Fox grew thoughtful. “I must find an opportunity to speak with Mr. Hess. But for the moment, I wish to ask you something which has been much on my mind since yesterday. It is about what you did to the snakes in the barn. You described that they attacked, an event which would disconcert any person—to say the least. Yet you dispatched all but one with alacrity, using only a pitchfork and ingenuity.” He was assessing me with his dark, dark eyes. And there was something there, a suspicion glimmering just below the surface as he asked, “Exactly how does a gently bred lady such as yourself come to possess such skill?”
“I am sure I do not know, Mr. Fox, and that is the truth.” I was not about to discuss the deep grip of tension I felt over this very matter. For all of the madness of the past week, this was the thing I could not quite assimilate. How had I done what I’d done?
Wishing to change the subject from me, I asked, “Do you have any idea where Marius has his…well, I hardly know what to call it—bower? I assume the folklore of a vampire needing to return to his grave is true.”
He knew my ploy, but went along with it. “I have not found it. In all my years of tracking him, I’ve succeeded in locating it only once, when it was guarded by a very capable minion, a particularly vicious Punjab fellow I hope you never have the misfortune to meet.”
“It must be on The Sanctuary. He favors that place.”
He cocked his head as a thought struck him. “I’ve looked, I assure you. But only the most outrageous stroke of luck will help us uncover it. He has not lived for centuries by being careless when he sleeps, for that is when he is most vulnerable. The cleverness in concealing his bower is nearly impenetrable. I know of no way to locate it other than to follow him to it, which happened under extraordinarily singular circumstances when I accomplished it the one time.”
I mulled over what he had said. “So if he must burrow in his grave during daylight, how is it he appeared to Henrietta, and to me?”
He folded his arms over his chest, stretching the seams of his coat over his broad shoulders. This must have been uncomfortable, and he asked, “Do you mind?” indicating he would like to remove the garment.
I waved him on and when he had doffed the confining thing, he explained. “Keep in mind he did not emerge from his slumber, but merely sent a shade of himself to communicate with the child. In this form, the creatures are quite literally invisible. Except to some.” He narrowed his eyes and considered me for a thoughtful moment. “Children are sensitive to these things, for their innocence makes them vulnerable. And perhaps your love of the child made you equally so.”
Not a bad theory, but I did not quicken at consideration of it. Nor did he. I could see how he was watching me, a close scrutiny that was far too intense. Disconcerted, I rose and paced to the window. I was annoyed, although uncertain whether the object of my irritation was he or myself. “The dreary weather wears on one’s nerves,” I said idly. “I’ve never seen a more dismal spring.”
“He commands the elements, you know.”
Yes. I had heard that long ago, listening to dark, frightening tales as a child. A vampire can summon a storm. “You make him sound invincible.”
He said nothing, not even when I turned to face him. I wished he had. Mr. Fox was looking at me with a peculiar and decidedly uncomfortable fierceness of concentration. “There are those who are born to fight the vampire. Those with innate powers. Gifts. Even a master vampire such as Marius fears them.”
A strange sensation bubbled up inside me. Fear and excitement. Fox blinked, as if catching himself having given up intelligence unwittingly. He made to turn away, saying, “We should get back to the others. They will come looking for us soon.”
I grabbed him by the arm and turned him forcefully back to me. My strength was no match for his and had he wished to leave, he would have done so. Yet he was kind enough to attend me with a patience that surprised me.
“Mysteries and riddles again, Mr. Fox? Have we not gone past this point?”
There was a fine dew of sweat on his brow. “You will not thank me for the question I am about to ask, but very well, Emma. Tell me, what do you know of your mother?”
My head snapped back, as if I’d received a slap. “What?”
His gaze was sly—or was that my imagination? I was never quite rational on the subject of my mother. For too many years, I’d suffered innuendo and avoidance.
He leaned forward. “Your mother, Mrs. Andrews. Who was she?”
“Her name was Laura Newly. Why?”
“And what do you know of how she died?”
“She…” It struck me that he had not asked if she were alive or dead. I began to feel a vague disorientation, such as when extreme anxiety dulls the wits. “Sh-she was ill.”
“Ill, was she? A wasting disease?”
The implication nearly felled me to my knees. Rage and horror rose up in me, licking at my nerves like flames. I stood breathless and seething as I stared back at him. “That obscene suggestion does not merit a reply.”
“It was not a suggestion, and you mistake me, Mrs. Andrews. I am not implying what you think.” His sharp eyes narrowed. “Yet I am interested why it riles you so.”
“Because she was…” I broke off, the words damming up in my throat, nearly choking me. Did he know of her illness? Had Mary or someone else mentioned it?
I took a moment to compose myself. “Why are you asking about her? Just what are you saying, Mr. Fox? And what, if anything, does it have to do with what is happening now?”
He clearly regretted having spoken. What was most maddening was that I knew from the tension coming off him that there was good reason for his strange interest in Laura, but he was not ready to tell me what it was.
“I think perhaps I made a mistake,” he said slowly. “I should not have ventured into such a distressing topic. It was insensitive of me, and is clearly none of my—”
“I thought you wished to help me!” I accused.
He frowned. “Emma, I do not wish to overset you.”
It was far too late for that. “Why do you not simply speak plainly, Mr. Fox?” I said.
He hesitated, hovering in indecision a moment before inclining his head. “I think my error was in doing exactly that,” he murmured. “And I have spoken out of turn. Do pardon me.”
The sense of betrayal hit me. He was no ally. His brief period of honesty with me was over. I whirled and stalked out of the room, furious.
Then I remembered what Wadim had said—he, too, had spoken of Laura. I felt dizzy for a moment, a slow, creeping sense of fear settling over me. What had any of this to do with my poor, mad mother?
Chapter Twelve
I am not speaking to you, of course,” Sebastian said on a sniff as he passed me in the hallway. “You have been ignoring me all day. You gave us all quite a fright yesterday, after all.”
I altered my path and followed him. “Shall you refuse to accept my heartfelt apology?”
He sighed, pausing with his hands folded and laid across his chest. The pose of mock hauteur meant I was to be permitted to make my case. I played along. “It was thoughtless of me to neglect you. Even though I had nearly met my end, I should have realized you needed my attention.”
His eyebrows rose and he smiled. Then, his mask broke, growing serious. “Emma…What happened out there?”
I lowered my gaze. “Sebastian, I cannot explain any of it. But I do not wish to talk of it, if you do not mind.”
“Very well. I am not the most tactful person, and if I’ve tread upon your sensibilities, I regret it. So, let us put the dratted business behind us. I was to take Hen for an outing, although under Roger’s orders Miss Harris is to accompany us. We are just going in the garden. Would you like to join us?”
I assented heartily, glad of the opportunity to do something other than brood on the swirling confusion of my thoughts. The moment I was out of doors, the scent of earth, moist and soft after the winter’s thaw, enveloped me like perfumed arms. The sun wa
s out, but the air held a slight chill. I could have used my shawl, but didn’t wish to go back into the house for it.
“How is the mysterious Mr. Fox?” Sebastian asked companionably as we walked.
“Mr. Fox is the kind of man who follows a solitary path,” I replied sourly. “One will never plumb his depths.”
Sebastian snickered. “But one tends to want to try.”
“Not I,” I vowed.
Sebastian sighed. “Lud, it is so utterly provincial here. I am reduced to squeezing a paltry scandal over you and Fox, and I know full well you are doing nothing improper.” He paused and peered at me hopefully. “Are you?”
I laughed and laid my hand on his arm. “Pray bear the inconvenience a while longer. I fear my boredom would become intolerable were you to leave.”
He patted my hand. I had the sense that he was touched. “I suppose if it matters so very much.”
It did matter, I was surprised to discover. “You are very good to indulge me,” I countered with a touch of sarcasm he appreciated.
Henrietta was waiting for us with Miss Harris. The four of us played Pass the Slipper, which was our little girl’s favorite game. As Sebastian was fond of Blind Man’s Bluff, we played that next. I was chosen to be “it” first and Sebastian conspired with Hen to torment me with evasion until the poor child felt sorry for me and let me catch her.
Afterward, we lolled on a blanket spread on the lawn. “In the summer,” Sebastian said as he looked about the garden, “the air is scented with lavender, a favorite of mine. There’s feverfew, dianthus, and catmint. It is quite beautiful.”
The day was so very pleasant, an anathema to the darkness that had surrounded me of late. Henrietta jumped up, exclaiming, as a black-and-gold butterfly danced across the lawn. She skipped off in pursuit, Miss Harris behind her.
Sebastian leaned back and sighed contentedly. I regarded him thoughtfully. “Why is it you enjoy Henrietta’s company so?”
He laughed. “There is a freedom being with a child. Maybe not any child. But Henrietta is unique. She is…well, she is quite perfect. She is simply the most pure human being I’ve ever met.”
“She is very special,” I agreed.
“Why do you?” he countered. “Shouldn’t you be concentrating on having babies of your own?”
“What a personal question. However, I shall answer it. I do not expect to have children of my own, for I shall never remarry. I like my independence too much. As for Hen, I adore her. It’s that simple. And she doesn’t disapprove of me, which has been a rare thing in my experience.”
“Just so,” he murmured, then lapsed into silence, closing his eyes for a quick nap. I sat beside him while he slept, contented with my thoughts until the grass moved unexpectedly. The thought of snakes sent me leaping to my feet with a small cry, but I saw quickly that it was only the wind.
Nevertheless, I was reminded of my uncanny accuracy in battling the snakes in the barn. I wondered if I could do it again. I had heard that people were capable of amazing feats in moments of crisis. Perhaps that was all it had been. I had always possessed excellent aim anyway.
To test myself, I picked up a rock, took aim at a low-lying leaf, and let the stone fly. The trajectory of the missile was a blur, but the leaf I’d selected disappeared with a barely audible snap. I stared, amazed at my accuracy.
Maybe that was too easy. I tried again, this time aiming higher, to a leaf buried among others. My eyesight was keen, but even I could barely pick it out. I threw the rock, this time aiming less with my eyes than with some inner instinct. As before, the leaves around the one I’d selected were undisturbed, but the one I’d tried for was gone.
I began to grow excited and I raised my gaze to the topmost branch. Taking a moment, I chose the target, a jutting twig as thin as my finger. I’d have to hit it at just the right point. The weapon I chose was a fist-sized rock, perhaps too much of a challenge to throw so far, but I’d need weight to break off the branch.
I felt something happen within me this time, a weird, lifting feeling inside me, an increasing of certainty, a narrowing of focus. Throwing the stone, I heard the sound of breaking wood follow immediately.
I retrieved the branch to study it. It had been severed clean, a seemingly impossible accomplishment. My hand trembled as I studied my work, dazed with incredulity. I carried it with me back to where Sebastian dozed, fingering the cleanly cut pulp, my head swirling with disbelief, exhilaration, and worry.
I did not have much time to reflect on my unexpected abilities before Henrietta and Miss Harris appeared. I tossed aside the branch, as if it somehow gave me away, and fixed a bright smile on my face. But my expression of welcome never materialized, for my body seized up, frozen solid by what I saw.
Something was tangled at Henrietta’s skirts. I blinked in an effort to focus on the strange, shifting shape. It seemed to be some kind of mud or…mist of some kind. Black mist, twisting in elongated tendrils, slithering in her wake and around her ankles.
I opened my mouth but caught myself. An inner sense told me neither Miss Harris nor Sebastian would see anything amiss. But I could see it, as clearly as I saw the ribbons on my little cousin’s shoes. And I saw something else, as well. Behind her came the tall, masculine shade I’d spied once before, at the hawthorn tree.
It loomed above her, keeping just behind. I could feel its malevolence, that sense of something putrid and foul in the air—not a smell, exactly, but affecting me as noxiously as the worst stench, the same odor I’d detected in the barn.
Oblivious, Henrietta walked contentedly with her nurse, her smile as untroubled as the stretch of azure sky above us. She did not know he was there. She’d seen him before at the tree, but today she was unknowing of the shadow that slipped greasily over the newly greening trees, doggedly in her wake.
Panic rose violently inside of me. Henrietta was not safe at all. Marius was still with her.
Trembling with the aftereffects of what I’d seen in the garden, I battled an unreasonable sense of betrayal as I entered the house, for my first instinct was to go to Mr. Fox and tell him. But Mr. Fox was not my friend, nor my ally. His surreptitious questioning about my mother had brought that starkly into focus. Whatever terrible danger threatened Henrietta, I would be the only one to face it, defeat it. But how? I did not even understand the first thing about what was happening.
So deep was I in my thoughts that I did not notice Mary until she was upon me. “Emma, I need to speak to you about Alyssa. She is in a state over what she views as your neglect of her lately.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, but my attention was leagues away. Marius had done away with Victoria, and I knew why. The cross around the doll’s neck had glowed the night I’d heard the tapping. I remembered that the priest in the graveyard had held a large cross, the anchor to a large row of rosary beads, and this remembrance put me to mind of the little church nearby, Saint Michael in the Fields, which Mr. Hess had spoken about.
Crosses and churches and priests. The old legends pitted these icons of Christianity against the revenant world. Yes, there was power in these holy things.
Mary laid a hand on my wrist. “I know you’ve always longed to be close. This is the time, Emma. Alyssa is older now, a woman, about to be a mother. You and she might find the friendship you’ve always sought.”
I blinked, trying hard to concentrate on what she was saying. “Oh, Mary, you know I love my sister. You and she are all the family I have, and I would do anything for either of you. But I cannot do what you ask, not now. There is something very important, something vital I must attend to. I cannot explain.” I brushed past her.
She called after me. “Will you—?”
I did not hear the rest. I found my bonnet and put it on hastily, stopping in the kitchens briefly to ask the direction of the church. I set out on foot. It was late afternoon, and as I had no idea where I was going other than generally in the direction of the “old circle” on Overton Hill, I was wary of the time. If
Marius were still seeking Henrietta, night would be the time when his powers would come into full. I needed my answers before the sun set.
I was able to locate the church and rectory without trouble. The difficulty came when my knock on the rectory door went unanswered. A reasonable alternative to the priest being home was his being in the church itself, so that was where I went next.
The outside of the building was unassuming, but inside the cave-like structure, dimly lit magnificence opened under a row of high, pointed arches of the nave. The fading light broke into color as it passed through the stained-glass windows, falling on me as I strode the marble aisle.
The silence of the place swallowed the sound of my footfalls. I had never been in a Roman Catholic church before. Everything was ornate and alien. I swallowed, the hallowedness of the place overwhelming me. Everywhere I looked, bold images of Christ, his mother, his apostles, his saints, stared at me with solemn, pitying eyes.
“May I help you?” a woman’s voice inquired.
I started, leaping about to face a diminutive woman dressed in black. She smiled in apology. “Oh, dear, forgive me for frightening you. I thought you would have heard me coming. One cannot sneak around this place, with the echo. That’s how I knew you had come in, I heard your footsteps.”
“I…was…looking…” I indicated the paintings, the statues, the windows.
She nodded, as if she understood how awesome it could be to the uninitiated.
“May I see the priest?” I asked quickly, recovering my wits.
“Oh, Father Luke is not here, dear.” Her eyes held genuine sadness. “May I help you with anything? I am Mrs. Tigwalt, the good father’s housekeeper. I keep the church up, too.” She looked about proudly.
“Goodness, surely you do not do all of this cleaning?”
“I oversee a small staff, a family of sisters from the village who do most of the dusting and polishing, and their father who keeps up the gardens.” She folded her hands in front of her. “It’s a modest parish, but we who worship here love it.”
Descent into Dust Page 10
