Teeth in the Mist

by Dawn Kurtagich

I’m sorry. The words linger in his mouth but he does not speak them. She is small. Birdlike. But vicious too, he thinks.

  “Who are you?” she demands, and he struggles to meet her gaze.

  “Who are you?” he returns, his voice curt.

  She gets to her feet, so covered in mud that he cannot see where the mountain ends and she begins. His voice is gruff—more so than he intends. When was the last time he spoke?

  “Answer,” he snaps.

  “I’m—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Roan Eddington—”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Mill House!” Her cheeks flush, like rose water dripped into cream. She is not embarrassed or afraid, however. He can see that she is enraged. This relieves and calms him.

  Coming to Devil’s Peak as well. So. She is one of the three. “Do you mean the old mill?”

  “You know it.”

  “Yes. And I know Dr.—”

  “Maudley.”

  “Yes.”

  She points to her portmanteau. “Then kindly show me the way.”

  “Are you always so direct?” he asks through gritted teeth.

  “I expect I’m as direct as you are rude.”

  They stare at each other for an awkward moment, him searching—searching for the reason she should unsettle him so. At last, he strides over, hauls her portmanteau up beneath one arm, amused at her restrained anger, and sets off up the mountain at a stiff pace. This is no place for the likes of her.

  He did not expect a girl. A highborn girl, at that.

  “It’s dark,” he says, turning back when she doesn’t follow. “The mountain is not kind in darkness.”

  If he were a different sort of man, he would offer his coat, if he had one. He would ask, Are you all right, miss?

  Instead, he turns and walks on, carrying her load beneath his arm. He is not that man. Never was, and never will be. He frowns as a feeling of quiet discontent runs through his body, until he finally realizes what it is that bothers him so about the girl.

  Her eyes.

  They have no walls.

  Chapter 2

  A BIT OF GOODE

  Mill House is a megalith of slate and gneiss, blackened with age. Roan stares up, noting how it disappears into the raging sky, though part of the house vanishes into the mountain, melting one into the other like some kind of awful chimera. The young man had dropped her portmanteau at the foot of a door that looked like a servants’ hatch, and disappeared back into the mountain without a word. “Off with you, then!” she had called. “Cretin.”

  So. This is now to be her home. This is where her father had wished her to go. Safety in isolation. Roan scoffs at that. Certainly she will be isolated here. But why? And why this man, this doctor, whom she has never met nor heard her father speak of? She stiffens at the idea that Dr. Maudley may know more about her than she knows of him. And worse: that he knows more about her than she does of herself. The door, warped by long years of expansion and contraction, stands like a sentry before her. And in such a large house, she doubts anyone will hear her. Still, she raises her gloved hand and knocks. Nothing for a long time, so she knocks again, thinking she might have to spend the night out on the mountain, or else resort to breaking in through one of the windows. She pulls at her skirt-smothered crinoline and looks up. Letting her guard slip with a momentary but intense flash of anger, she kicks the door. It rattles on its hinges.

  The door opens only a crack, and with speed. A woman with a severe, hardened face and gray hair beneath a cotton cap glares at her.

  She spits out a sentence that Roan cannot understand, and when she simply stares, dripping beneath her bonnet and muddied up to her traveling cloak, the woman snaps, “What hour for calling is this?” in a churlish accent.

  Roan bends to pick up her portmanteau but it slips from her frozen fingers, clattering onto the stone tiles.

  “Well, come in,” the woman barks, “unless you want to drown where you stand.” She strides back into the house, leaving Roan to haul up her bag and follow. They are in a pantry, Roan sees, and beyond, a large kitchen looms dark and still.

  “An unsociable hour,” mutters the woman, stalking over to a table and picking up a goblet, polishing it with a rag.

  “It could not be helped.” Roan raises her chin, noting the steaming pie on the small table. “And it would appear you were awake.”

  The woman raises her brows. “I’ve heard stranger things in my day. How you found a coach to bring you out at this time, I shall never know—nor want to,” she adds stiffly. She places the goblet beside several others and then grabs a brush and comes at Roan’s portmanteau like it is a creature for killing.

  “Which one are you?” she asks briskly, kneeling down to scrub the mud from the bag.

  Roan freezes. “Do you mean to say there are others?” She thought her father had wished her away from society, and that her arrival would be a surprise. She had told no one where she was going, nor had she sent advance warning. There had been no time. A chill of unease prickles at her neck.

  The woman smirks. “Hark! She thinks she has sole claim to the Master’s kindness.”

  Roan says nothing. Instead, she removes her coat and holds it out.

  Knees cracking and with the aid of her hands, the servant gets back on her feet and takes the cloak. “I am the Master’s housekeeper here at Pant Tywyll.”

  “I thought it was Mill House.”

  The woman’s lip curls. “That is the English name. You may call me Mrs. Goode.”

  Roan nods. “I am the new ward of Dr. Maudley.” It is the truth, yet a gamble. Should Dr. Maudley refuse her… The letter in her pocket feels suddenly heavy, burning with heat. “You may call me Miss Eddington.”

  Mrs. Goode considers her for a moment with rheumy eyes and then inspects the cloak, clucking her tongue. “Drewgi,” she mutters. “I’ll have this cleaned and sent to you in the morning.” Her lip curls again. “Perhaps by the afternoon. You’re in mourning,” she adds, noticing Roan’s heavy black dress.

  Roan makes no reply.

  “Well, you have the complexion for it!”

  Roan stares. Still no reply. Her fingers are itching.

  break the neck easy as a chicken’s

  Roan starts, spinning to look behind her. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “I thought I heard someone.”

  “At this hour? Everyone is abed.” Again, the tone of disapproval.

  Roan shakes her head. “It must have been the rain.”

  Mrs. Goode turns and, slowly, taking her time, walks over to the fireplace where she hangs the cloak and proceeds meticulously to straighten every wrinkle, every fold, every pleat.

  crunch down so easy now

  Roan spins. “There. Again. Did you not hear it?”

  Mrs. Goode straightens. “I am not so old that my hearing is going, Miss Eddington. I hear nothing but the usual. Rain and rain and more ungodly rain.”

  Roan shuts her eyes once Mrs. Goode’s gaze is diverted, the old woman bending low to fuss over a wicker basket tucked beneath the table. Roan slips off a glove and rubs her forehead. She clenches her hand against her brow, fingernails in the bed of her hand, cutting sharply. The pain is clarifying. She is weary from travel. That is all.

  Roan swallows, slips her glove back on, and looks about the room. She notices a wall lined with bells, each one labeled with a brass placard: MASTER ROOM, STUDY, DINING HALL, BLUE ROOM, RED ROOM, YELLOW ROOM, and more. One in particular catches her attention: LIBRARY. The first good thing about Mill House she has seen thus far.

  Mrs. Goode stands and brushes down her skirts. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to your chamber. Andrew will bring up the trunk once he’s in.”

  “My chamber?”

  Mrs. Goode narrows her eyes. “Did you expect to sleep in the kitchen?”

  Roan shakes her head, then follows Mrs. Goode up a narrow flight o
f steps that hugs the walls. The house is a labyrinth of stairs, carven-oak panels and doors, and stained-glass windows, of tapestries, curios, crystals, masks, weapons, and giant Greek amphorae. Roan doubts she will be able to recall the way back in the morning.

  At last, they reach what seems to be the main entrance hall. A large set of doors stand to the left. At any other hour, she would have been brought to this, the front of the house, no doubt. Unless the Mountain Man was simply too fond of games. The floors seem to be made from the same slate that peppers the mountainside, curved into squares and arranged with white marble in a chessboard style. Carven oak glares down from high walls, the burning sconces projecting a lattice of shadows.

  They climb a grand stairway, likely the main set, to the second floor, then turn left to cross a landing. A long, dark corridor, lit only by Mrs. Goode’s candelabra, leers away from them, a yawning throat. Mrs. Goode produces a large ring of keys. They jangle like a death knell. At last, a narrow set of double doors is opened and Mrs. Goode stands back, lips pursed.

  Roan recalls the placard on the kitchen wall. BLUE ROOM.

  Every fold of fabric, every swish of material, every picture frame and every drawer handle—is a pale sky blue, or a variation on the same. The bed is a puffy blue monstrosity, while the walls are all bluebells and monkshood.

  Roan’s throat closes. No.

  a swish of blue…

  a scream

  Roan hears the scream, almost not there, but she hears it. Yet Mrs. Goode’s mouth is firmly fixed, as tight and unyielding as her corset.

  The old woman inclines her head. “Good evening.”

  “I will not stay here.”

  Mrs. Goode gifts her with another of her cold smiles. “It is not, perhaps, as fine a room as those to which you are accustomed. This is a country manor.” She pauses. “It will grow on you.”

  Both women are shocked when Roan grabs Mrs. Goode’s sleeve. She lets go almost immediately, but she has Mrs. Goode’s attention. “No—I… I cannot stay in this room.” She steps back. “Is there nowhere… smaller?”

  Mrs. Goode’s eyelids crinkle like old paper. “Smaller?”

  “Yes.”

  Another smirk. “The Master has specifically instructed that you be assigned the Blue Room of the West Wing. There are to be no changes.”

  “Dr. Maudley assigned this room to me? Are you certain?”

  So. He was expecting her. Had Father written? Had he… known what would happen?

  Mrs. Goode pauses overlong, then hands Roan an empty lantern and a bare candle from the candelabra, smiles, and pulls the doors closed as she says, “Good evening, Miss Eddington.”

  Roan waits for Mrs. Goode’s footsteps to fade, and then flees the room, shutting the doors firmly behind her. Heart thumping in her throat, she backs away from the terrible blue as she might from a lion and glances down the corridor, raising her candle high. There is one more door, hidden in the depths of the gloom. Placing the candle in the safety of the lantern, she heads for the dark, bringing the meager light along with her. The shadows withdraw reluctantly.

  At the door—for it is a single, unadorned thing–she clasps the handle, hoping it will yield. It does, and she steps inside, closing it quickly behind.

  Do not let this one be blue…

  The lantern reveals little about the space, except that it is considerably smaller than the Blue Room and most definitely not blue. The lantern’s grate casts splashes of dim light upon the stygian walls, cage-like. It is an otherworldly forest, the walls a dark green. She can make out, just barely, dark, still forms around her. Unidentifiable furniture.

  She licks her lips.

  Swallows.

  She glances here, there—the unsettling stillness of the objects regarding her like silent judges. Like monsters. Waiting.

  hello

  Roan breathes harder while the rain hammers the window across from her, and a blinding flash of lightning momentarily reveals the basic layout of the room. A narrow bed on either side of a small window. A window seat, a desk, and a large wardrobe.

  The walls. Not green. Black.

  The shadows sit thickly beyond her scant pool of light and she flinches when thunder rolls hard over the mountain. Shivering, she tries not to panic. But the emptiness of the room is tangible. Present. There is no one here but herself.

  Why did you not tell me? she thinks.

  There is no reply.

  Chapter 3

  SERPENT AND FOX

  good…

  morning…

  Roan starts awake, the cold sensation of having been touched just leaving her.

  Someone is knocking at her door.

  “Miss Eddington, I have your portmanteau here.”

  No. Not this door. The Blue Room doors down the corridor.

  “And your cloak.” Mrs. Goode’s voice splinters in her ears. A pause, and then more knocking. “Breakfast is not for some hours yet, but you’ll be expected to dress.”

  Roan sits up and peeks around the curtains. Unable to sleep at first, she had simply crawled into the concealed window seat and closed the heavy curtains around her, shielding her gaze from the emptiness of the room.

  “Miss Eddington! I must enter!”

  “Curses,” Roan mutters, searching for a place to hide. She should simply step into the corridor and announce her presence, she knows. She ought to simply state that she had preferred this room—the Black Room—to the blue. Yet she has no idea what sort of man Dr. Maudley is, and if he were to force her into the Blue Hell she might well and truly go mad. No. She must hide.

  As the knocking along the corridor grows more insistent, she unclaps the small window and peers down. It opens onto the rocky facade of the mountain itself, which is what casts the overbearing gloom into the room. She glances back toward the door, panicked.

  It doesn’t take much deliberation before Roan is half out the window. She hears the Blue Hell door open and Mrs. Goode’s “Miss?”

  With horror, she sees her crinoline, which she removed last night in a hurry, standing beside one of the beds. She hauls herself back into the room as Mrs. Goode’s clip-clopping footsteps draw closer, grabs the skirt cage, and flings it out the window ahead of her, then climbs out for the second time, her hands alarmingly slick on the slate.

  Navigating the rocks turns out to be fairly easy when not wearing the cumbersome crinoline, though her arms strain under her own weight.

  The door to the room opens just as her head ducks below the window ledge.

  Mrs. Goode’s voice is stiff. “Miss Eddington?”

  Roan holds her breath, cursing herself for not shutting the window after she climbed out. Long moments pass, and then, at last, Mrs. Goode retreats from the room, closing the door behind her.

  Roan bites her lip to keep from laughing and makes her way down the building like one of those circus men she read about in Father’s paper.

  She drops the last couple of feet and looks up, wiping her hands on her skirts. Her escape hatch stands open, waiting to receive her later. When she chooses to return.

  On impulse, she sticks out her tongue before running into the mountainous air and the waiting mists.

  The world is silent up here.

  Roan dances, skips, and runs as fast as she can, navigating the rocks, heather, and lichen as a child might hopscotch. She is about to whoop into the air when voices carry on the wind, and she stops.

  Furious, constant mutterings bounce up the mountain toward her.

  “And if they think I’ll bow down before any man as my mother was forced to, then they can get a good clattering, they can. To expect such payment for rescue from the workhouse, I tell you, Seamus, it won’t do! And you’re doing me a concern with ye smiles and happy faces. You know what the English are like, don’t you? Well, Mammy knew all right and where is she now? And if you get too comfortable and forget your loving sis, I’ll wreck ye! Wreck ye! Understand me?”

  Roan squints through the mists, which conceal
her, and spots two bobbing heads of flaming orange hair. A girl dragging backward a wooden chair—no, a wheelchair—up the mountain. On the seat, a boy.

  It is the girl’s mutterings that Roan discerns, and a thick Irish brogue.

  “Ah, men are a devil for the drink, but not you, Seamus, no? You’ll stay a good boy, do honor to good Mam, now, yes?”

  Roan cannot hear the boy’s reply, but it must be in the affirmative, since the girl’s mutterings cease. She maneuvers the wheelchair, with some difficulty, between two slate teeth and bends low, panting.

  “On me life, you are getting heavy. And who puts a house at the top of a mountain with no track to follow? If this is a joke, it’s a cruel one and I’ll be shook!” She ruffles the boy’s hair. “A minute for my own self, and then we go on.”

  The girl walks off and when she passes more of the great slate teeth, she gathers her skirts with some effort and squats near the heather.

  Roan suppresses a laugh and turns her attention back to the boy.

  She can’t see much, only the crop of orange, curling hair and, when he leans over, a slim pale hand.

  Movement on the mountain catches her eye. A snake, no longer than her forearm, and gray as the slate that surrounds it, slithers over to the boy’s outstretched hand and then onto it, winding up the narrow arm.

  Roan frowns and inches closer despite herself. She is a mere three paces away before the boy turns and looks at her.

  “Are you real?” he asks, his accent as thick as the girl’s.

  She laughs. “Are you?”

  The boy turns his attention back to the snake. “Isn’t she beautiful? A mountain adder.”

  Roan watches, mesmerized as the snake coils over one arm, then the next, and then over his neck. She reaches out a hand before she can stop herself.

  “May I look?”

  The boy’s eyebrows shoot up under his round spectacles. “You want to?”

  He lifts the snake so that she can see, but Roan sits down next to his wheelchair on the mossy ground and holds out her hands.