
Feeling foolish and liking that not at all, he faced forward once more to peer into the fire-kissed gloom of the bedchamber, careful to make no noise that might alert those inside to his presence. His gaze slid to the bed.
The sheets were a pristine white, the bed frame dark cherry. A boy lay there, his head nestled on a soft pillow, his spun gold hair matted, his skin a paler shade of chalk tinged with gray. His nightshirt flowered crimson where blood seeped through the bandages the housekeeper had wrapped about his limp form hours past when the sun had yet been a bright ball in the sky.
Ever the interloper, the outcast, the boy at the door leaned in a little, lured by the lovely sight of the blood.
A shiver of delight chased across his skin, raising the fine hairs on his forearms.
The darkness shifted and breathed, a cloud crossing the moon. He glanced at the windows that were set high in the far wall. They were long and narrow as had been the style when this place, Cairncroft Abbey, was built. The cloud passed and cool pale light leaked through the warped panes, past the heavy curtains, but not so far as the dim corners or the recesses of the high ceiling. He liked that, the way the moonlight struggled—and failed—to puncture the suffocating gloom.
The darkness won. It always won.
In the hearth, a log popped, sending a spray of bright sparks dancing through the air. The woman gasped.
Clenching his fists against the urge to push the door fully ajar, to step into the bedchamber where wretched despair played out in perfect melodrama, the boy held his place, apart, separate. Alone.
“I cannot bear it. I cannot,” the woman whispered on a dry croak. “Geoffrey”—her voice broke—“Gabriel.” She raised her head and turned her face toward the open door, toward him, but her eyes were hazy, unfocused. She saw not what was before her.
That was ever the way of things. She never saw him.
With a sob, she collapsed forward and buried her face in her hands. Her husband stood at her back, staring straight ahead, until finally, as the sound of her cries burgeoned and grew, he moved to kneel before her. His face was close to hers and he whispered useless words meant to comfort.
Until that moment, the man’s broad shoulders had obscured the looking glass that hung above the mantel. Now, his movement left a clear path to the door.
From his place outside the chamber, the boy lifted his gaze and stared into the silvered, dark depths of the mirror. The partially open door was reflected there, and the jamb framing the ghostly oval of his face. His own wide, almond-tipped eyes stared back at him.
’Twas a face identical to that of the cold, motionless boy on the bed.
And the reflection was smiling with dark, secret glee.
* * *
Part Two
* * *
3
Cambridge, England, March 1828
What does it feel like to die? The question haunted her still. As she lurched to and fro in the swaying coach, Catherine Weston recalled every nuance of the long-ago night when Madeline had climbed onto the bed and stretched out beside her, her mere presence offering solace. She recalled the flare of emotion when the headmistress had come, carrying a single candle with its dancing flame. Catherine had stared at that tiny flickering light, thinking she had never seen anything more beautiful, more comforting.
A few short months later, Madeline’s parents were dead, taken by a fever, and Madeline was removed from Browning, never to return. But that night had been the first step on the path to this day.
Within the fetid confines of the hired carriage, Catherine sat in damp discomfort, listening to the wild patter of the rain and staring at the wet stain that darkened the far side of the seat as drop after drop seeped through a crack in the roof and plopped against the velvet in a steady drip. The ancient carriage jerked and jolted, the horses slogging through rivers of mud that overtook the roads and sucked at the wheels. More than once the conveyance lurched to an unwelcome halt, and from her place inside, Catherine heard the coachman’s curses and the crack of his whip urging the beasts to pull free.
The sounds were muffled but not completely obscured by the drumming of the storm.
Rage and frustration laced the driver’s tone, conjuring less than pleasant memories of another man, his voice taut with fury as he cursed fate. Cursed her.
She curled her fingers, digging the tips of her nails into her palms. That man was dead, but the things he had said and done haunted her still.
Resolutely, she turned her thoughts to nothing at all, locking away the memories and the pain.
Soon, the carriage stopped at a small coaching inn and Catherine went gratefully to a retiring room before making her way to the public dining room where she settled at a small table as close to the fire as possible. She stared into the flames for a long moment, rousing herself when a plate was set before her. She poked at the unpalatable meal— underdone leg of mutton that smelled gamey, and a boiled potato, hot and soft on the outside but hard and uncooked within. Travel weary and bedraggled, she could not deflect the instant of melancholy that touched her, or the thought that her heart was a little like that potato, cold and hard at its core.
Best it stay that way. A soft heart was a certain road to torment.
“’Tis inedible,” grumbled a portly man at the adjacent table.
“Inexcusable,” groused his companion. “A crime, I tell you, to take good coin for this slop. A heinous crime.”
Catherine pressed her lips together, holding back the unsolicited obse
rvation that there were things in this life one could label both heinous and criminal. A poorly prepared meal was not one of them.
She sipped her tea, letting the warmth cheer her, grateful for the brief respite from the commingled scents of rot and sweat and old perfume that clung to the walls and seats of the hired carriage. Grateful, too, to sit on a chair that did not sway and jolt.
Almost there, now. And was she not fortunate to have a destination to go to?
From the corner of her eye, she saw the coachman stalk past the door. He had been pacing like that for several minutes, pausing intermittently to stare hard at her as though willing her to hurry.
Almost did she surge to her feet and rush to him, apologies at the tip of her tongue. Instead, she forced herself to finish her tea and set the chipped cup on its mismatched saucer, nostalgia creeping up on her. There had been a time when she had lived in a house with only the finest china, when her tea had been poured from a silver pot, where she had known her place in the world. Funny, the things she pined for. Not the china or the silver, but the lemon squares that Cook used to make with such loving care. She wondered what had become of Cook. What had become of all the servants, especially those who had helped her after the fire.
She shivered and again gathered her thoughts, all the more determined to keep the past locked away in its dusty box. That was the only safe place for it to be.
Squaring her shoulders, Catherine took up her reticule and rose from the small table.
Moments later, she climbed into the rank carriage once more. From his ugly glare and muttered complaints, Catherine thought that the driver might have preferred to remain at the inn and find himself a tankard and a chair and let her make her own way, or perhaps leave her there and hie himself back to London. But she had promised him an extra coin at the end of the journey if he brought her to her destination before nightfall. Both foresight and frugality underpinned her promise. The cost of his reward was far less than the cost of overnighting at a coaching inn.
The door slammed shut behind her; the springs creaked and groaned as the driver climbed up. A moment later, the carriage jolted and the horses plodded on.
Time passed, and in the end the downpour stopped, but the sky did not clear. Catherine was unprepared when the carriage made a sharp turn, and she slid across the rain-dampened squabs with a gasp. Bracing one hand on the worn velvet of the seat, she scooted forward and looked out the window to catch her first sight of her destination.
Cairncroft Abbey.
Well, there it was. She knew not what she had expected; she only knew it was not this.
Tipping her head, she contemplated the massive array of limestone and clunch that loomed gray and cold and bleak before her. So many chimneys. They poked up from the steeply pitched tile roof, three on the left, then a single, a double, another single on the far right, dark silhouettes against the suffocating mantle of charcoal cloud. One of the chimneys sent up a thin, whitish curl of weak smoke. No light glimmered in the windows. Instead, they stared, blank and vacant and utterly dark, reflecting the image of the grim sky. Grim as the letter Madeline had written, telling of her desperation and despair.
Please come. I beg of you. Please come.
And what reply could Catherine offer to the girl who had saved her life other than, “I will come.”
Her curiosity piqued, she continued to study the place even after the coach rocked to a halt.
“Perhaps the abbey looks better in the sunshine,” she muttered, and pushed open the carriage door. She could only hope such was the case, for this dreary dwelling did not bode well for the improvement of Madeline’s mood.
Climbing down onto the graveled drive, Catherine looked up at the windows once more. For an instant she thought she saw a flicker of movement, a pale form shimmering, wraithlike, behind the glass. When she saw nothing more, she dropped her gaze and stepped forward only to stop short, for directly in her path lay a small, dark shape.
Peripherally aware of the coachman muttering and huffing behind her as he fetched her things, she took another step, thinking the shape was a clod of dirt.
She blinked.
Not dirt. A blackbird. It must have hit one of the windows and fallen to the ground.
A dead thing in a dead place.
She stared at the feathered little carcass on the drive with its skinny, twiglike legs stretched toward the sky, and for an instant saw something entirely different, a memory of a human form, rigid and—
“Here you are.” The driver’s voice drew her attention, scattering her dark memories like smoke. With a grunt, he pulled her trunk down and heaved it to the ground at her feet, then cast a narrow-eyed look first at the uninviting abbey, then at the forest that encroached from the north.
Catherine followed his gaze. The trees grew tightly, one against the next, their limbs twining together as though blocking any unwelcome visitor from entering there. A feeling of unease slunk through her. She shivered and turned away.
“An inhospitable place, bounded by cursed woods on all sides,” the driver muttered, and sidled back to the carriage with a last dubious look toward the door of the abbey. “You certain they’re expecting you?”
“They are,” Catherine replied. She watched in silence as he clambered up to his perch, the springs creaking beneath his weight. He was leaving her. The realization knifed through her, and she raised her hand in an unintended plea. “Wait—”
“You paid me to bring you, and bring you I did. I’ve a way to go before dark.” He gave a last, nervous glance at the off-putting facade of Cairncroft Abbey. “I’ll take that promised reward now, miss.”
“Yes, of course.” Catherine fetched a precious coin from her reticule and handed it up to him, then stepped back, feeling oddly disconcerted that he did not remain even to see her greeted by a housekeeper or maid.
Taking up the reins in a practiced grip, he released the brake and shouted a command to his horses. The coach groaned and gave a prolonged squeak as it rolled away down the long drive, picking up speed as it went. In time, both conveyance and driver were gone and Catherine was alone.
She turned to face the house once more. Her gaze slid past the dead bird and she froze, taken aback. From this angle, there was something disturbing—unnatural—about the way the wings were spread wide as though still in flight, too contrived, too posed.
The bird’s yellow-ringed eyes stared up at her, unseeing.
But something saw her. Slowly she raised her head. Eerie certainty tickled the fine hairs at her nape and made her skin crawl. She took a short breath, a wash of dismay chilling her. Something watched her with focused intent.
She looked about, first to the windows that showed no light, then to the tangled woods. She was about to turn away when she saw a shadow shifting amongst the thick trunks. It was enough to convince her that there was something there in the forest. Perhaps someone. She could not say with certainty.
Watched from the window. Watched from the woods. But greeted by no one.
The wind howled down and tunneled into the lee created by the abutting angles of the abbey, twirling and biting, tearing at her cloak and skirt. Wariness dragged forth a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly clime.
Rubbing her hands along her arms, Catherine faced the abbey once more. Exhaustion, she decided. There was no other explanation for the apprehension that bit at her like a thousand ants. A dead blackbird and shifting shadows were hardly cause for dismay.
She made her way to the heavy wooden front door, but before she could knock, it opened on well-oiled hinges. A woman stood there, her arms folded beneath her ample bosom, her expression utterly blank. She wore a white apron over a dark blue dress, and a white cap on her head. Though her red hair was faded and shot with gray, her face was smooth and unlined. The contradiction left Catherine unable to gauge her age. Perhaps forty, though she might have been a decade older or younger. About her waist was a chain, and a ring of keys hung heavy upon it.
“Co
me along, Miss Weston,” the woman said, her tone flat. “The wind is bitter, and we would both be better off out of it.”
For an instant, Catherine did not move, taken unawares by the housekeeper’s tone and words. The woman looked back over her shoulder and said something in a quiet voice. After a moment a young man came out, his head bowed, his steps plodding. He hefted Catherine’s trunk and carried it off without a word or even a glance in her direction.
“Well?” the housekeeper prodded, leaving Catherine to wonder at her hostility. She was an invited guest, not some vagrant hovering on the doorstep in search of charity. But she made no comment on the oddity of the woman’s behavior. Perhaps things were different—less formal—here at Cairncroft Abbey than at other houses. Perhaps there were fewer rules.
The thought of rules and regulations and rigid control made her edgy. So she retreated into the frosty façade that had protected her for so long and for a moment became the privileged woman her birthright should have made her.
“Are you aware that there is a dead bird on the drive?” she asked, her tone chilly and proper as ever her mother’s had been.
“A dead bird,” the housekeeper echoed, her posture grown more rigid still.
“Yes. There.” With a dip of her chin and an arch of her brows, Catherine indicated the spot and said, “I suspect it hit the window.” But that was untrue. She did not suspect that at all now, but rather had the nagging thought that the unfortunate creature had expired by some other, more sinister, means. And that was simply ridiculous, a play of her imagination. Surely it was.
“I’ll see to it.” The silence stretched and the housekeeper said nothing more, only opened the door wider and waited with obvious impatience. Catherine crossed the last of the space between them and stepped inside, insulted, appalled, and faintly amused by the strange welcome.
