Descent into Dust

by Jacqueline Lepore

  The noise woke Henrietta, who commenced screaming as she saw her nurse and me grappling with each other at the foot of her bed.

  “The lamp!” I called. “It is Emma, darling. Light the lamp!”

  She did so, then stood bewildered and frightened beside her bed, her pink toes curling against the cold wood. Miss Harris immediately flew to her, sobbing.

  I spun this way and that, ready to confront Marius. But he had gone.

  “Run, Henrietta!” Miss Harris was nearly hysterical. “She’s mad. We must get out of here!” The nursemaid, who only moments before had been as wild as a cat on fire, changed suddenly. Clutching Henrietta, she skittered away with her with a cry that was a fair imitation of alarm. I stopped in my tracks, realizing she was making a convincing show of being afraid of me.

  Henrietta was clinging to her and staring at me with a guarded edge. “Hen, darling, come to me,” I said, making my voice calm. I had not yet guessed the game. I was thinking only of the danger, of Marius returning, or Miss Harris absconding with Henrietta.

  Miss Harris pulled Henrietta behind her bravely. “Do not harm us, please,” she mewled. Once the child was tucked out of sight, she showed me her teeth. They were small, normal, but the smile was pure triumph, ugly and evil.

  I could hear footsteps coming, and it dawned on me how all of this would appear. “Listen to me, Henrietta. Please, for God’s sake and for yours, listen. You know I love you. I would never hurt you. Come here, darling. Come away from Miss Harris.”

  But Henrietta did not so much as peek from behind her nursemaid.

  “Marius is not your friend,” I said urgently. “He is a vampire, and Miss Harris is in his thrall. She is his servant. Henrietta, please, listen—”

  Roger burst into the room, Mary behind him. Miss Harris whirled and flung herself at them. “She attacked me! Oh, Mrs. Dulwich, she was doing something horrid, and I tried to stop her.”

  “No. It was Miss Harris who attacked me,” I shouted, approaching the child now that Miss Harris had moved away. But Henrietta did me in without saying a word. At my step forward, she cringed away. Seeing this, her parents turned hard eyes toward me.

  “What is this, Emma?” Mary asked.

  I had only one hope, although I knew it was futile. Marius had been very clever. He’d cast out a line and I’d taken the bait like a stupid carp. I said it anyway. “Ask the child.”

  “Henrietta, are you all right?” Mary held her daughter now, scanning her with feverish eyes. “What happened?”

  “Miss Harris and Cousin Emma were fighting.”

  “And look,” Miss Harris said, taking the cross I’d hung from the bed from her night robe pocket. I noted with a detached interest that it did not repel her. She must not be a vampire yet.

  I shall have to remember to tell Mr. Fox, I thought dully.

  Roger took the cross in his hand. “It is a Catholic crucifix.” He eyed the miniature of the dead Jesus in his hand with distaste. “This should not be near the child, it will give her nightmares.”

  Miss Harris pointed at me. “Mrs. Andrews put it here. And this.” She swept up the sharpened stake I’d let slip from my lap, and handed it to Roger.

  He turned to me, horror on his features. “My God, what is going on?”

  “She was talking about vampires. She is mad!”

  I had been incalculably stupid. I realized that now. I had been completely and utterly fooled. I had underestimated Marius.

  Mary went to the bed, ripping down the downy sheets. She found the garlic, picked it up in trembling hands, and showed it to Roger. He stared at it stoically, he who had been my champion all these years. The bleak, hard expression on his mild features; that was the most difficult to bear.

  “Miss Harris, take Henrietta down to the kitchens and heat her some milk.” Roger’s tone was sharp, with an edge that could cut steel.

  I refused to cry. It was my own damnable fault. I had been duped, so thoroughly duped.

  Mary and Roger stood side by side. Roger spoke. “We want you out of this house tomorrow. Before lunch. We will send servants to help you pack.”

  Could I have pled to them the truth, explained as best I could? It would never have done any good. In any event, I did not try. There is something that happens to a person when they are subjected, as I was for so many years, to the harsh judgment of others. A wound. And it is a wound that never heals, no matter how one grows, finds confidence, even fulfillment.

  They believed my mother’s legacy had come to pass. Oh, it did not escape me how sublimely ironic it all was. Yes, it was, in fact, her fate that had made me Dhampir, and so, in a way, they were right. But they did not know this, of course. They simply thought I had finally gone mad.

  Alyssa would not see me. I had tried to go to her and was turned away by Alan, stern-faced and severe, but with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “Alyssa is beside herself. I tried to tell her she was wrong about you, to think you had changed.” It struck me how ugly he could be, despite the even, regular features. Especially when he was haughty, such as now.

  “Please give her a message, then,” I asked, eating my pride.

  “No,” he said, his lips trembling with the smile. “She should have known what her mother tried to tell her. Blood will come true.”

  I gave a small laugh of defeat. “Blood will run true,” I corrected softly and swept past him. I thought of the child Alyssa carried. I would never see my nephew or niece.

  I would never see Henrietta again.

  I went to my room, where my belongings had been already packed by the maids, my things neatly laid into my mother’s portmanteau. Sebastian was waiting. He held his hands out for mine. “Emma…” The pity in his eyes was too much. I turned away.

  “It is up to you now,” I said quickly, before my voice could fail me. “You and Mr. Fox. Henrietta’s life is in your hands. You must find the truth.”

  An appalled expression came over his face. “How can I?”

  My heart sank. “I do not know, Sebastian. But you must keep her from Marius if you can. And Miss Harris.”

  “What do you wish me to do—stuff Miss Harris’s mouth with garlic? If I do that I shall be banished with you,” he said bitterly, then shook his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose delicately. “Never mind. You know I will do all I can.”

  “I have to find Uncle Peter.” My head shot up. “Yes, that is where I will go. He knows more than he told me, I am sure of it.”

  I kissed Sebastian and he held me tightly for too long. “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too. You’ve been my greatest friend. I will tell you where you can reach me when I know more precisely where I am going. For now, know that I am heading to France. I will come when I can.”

  He clung to me a moment too long. “Pray it will be in time.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I have been thinking,” Valerian Fox said as I entered the library. He was ensconced behind several piles of books at a table by the window, completely unaware of what disaster had transpired, and of my banishment. “If Henrietta is somehow a sacrifice for what Marius has planned, it could be the blood of an innocent is needed to release the force in the tree. Blood sacrifice is a common practice among demonic worshippers. We merely…Emma, what is it?”

  I must have looked like death. I could barely speak. “I have been discovered. I must leave, Mr. Fox. That is what I’ve come to tell you.”

  He froze. “Emma, explain yourself. What has happened?”

  I related to him the events of last night, of how Marius had so effectively lured and tricked me, and Miss Harris had played her part to perfection. Fox rubbed his temples and slowly lowered himself into a chair as he ingested this bad news. Anger was visible in the flare of his nostrils, the working of his jaw. “I never thought of it. I should have. Of the two of us, I am the one with the experience.” His lips grew taut with bitterness. “God, Emma, forgive me.”

  Tears choked me, closing my throat
so that my words were harsh and rasped with emotion. “Please consider going to Father Luke. Resolve your differences. If the two of you would simply trust each other, you could work together. He is a good man, but you must make him see it is important for you both to stand united. Marius must never have Henrietta—for whatever purpose he desires. I am to leave this house and I can do no more. I am depending most fiercely on you, Mr. Fox, to make certain no harm comes to her. Sebastian—he knows everything. He can help you now, in my absence.”

  “Go to the village, stay there. I will join you and we will continue our work.”

  To my utter humiliation, tears slipped down my cheeks, hot as firebrands on my skin. “I am going to France to find Uncle Peter.”

  “You believe he is in France?”

  “It is possible he will go there at some time soon. I saw he wrote to a Dom Beauclaire in Amiens. The letter could not have had anything to do with his diplomatic mission, since his current duties lie in the Crimea. I have wondered if he contacted this Beauclaire in regards to my mother, since, with his worst suspicions about her being recently confirmed, I know he is nearly as anxious as I to find out what became of her. I can only hope he will head there upon his return, and I can meet up with him then.”

  “Curious that he would seek out a monk, don’t you think?”

  I started at this odd question. “A what?”

  “A monk. Well, I assumed this Beauclaire is one. The Benedictines use the name Dominic when they take orders, and it is used as a sort of address, as one would say ‘father’ to a priest. They are sometimes called black monks, although I don’t know why. And the Benedictines are still in France. But maybe I am wrong.”

  “A monk.” I felt a glimmer of hope at the revelation. “Well, as peculiar as that sounds, I suppose that is not too difficult to imagine such a thing as a monk would figure into this mystery. A helpful member of the clergy would be a tremendous asset. We already know the importance of holy items and prayer in combating revenants, so who better than a member of the clergy to advise me?” I was suddenly excited. “I think it likely he could prove knowledgeable—else why would Uncle Peter contact him?”

  The appearance of the maid interrupted us. She was looking for me. “Ma’am, your bags are ready to be sealed. Can you come and check them, please?”

  “I will be there shortly,” I told her. She retreated and I turned to Fox. “This is our goodbye, then.”

  Mr. Fox grabbed my hands. “Emma…” His eyes bore into mine. I could see in his eyes a depth of feeling he had never allowed me to see before. And I felt—I knew—it was for me.

  I fled upstairs to oversee the final packing of my mother’s portmanteau.

  The note was an impulse, born out of that moment when Valerian and I had parted. I felt perhaps I should have said something in return. Further, I feared I had given him the idea that I had been discomfited by his touch or the way he had spoken my name. Wishing very much to avoid leaving him with this impression, for it would have humiliated me to have him suspect how undone I had felt at his show of emotion, I dashed a note of farewell while my bags were sealed and brought downstairs. In it, I was gracious but cool as I thanked him for the aid he had provided and would continue to provide to Henrietta in my absence. I also made an apology for my abrupt departure from him, dismissing it as a result of pressing concerns and time constraints.

  Collecting my gloves and reticule, I then hurried to slip the letter into Mr. Fox’s room before proceeding downstairs to make my departure.

  I entered his bedchamber, looking to place my missive where the prying eyes of a maid or other servant would not espy it. I thought of the duffel bag. He would certainly never allow anyone else to touch that, so my letter should be safe enough inside.

  I found it hidden under the bed and hastily unfastened the clasp. As I stuffed the folded paper inside, my hand brushed something soft and curiously shaped. I drew out a slender object wrapped up with rags.

  Maybe it was those instincts of mine, which had served me so well. A sense of unease injected itself into my veins. I peeled back the tattered scrap of cloth. My heart climbed up my throat and pressed painfully to cut off my air. Before me lay the hawthorn switch, with Marius’s blood still red on the sharpened tip.

  I must admit my pride was crushed, my heart blistered as I put the plains of southern England behind me and set sail from Lyme Regis across a choppy, inhospitable sea. I proved a not very good sailor. I was ill during the crossing, and disembarked on the French shore desolate and raw but I had no time to get my legs under me, for the spring was fast approaching, and May Day was only a few weeks away. I set off immediately to Amiens to find the monk, Dom Beauclaire, and hopefully my Uncle Peter.

  The Benedictine Order, which had been reinstituted some years after the French Terror, occupied a half-crumbled château. I traveled to the site by hired carriage, astonished to find an ancient edifice standing like a blight on the gentle countryside like something out of a forgotten fairy tale.

  The structure had once been fanciful, with towers topped with blue coned roofs and crenellated walls. But the roofs had faded to gray. The walls appeared treacherously close to tumbling, thick with lichen and moss. Weeds grew where once maidens in pointy slippers skipped over cobbled paths.

  I climbed the numerous stone steps that led to the massive front door, out of which a smaller portal had been cut for ordinary use, and raised a rusted iron knocker fashioned into the shape of a lion’s head. A young man wearing a horsehair robe, with a pink scalp above an unkempt tonsure, answered my summons. “I must speak with Dom Beauclaire,” I told him in English.

  He allowed me inside. “May I inquire your name?” he asked curtly in heavily accented English.

  “My name is Emma Andrews. I have come to see one of the friars. Would you tell Dom Beauclaire I am the friend of Peter Ivanescu?”

  His lips curled. “It ees Franciscan monks who are referred to as friars. You are not of zee one true church?”

  I had been through too much to endure his scathing glare. “Does Dom Beauclaire only speak with Catholics?”

  My effrontery surprised him, and like most who enjoy bullying, he backed away at my challenge. “Wait here,” he said, curling his lip. “I will inform him.”

  A thin, reedy voice spoke. “There is no need, Dom Henri. I am here.”

  The man from whom this pronouncement had emanated moved into the room with the aid of a young monk on one side and a simply wrought cane on the other. The monk at the door stepped aside as I entered the château. The smell of mold assailed me.

  Dom Beauclaire’s eyes were bright with interest, locked on me as he advanced. In the light, I could see his skin was not so much wrinkled as translucent, finely lined, and mottled lightly with spots suggesting an age far past three score.

  I sank into a reverent curtsy. There was something about this man that seemed to dictate such a show of respect. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  His voice held an abundance of laughter as he bade me rise, and reminded me that he was not a king. “I have been told about you, Mrs. Andrews. Come with me.” His words were also tinged with the musical cadence of the Gallic language.

  Under the guidance of his young charge, he led me away from the frowning doorman into a small, spartanly furnished room that opened up off the main hall. It contained only a few wooden chairs and a table up against a wall. For decoration there was a lone oil painting of a monk—perhaps Saint Benedict himself—and a crucifix.

  When we were seated, Dom Beauclaire said to his escort, “Go and leave us, Alliot. I will have madam call you when I am ready.”

  His eyes twinkled after the other monk left us with visible reluctance. “I am afraid young Dom Alliot is rather shocked at my insisting on being left alone with a woman.” His laugh was conspiratorial, as if he savored this whiff of scandal. I realized that although he was old, and a monk, this man was still French.

  “You said you had been told about me?” I began, making i
t a question.

  “Mr. Ivanescu’s letter was quite complete,” he said. “Oh, he is not here, but he told me of you. I have expected you.”

  “But how could you? I only thought to come when my family cast me out.”

  “And why did they do that, my child?” he asked, as if he knew.

  “They discovered I was…” This was difficult. My fear of being spurned should I speak the truth nearly stopped me. But I had nothing to gain by being dishonest. “I was protecting a child from a vampire.” I stared at him, hardly daring to hope he would believe me. I was fully prepared for him to roar for Alliot and have me taken away. When he did not, I added weakly, “They did not believe me.”

  His eyes were compassionate as he lifted a bony shoulder. “Who would?”

  My question was pitched barely above a whisper. “Do you?”

  Dom Beauclaire paused, taking my measure. “Do you know what this place is, Mrs. Andrews?” he finally said.

  “This abbey? It is unusual, I can see, being an old château.”

  “And tell me, then, why have you come here?” he asked.

  “I do not know. My Uncle Peter wrote to you. I thought…I simply had no place else to go.”

  He smiled comfortingly, nodding as if he approved. “It is as good a place to start as any. It is often after distractions are removed that we find the true path. You have come to the place you belong. You are Dhampir, are you not?”

  My shock was numbing. It took me a moment to find my voice. “How did you know?”

  “Because your kind find us, sooner or later. Take my hands.”

  They were dry and cool. I fancied I could feel the bones under the paper-thin skin. But when he gripped me, it was with surprising strength. “Are you a woman of faith?” he asked, peering deeply into my eyes.

  I wanted to say yes. Instead I answered truthfully. “I do not know what that means anymore.”

  He nodded, and seemed pleased, although I could not fathom why. “What one has faith in makes all the difference. For one such as you, born of the blood of the beast, what is required most of all is to have faith in yourself. Do you?”