Teeth in the Mist

by Dawn Kurtagich

  Roan attempts to shut her eyes, to wake herself from this state, but something else is in control. It laughs. Laughs as though it knows precisely her terror, her lack of control.

  little girl…

  how you struggle

  A flash of anger.

  A moment of clarity—

  And her hands finally stop their frantic motion on the floor, instead clawing in the air like a madman in his cell.

  Roan opens her mouth. “I…” she breathes, straining with the effort, “control… you.”

  Her hands release, and then all at once, she has herself again. She gasps in lungful after lungful of air until her body is calm and the sharp pain in her fingernails is reduced to a dull ache.

  “I am in control,” she murmurs. “I have control.”

  She says it to herself, over and over. She glances at the box sitting on the windowsill, staring at her, yearning for her to take it and hold it and open it…

  Stop, she tells herself, calling to mind an image of her father. It strengthens her. Reminds her of her training.

  It is focus. His measured voice. No more.

  She gets to her feet, staring at her shaking hands, at the blood drying in her Life, Fate, and Love lines. The blood seeps into every tiny crack, highlighting the strange pattern her path is likely to take. She frowns. It seems long. So long.

  Roan balls up her hands; the pain is exquisite.

  It takes her most of the night to work free the wooden splinters with her sewing needle. By the time they have all been removed, her fingers are raw, more blood bled, and more curses spoken.

  There can be no denying it now, as she had been so desperate to do before. This mountain really is cursed. But not by a witch. By something far more dangerous.

  “Diaboli,” she hisses between her teeth. “Devil.”

  The floor beneath her laughs and begins to creak as though it is chewing.

  Chapter 16

  FATHER, FRAIL

  The light beneath Dr. Maudley’s study door is fickle, dancing here and there, casting strange shadows upon the floor.

  Roan hesitates a moment. Then, with a deep breath, she knocks.

  “Come.”

  Roan enters and is greeted by a fully dressed and awake Dr. Maudley. Though his attire suggests his flamboyant confidence, his hair is slightly mussed.

  “You are always in readiness,” Roan says.

  “Needs must,” he says, not looking at her.

  She hesitates. “I’ve come to ask some difficult questions,” she says after a moment. “May I sit?”

  He waves a hand, peering into his fireplace where the logs spit and the fire thrashes preternaturally. Roan takes a seat in the chair opposite his desk and wraps herself in the blanket resting there, flinching as her wounded fingers brush the fabric.

  “Doctor, did you hear me?”

  “Hm,” Maudley says, and then he frowns and picks up his pen, dipping it into a glass pot of indigo ink and scribbling in a book, heedless of her.

  The scratching unnerves Roan and she rubs her hands, waiting for him to finish. Maudley fidgets as he writes, scratching his neck, his forehead, and running a hand through his hair. A smear of ink slashes his cheek, but he does not notice.

  “Failure,” he mutters. “I am a ffffailure.”

  Roan reaches across the space between them and rests her hand on his to stop his frantic scribbling.

  “Sir,” she says. “Please. You knew my father. Did he tell you anything about giving me… lessons?” She searches his eyes. “Did he give you a reason for sending me here, to this house? How well did you know him, and why did he never speak to me of you? And why,” she says, nearly breathless, and reaching into her skirt pocket to retrieve the piece of paper she has carried like a noose all these long weeks, “did you sign this? It is your signature, your name.”

  Maudley stills, his gaze more intent upon his book. “I can’t do this.”

  “Please,” Roan whispers. “You had my father’s confidence, it seems. But he is gone, and I must know what his intentions were, handing me off to a stranger… and how much he told you.”

  Maudley puts his pen down. “It is all of no import,” he says, his gaze drifting sideways. He stumbles to his drinks cabinet and pours a measure of amber liquid from a crystal decanter.

  She can see by his flushed face and can hear in the languid slur of his words that it is not his first.

  “Answer me this. How did you know I would come here, before my father… You installed a bell in the Blue Room a week before he died.” She leans forward, barely able to restrain herself. “How did you know? Tell me, how? And no more fallacies about my father being ill, for his death was an accident, not born of sickness. Tell me, and speak truly.”

  Maudley raises his bloodshot eyes to Roan’s. They are dancing with moisture. “Why you?” he whispers, voice waspish with some barely contained emotion.

  “Yes. Me. Why did my father send me here?”

  “Because you’re special. So special.” He spits the last two words, and then laughs with a derision Roan has not seen before.

  “Why is that man, Cage, teaching Seamus about the Faustus legend, and why does he not teach Emma and me? What is going on?”

  Maudley drinks until the glass is empty, then wipes his upper lip.

  “I think we both know,” he says, “that you’ve had enough education.” He pauses, eyes roaming her features. “You are the devil’s plaything. Your father knew as much and so do I.”

  A still calm descends. Of course he knows. Of course.

  “You spoke of my… education with my father?”

  He inclines his head. Takes a drink. “Your education. Such a polite word.”

  “All this time, smiling, talking, playing the host. All this time, you knew what you housed.”

  “A witch. Yes, I knew. And you think you’re special?” he scoffs.

  “Tell me,” Roan snaps, slamming the table with her hands as Rapley would. “Tell me why my father sent me to you!”

  Maudley laughs heartily, as though they are enjoying an amiable evening’s entertainment.

  “You could scarcely comprehend all you do not know about Daddy. And why should I tell you?” He staggers to the side, brandishing his glass like a weapon. “Simpering, simple witch!”

  Roan has risen from her chair before she knows it, and in five strides stands before Maudley, gripping his lapels. “Hush! Why do you play with my life? Why am I here? What is wrong with this house? Are the stories true? Are we all going to disappear like those mill workers? What is it to do with me?”

  He sobers, lowering his empty glass so that it skims the table, then rolls out of his hand and onto the carpet.

  “You are so… special.” He jeers, the expression ugly and unexpected. “It has everything to do with you, ugly little sprite. You’re like a magnet. Like electricity. You’ll bring it all down, in the end.”

  Roan steps back, releasing him, her fingers pulsing with pain. “What?”

  “Special little Roan… did you know that your mother’s… favorite… did I tell you that her favorite color… was…”

  He blinks, stumbling.

  “If you really know about me, then tell me why. Why am I the way I am?”

  “You’re bred that way,” he slurs, slumping heavily into his chair, his chin sinking onto his chest. “We are all lost here. This house will consume every last one.”

  Construction of the mill continues. John will hear no questions against it. Indeed, I found him in camp some days past and asked him what purpose a water mill served on a waterless mountain and received a blow to my face in reply. Some of the Welshmen yelled out in protest, and began to mutter amongst themselves while my head pounded in my hands. John snapped at them in Welsh—“To the Devil with you!”—and I understood every word. He dismissed me, then, and big, kind Merfyn helped me to my tent, his boy, Huw, soon by his side.

  “No way to treat a lady,” Merfyn muttered under his breath. I than
ked him and have hidden inside my tent since then. John has not come.

  Our nighttime hours, when they occur, have grown tolerable. As the mill grows, so does John’s fervor out in the camp and the less it burns in our tent at night. But this mountain is turning him mad.

  The rain has transformed to slushy snow, which falls from an oppressive sky.

  I am with child.

  FROM THE DIARY OF

  HERMIONE SMITH,

  DECEMBER 1583

  Chapter 17

  REVELATION, UNLOCKING, OPENING

  Roan paces all night, trying to make sense of Maudley’s drunken ramblings and his revelations. So. All this time, he knew. Knew what she was, and knew what her father had taught her. Perhaps he is the one Conjuring, for she can feel the presence of Conjures around her, floating up now and again like fireflies or mosquitoes. Whoever it is, the Conjures are weak. Perhaps Maudley had studied with her father as well. A pupil, perhaps. Or his tutor.

  An hour or so after dawn, she leaves her room to seek him out once again. Four hours, she reasons, will be plenty of time for sobriety. But she is not the only one awake. Voices, agitated and aggressive, carry through the halls.

  “Who was the last to see him?”

  Roan descends the main stairs to find Rapley pacing the entrance hall.

  “I believe,” Cage says slowly, turning to face her, “that it was Roan.”

  She stiffens. “What has happened?”

  Rapley’s face is drawn and pale, and a fine layer of stubble spatters his cheeks. “Dr. Maudley is missing. He had insisted on meeting early, before any in the house had awoken. But he did not come. It isn’t like him to be late. You saw him last night?”

  “Yes. He was drinking. Perhaps he overslept.” And then another thought occurs to her and she turns to Cage. “How did you know I had seen him last night?”

  Cage’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “I had a meeting with the doctor last night. Or, rather, I was supposed to have a meeting. We were to go over Seamus’s timetable. But he was already in an interview with you.”

  “And how did you know it was me?” she asks, stepping forward. “Were you listening at the door?”

  He smirks. “Women may sneak and spy, but I assure you that a man, least of all a man of God, has no need. I saw you enter. I waited some minutes, and then seeing I was not to be admitted anytime soon, went to read from the Bible in the Green Parlor. An hour or so later I went back, but Maudley had retired for the evening. His study was empty, and the candles snuffed.”

  “Roan, at what hour did you leave him?” Rapley asks.

  “I don’t know. But I do know that he wasn’t in a fit state for company.”

  “And what should we take that to mean?” Cage asks, his eyes narrowing as he turns his body away from her.

  Roan’s lips tighten. “He was drinking, as I said. He wasn’t making much sense.”

  Rapley stops pacing. “What did he say?”

  Roan hesitates. “Nothing of import. I told him to sleep and that we would talk in the morning.”

  “It seems,” Cage drawls, eyes drifting over her body, “as if you slept rather little last night. Were you perhaps wandering again?”

  “After I spoke to Maudley, I stayed up reading. Emma can attest to it, she woke several times in the night.”

  Cage holds up his hands. “I do not wish to accuse, only to establish the whereabouts of all parties under this roof.”

  Rapley eyes him, but makes no comment.

  “Certainly,” Roan agrees, then asks: “Where did you go after I left?”

  “I spent the night in prayer in my room.”

  “Can anyone verify that?” Roan asks.

  “God above can, should He choose.”

  “Where is Emma?” Rapley asks, cutting in.

  “She is asleep. She is still on a heavy sleeping draught.”

  “Yet she woke several times during the night, did she?” Cage says.

  “It did not take effect until shortly before dawn.”

  “I think it’s clear that Emma is not the culprit,” Cage says, turning back to Rapley. “She can barely stand on her own with her injury.”

  “Are we looking for culprits?” Roan asks. “Has anyone checked his bed?”

  “He is not there,” Rapley says. “It does not look as though he slept in it at all.”

  “Should we not be searching the mountain, then? Dr. Maudley may have wandered off and fallen. Have you searched the rest of the house? As I said, he had been drinking.”

  Rapley nods once. “I agree. There is no reason to suspect foul play here. I know the mountain best, so I’ll search there.” He turns to Cage. “Search the house with Andrew and then come back here.”

  Cage nods, then watches Rapley leave without moving.

  “Well,” Cage says, smiling as he turns to Roan. “Let us hope we find him, since you were so eager to talk to him today.”

  Roan folds her arms. “I’m coming too.”

  “It is no job for a woman. And,” he adds, his breath foul in her face, “I’ll not have you wandering the house at my back.” They stare at each other for a moment, and Roan wonders when the moment was when they first mutually realized that they despised each other. “Run along, now. We don’t need any more trouble.”

  “No,” Roan agrees, stepping closer. “We don’t.”

  He looks her up and down, another smile—a dangerous smile—sliding over his face.

  “I’ll be sure to seek you out directly when we find Maudley,” he says. “I am certain he’ll have a lot to say.”

  He turns on his heel with a swish of his coat, and heads toward the kitchen, humming “‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’”

  Their voices draw her to the window.

  “You’re not listening!” Cage.

  “I don’t need to hear any more—” Rapley.

  “If you don’t heed my words, then you’re a fool!” Cage, louder.

  “Then fool I am!” Rapley.

  “Rapley, you are stubborn, I know, but you must open your eyes! There is evil at work here and I fear you may be a target.”

  Roan steps back, surprised, and does not catch Rapley’s reply. They speak on such familiar terms. How should that be? She has hardly seen Rapley herself, and he as much admitted that he talked with her most of all. She had seen Rapley and Cage arguing before, and they seemed strangers. How then did Cage come to address him so familiarly? So intimately?

  Leaving them to their talk, she sits down on her bed and then lies back fully. Cage is right about one thing. She too knows there is evil in the house. She simply doesn’t know if she has caused it all, or not.

  Cage stands before the gathered group in the entrance hall. Emma wobbles tentatively on her leg, but she is pale and silent. “Maudley was not found outside. Andrew and I will search the house again. With lamps. Roan, Emma, Seamus—you three stay in the Green Parlor and out of the way.”

  “This time I will search as well,” Roan adds, staring defiantly at Cage, daring him to stop her.

  He makes no comment. “Meet back at this spot in one hour. We don’t need anyone else disappearing, so do not tarry.”

  Rapley, who has been listening without comment or reaction, turns and stalks outside without prompting, and Cage heaves a short, sharp sigh.

  He and Andrew share a glance, and then they turn in opposite directions to search the house. Cage heads up the main staircase, while Andrew heads down the eastern side, through the kitchen.

  Roan waits for them to go and then helps Emma and Seamus to the Green Room before hurrying into the western part of the house. The side built into the mountain, where Maudley warned them not to go after Emma’s accident. How long ago that seems now. There might be a reason beyond mere safety that Maudley had for keeping them away. And if it is such a dangerous place, perhaps he has fallen and is trapped. Either way, she must venture into that part of the house, since it seems no one else will, even for the Master. He knows more than he has said,
and must answer for it.

  Before they all disappear.

  Roan whispers the words quickly, as though speed might hide her from whatever dark eye turns her way when she uses the symbols.

  A series of loud, cavernous clangs echo beyond the door.

  We learn the Conjure because we must. We must know the evil but not engage. Never use it outside this room, Roan. Never let yourself be tempted.

  She forces the memory of her father’s voice from her mind and pushes open the West Wing door.

  It swings forward with a whine, protesting like the death rattle of an ancient crone.

  Stepping slowly inside, Roan finds herself in a frigid antechamber, her candle barely pushing back the darkness. She tiptoes across it on the balls of her feet, the cold seeping through her indoor slippers. A second door—this one unlocked. She pushes it open and her candle flickers, almost gutters, and then stills.

  The room yawns away from her into a glacial, black space, and as she steps forward, her heels clack on the floor and echo back.

  A chapel.

  A chapel inside Mill House.

  The ponderous pews stand rigid and old-fashioned, worn and covered in dust and rag-like cobwebs. The left-hand wall is sheer mountain rocks, while the right wall has no windows. None at all. Roan walks the length of the room, holding her candle up, willing Dr. Maudley to be sitting in one of the pews in silent prayer.

  She reaches the altar and places the candleholder down, taking a moment to close her eyes. Sensing something behind her, like someone observing, she spins to face the room.

  It is empty.

  “Hello?” she calls. “Doctor?”

  Behind her, the flame flickers once more.

  The chapel is a dead end, so Roan turns back to look for access to the rest of the wing. She finds it in the first antechamber: a narrow door leading to a corridor, veiled in more cobwebs and trapped insect carcasses.