In the time it took for me to blink, the scratches began again, fiercer and faster, like knives stabbing the wood. The sound rose higher until it reached where my ear had rested seconds before.
I considered screaming. My mouth opened, but no sound flew out. The cold clutched at my voice.
I couldn’t explain what happened next, all I knew was that I felt a pulsing slightly above my ribcage, like a low drumming that rose, spreading a rhythm that chanted of warmth and strength. It poured out my panic and refilled my body with tranquility.
I lifted my hands to my eyes. My fingers felt so hot I was sure there was something wrong with them, but no, they looked just like always: a bit scuffed, but reliable. I felt dizzy, and my limbs threatened to collapse in a pile around me. So I did the only thing I could think of, I gripped the doorknob and yanked the door open.
A gust of winter air surrounded me, and I tore at it with my hands, flinging it off me like torn spider webs. The cold seemed to be sucked out of my room, and I could soon breathe again without the stabs of air against my fumbling insides.
A weakness scurried up my legs and I had to grip on to the door. I concentrated on staying upright as I pressed my hot forehead to the tranquil wood. As with the two previous times, the spell soon passed. I stepped out into the corridor, but it was empty and quiet, not a single light staining the floorboards.
My breathing was too fast, too shallow. I had to slow it down or risk fainting, which, after what I’d just heard and felt, was not the wisest idea. Clutching my shaking hands together, I concentrated on slow, even breaths. It had just been an animal, I told myself. As much as my mind resisted it, it was the only explanation. Unless I’d gone and truly lost my mind.
By slow degrees, I got myself back under control. As tired as I felt, I knew sleep would not return that night, so I pulled my Bible out and lit my lamp. Wrapping the blanket tightly around me, I buried myself in the pages. I waited for the comfort of my father’s voice to still my thoughts and fears, but it never came.
Ten
I mentioned the previous night’s disturbance around the kitchen table the following morning. By that time, I had managed to convince myself of my own fright’s silliness. I’d checked the door as soon as the sun had trailed in on dim footsteps and had seen nothing on the entirety of it. I made an effort not to allow myself to quake at a single night of lost sleep. I spoke of the incident in the lightest tone, a layer of laughter anchoring the words as I uttered them.
The room, however, stopped in its tracks. Everything and everyone around me appeared to stop breathing, hearts paused in mid-beat. The silence drew my eyes up from my coffee cup, allowing me to catch a look exchanged between Ms. Simple and Dora.
Ms. Simple cleared her throat. “What type of scratching did you hear, Anne?”
“It sounded like an animal asking to be let in. Are there any dogs or cats in the manor?”
Dora shook her head. Her hair was so resplendent, it seemed to have the sun nestling in its folds.
“There are no pets in the house,” she said.
“It could have been rats,” I said.
“Could be.” Ms. Simple paused. “Just in case, Anne, make certain you bolt your door before you sleep.”
My mouth went dry, an aftertaste of burnt coffee on my tongue. “Ms. Simple, why should I lock the door? If it was a rat, it couldn’t possibly reach the doorknob, let alone turn it.”
I looked over at Mr. Keery, who had remained silent throughout the entire meal. His eyes were not on me, but I could see an intricate system of red threads tangling around his eyeballs.
“Mr. Keery, what do you think? Could it have been rats?” I asked.
He flicked his gaze over me. “I don’t know, miss. It’s possible.” His voice cracked.
I didn’t believe any of them. They knew something. What was happening at Rosewood Manor?
I noticed the cold wasn’t as sharp as the previous days as I scrubbed the main hall later that morning. For the first time, I found I was sweating in thick drops that dove to stain the floors I’d just cleaned.
The hall, when I got down to polishing it, was much larger than it appeared and much more intricate in its designs than I’d noticed. It was ornate in a veiled manner, the carvings and detailing unlike Caldwell House’s chilling bad taste. The stone floors themselves were a work of careful art, with tight symbols on the edges of each separate tile. When I’d seen them that first day, I had assumed the markings were just a vain frame on the stones, but as I scrubbed, the shapes became distinct. No two were the same in a single tile. I ran a finger over the shallow designs, and I could have sworn some of them shifted under my touch.
I was still kneeling on the floor when I heard footsteps behind me on the stairs. A gust of scented air followed the sound—the black smell of snuffed candles and the ever-present rose perfume. I felt a pause, both in myself and in the person behind me. I removed my hands from the stones with a tug (they did not want to part with the etchings), and brushed them against my dress as I stood to greet the person I was sure was Rosewood’s master.
I turned and lifted my eyes to the stairs. There was no one there. Just the smoky scent tumbling through the air.
I didn’t bring that encounter up with any of them during our midday meal. There seemed little point in sharing when they kept their own thoughts tight between the three of them. Although, I was beginning to doubt Mr. Keery’s involvement. Each time I saw him, he was reduced, like a photograph left in the sun, growing lighter and lighter until it sank into the white background. I feared one morning he would disappear before my eyes, leaving a half-empty plate abandoned on the table.
The cold returned in the afternoon, fighting with the sun for dominance over the floor and walls. My sweat dried in sections on my body, so that, at any one moment, chills ran up and down different patches of my skin.
I finished my scant duties with less care than was my usual, but I had to get out of the manor. One more second in that grey prison and I’d collapse in a heap, waiting for my blood to congeal.
The sun was a relief. I moved in the opposite direction I’d taken the day before and toward where I’d seen the figure, but I soon had to stop. The trees were woven with such tightness, I feared to attempt an entrance. Besides, there was no sun in that direction and gust after gust of pine breath pushed me back.
Fine. I walked back around to the stables and soon reached the large, black fountain. I didn’t want to be there. It seemed sinister amid all the whiteness. I tried to step back and yet realized I was moving forward, toward the curved rim. The afternoon’s silence hardened against me, choking off my crunching footsteps.
Hesitating, I placed a hand on the surface. It was cold enough to burn fingers off. How was it possible the water still flowed? It should have turned into a disk of ice long ago.
I peered over the edge, gripping the stone with two claw-like hands. My face floated amid the blackness, my eyes almonds of water staring straight at me. As I drew back, there was a ripple and the flash of a face. It was vague, but before my eyes blurred with water and salty fear, I saw two circles, deep and red, looking down at me from around my shoulder.
A cascade of bird screams soaked the air.
I didn’t have time to do anything but gasp. A hand, as burning as the stone fountain, clutched my neck and pushed me down into the black water. The liquid forced itself into my ears, pried open my lips in a scream that hovered, unheard. My hands pushed against the floor, but I could not budge. I clawed at the grip that held me, but it evaded me. There was nothing pushing me down, and yet, I could not rise. My vision rippled and fogged over, an edge of dark lace tightening around me.
Then I felt two very real hands suck me back up out of the water, into the loud air bristling with shrieking birds. There was an uncomfortable heat where the hands had been, and my hair was limp and soggy against my eyes. As I took a gasping breath, the air came into my lungs with the sting of alcohol. I collapsed to the ground, coughin
g, while a set of voices—one high and resonant like sun glinting off a key, the other low and throaty—spoke above me. I could not understand the words, and in any case, I would not have cared to hear what they were saying.
With one last low chuckle, the dark voice stopped, and with it, the angry bird calls.
I coughed until my sides knotted up, ignoring everything around me except the wheezing that ripped in and out of my chest. Footsteps padded on the snow, stepping close to my kneeling form. A breeze brushed me as the figure lowered itself down to a crouch. I took some deep breaths, slow and steady, trying to keep the coughing down, and when the spasms released me, I lifted my ashen face.
There, kneeling before me was the master of Rosewood Manor.
ELEVEN
“It was foolish of you to touch the fountain.” His voice was a shadow of what I’d just heard, its light muted. I tried to focus on him to stop the horror I’d felt in the last few moments from overwhelming me. As I began to shiver uncontrollably, my panicked eyes landed on the ones in front of me.
He was not what I’d expected, although, I wasn’t even sure what I had thought he’d look like. Not so thin, for one thing. He looked like a collection of bones that had agreed to join in locomotion. His cheekbones seemed to rub against his skin. A shiny wave of brown hair wrapped around his head, the lanky locks beaded in dew drops of sweat despite the cold.
And then his eyes—I’d never seen anything like them. A speckled marble of golds and greens, a mantle of shifting colors. His face looked like something out of a painting, crafted with skill and strange, cold beauty. There was an intelligence to it that belied his youth. He could almost have looked kind, but his eyes gave him away. Too sharp.
“Make sure you do not come this way again.” He threw me another look and shifted his meager weight to stand.
“Sir, thank you. I don’t know what happened, but I’d surely be dead if it weren’t for your presence.” Speaking was an effort, every consonant threatening to send me coughing.
“Yes, you would be dead. Let that be a lesson.”
I stood, my hands almost grasping the fountain once again, but a look from Lord Grey and I flung them back. He made no attempt to help me stand.
“But sir, what happened? Who—”
He didn’t allow me to finish. “You are the new maid,” he said.
I took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Anne Tinning, from Caldwell House.”
I could see his hands, emaciated and bruised, trembling against his sides. In an instant, one of them flew up to his face to cover a cough—a racking, dry sound that hurt me just from listening to it. He shouldn’t have been outside in the cold. Not that the manor’s interior was much better.
“Sir, are you quite all right?”
“Of course I am.” His voice was no louder than a murmur, yet lined with knife blades. His whole body seemed to sway, and I feared he would crumple to the snow before me.
“Anne, is it?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Fine. Now, go inside.” He moved his head in the manor’s direction. “I’m sure there are things to be dusted or scrubbed or whatever it is you maids do.”
I tried not to rear back at his words. “Yes, sir.” I curtsied.
His eyes widened, and he began to gasp in quiet laughter. I could do nothing but stand there until he finished.
“Very amusing. Now, go inside.”
Wrapping my cloak around my still shivering body, I passed by Lord Grey. I could feel his eyes inhaling my every move, and I shivered.
“Tell Ms. Simple to give you something strong. Otherwise, I’ll have one less maid, and as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can ill afford it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gave a dry chuckle.
I did not turn around, but kept my feet on the path to the front door. I could hear no steps behind me. I looked, just once, before I opened the door, but did not see Lord Grey.
Ms. Simple was crossing the main hall as I entered, and her eyes stretched as she took in my seaweed hair, my paleness, my shaking.
“Whatever happened to you, Anne?” she asked.
What could I say? No one would tell me the truth, anyway. When I spoke, my voice was quivering more than I’d have preferred. “I had an accident. Lord Grey assisted me.”
Ms. Simple’s lips tightened. “Yes, well, come on, child. Let’s get something to warm you up.”
No one, not even I, spoke of what had happened to me. There was a forced lightness to our supper, the conversation ringing with laughter that petered out as soon as it left our tight mouths. Dora kept eyeing me as if I were about to disintegrate before her very eyes, while Ms. Simple served me slice after slice of tasteless beef roast. My hands continued to shake with the shock, but I gripped my utensils tighter and did my best to pretend the last couple of hours hadn’t occurred.
As soon as I could manage it, I excused myself and left their company.
It was still too early to retire for the day, but I needed a bit of solitude to examine what had happened at the black fountain’s foot.
I went from room to room, my eyes checking for traces of dust or dirt as my thoughts churned through my head. I was sure of what I’d experienced. I could still feel the weight that had forced itself on my body, the imprint of hands burned into my scalp and neck. I rubbed the sore spots as I entered the dining room.
I caught sight of the mirror. Perhaps there were actual marks on my skin, evidence I could turn to when belief sagged. The room was dressed in shadows, since no one had bothered to light lamps or even candles. The curtains were not drawn, however, so thin hairs of moonlight dangled in the air. I felt them brush me with softness as I reached the strange mirror. I gazed in and gasped.
The moonlight had revealed what the sun had not, a layer of symbols swimming under the glass’s surface. The same type of writing I’d seen on the stone tiles in the main hall. But how was it possible? They were etched under the glass, or maybe into the thin skin of mirror itself. I lifted a hand, all thoughts of the marks on my body forgotten, and almost brushed the smooth surface.
“It appears we have not learnt our lesson today.”
Through the mirror, I could see Lord Grey’s figure half melted in shadow. I turned around and clasped my hands behind me.
“I’m sorry, sir.” I looked down at the floor, thankful the moon could not reveal my burning cheeks. There was a long moment of silence.
“Is the floor very interesting, Anne?”
I flinched. “No, sir.” I lifted my gaze, heavy and hot.
Lord Grey walked to the table, where his plate was lying, covered and waiting.
“If you don’t mind, Anne, I’m going to have dinner. Or is it lunch? I can’t remember when I last ate.” His voice was like the sea at night, the waves coming in and out of darkness. Some words were brushed by light, some cool with black.
“Of course, sir. I’ll go.” I curtsied before remembering how he’d taken my last clumsy attempt. He did not laugh this time.
“That’s not what I meant. If you don’t have pressing engagements, I’d like a few words with you.”
Hmm. Only a few days and I’d already earned a reprimand. “Of course, sir.”
“Will you please take a seat?” He motioned to the table. I blinked.
“Sir, do you mean, in a chair?”
“No, I mean in mid-air. In a chair, Anne.”
Lord Grey pulled back his seat at the head of the grotesque table and sat without a sound.
“Would you like me to light a candle or lamp, sir?”
“No, that’s quite all right.”
My hands shook as I grasped the chair I’d scrubbed that morning and every morning for the past three weeks, sitting down on the tip of the seat, allowing only the minimum of my body contact with the grand furniture.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked as he uncovered the decanter before him.
“No, sir, thank you.”
“I suppose it’s ju
st as well. I don’t know where Dora keeps the bloody glasses.”
My head jerked up at the tone, but he was already sipping at the thick liquid. He began cutting his meat. His hands were steady now, no trace of the twitching I’d seen earlier, but they had cuts on them, puckered edges of skin drying with blood. I winced as he brought a piece of meat up to his lips, knowing the horror of Dora’s cooking, but he made no sign. He ate with an air of distraction, as if his mind were pacing far away while his body nourished itself.
After a few bites, he set his instruments down on the plate and lowered his hands to his lap.
“You must take care not to go about touching things in this house,” he said. “Certain things do not take kindly to being disturbed.” His forehead creased and his eyes shifted to look past me, toward the mirror.
“Yes, sir. I understand.” But I did not understand. Objects that complained of being touched?
“Not that mirror, though. You could have touched that without consequence. Or, at least, nothing more than a smudge, as I’m sure you know, being the expert in all that.”
He blinked and pulled his eyes back to me. “It is a strange glass, isn’t it?
“Yes, sir. Very beautiful.”
“Beautiful? I’d never thought of it that way.” He laughed, allowing the moonlight to brush his voice. A second later, the sound twisted as his voice hitched into a cough. He took a deep breath. “It is of my own design.”
That gave me pause. If he’d designed it, how could he not have thought it beautiful?
With a suddenness that surprised me, he rose from his chair and crossed the room, his thin frame all angles in the gloom. He stepped right before the mirror.
“Hmm. You’re right, Anne. It is quite pretty.” He passed a hand over its surface. “Look.”
What did he want now? I cursed myself for walking into the dining room in the first place. I inched close to Lord Grey, who still had his hand on the glass.
“Put your hand here.”
The Rose Master Page 6
