“Rowan, did you see anyone?” he asked.
“Just Onsie Best, who found her.”
“Right,” he said, clapping her on the back. “This is no place for womenfolk.”
“But,” Rowan said, trying to contain a sudden surge of anger, “I’ve every right to be here that you have.”
Goi Tate didn’t seem to hear her. “Run along and fetch the duke, and then tell the elders another funeral will need to be arranged.”
The strange thing about Arlene Blessing’s body was that something had drained it of most of its blood. Her neck had been torn, her carotid artery severed, but aside from that, she bore no injuries. Of course, these things weren’t said aloud. Such things never are. But Dr. Temper shook his head and said it was beyond his ken, and wouldn’t it be best if Mama Lune had a look?
That was the day that the panic began. What had happened to the men on the hill, what had happened to the foreign girl who had wandered out into the woods, those were anomalies, inscrutable animal attacks suffered by people who were not truly members of the community.
But this was different. Not only had Arlene been struck down within the village boundary—within her own home as she slept behind a locked door—but Arlene Blessing wasn’t some stranger. She had taught the little ones to mend and sew. She had helped teach new mothers to care for their babies. She was a kind woman, and when her husband had died, everyone had felt not only a deep sense of loss but also a fear that Arlene might follow in his footsteps, as aged widows are sometimes wont to do.
She was the sort of woman one wanted to die quietly in her sleep, surrounded by friends and family. She was the last person one would expect to die a violent death. At first no one discussed it outright. It was almost as if the truth of the matter was too horrifying to confront directly. Rather, it needed to be approached from the side. She was dead, and it looked like an animal attack, and therefore it probably was an animal attack. But everyone knew that no animal could have entered Arlene’s house like that—walking through a locked door, only to escape through a high window it somehow managed to shut behind itself. And yet surely no human could have created that bite mark on Arlene’s neck. No, it was best not to look straight at the truth of the thing. Only sometimes, truth has ways of revealing itself.
10. THE HANGED MAN
“YOU’RE GOING TO do it, then?” Emily asked from her perch on the counter.
“Should you be sitting up there, really?” Rowan asked, arranging the flowers for her blessing wreath.
“Who’s going to stop me?” she snorted. “They’re my counters if they’re anyone’s. Answer the question. You’re really going to do it? You’re going to get married and leave me?”
“Don’t make that pouty face,” Rowan said. She was trying to seem strong for Emily, when inside she wanted to cry. “You’ll be happy to be rid of me. Besides, it’s not like I won’t be visiting every day anyway. Also … also, it’s not like I have a choice—not really.”
“You could talk to your father. Get him to change his mind.”
Rowan shook her head, trying not to blush. She hadn’t told Emily she’d already done that and her father had refused her request. Revealing as much, even to Emily, would be too painful. “Why? Don’t you like Tom?”
“Of course I like Tom. Who doesn’t like Tom? And considering everything that’s happened—Arlene and whatnot—I should think it’s good to share a bed if at all possible. You’ll have built-in security.”
“Emily,” Rowan said, embarrassed by the warble in her voice. “What do you think it is? What do you think is happening?”
“I don’t know, Ro,” she said. “I wish I did. A beast, I expect, like they say.”
“But what kind of beast stalks the forest and mountaintops, eviscerating men like it’s nothing, and then tiptoes into an old lady’s house, leaving no sign behind but a bite on the neck?”
Emily shook her head. “Rowan, you keep this up and I’m not sleeping tonight. Let’s get back to Tom and boys and weddings and such. That’s beautiful, by the way,” she said, pointing down to the wreath, her legs now swinging wildly. “He’ll be blown away for sure.”
Rowan nodded and concentrated on her work. Maybe it was the act of weaving the flowers, or maybe it was seeing Arlene’s body—looking directly into the face of death—that was changing something inside her. Maybe these really were dark days. Maybe she should simply be happy to be alive.
Emily and Rowan’s father walked with her over to the tavern to present the blessing wreath to Tom. The duke and Merrilee were invited to come to the festivities, but the duke did not seem enthusiastic. In fact, it seemed to Rowan that he had been avoiding her since her wrist had been bound—as if now that she was to be married, she was no longer of any use to him.
Tom nearly wept when he saw the flowers, and his mother proclaimed the wreath sublime.
“You’ll have to keep them fresh, have to tend to them, my boy,” Elsbet said to him. “You don’t want to disappoint on the big day.” And then, overwhelmed with emotion, she pulled Rowan to her bosom. “My daughter! My lovely daughter!” she cried.
The celebration went on into the evening, and the inn opened its doors to the public, so that their numbers might grow. Wilhelm even cleared some tables that there might be dancing, and Rowan and Tom took turn after turn on the floor, Rowan laughing in a way she hadn’t for what seemed like an eternity.
Only Jude didn’t appear to be enjoying himself. He stood in the corner, staring at Rowan with the oddest look, and for a moment, she thought she saw something like genuine affection in his eyes. When he noticed her looking, that affection seemed to be replaced with sadness, but still he met her eyes as if he were asking her an unanswerable question.
“What is it?” Tom asked, noticing she’d become distracted.
“This is going to sound strange, but I’m wondering if I should have a talk with Jude.”
“With Jude? Now?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. If I’m to be part of this family, I won’t be made to feel uncomfortable within it.”
Tom nodded, an anxious look in his eye. “Don’t be too hard on him.”
Rowan laughed. “I’ll be a perfect lamb. I promise.”
But just as she started over to the boy, Jude turned and, opening the back door, headed out into the snow. She slipped out behind him, and as she stepped into the yard, the coldness of the night stung her face.
“Jude, wait,” she called, and he turned around just as the door to the inn closed behind her.
“Why are you following me?” he asked, his face unreadable.
They stood across the yard from each other, the snow silent between them, and Rowan realized that she had no idea what she wanted to say. Slowly she walked over to him, and she had the distinct feeling that she was approaching a deer in the wild and that at any second it might dart away from her and she would lose it forever.
“What is it, Ro?”
“I want to talk to you,” she said, feeling a strange pull to him, a desire to reach out and take his hand, but the look in his eyes indicated that she should do no such thing.
“Talk, then,” he said, sitting down on the stone wall at the edge of the forest.
“I want to start over,” she said, the words coming quickly, her head a little muzzy from the ale. “I know that you don’t like me. I know that you don’t want me to marry Tom, but it’s going to happen, so why not make the best of it? I mean, we can start over, can’t we? We can try to be friends. Whatever it is I do that so bothers you, I’m sure I can work on it, and all the things you do that bother me, maybe you could stop doing some of those things too.”
He snickered and shook his head but didn’t answer.
“Say something,” she pleaded, but he only shook his head again.
He looked up at her, and their eyes locked. From him radiated a frightening intensity. “Don’t do it,” he said.
“What?” she asked, confused, her head suddenly swimming.
“Don’t do it,” he said again. “Call off the wedding.”
“You’re joking,” she said, but she could see in his eyes that he wasn’t.
“I’m not. Don’t do it. Don’t marry him.”
She laughed, but it was a pained kind of laughter. Why was this happening, just when she was finally beginning to feel she might learn to be happy with this marriage? The glow of the firelight and the sparkle of the ale had made her feel she was living in a kind of dream, but then as usual, Jude had to tear it all down and expose the harsh, cold reality of her life for what it was.
“It’s not my choice,” she said, touching a finger to her nuptial twine. Soon it would be replaced with a wife’s twine, woven of fine golden thread to show that the vows had been said. Her gut wrenched when she thought of it.
He shook his head. “There’s always a choice.”
“But there isn’t,” she said, stepping closer to him. “I’ve spoken with my father, and he’s decided.”
“You did that?” he asked, something like hope moving across his features. “You asked your father to let you out of it?”
Rowan froze when she realized the mistake she had just made by telling Jude. “Oh, please don’t tell Tom. I was confused. I didn’t realize what I wanted.”
“You mean you didn’t realize what other people wanted for you.”
She closed her eyes. “Why do you always have to do this to me, Jude? Why can’t you just be a friend?”
He looked her deep in the eyes. “Because I can’t,” he said.
She took a step back, the world suddenly spinning. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you not to marry him.”
Rowan was shocked. She knew the boy disliked her, yet to be so rude as to tell her not to marry his brother seemed extreme even for Jude. But she did her best not to appear upset. There was no point in giving him the upper hand. She cleared her throat. “I just told you that I have to,” she said. “I’ve no other option.”
“You could run away,” he said, a strange note to his voice.
“You’re telling me,” she said, nearly choking on her rising anger, “that I should run away from my village rather than cause you the inconvenience of living in your home?”
He didn’t respond. He just looked at her, and though she wanted to continue the argument, wanted to finally have the last word with him, he turned and walked away.
“You can’t leave in the middle of this, Jude,” she called after him. “Where are you going?”
But as she spoke, he hopped over the wall and disappeared into the night.
Rowan wandered inside, feeling as though something in her were injured and raw. And when she returned to the warmth of the inn, and the song and the dance, she couldn’t help but notice that everything seemed somehow less beautiful.
Just as Rowan was drifting off to sleep that night, the door swung open and there stood Emily with a candle lamp, the wick burning low.
“What are you doing?” asked Rowan.
“I’ve come to check you haven’t left a window open, and there you are with yours wide as a grouper’s mouth. Here I’ve bolted all the doors, and then as I was about to climb into my bed, I thought how you like to sleep with the window always cracked, no matter how cold the weather, and I decided I’d better come in here and close that fool window for you before something awful crawls inside.”
Rowan cringed. “Lovely image, Emily. Especially just before bed. Thank you.”
“Someone has to watch you,” she said.
And as Rowan lay there, glad for her friend’s presence, she couldn’t help but admire her nightgown. It looked more of a sundress than a typical nightgown, and it was beautiful—white with eyelet lace, and at the base of the left strap an embroidered green flower.
“Emily, is that new?”
“Indeed,” she said, showing it off. “Bill’s mum made it for me. I’m hoping it means something good that she did.”
Rowan sat up in bed, excited. “Oh, it has to. It can’t be long before you two are wed.”
“I hope so.” Emily grinned. “Not that I want to risk leaving your father, but my guess is that if Mr. Rose will have him, Bill would love to come and work here as well. Then I’d be able to stay on.” She pressed a hand to her heart, and a blush rose in her cheeks. “Listen to me prattling on like the vows have already been said, when all that’s happened is his mother’s made me a sleeping gown as a present.”
Rowan squinted and leaned in. “It’s lovely, Em.”
Emily smiled and, kissing her on the cheek, she left Rowan and headed down the hall to her room. Before climbing into bed, Emily bolted the heavy wooden door and checked the latch on the window. Outside, the snow fell in steady waves, and she was glad for the warmth of the fire that was lightly burning in the hearth. She ought to have been able to relax into sleep, but she found herself uneasy still. She went to the closet and peered inside, telling herself she was making sure she’d hung up her skirt in such a way as it wouldn’t show wrinkles tomorrow. She took a deep breath and made to pull back the covers, but she found herself paralyzed by a sudden inexplicable fear that she ought not to go to bed at all—that she ought to stay up all night keeping watch, back to the wall, eyes on the window.
But Emily was not a girl who gave in easily to her fears. She was a strong girl and a sensible girl. So with a quick dip and a check beneath her bed, which she told herself was for stray stockings, she eased her mind, drew back the covers, climbed in, and blew out the candle.
It was very dark when Emily awoke. So dark that she felt certain that an impenetrable cloud had passed before the moon, blotting out any light it might bring. She told herself that she ought to go straight back to sleep, but there was an odd kind of fear coursing through her veins, curdling her blood like poison.
And then she heard it: a steady drip drip drip from her bath chamber. Water, though she knew this was not possible. The water to the bath chamber froze in the evening, and they didn’t begin the process of thawing it out and getting it flowing again until the morning. And yet … drip drip drip.
Her heart seemed to sit in her throat. The noise grew louder, and she knew she would have to do something about it. After all, it was possible that there was a leak in the roof, and if that was the case, it would need to be dealt with.
Peeling back the covers and climbing out of bed, she lit the candle lamp, and the room erupted into strange shadows. They quivered as she walked, and for a moment, Emily almost thought she saw movement at the edge of the room, but she steadied her fear. There was no one in the room with her. It was a physical impossibility—the door was bolted and the window locked—and Emily didn’t believe in ghosts or specters or whatever the villagers were talking about since Arlene’s murder.
Slowly she took a step toward the washroom, her bare feet recoiling at the cold floor. She moved across the room with her heart beating a steadily increasing rhythm until she was at the door. Holding her breath, she stepped inside. In a fluid motion, she shined the light around the small room, making certain there was no one inside. She let out a long, relieved exhale.
And then from the corner of the room there was another exhale, mirroring her own, and Emily fought a scream. Thrusting her arm out, she bathed the dark corner in light. It was empty.
She was going crazy. She had to be. She was imagining things. There was no other explanation. But then she heard it again.
Drip … drip … drip.
It sounded as though it was coming from above. She raised her arm above her head, tipping the candle lamp at the ceiling, but she could find no source for the noise.
And yet standing there in the cold, she felt certain that what she sensed was something very like evil. She could feel it as surely as she could smell the wax from her candle. And then she felt breath on the back of her neck, and she froze. She closed her eyes and shook her head. It wasn’t possible. She was letting a frightened mind get the better of her, and she refused t
o be owned by her fears like a child. So despite the sensory information to the contrary, Emily turned round utterly convinced that she was alone in that washroom.
The last thing she saw before her candle was extinguished by a thick, rotting breath, a breath that smelled of dirt and death, was the horrifying sight of the fangs just moments before they sank into her neck.
11. DEATH
IN THE MORNING when they found her, she was in her bed. Rowan, having thought her friend the worse for ale, had left her to sleep in, but when she became concerned, she’d gone up and pounded on her door, finally retrieving the skeleton key from the kitchen pantry.
She knew as soon as the key turned in the lock that there was something wrong. An odor wafted from the room, and stepping inside, Rowan found that she was overwhelmed by it. Something dank, earthy, rotten, and above all that, something starkly metallic.
Upon first examination, the room seemed undisturbed, but then Rowan noticed the misshapen lump in the bed. People did not sleep like that. Whatever it was, it was not a person. She moved slowly at first and stopped a foot from the bed, her hand reaching out over the white downy covers, hesitant.
“Emily?” she called, though her voice was hoarse, and it came out as more of a whisper than anything else.
Silence.
She took a deep breath and then, stepping forward, pulled the sheet back.
It took her a moment to understand what she saw. An ivory shape, and beside that, a crimson stain—a perfect circle of blood soaking the bottom sheet, and even, it seemed, seeping into the mattress.
“Emily!” she said again, only this time it was a shriek as she reached out to shake her friend, her hand meeting with cold flesh, sticky with blood. She shook her head, beginning to cry. Emily’s body was twisted and broken, seeming to curl in on itself at the wrong places, only to jut out again at even odder angles. Her eyes were wide open, frozen in a perpetual state of fear. She was naked save for the blood, and her neck … her neck had been ravaged beyond recognition.
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