As Eli poured out three glasses, Xavier sealed the door with a magical Blocking Spell so they would neither be seen nor heard as they continued their conversation.
“We must speak of recent events and it is also now time for me to share what I know of your father with you, Arabel,” Xavier began gravely.
“My father? What is it you know?” Arabel questioned intently.
“Your father, Patrick Spade, was a spy.”
Arabel groaned. “Not again?” she said. “Every time I turn around, it feels as if someone tells me my beloved father was a spy!” she bemoaned.
Xavier smiled ruefully. “Well, I shall repeat what you already have heard then: Patrick Spade was a spy. And a highly respected one at that. Patrick Spade was able to infiltrate the highest levels of the Dorojenja leaders of his era and he procured for us many secrets with which we have been able to counteract their vicious intents and spells.”
“My father was a spy for you?” Arabel asked in amazement. “For the Gypsies? But surely they did not know this! It was Raina, a Gypsy, who told me firstly that my father was suspected of being a spy for the darkness!”
Xavier nodded. “Only a few knew of his mission. Patrick was a magnet, Arabel, an energy that drew the darkness to him as surely as moths hasten to the light. He didn’t ask for this ability; it had naturally evolved within him of its own accord and it took Patrick some time to arrive at the conclusion of exactly what his gift entailed. The Dorojenja simultaneously sought out his company and hated him with a terrible passion. Spade put his life on the line for a culture that was not even his own, and in the process, averted many a tragedy, affecting all of us in The Corvids. Patrick Spade,” Xavier spoke passionately and Arabel was left speechless, “was an unsung hero.”
Xavier took a moment to let his words sink in to Arabel’s mind and then he continued.
“There have been magnets for the darkness since the first records of the existence of the darkness itself. I share this with you, Arabel, for you are as your father was before you, a magnet for the darkness.”
Arabel felt her mouth fall open and she shut it with a snap to her jaw that had her wincing.
“A magnet?” she whispered.
“Did you not wonder as to why the Dorojenja hated you so fiercely, when you had done nothing to provoke their displeasure?” Xavier questioned Arabel.
“I – I suppose so,” she replied thoughtfully.
“Of course you are too well known to be a spy, but regardless, the darkness calls to you and is drawn to defile you, so you must be protected and trained to protect yourself, as they will never cease in their magnetized pull to find you, link with you, and destroy you. I will commence your training at your convenience. I understand if you would like a few days to recover from all of the shocks you have sustained and to absorb the losses you have incurred.”
Arabel glanced at Eli, standing strong by her side.
“I would like to begin day after tomorrow,” she replied. “We don’t possess the luxury of time.”
Xavier smiled. “You fail to disappoint, young Arabel.”
“Have you found anything out from the captured Dorojenja?” Eli inquired and Xavier shook his head regretfully.
“They have refused to divulge the whereabouts of their leaders. Porchetto and Chauncer remain hidden but we have found many clues in the secret tunnels and are finalizing plans to turn the prisoners over to the Chief. He has promised me he will encourage them to reveal their plans via a magical induction of Truth Serum.” Xavier smiled briefly. “Of course, I could do it just as simply with a Revelatory Spell, but the Chief’s methods are somewhat crudely old-fashioned, and decidedly more unpleasant!”
“How could they have cut my grandmother up so? And Paloma?” Arabel asked. “What sort of madness have they deployed?”
“They would have used a very dark magic, a Death Ribbon Spell. Performed correctly, it will slash to death all within the vicinity of the incantation. I am sorry, Arabel, that we could not have prevented this tragedy.” Xavier paused briefly. “Have you any idea what your grandmother was doing with Paloma Porchetto?”
Arabel shook her head wearily. “I have no idea.”
Eli put his arm around Arabel’s slumped shoulders. “Let’s find the Chief, and then get you home, Arabel.”
Arabel nodded, as if in a daze. Eli and Xavier crossed the room with her and Xavier unsealed the door so they could exit freely. Xavier laid his hand gently upon Arabel’s shoulder.
“I am sorry, Arabel, for your loss. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”
The three were quiet as they exited and returned downstairs to the main floor of the Priory. Stepping outside into the cold evening, Arabel spotted Chief Constable Bartlin a small distance away, questioning a few young Gypsy girls she did not know. The Chief saw them as well and walked toward Arabel as Xavier took his leave. Arabel was comforted when Ira flew down from the roof of the Priory to land upon her shoulder, covering her with his corvid kisses, small delicate pecks from his black beak.
“Let’s go some place a tad quieter,” the Chief said brusquely.
He led Arabel and Eli to a small carriage just inside the Priory grounds. The Chief gestured for them to enter the carriage and Ira gracefully took up position on the roof after giving Arabel one last loving peck. Arabel seated herself inside with Eli next to her and the Chief assumed a position across from the young couple. The horses tethered to draw the carriage stamped their feet and whinnied; they could feel the tension in the air. Arabel would have sent comfort to them, but at the moment was feeling in short supply of comfort and required some extra coddling herself.
“Have you any idea who would have wanted to harm Mrs. Johnston?” Chief Constable Bartlin inquired, his sharp eyes tracking both Arabel and Eli’s expressions carefully.
“The Dorojenja,” Arabel supplied. “They’ve murdered my entire family and they’ve already kidnapped me once.”
The Chief nodded. “I’ve heard quite a bit from Cross,” he said, referring to Xavier. “And it’s a fine mess that’s been created. “
Arabel was silent. She wanted only to go home. Where the ghost of her grandmother’s memories and possessions would haunt her.
“Had you ever met this Paloma woman before?” he asked Arabel and she shook her head. “And what about you?” the Chief asked of Eli.
“No, sir. I’d never met her,” Eli replied.
The Chief snorted. “We’ll put surveillance on your house,” he said. “And if you think of anything else, you must consult me immediately.” He gave Arabel a cool, appraising stare. “I’m well aware that you know more than you’re letting on, Miss Spade, but I am inclined to let you grieve in peace this evening.” With this vaguely ungracious statement, the Chief stood and exited the carriage.
Arabel and Eli sat still for a moment and Arabel felt close to tears again. She turned to Eli wearily.
“Please, Eli, take me home,” she said.
Into The Ground, Cold With Snow
Arabel was visited by Shelaine the following morning just after dawn. Shelaine arrived bearing a poppy seed cake with lemon filling and a large, rather magnificent bouquet of chrysanthemums. Morna, red eyed and sniffling, led Shelaine to the front parlour and then went to rouse Arabel, who had not ventured out to see who was at the door.
Morna found Arabel fast asleep and she left her young mistress undisturbed. Morna wanted Arabel to sleep for as long as possible as she knew from Eli that Arabel had tossed and turned mostly throughout the long, dark night. Eli had left shortly before the sun rose and Morna had seen him off to work with a hearty breakfast and a heartfelt thank you for taking such good care of Arabel.
Morna returned to the parlour to inform Shelaine of Arabel’s slumber and found Shelaine now sleeping as well, stretched out comfortably on the chaise lounge in front of the crackling fire. Morna placed a soft blanket over Shelaine’s sleeping form and returned to the kitchen to commiserate with Cook.
Since beginning her duties this morning shortly before dawn’s frozen gaze, Cook had been baking small ginger loaves, Miss Amelia Bodean’s favourites, which would be served later this afternoon in the formal parlour. The intimate reception would occur directly after Amelia Bodean’s cold body was released from the morgue, stowed into an elaborately carved mahogany casket, and lowered into the autumn belly of the ground.
The funeral was to be at three this afternoon and Cook had much to prepare. Morna was pitching in, and crying, and assisting, and crying. Cook was quite deaf and couldn’t really hear Morna’s wavering, grief-fuelled sobs, so she simply continued on with the creation of ginger loaves and herbed cheese biscuits. Cook was determined to make a towering vanilla cream and biscotti cake as well and wanted to do her best by her fallen mistress. Cook’s eyes were as red-rimmed as Morna’s as she worked relentlessly to ensure Miss Amelia Bodean would have a proper send-off.
Arabel arrived in the kitchen a short while later, her restless slumber giving way to a resolute waking. She’d dressed in her wrapper, not ready yet to bathe and dress for the funeral. She eyed the preparations with a quietly thankful air. Her eyes were hollow and dark with lack of sleep and sadness.
“Cook, you are outdoing yourself!” she enthused softly, her eyes welling up again..
Shelaine entered the kitchen, having woken as well, and embraced Arabel immediately.
“Shelaine!” Arabel cried, grateful to see her oldest friend at this sorrowful time.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Shelaine explained.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Arabel said warmly.
Morna placed two hot, steaming cups of fragrant raspberry tea on a tray. She gestured toward the door as she went about adding hot oatmeal and honey-drop biscuits to the tray.
“Go on into the parlour, miss, I’ll bring this along for you two,” Morna offered and Arabel and Shelaine exited the kitchen and made their way to the parlour.
The two girls seated themselves on the settee in front of the bright, roaring fire.
“Do they know who did it?” Shelaine inquired hesitantly, unsure if Arabel would want to speak of the murder or not. To her relief, Arabel seemed glad to talk, as if the very speaking of it helped to ease the ache of it.
“No, they haven’t a clue,” Arabel admitted, looking away, not wanting to divulge the enmity of the Dorojenja’s to her friend and thereby endanger her with potentially damning knowledge of the dark forces.
Glancing outside of the window, Arabel quietly noticed it had begun to snow, with a plethora of big, fluffy, fat white flakes cascading down from the sky. The snowflakes soon coated the ground and it appeared they aimed to settle in and stay awhile, as the sky was grey and the air frigidly cold. Arabel hoped Eli had made it back to Murphy Estates before the snow had begun to fall. She pulled the window down firmly. It had been open a slight crack for ventilation.
“I’m so sorry, Arabel,” Shelaine said again. “I’ve asked my grandfather to delay the Autumn Ball - it was to have been tomorrow evening, as you may or may not recall – until next week, if that is enough time for you to grieve? I so desire your presence at the ball! But your feelings are my first consideration, and a mere dance, the smallest of consequence.”
Arabel reached for Shelaine’s hand and gave it a warm squeeze.
“Thank you, Shelaine, that is so thoughtful of your family,” Arabel responded, nibbling absently on a honey-drop biscuit. “I am sure that next week would be fine. I know my grandmother would have wanted me to continue on with the business of living. She was never one to waste emotion on matters which couldn’t be amended.”
Shelaine nodded in agreement as she tried her oatmeal, finding it to be delicious. “I will stay here tonight; I’d like to be with you throughout the funeral,” Shelaine offered, pointing to a small canvas bag she had stowed on one of the wingback chairs. “I brought stay-over items.”
Arabel drank her tea down and got to her feet. “I must get ready,” she remarked, “but I am eternally grateful for your presence, Shelaine.” Arabel embraced her friend and kissed her cheek. “Come, I’ll have Morna ready a room for you,” Arabel continued and the two friends disappeared up the stairs.
It wasn’t long before Arabel was ready to visit the morgue. She wore a stark, long-trained dress of unrelieved black and her hair had been wound in braids to form a tight bun which sat high on the back of her head. Morna had woven a gorgeous black lace headdress into Arabel’s braid and it fell softly down Arabel’s back.
Moments before Arabel, Shelaine, Morna, Cook and Mr. Larsen were due to leave for the morgue, both Eli and Mrs. Peyton-Peggison arrived separately at the front door.
Arabel took one look at her grandmother’s former secretary’s smugly practiced persona and the last vestiges of her detachment dissolved. Arabel felt a grim, grey satisfaction arising from the woman and she immediately addressed her.
“You are not welcome to attend the funeral of my grandmother and your position in this household has been terminated by her passing. Neither will you enter this house ever again, at any time, for any reason. Leave now and do not show your face on my doorstep forthwith.” Arabel spoke coldly and decisively.
Mrs. Peyton-Peggison’s small eyes grew smaller and meaner. The expression on her face melted into a snide grimace.
“You have always been too sweet on yourself, little miss arrogance, Arabel Spade! The time will soon come when you will know the sourness of death!” Mrs. Peyton-Peggison prophesised scornfully, laughing shrilly in unveiled contempt as Eli took hold of her arm and forcibly dragged her off of the front porch.
“Enough!” Eli snarled at her.
“You’ll soon see who holds the true power!” the unpleasant woman threatened, as Eli released her arm, after giving her a small shove, and she stalked away, her mousy-haired head held high.
Arabel could feel the darkness surrounding her. She could sense the cold pit of bloodlust searching, searching for her, trying to ascertain her weaknesses and capitalize upon them, to her detriment.
Eli returned to the porch to embrace Arabel and Arabel melted against him. She had missed him during the long, sad day but he was here with her now and she drew strength from his presence. Arabel was thankful Eli had stayed with her last night. He’d held her tenderly as she had cried and had maintained a tireless vigil over her as she had fitfully slept. There had been no return to their interrupted love-making.
Eli had caught a few hours of sleep himself but the strain of the last few days was wearing on even his resolutely even tempered nature. Eli kissed Arabel’s brow softly and then the mourners stepped into the sombre blue carriage Mr. Larsen had procured for them.
The day passed in a haze for Arabel. She’d been right about the morgue; the smell did gag her. Arabel therefore did not linger at the morgue but made her way to the funeral site with Eli and Shelaine. Morna, Cook and Mr. Larsen had agreed to travel with the body.
The gravestone Arabel had picked was a lovely onyx marble. Engraved simply upon the tombstone was the name of her grandmother, her birth and death dates, and one word: Beloved. Amelia Bodean Johnston would now lie for all eternity beside her murdered daughter and the adulterous husband whose life she had ended under the despairing hand of the Dorojenja darkness.
Arabel sat quietly on a bench as the townsfolk arrived and gathered in the growing afternoon darkness for the lowering of the mahogany casket into the frozen and snowy ground. The flakes had ceased to fall but they had covered the cemetery in a sparkling white dusting and the air was as pristine as the burial ground was beautifully innocent.
Arabel watched the cloud of her breath as it moved in and out of her lungs. She did not feel the cold; she was impervious to all but the link she felt with her loved ones and the sight of Amelia Bodean’s energy columns shimmering peacefully in front of her.
Normally, Arabel viewed the spectres in a somewhat human sort of form, and her grandmother was the only spectre she had ever glimpsed before as
pure energy. Arabel was again filled with the same ecstatic joy that the columns had previously imparted and she sent waves of the energy to all within her peripheral vision. The energy urged her to dismantle her grief, to let the soul of Amelia Bodean Johnston leave the physical realm with no concerns as to her granddaughter’s well-being.
And with no regrets, on either of their consciences.
Arabel noted with surprise that a number of Gypsies had come to pay their respects as well. Baltis and Mireille stood nearby, as well as Xavier, Francesca and Zander. Arabel felt their compassion reach out to her and she was fortified by their unspoken support.
The funeral was brief and the amassed crowd met at the Johnston house in Crow’s Nest Pass directly afterward. Arabel was now head of the household and she presided gracefully over the reception as memories and funny anecdotes were shared. The Gypsies, with the exception of Eli, had not returned to the house, but they had all embraced Arabel and offered their sincere condolences before leaving the burial site. Mireille had lovingly promised to check up on Arabel within the next few days.
Elderberry and dandelion wines were served along with the ginger cakes, the herbed cheese loaves, plates of grapes, cheese and olives, and the unearthly delights of the vanilla cream and biscotti concoction that Cook had prepared so lovingly this morning. Shelaine’s lemon filled cake was quickly devoured and the bouquet of flowers she had brought was joined by numerous other autumn bouquets and their light floral scents filled the air.
Arabel was relieved, however, when it was all finally finished, and she was sitting on the chaise in the parlour with Eli and Shelaine, relaxing with a glass of dandelion wine and the last of the ginger cakes. The three shared a companionable silence, broken only by the crackling of the logs and the spitting of the odd set of sparks upon the grate.
Eli put his glass down and took hold of Arabel’s hand.
“I regretfully must take my leave of you, sweet Arabel,” he said quietly.
Arabel put her hand on his shoulder, surprised. “Will you not stay?” she asked.
Autumn Page 33
