This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to real events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by V. Anh Perigaea
All rights reserved, including the rights for reproduction in part or in any form.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.
This book was originally published in paperback by V. Anh Perigaea in 2018.
Amazon ISBN 978-1-983-12877-6
CHAPTER 1
The Guardian
London, 1889
Orenn Manor
It seemed he’d addressed less than thirty words to her in the entirety of her life. So it was strange to hear her name spill from his lips, a trumpeting announcement that he’d known of her existence all along. Her uncle Tiberius Morton was a prominent banker in London, a powerful man who generally brushed her off like dust from his finely-tailored sleeve. Annabelle had been his ward all her life, since both of her parents died of a fever in her infancy. She remembered nothing of them, not even cloudy images haunted the obscure corners of her mind. No, her earliest memories were of the dark - of the dusty corners of her uncle’s great mansion and long hours spent hiding in them. She’d been raised by the crooks and crannies of this place, witnessing life from behind table legs and through the fringed borders of curtains, reared by the silence of empty halls and drafty rooms as the clock ticked it’s relentless sentence.
Tonight, her uncle was hunched at his desk with a familiar drink in hand, his paunchy stomach smashed against the desktop as he absorbed his companion’s words. Deep wrinkles bordered his eyes as he stared blankly into the fireplace, it’s dim light glimmering off the ice in his glass and the thick, silver ring that never left his hand. It felt strange to be in his presence for longer than a moment, but she was used to watching him. She often found herself staring hard at his averted gray eyes, desperate that he should look back (in the rare occasion she was in his presence); though he never did. She was hungry for his acknowledgment. He was the closest thing to a parent she’d ever known, even though he was a stoic, solitary man partial to sipping scotch in the loneliness of his study.
She watched from a hiding spot in a forgotten corner, one piled with old, unused items and covered with a tatty curtain, peering between tiny holes and worn out places in the fabric and tasting dust with each breath. She’d discovered a passageway long ago between her uncle’s study and one of the cupboards in the adjacent hall when she’d been locked in it as a punishment and found herself at leisure to explore it’s ins and outs. Never knowing what the passage was for, she used it only rarely, for the risk of being found here wasn’t often worth the reward. But tonight was different. With pointed, pale fingertips she brushed a strand of hair aside, tuning in with all her might; her light blue eyes squinting as she strained to hear each word. For in the dark secrecy of his study, Uncle Morton was speaking of her.
“What do you suggest,” his deep voice rumbled sarcastically. “That we send her packing? Shipped off to become one of the white slaves?”
The white slaves of England were lost children who worked long hours in mills and mines, and suffered fates worse than death; living so horribly that many died as young as twenty-five.
“She would disappear,” a crackling voice replied nearby. “That would be enough. You know something must be done. She shall be nothing but a problem from here on out. You kept her too long.”
Her uncle’s companion sucked the end of a pipe, sending large, swirling puffs into the air from just beyond Annabelle’s sight. Though she could only see knobby hands and crossed legs protruding from a velvet armchair, she knew the voice all too well. It was the voice of her one and truest enemy, her uncle’s housekeeper, Mrs. Ackworth.
“She must be sent somewhere,” Mrs. Ackworth continued. “Young girls are much sought after, even in the vilest gutters. Send her to a school and she remains your responsibility, your property. A parish apprenticeship would sever her ties to this house, and to you, if accomplished rightly.”
“But the girl is clever,” Uncle Morton rebutted. “She’ll speak to someone, and they’ll see her polished ways.”
Annabelle swelled at being called clever and polished by her uncle. But the feeling faded fast, for he’d mentioned these qualities as marks against her.
“What shall it matter,” Mrs. Ackworth said as she slowly leaned forward, her hooked nose and puffy eyes protruding from the darkness. “Her new masters would never believe her. What is the word of a young girl? Nothing.”
Uncle Morton sipped his scotch and coughed, wiping dribble from his chin as he stared into the fireplace.
"Did you see the papers?”
“The shopgirl,” Mrs. Ackworth answered. “The one as was murdered, Nancy Pritchett?”
Uncle Morton nodded solemnly. “Some say it was the Ripper.”
“Surely not,” Ackworth answered darkly. “Surely not. The danger is far too great to ignore.”
“Yes, you are right. Something must be done right away.”
“It would be best,” replied Mrs. Ackworth eagerly, pressing the subject. “For all involved. Yourself, the staff, everyone.”
Annabelle reeled behind the curtain, scarcely able to believe what she’d heard. Surely, in a cloud of smoke and a haze of liquor her uncle would decide her fate - in a matter of moments - quicker than one might take tea and perhaps as lightly.
“Whatever is done,” Uncle Morton said, clearing his throat. “Rest assured, I shall decide directly. She’ll not spend more than another day or two under this roof, I swear it. We shall be rid of her.”
Mrs. Ackworth’s mouth stretched into a smug grin, her hollow eyes glowing with satisfaction as Annabelle’s heart sank. Mrs. Ackworth enjoyed an undue amount of influence with Uncle Morton, influence she didn’t understand. Ackworth was a mere housekeeper of no relation to the family who’d arrived at Orenn House shortly after Annabelle’s sixth birthday and turned the place into a labyrinth of traps and tortures ever since. She was a resident demon - a tall, lanky, and surprisingly-strong woman in middle age. Her face was sharp and her eyes malicious and clever. Her shoulders hunched, her arms seemed too long for her body and her chin, jaw and nose seemed to have been molded from the image of a storybook witch’s.
Her presence sucked the joy from a room like a sudden, gusting wind. While some women were ambitious for husbands and position, Mrs. Ackworth seemed ambitious of cruelty, as if the suffering of others fed her. She stalked it as animals stalk prey - sniffing the air for an opportunity to devour. Even the meekest question from Annabelle’s lips was answered with biting hostility, laced with the implication that she’d no right to speak in the first place, nor to think or form an opinion. And Annabelle dared not appear happy or confident in the sight of Ackworth; such a display would swiftly be followed by a blow.
Before Ackworth’s arrival, Uncle Morton had treated her fairly. He’d ignored her, yes. But she’d lived in reasonable comfort befitting the ward of a wealthy man. Back then, she’d slept in a fine room on the second floor, been served regular meals and owned clothes that fit and were laundered regularly. But now regular food, comfort and warmth were so far removed from her daily life that they seemed the ransom of kings, the clear waters of nirvana enjoyed only by fine ladies and other princely beings.
Mrs. Ackworth had moved Annabelle from her comfortable room on the second floor lo
ng ago, bouncing her from room to room into gradually humbler conditions. Presently, she lived in a storage attic in company with mice and tatty old furniture barely fit for a rubbish heap. For years she’d been required to scavenge for her sustenance, creeping about the pantries or kitchens when Ackworth was nowhere about. For if Ackworth found her there, she’d be struck across the head and locked in a closet for insolence; then forgotten while Ackworth was distracted with her other duties. Once, Annabelle had been locked in for two days. She’d later been found by a scullery maid who, upon discovering her crouched in the dark cupboard, screamed like Annabelle was an oversized pantry rat or a vandal.
Among her other amiable qualities, Ackworth was a practiced gossip; a skill she used to convince Uncle Morton and the staff that Annabelle was a spoiled, willful, immoral child guilty of horribly wicked deeds. Actual deeds had never occurred, but as a result, Annabelle was perceived as untrustworthy by the household. Thinking her a wicked girl, they avoided her, speaking to her in contemptuous tones only when communications were absolutely necessary. So she spent most of her time hiding in corners or closets to avoid company, reading any books she could find and watching pedestrians from the safety of cool window seats.
It pained her deeply, tonight more than ever, that her uncle went along with Ackworth’s lies. He never even tried to learn the truth, and the pain of this was especially acute now - a night when her fate would be decided upon and such falsehoods would likely influence his decisions. He just didn’t seem to care. As she listened, the truth of this was fully and finally driven home. A sense of friendlessness and isolation crept over her like a ghost, threatening to paralyze every limb with it’s cold.
She wracked her brain for someone she could flee to, but she’d no other friends or relations. The only person she knew in the whole world besides her uncle and his staff was her old tutor Mr. Elkstein, but he’d disappeared years ago. He came to Orenn House when she was seven years old. She’s always assumed that he’d arrived at her uncle’s bequest, but since learned that he’d come entirely of his own volition; executing a promise he’d made to her very own parents. He’d been contracted to see to her education as a godfather and tutor of sorts long before their death. And he’d arrived one day, unannounced, to fulfill that promise; straight backed in a top hat with suitcase in hand.
Uncle Morton hadn’t been pleased at his arrival, but had seemed powerless to refuse the man. He’d a quality about him, an independence of mind that likely rubbed Uncle Morton’s tory sensibilities the wrong way.
A moderately affectionate friend, and always an astute teacher, Mr. Elkstein had stayed for three years. He taught her English, Maths, French, German, Geography, History and many other subjects. He even taught her some drawing and music, along with several devotional teachings, including several old rhymes and proverbs. One in particular seemed to be running circles inside her head these days.
At twelve years begin thy fears, at twenty-four they be no more.
She’d always wondered at the strange verse, puzzling over it’s meaning. She could never forget the lines he’d taught her, even if she wished to, for he’d repeated them until she felt she’d go mad; carving them into her memory as if into stone.
Mr. Elkstein’s presence was seldom jovial, but preferable to anyone else in the house, as well as to solitude. Mrs. Ackworth bothered her less when he was around. They were served meals together, of which she could partake. While he stayed, the staff were ordered to care for her enough to satisfy generally accepted standards of decency; keeping her clothing and bedsheets clean. But most of all, his presence stood as a visceral reminder that she’d once had parents, and that they’d loved her. When he arrived, it felt like her own parents had risen from the grave and come back to tell her that she was important - more than just an annoyance who should hide in the shadows and scrounge for scraps.
In the few years that Mr. Elkstein stayed, it felt as if she were becoming whole. She wasn’t so afraid anymore. She had a friend. She was learning about the world, speaking new languages, envisioning new people and things. Through this new knowledge, the world stretched about her in a vast expanse; freeing her spirit from the isolated, dark walls of Orenn House and the laws that governed it.
But five years ago, on a strange, dark day, Mr. Elkstein had disappeared from his post. He’d simply never appeared at the door and never come again thereafter. Her uncle didn’t speak of it, nor did Mrs. Ackworth; and she’d never been fool enough to ask. She mentioned his name only once, a month or so after his disappearance. When she did, Mrs. Ackworth taunted her, locking her in a closet unfed for two days. The long, lonely hours spent in that hole bore through the sense of security Mr. Elkstein’s presence had brought to her life. Since he’d gone, the isolation had returned in an even greater degree, one that she sometimes felt she couldn’t countenance; for she’d tasted relief. His presence, although tiresome at times, had served as a protective barrier between her and the misdeeds of her tormentor. A reminder that she wasn’t alone and that love, in some estimation, was real; rising up before the eyes of her imagination like a bright star. She wondered if he’d perhaps decided to go just as mysteriously and suddenly as he’d come, as if carried by some wind; though she sensed there was more to it. Surely, he wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye, not unless something had happened to prevent him.
She crept out of uncle’s study, moving silently through dark halls. Orenn House was grand, with ornate architecture and molding throughout, painting an intimidating prospect by night. From the street it was a great estate behind an iron gate surrounded by lush trees and rolling gardens - a Jacobean mansion with large ballrooms, alcoves, hidden chambers and over a hundred rooms; some of which she’d never seen. There were whole wings she was forbidden to explore. But she’d likely never get the chance to now.
It seemed that around her the whole world was changing, crumbling; that everything she’d taken for granted would soon be a memory. So many strange things were happening all at once. In her whole life she’d never received a package, yet only two days ago she’d received one addressed directly to her without any return address.
When she saw it on the foyer table with her name scripted across the top, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She’d grabbed it quickly, buried it within the folds of her dress and stolen off to the privacy of her attic. To be caught with it would mean trouble, and Ackworth would certainly make the thing disappear.
Up in her room, she’d carefully inspected every inch of the parcel, inside and out. Within was a letter and an old hair clip with small stones set into it. It’s surface was rough, it’s age carved away in chips and dents. It contained two parts: a long, sharp pin and a small circular object to put it through. The circular object contained a rosette-like design.
She wondered who in the world would send her such a strange gift. And yet she felt grateful, even thrilled, to be the direct recipient of any gift at all. Her heart sang at the thought of having a secret friend or admirer somewhere in the world. Perhaps a long lost relation! The enclosed note read:
“My Dear Miss Morton, May this be the first of many”
My Dear Miss Morton. Someone had meant it specifically for her, truly they had! When she picked up the hairpin for the first time, she felt dizzy. So dizzy, in fact, that she’d nearly fainted to the ground. Luckily, she’d been sitting at her vanity table, where she came to sometime later with her cheek smashed against the top and her mouth open comically. After she’d felt quite herself again, she studied the pin, finding two letters engraved upon the side: “M.G.” It still made her head swim to touch the thing, along with a strange buzzing to sound in her ears, but her curiosity won out.
She turned the note over and over in her hands, trying to imagine who sent it. It was not Mr. Elkstein’s handwriting, nor did it seem like a gesture he would make. It seemed unlikely that she had an admirer, for who could’ve seen her? True, she was tall and maturely built for her fifteen years, with a figure anyone could
easily mistake for 18. She also had soft, dark hair and round pink lips that rested innocently in a cupid’s bow. Her eyebrows were thin and arched naturally above blue eyes, and her hair fell in smooth, straight lines. Despite her worn clothes, she’d overheard some of the staff call her lovely.
CHAPTER 2
The Call
After eavesdropping on Uncle Morton and Mrs. Ackworth, she snuck up to her attic room and packed everything that seemed valuable, shoving her terribly humble possessions into a small velvet pouch and checking with shaking fingers that her gifted pin was still tucked into the back of her hair. She laced up her sturdiest boots and slipped on a pair of gloves with the least amount of holes. Covered in her black cape, she took one last look at the attic with its faded wallpaper and crooked canopy bed. She spotted nothing she’d forgotten, and knew there was nothing worth staying for; nothing real.
It’d been her sanctuary for four years now, the only place she felt safe from Ackworth’s taunting and her uncle’s cold indifference. She’d spent countless hours curled up on the bed imagining her parents as the rain rapped against the window - imagining it was their home - a small, one-room cottage in the middle of a thick forest. Her mother cooked over the fire while her father went out hunting. Sometimes she could feel them just outside the door, her mother tending the garden while her father chopped wood. She would close her eyes and listen to the noises their labors made: the sharp thud of the axe hitting stump, the gentle ripping sound of weeds pulled up by the roots, the soft crack as soil gave way. By the light of her imagination, they’d spent long hours together; sitting by the fire, playing games and telling stories. The warmth of their happiness cut through the cold ambivalence outside. No one else had been allowed in. But she couldn’t hide here with them any longer. She knew she must face what was lain before her, so she turned and parted silently with their ghosts.
Beyond the Blue Light Page 1
