The Alps Obscure

by Oster, Camille

  Neither Miss Juno nor Miss Marnier said anything for a moment.

  “Maybe he should be worried,” Miss Marnier said. “I find people who aren’t nice on the surface are usually awful underneath.”

  Chapter 20

  CAREFULLY CLEMMIE WALKED through the field, stepping on patches of bare dirt where she could, because she knew the high grass would cut her. Everything about this place was sharp and dark, and it had a dullness that refused to let sound escape. There was no sun, nor sky—just dullness.

  Where she was, she had no idea, but she didn’t want to be here. There was no behind or ahead of her, this was just it, where she existed. No buildings, no roads, just a clearing with trees in the distance.

  The grass was dark and dull too, and she recognized that it wasn’t just a field, this was a battleground. The violence of what had happened had tainted everything, the grass, the sky, the very air itself. The air had a metallic smell. No flowers bloomed here. Nature could not compete with such utter destruction.

  She shouldn’t be here, knew it was dangerous. This was where people killed, where life was cheap, and hers was of no more value than the people who’d died here. No one was valued.

  “This is no place for girls,” a deep voice boomed. “Run back to your parties and gossip.”

  Looking up, she saw the man. She knew him, had seen him before, but not so she could place him. Roman. A soldier. The victor on this battlefield.

  Furtively, she stepped in the other direction, making her way away from him, as with a furious animal, she wanted to convey she posed no threat and was moving away. But she couldn’t get away fast enough. His attention was on her. His spear was in his hand, golden and shining.

  “No place for you,” he roared from where he stood up on a hill, his red cape menacingly flowing around him, like the blood on the battlefield. But as she looked, she saw it wasn’t a hill, it was bodies, and he stood over the ones he’d conquered.

  With more urgency, she tried to move away, to get away from this horrible place. She posed no threat, but he didn’t care.

  With her back turned, she felt how exposed she was, and knew he was aiming for her, but she didn’t want to see. The spear was coming, aimed for her back. The hit knocked the wind out of her, square in the middle of her back.

  The shock flung her into darkness and for a moment she feared she’d died, but she’d simply woken. The room was cold and dark, and utterly still.

  Surprisingly, she wasn’t terrified. Probably because she knew she was safer here than in her dream. In a way, it felt as if she’d successfully escaped him—this man she recognized, but not someone she’d actually met. Instead, he was a man she recognized from other previous dreams, other dreams—dreams she couldn’t remember, but felt familiarity with.

  Her nightgown was soaked again, and she felt both chilled and clammy. As before, she got up and pulled on her dressing gown before placing a scoop of coal on the fire. This seemed to become a habit. Sleep had never been an issue that had troubled to her before, but then she’d always been safe in her parents’ house. And now she was alone and far away from anyone she knew. That distance felt pressing right then, and so vast she wondered if she’d ever get home. It didn’t feel like it. In reality, she was stuck here, unable to leave until Oliver had been found.

  Technically, she could just leave. She had a carriage and a driver, and enough money to pay for the journey, but it felt like the immature solution—as if she was running away from all the unpleasantness here.

  Even the Roman had told her to go, that this wasn’t a place for little girls. And that was what she was. She didn’t know anything about anything. Everything was done for her, and she was lost without someone organizing things for her.

  Could anyone blame her if she simply left? It was understandable, wasn’t it? Although she couldn’t imagine the betrayal she’d feel if the roles were reversed, if she was the one in trouble, deep trouble, and her support simply left. No, she had to be here for Oliver, whatever the outcome. She had to be the one who fought for him—at least the one who stayed for him.

  Her thoughts were braver than her heart, but she simply had to carry through. It would feel better in the morning. It was just that in the middle of the night, in the dark, like she was, she felt alienated from the entire world. Not a soul was awake around her. And if there were souls around, they probably weren’t alive.

  Safe in the bubble of pale light cast by the fire, she refused to go look out the window, or even to look too carefully into the dark corners in case she saw something she wished she wouldn’t. Because what she truly feared was seeing that Roman there, and she wasn’t utterly convinced she wouldn’t. There was something real about him. It was in the eyes. They weren’t the dull emptiness of people she usually dreamed of, figments of her own imagination. In her heart, she knew there was more to this man than someone she’d conjured in her mind. She would never have created him. There was intelligence in his eyes, and judgment.

  It was too dark to say it was close to dawn, so she had no idea what time it was. It could be very early. Either way, she didn’t want to go back to sleep. Nothing good came from her sleep right now. So instead, she drew the chair close to the fire and curled up in it. The flames were her only companion and she listened absently to the crackle.

  Before long, she slipped away into sleep. Mercifully, it was dreamless.

  *

  Shoulders stiff, she woke, feeling cold as the fire had died down again. She stretched and her body creaked slightly as she extended her legs. Dawn was definitely cresting out the window, and now she was brave enough to look. A few cows grazed down toward the village, but otherwise, it was still outside. It looked as though it would be a clear day—the kind where a cold night would give to a beautiful day. Touches of frost could be seen on the grass below her. It really had been cold last night.

  Still stiff and cold, she moved around the room and tried to warm her blood. What she wanted was a warm bath, and recalled Mr. Weber mentioning something about hot water being available at certain times. There was a bath available for guests to use, and today, a hot bath would soothe both her body and mind.

  Oliver had said that the sea in Italy was as warm as a bath, and she’d marveled at the statement. It seemed she would never reach Italy now. Not that she cared. After everything that had happened, all she wished was to be at home again.

  Calling the maid, she dressed for breakfast. The day had started by the time she was finished, and she wandered downstairs, to see what were now familiar faces. A new couple sat along the far wall. They must have arrived sometime during the day. How did Mr. Weber manage to remember all the names and faces, she wondered, with people coming and going all day long?

  “Mr. Weber,” she said as she encountered him carrying the coffee pot, which he sometimes did for the breakfast service. It was a time he liked to chat with the guests. “When did you say the hot water was available?”

  “After eight, and before ten.”

  “Right. Thank you. I think I will take advantage of that facility.”

  “I will have some towels sent to your room,” he said with a bow and a smile.

  “Thank you.”

  Continuing to the side table, she started to fill her plate and then took the table which had now become habit. She ate, feeling a little as if she’d survived the night. Her tiredness gave her a somewhat disconnected feeling, but for right now, she felt content, and she was glad when no one disturbed her.

  A cup or two of coffee later and the clock on the wall ticked past eight, so she rose and returned to her room, and sure enough, two towels had been placed on her bed. Her room had been tidied and her sodden nightgown had been taken away for cleaning.

  Taking the towels, she left her room and wandered downstairs to the hallway below, to the room with the bath. It was tiled and cold, with two windows high up. The white bath stood along one wall, two small wheels to let the water pour. This showed the newness of the hotel. Plumbe
d water like this was much more advanced than what she was used to at home. But from what she understood, many newly built houses were investing in the convenience.

  The water pounded the metal bath as it started pouring, icy cold to the touch. This really was such a convenience compared to maids carrying heated water upstairs. Where the water came from, and how it was made hot, she had little understanding of, but she appreciated it all the same.

  Over her fingers, the water started to run warmer, and filling the bath took a fraction of the time it normally would. Clemmie wondered if she would ever have such a convenience in her house. She hoped so, but understood it was quite an undertaking to install it.

  She’d specifically chosen a dress she could manage on her own and she started to undress as the water filled. The tumbling sound of water was comforting, but shock pierced her as she looked over. Writing had appeared on the mirror. It hadn’t been there before, but now it was there as if ghosts had walked into the room and written it before her very eyes. Prima die insidiantur, it said, and she knew what it meant this time.

  A scream escaped her. How was it there? It hadn’t been there. She would have seen it. And it was written in nothing. No ink, or paint. It just appeared on the glass of the mirror.

  Hard knocks banged on the door, and Clemmie just about jumped out of her skin. “Are you alright in there?” a woman’s voice called.

  Clemmie rushed for the door, fumbling with the lock, fearing a ghost would sneak up on her as she turned her back. Finally, the lock gave way and she saw a maid staring intently at her. “I heard a scream. The water has not burnt you, has it?”

  For a moment, Clemmie couldn’t speak. “There was writing on the mirror,” she uttered. “It just appeared out of thin air.”

  The girl looked, but Clemmie saw that the writing had disappeared. The girl blinked and looked back at her, as if she could explain this better.

  “There was writing on the mirror. It appeared before my eyes.”

  “I don’t see any writing,” the girl said, looking at her suspiciously. Then she walked past and turned off the pouring water. Leaning down, she felt the water with her hand. “It’s a good temperature.”

  Now it was Clemmie’s turn to blink. The girl didn’t care, or didn’t believe her.

  “You don’t understand. It was there. I saw it.” Clemmie felt her control slide into panic. “I was locked in here by myself and writing appeared on the mirror.”

  The girl’s mouth was open, but she had nothing to say.

  “Is anything the matter?” It was Mr. Weber asking from behind her. He looked to the maid for an explanation, but she only stared dumbly back at him.

  “I was preparing for a bath and writing appeared on the mirror. It’s disappeared now.”

  “Writing?”

  “It appeared out of nowhere, and then disappeared again.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Same as in the library. Prima die insidiantur.”

  “It was the steam, you stupid woman,” the rude Italian said and pushed past her as he walked into the bathing room. “The steam shows any fatty residue on the glass. When you opened the door again, the steam escaped.”

  Clemmie only stared at him. What was he talking about? Steam did not write.

  The Italian walked over to the mirror and with his breath, he exhaled on it, and for a moment, part of a letter showed and then immediately disappeared.

  “I think someone is trying to frighten again,” Mr. Weber said. “Someone must have written the message in the mirror, knowing it would appear when the bath was next filled.”

  Clemmie still stared at the Italian, trying not to feel such intense dislike for him. And curious that he knew exactly what had happened and how to create such an effect. Part of her wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she had to concede she’d been silly—had scared herself half to death.

  But then someone was trying to scare her. Or had she simply been the one unlucky enough to see this latest iteration of the threatening message?

  “Marie, clean the mirror,” Mr. Weber said curtly to the maid, who quickly followed the directive. “It is a cruel trick,” he said and smiled. “Fear not. I will keep an eye on the door to ensure no one interferes with your relaxation.”

  With a wave, he urged the maid out, and then looked expectantly at Mr. Moran, who complied as well. With a smile, Mr. Weber closed the door.

  Truthfully, she didn’t feel like a bath now, at stripping down and being so exposed and vulnerable, but she felt compelled to after the effort, and maybe even expense, of creating the hot water. A bath was a luxury that could never be wasted.

  Wanting to or not, she took off her dress, chemise and drawers and left them on the chair that stood by and stepped into the bath. It was lovely and warm, and she felt her body relax. Not fully, because she still felt on edge, and she intermittently watched the mirror in case writing should appear again, but it didn’t.

  Chapter 21

  BACK IN HER ROOM, CLEMMIE felt warmed after her bath, but still unease. Her hair was drying by the heat of the fire. The explanation the Italian had provided was logical. Even on paper, she’d heard of ink that appeared only when steam was applied, so there had to be some truth to his statement. The knowledge that writing could appear on mirrors with steam had been unknown to her, and she smarted with the accusation of being stupid.

  But someone had intended for that message to be found in a most terrifying way, and it had been successful. And if Mr. Moran hadn’t explained the mechanics of it, she would probably still believe that a ghost had written it in front of her eyes.

  Maybe she had been stupid going for taking a bath in the first place. What if someone had come in and drowned her in the bath? Was that what had happened to Mr. Carter? it could be for all they knew.

  A chill worked down her body in spite of the pink warmth lingering from the bath. Had the intention been to terrify and murder her? But who had known she was there? Or had she just been the unlucky person who’d decided to take a bath?

  Who had known? Just about everyone as she’d practically announced her intentions in the breakfast room. How could she have been so stupid? There was someone meaning ill in the hotel, maybe even a murderer, and she’d announced she’d be utterly alone and sitting in a convenient body of water. It could be that only Mr. Weber’s vigilance had kept her safe.

  This again brought into question whether this was all directed at her. Her husband had been taken from her, and then Mr. Carter, who’d been trying to help. And now the attack had been more direct. Or it could all be coincidence. It seemed too neat to be coincidence. But then Miss Marnier had been attacked too. And the soldiers had been seen in the village, and she’d been nowhere around then. Perhaps she had just been the unlucky victim. Who knew how long prior that little scare tactic had been in place? Anytime since the last person who’d had a bath, and that was hard to ascertain. At least not since yesterday morning, which was the last time hot water had been generated.

  How were they doing this? How could there be no sign of Oliver and Mr. Carter? The hotel had been searched twice now. There were staff in every part of it, and it was recently built, so there weren’t any unknown compartments or secret walkthroughs hidden by time. They had to have been removed, and that would be heavy cargo.

  If they’d been taken away, it would have to have been by horse, or by carriage. Neither Mr. Carter nor Oliver would have gone willingly. Well, maybe Oliver would have been fooled by someone as he’d had no idea anyone here had malicious intentions. Mr. Carter would have been on his guard, but yet he’d disappeared. A carriage would be the best way to hide someone. The carriage that had passed her came to mind, the one where she hadn’t been able to see inside. Granted, they had just arrived, and she’d seen the guests who’d arrived with it, but that was how they must have transferred the two missing men.

  Rising from her seat, she left the room. Her hair was mostly dry and she tied it back with a ribbon
. Never would she have left her house with such simple hair back in London, but right now, her hair didn’t matter a bit.

  Walking down to the lobby, she smiled at Mr. Weber. “I’m just going to check on my carriage,” she said quietly so no one else could hear. There wasn’t anyone else around.

  If her confidence was misplaced with Mr. Weber, she would pay dearly. But she depended on the fact that he was significantly detrimented by all this. Her situation would feel infinitely worse if she couldn’t depend on anyone. All this was still incomprehensible, and she would struggle with the idea that she couldn’t trust anyone. That wasn’t how the world was. It couldn’t be.

  The wind was blustery outside, the air smelling fresh. Heavy clouds threatened rain.

  Her arms wrapped around her to protect her from the chilly wind, she walked toward the carriage house, which was quite substantial. The guests typically came with carriages, so a great number of them had to be housed.

  Inside the building, carriages were lined up, including the one she’d seen the day before, and her own. A number of other carriages were there too, smaller in size, and even what she would classify more as carts. The hotel needed to cart material, mostly food and coal, and those vehicles stood in the far end.

  Next door was the stable, she guessed, judging by the smell when the wind came from that direction.

  “Can I help you, Mrs. Rowland?” an unfamiliar man’s voice said, surprising her enough to make her startle. Quickly she turned to see her driver. She didn’t even know his name. His name hadn’t mattered to her as Oliver had dealt with him. He’d simply been a figure sitting high on the front of the carriage. It shamed her a little how she hadn’t even acknowledged him as a real human being.

  “I…” she said, not knowing what to say to this man. The man had a rough face with pox scars. Someone she would naturally stay away from if she encountered him on the street. A type of person whose employment she never dealt with directly. “You are familiar with what’s happened?”