by Tamara Berry
It’s fruitless. There’s too much dark and too much noise, the sound of the ocean rushing through my brain.
I guess I’m going to be stuck in this castle forever, I think as a flash of light fills my eyes. Since the room is still plunged into darkness, I can only assume the light is coming from the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Where it will just be me and Xavier and Walter Powell. Together. For all eternity.
Don’t be so dramatic, Ellie.
Maybe it’s because I’ve lost almost all oxygen to my brain, but the voice sounds clearer this time, almost as though a pair of lips are pressed against my ear.
You never were happy unless you had a crowd.
I want to tell Winnie that it isn’t true—that fame and fortune and attention would mean nothing if only she’d wake up again—but there isn’t a chance. It’s too late.
I can’t see. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The light at the end of the tunnel turns off with a snap.
And for good or for bad, there’s nothing waiting for me on the other side.
Chapter 24
The afterlife proves itself to be a profound disappointment.
I’d always assumed it wouldn’t smell like anything—or, if it had to carry a scent at all, it would be daisies or brimstone, depending on where I end up. In reality, it smells mostly like burned feathers.
It’s also wetter than I thought it would be. Nowhere in the heavy religious tomes I mine for useful mythologies does it say anything about cascading sprays of water hitting you in the face. But that’s exactly what I get.
I sputter, choking on a mouthful of water that tastes like rotting vegetation, wondering how I could have gotten my wires so crossed.
“I think she’s coming to,” an anxious voice says from somewhere above my head.
“Empty the other vase over her head just in case,” commands another voice. “And tell Fern to stop burning those feathers. It smells like we’re roasting pigeons in here. I’ll never be able to get that smell out of the drapes.”
“It’s alright,” a third voice says. It’s not very anxious, either, the deep, masculine tones both ironic and familiar. “You weren’t badly hurt.”
“Yes, I was,” I croak. The rasp of my own voice against my throat is painful and raw. I think about opening my eyes, but the task seems too wearisome to attempt. Making it halfway to death’s door before returning back again is a lot more grueling a task than it seems. “I almost died.”
“I imagine it takes more than a scarf snagged on a chair to kill you,” the voice chides. Despite the lack of sympathy in his voice, Nicholas’s large, cool hand drops to my neck, his touch gentle as it traces a line across my throat. It’s only then that I realize I’m lying on the ground, semi-cradled in his pristine lap. “Do you think you can drink some of this brandy?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer as a glass is placed against my lips and a scorching dollop of hard liquor poured down my gullet. Nicholas lifts my head just enough for gravity to take over most of the work of swallowing, which is a good thing, since I don’t feel equal to the task on my own.
As the alcohol begins to take effect, I become aware of my surroundings. As expected, I’m in the decimated remains of a typical Madame Eleanor séance. Chairs are upended, the table is knocked onto one side, and black scarves lie scattered around like a raging wake took place only moments before. Even more to the point, a bewildered and slightly shaken party stands in a semicircle around me.
Of course, they’re usually shaken and bewildered because of the horrors of the great beyond, not because I was almost murdered in their midst.
Nicholas lifts the brandy glass again, but I shake my head, causing my tablecloth mantilla to slide from my neck and flutter to the ground. He seems inclined to force the drink on me, but I struggle into a sitting position. It’s enough to convince him that my death isn’t imminent, though I notice he keeps one arm bracing my back in the event that I fall into another swoon.
His other arm goes immediately to the scrap of tablecloth, which he tucks into his pocket before anyone has a chance to take a good look at it. From the brief glimpse I get, however, I can see that there’s a large rent along one side, the delicate lace crushed at either end.
The ends used to strangle me.
“Is that what happened, Uncle Nicholas?” Rachel asks, her eyes wide. She looks as though she’s been crying. “She caught her lace on a chair?”
“Decidedly so,” Nicholas says before I have a chance to suggest otherwise. Now that I’m sitting up, my head swims and my throat burns even more, making it difficult to release the torrent of abuse I’d like to bring down upon his head. “She got the wind knocked out of her, that’s all.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Nicholas begins issuing curt orders to the room at large. In order to be heard over him, I’d have to shout, which is far beyond my means right now. Leaning against his arm and wishing I could rest my head on his strong, capable shoulder is all I seem able to manage.
I won’t do it, of course. I might be half dead and well on my way to drunk, but I’m no fool. Therein lies desire, dependency, madness.
“Cal, please get the furniture back in an upright position. It would be nice if we could make it look a little less like a tropical storm moved through here. Yes, Fern, that is a very striking pose, but perhaps you could take your daughter down to the kitchen and make us all some coffee. Yes, that kitchen. I’m sorry, but it’s the only one we have.”
At this point, I’d like to remind him that breaking the group up into parts isn’t the wisest idea, seeing as how one of them just tried to murder me, but I can’t. Sensing that I’m fast regaining my strength and intend to use it, Nicholas tightens his hold on me, squeezing my rib cage so much that it’s all I can do to keep breathing.
“Mother, I believe you have some liniment in your room that might work for this slight, ah, laceration on Eleanor’s throat.”
“Of course, dear,” Vivian assures him, her voice low. “Whatever you say. She’s alright? After that Walter fellow took her body over, and—”
“She’s fine,” Nicholas states firmly.
“I’m fine,” I croak in agreement. It’s a bald-faced lie, and playing into this man’s arrogant handling of this situation rubs me in a very irritating manner, but I say it anyway. Vivian looks one strong wind away from toppling over altogether. Considering how happy she’d been before this whole séance started, as excited as if someone had just given her a pony for her birthday, her subdued air now feels almost oppressive.
“See? She’s fine. Ah, Thomas. There you are. If you and Cal could clear the room a little now that it’s back in a semblance of order? Yes, just those chairs there—and maybe that big table. Take them to the armory for now. That will get them out of the way.”
I realize, with a start, that getting them out of the way is precisely what he’s doing. As soon as Cal and Thomas hoist the table between them and cart it out the doorway, I’m left with Nicholas.
Alone. In the room where someone lately tried to kill me. Where someone seated nearby—say, in the seat directly next to me—tried to kill me.
The maidenly swoon that’s been threatening to overtake me disappears at once. I scurry out of his arms and jump to my feet, ignoring the sudden loss of blood to my head and its accompanying dizziness.
There are still a few chairs standing around the room, so I find one and arrange myself behind it. It’s not much—I’d have better luck holding back a lion with it—but I feel a little better once there’s an object between us.
Nicholas just laughs in that cool, mocking way of his. “If I wanted you dead, Eleanor, you’d be dead. Have no fears on that score.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Yes.” With no more explanation than that, he whisks the lace tablecloth from his pocket and examines it. “It’s fortunate this thing is so flimsy. A stouter fabric might have done you in. Do you have any idea who it was?”
I s
tare at him, agog, my mouth open.
“When we managed to get the lights back up, the entire room was in disarray, and there was no way to determine who’d attacked you. You were passed out in front of the fireplace. Did you notice anything in particular about the hands, smell or feel anything?”
“Did I feel anything?” I echo. Is he kidding? I felt a band around my neck, the air leaving my lungs, my soul leaving my body. Wasn’t that enough?
He wraps the cloth around his forearm and crosses one end over the other in an approximation of what it must have looked like around my neck. Holding his arm in my direction, he asks in a mild tone, “Would you mind?”
I can only stare at him.
“For the sake of research, if you will. I’m curious about the amount of strength required.”
His curiosity is contagious enough that I take a tentative step around the chair. Nicholas wants to know the likelihood of a woman—young, old, or anywhere in between—being the one to pull the scarf around my neck. In other words, he wants to know if his niece, his mother, or his sister was the one who had tried to kill me.
It’s a difficult concept for me to wrap my head around. I always knew, on some level, that someone in this house—no matter how much I might like them—is capable of evil.
But to actually try to kill me? Vivian? Fern? Rachel?
There’s nothing to do after that but comply with Nicholas’s request. Only slightly nervous at drawing close while my ability to scream is still so compromised, I take either end of the lace and yank as hard as I can—a murderous yank, designed to choke the life out of Nicholas’s forearm. He doesn’t wince or cry out or anything like that, but from the way he gently tells me to stop and a worried pleat lowers on his brow, I know the experiment has been a success.
If success you can call it.
“It could have been any one of us,” he says as he hands me back the mantilla. “I’m sorry.”
I want to ask him why he’s sorry—for being the one to bring me out here to die? for his inability to narrow the pool of suspects? —but the room fills with various Hartfords and their satellites before I have the opportunity. The scent of Rachel and Fern’s coffee mixes with the mentholated jar of salve that Vivian carries in her hand. Cal’s boisterous voice proclaims his delight at seeing me standing. Only Thomas remains unobtrusive, posted at the door with a hard expression on his face. He looks up and sees me watching him, the hard expression deepening.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say he looks angry. At me.
“Put some of this on,” Vivian says as she hands over the salve. I try to reach for it myself, but Nicholas beats her to it.
There’s something incredibly disconcerting about receiving first aid in front of a crowd of curious onlookers. Even though Nicholas is nothing but coolly polite as he commands me to lift the strands of hair that have come loose from my knot, there’s no mistaking the intimacy of his fingers as they move over my throat—careful, gentle. I’ve always been susceptible to a man’s hands running up and down my neck, lived for the moment when he buries those same hands in my hair, tugging at my complicated knots and whirls. In fact, I almost fear that Nicholas is going to do just that while his mother and sister look on, but he stops almost as quickly as he began. He also shoves the jar into my hand.
“Apply it every six hours or so. I know it smells odd, but my mother is surprisingly adept at making these concoctions.”
“I was a hippie for a good ten years,” Vivian confesses. She also winks. “Let me know if there are any other . . . medicinal recipes you’d like to get your hands on.”
“I hope her medicinal recipes aren’t anything like her culinary ones,” Cal says in a voice that’s supposed to be an undertone but falls about ten decibels short of its goal.
Vivian, ever a lady, feigns deafness. “Well, that was an interesting experience, Madame Eleanor. Do you often get injured during these things?”
I’m not sure how to respond. Half of me wants to warn Vivian—warn all of them—that there’s something deeply sinister going on inside this house. The other half has every intention of holding her peace. To admit to the murderer that I’m afraid would only invite them to try again.
In the end, I decide to use the moment to my advantage.
“Unfortunately, yes. I do. Connecting with the spirit world is a physical, emotional, and spiritual hazard, but it’s often the only way to gather concrete evidence.” I feign a thoughtful pause, allowing my gaze to wander from face to face. With the exception of Thomas over by the door, everyone looks much the same as they always do. If one of them tried to kill me, they don’t seem too disappointed by the fact that I’m alive. “Without the séance, we might have never met Walter.”
I hold perfectly still, hoping one of them will show a glimmer of recognition at the name. Either they’re exceptional actors or the murderer didn’t know the identity of the dead man, because no one shows so much as a hint of alarm. In fact, the only person to react is Fern, who groans in a highly theatrical way.
“Not this again,” she moans, a hand pressed to her forehead. “If these séances and summonings are only going to keep adding ghosts, I, for one, vote we stop having them.”
“That is the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say all week,” Nicholas says. “Come along, Madame Eleanor. It’s high time you were in bed.”
I think of Inspector Piper lying in wait outside and balk. “But I’m not tired.”
“Too bad. I am. I don’t know how much more of this I’m willing to swallow.” He takes me by the arm with a grip so firm, I suspect it will leave a bruise behind. One more mauling added onto the heap isn’t something to cavil at this point, and I find myself being led away before I have a chance to fully voice my protest.
Besides, to be perfectly frank, bed isn’t the worst idea I’ve heard today. The brandy is causing my head to whirl in lopsided revolutions, and I’m so shaky from nerves and adrenaline I can barely walk. I just need some time to compose myself, a few minutes of reflection, and then I can slip outside to tell the inspector what happened. I think he’ll find this new turn of events quite interesting.
I know I do.
“Nick, wait—” Thomas says in a harsh undertone as I’m pulled past him.
“Not now, Thomas.”
“But—”
Nicholas turns on him with a wrath I never knew he was capable of. The heavy lines of his face are sealed into an angry mask, his brows knit tight. “Not now,” he repeats, his words almost a curse. “I think you’ve already done enough, haven’t you?”
My interest, roused by the unprecedented show of passion displayed by Nicholas, reaches its zenith. Thomas wasn’t seated close enough to easily strangle me, but he’s young and has shown himself to be suitably athletic to pull it off.
Then again, if the strength of Nicholas’s fingers pressing into my forearm are any indication, so is he.
“I think perhaps I should stay downstairs,” I suggest as we move out of the parlor and into the relative isolation of the hallway. “Where the witnesses are.”
Nicholas is betrayed into a sharp laugh that causes him to loosen his grip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He takes my hand and lifts it, gently pushing up the sleeve of my borrowed sweater to examine his damages. There’s something sensual in the way he does it, this act of undressing, the movement of his fingers as he exposes the gently beating pulse of my radial artery.
As if he, too, is aware of how delicate the life flowing through my veins is, Nicholas lifts my wrist and drops a gentle kiss. He holds it there a moment, his lips pressed against my skin, causing my heartbeat to leap erratically under his touch. For a moment, I think we’re going to stay like that forever, but he finally releases me and steps back.
“What was that for?” I ask in a tight voice.
“Don’t do that again, alright? I won’t allow it.”
I blink, unsure which of my many nefarious deeds he’s referring to.
&nb
sp; His expression gentles just enough to cause my heart to flutter again. “I’ve grown rather fond of you, Madame Eleanor. There will be no dying until I’ve had a chance to figure out why. Now. Up to bed with you.”
I’m so dazed by that confession—and by the way he utters it—that I allow myself to be led up the stairs. Past the artichoke wallpaper where my camera used to be. Beyond the door to the yellow bedchamber, which I’m starting to think I’ll never see again. Through to Rachel’s bedroom, where the rowan-berry-stained floor reminds me where I am and what I came here to do.
“Rest,” Nicholas commands. Like my episode with Cal in the cleaning closet earlier, he stands in the doorway, blocking my exit. I don’t have time to be alarmed by it, however, since he adds, smiling down at me, “I’ll send Rachel up so you have a witness.”
There are several questions I’d like to put to him, but he precludes these by asking, “How did you know, by the way? About our childhood rhyme?”
It takes me a moment to process the question. By the time I pinpoint the rhyme he’s referring to as the note I quoted during the séance, he shakes his head. “I should know better than to ask by now, shouldn’t I? You know everything. You’ll be safe enough in here with Rachel. There’s something I need to check on before we talk.”
“Nicholas,” I call, extending a hand. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to do with it—keep him close so I can kiss him? keep him closer so I can question him?—so I end up dropping it again. “Be careful, okay? Someone doesn’t like how close we’re getting.”
His laugh is short and doesn’t ring true. “Who are you kidding? Someone doesn’t like how close we already are.”
* * *
I only get a few moments to myself before Rachel joins me, entering the room quietly and shutting the door behind her.
“Ellie?” she asks, her voice small and her eyes large. The juxtaposition of the two extremes renders her absurdly youthful. “How are you feeling?”
