The young man led me deep into the great house, down many flights of stairs to a room that resembled a Turkish bath. Despite the copious veils of steam wafting through the air, I could see Mr. Whatley at the other end of the chamber, half-submerged in a murky mineral bath. He tilted his head back until the ends of his hair trailed through the water. The pool was large, and ripples formed where it was impossible for him to make them. I noticed something gliding beneath the water very much like an eel or a snake, and then I realized that it was a tentacle. There were at least a half dozen of them traveling away from Mr. Whatley’s body, dipping in and out of the water in a languid, thoughtful sort of way. Yet his face was still human, as rough and wild as it had been upon our first meeting.
“Ah, Mrs. Markham.” He smirked at my discomfort in seeing him in such casual repose.
“Mr. Whatley,” I said sharply. I took a breath in an effort to calm myself, and he pointed for me to sit on a marble bench at the edge of the water with a hand that still resembled a man’s. I knew I should have been horrified to see such a creature, especially on so intimate a level, but I felt nothing like terror, as I was too angry to have any fear. It had burned away the moment I found the shattered looking glass and connected the specter of the man in black to the House of Darkling. Who else but a collector such as Mr. Whatley would have possession of an oddity like the mysterious, ever-changing door?
“I know I should apologize for calling on you in what I’m told are improper conditions in your culture, but I won’t.”
“Should I be impressed by your rudeness?”
“Perhaps. I only share my daughter’s interest in the human fashion where it suits me. Otherwise I am only ever myself.”
“How lucky for you. May I ask the purpose of this meeting?”
“It’s rare that both Lily and the children are preoccupied. What did you think of their little game?”
“I found it somewhat less interesting than the one you’re playing.”
“Is that so?” He splashed at the water, playfully distracted as I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I think it unlikely a collector such as yourself would let any of his antiquities be put to work without some notion of how they were to be utilized.”
“It sounds as though you believe part of my collection has been put to ill use,” he said with his sideways smirk.
“There are things happening in Blackfield that defy explanation, unless the answer lies in our recent excursions to the House of Darkling. The timing is rather suspicious.”
“Perhaps the two are merely a coincidence?”
“Or it is as I’ve said, and a game is being played.”
The master of Darkling tilted his head to one side in a brief moment of contemplation. “On that point I must disagree with you, for a game cannot be played alone. There must be two players.” He stared at me from across the water, something hungry in his gaze that weighted the statement, twisting it into a kind of invitation that hung in the air with the currents of steam, chilling the heat of my anger and confidence until I began to shake. I folded my arms in an effort to mask my nerves. I had not been entirely prepared for his boldness, but I refused to be intimidated by him. I thought of Susannah, and straightened myself as I replied.
“I would imagine there to be stakes involved?”
“Naturally. If you are able to prove a connection between Darkling and Blackfield, then I can promise you that whatever is happening will come to an end.”
“And if I fail?” I kept my voice even.
“I do not enjoy being accused of treachery in my own home.” His expression suddenly grew dark, and the water became still as if in response to the change in his temperament. “If you fail, I will take something from you of my own choosing to add to my collection. Are you sure enough of yourself to take such a risk?”
I stood from the marble bench and knelt down to the lip of the pool, lowering myself over it to look into the black pits of his eyes. “That would depend on the rules.”
“The only rule is to win.”
“Very well.” I rose and flicked the condensation from my hands. “Then how do we begin?”
“With a question: Do you think you’ll continue to bring the children here?”
“After today I’m not inclined to.”
“They’ll come to hate you for it.”
“That is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
“How brave of you. I doubt that would please Mr. Darrow.”
“I was under the impression that you’ve never had the pleasure of his acquaintance?”
“I feel that I know him already. It is a very familiar story, is it not? The widower who hires a beautiful young governess to tend to his children. The secret romance, social barriers broken, a spectacular wedding at the end. They all live happily ever after.”
I tried to read his face to gauge the intent of his words, but the steam was too thick and his eyes retained their vacant, unreadable blackness. I folded my hands and walked along the edge of the shallow pool.
“It may be a familiar story, but it is not one that I’ve had the privilege to live out. I know very little of happiness.”
“And you won’t if you do not let Lily and the children end on their own terms. They must be the ones to finish it.”
“You insult my integrity. My only interest is in the well-being of the children.”
Mr. Whatley dipped beneath the surface of the water and swam to the other end of the pool. Duncan stood near the stairs with a robe. Whatley stepped out of the pool, his entire body unabashedly visible to me, completely human, completely male, muscular and imposing. I felt myself blush and was glad for the darkness. He stepped into his robe, and Duncan handed him a cigar.
“Do not insult my intelligence. You would be a fool not to hope for such a union. Besides, what the children need is a mother. Preferably one who is of the living.”
I could not argue against that. I thought of Mr. Darrow and our conversations in the music room, and our midnight tea parties. With a shock of revulsion I wondered if our relationship was genuine, or if it was something I had, on some subconscious level, planned from the start as a game of my own. The gentleman bit off the end of the cigar but did not seem to spit it out. Duncan lit the tip of it, and Whatley deeply inhaled the smoke.
“And what of Lily?” I asked. “Will she live happily ever after as well?”
Mr. Whatley pulled the cigar out of his mouth and smiled again. “Perhaps. But ever after is a very long time. Good luck to you, Mrs. Markham. It’s your move.”
Duncan was suddenly at my side. Mr. Whatley disappeared into a tunnel that continued on deeper into the baths, the glowing end of his cigar sliding away with him into the gloom.
CHAPTER 11
The Stolen Sun
Duncan led me to the entrance of the baths and watched as I walked up the stairs to the rest of the house. I passed by the library, rising four floors into the air, perpetual moonlight bathing the books in a soft blue glow. I could not hope to match Mr. Whatley unless I knew more about what I was involving myself with. I ran my fingers along the leather spines, and noticed a small stack of books next to the plush leather chair that Lily had been sitting in the first time we found her in the room. One of them was entitled Dreams of Blackfield. I closed the door to the library, took to her chair, and opened the book.
My eyes trailed over the lines of unintelligible calligraphy, and suddenly I was in Mr. Darrow’s study. The man himself was slumped in his chair, quietly taking an impromptu afternoon nap. I found myself pushed toward him, nearly against my will, gliding across the room until I was at his side. He opened his eyes.
“Charlotte?”
“You can see me?”
“Yes, of course.” He rose from his chair and stood very close to me. I could feel his breath on my face. “I always see you here.” He touch
ed my cheek with trembling fingers, and I sighed with relief.
“Mr. Darrow—”
“Henry. My name is Henry.”
“Henry.”
He pulled me against his body and kissed me deeply on the lips. I returned the gesture and ran my fingers through his golden hair. He pushed me against the wall and jolted me out of the reverie. I was back in the library.
“Oh dear.” I set the book on top of the pile, thought better of it, and set it back in my lap. Flushed with excitement, I had no idea how real my experience inside the book had been. What would happen the next time that we saw one another? It was difficult not to be attracted to Henry Darrow. He was very handsome, sensitive, and financially secure. Yet the attraction felt wrong, and it could not be blamed on the fact that Mr. Whatley had pointed it out. The dream of becoming the next Mrs. Darrow had begun the moment I met him, as had the loathsome idea of coming off like some sort of temptress, some fortune-seeking harpy who was using her position with the children to secure the good favor of her employer. I was not that woman; I refused to be, and so long as I could not be sure of my own intentions, I would refuse myself any happiness just to ensure that my actions were entirely pure and unquestionable.
I went through the other titles in Lily’s collection: Ode to the Balthazar, Eternal Death, Human Fashions, and Mysteries of The Ending. I took this last one with the other I had just read and carried them upstairs to add to my growing collection. As I passed the boys’ room, the door was open and I saw the children settling in beside their mother for another bedtime story. I was about to return to my own room, but Lily saw me standing in the hallway and gestured for me to sit down with them. She began to read:
The Stolen Sun
Once upon a time, there was a caravan of gypsies traveling through the countryside. The youngest member of the clan was a girl named Spada. She was as inquisitive as she was beautiful, and each time the caravan stopped to set up camp, she would start out into the surrounding woodlands to see what sorts of interesting things she could find. As the forests could be dangerous, her mother and father would have to go after her before she got lost and left behind, for winter was coming and the caravan had to make it over the mountains before the first frost.
One day, the gypsies set up camp after an especially long trip and Spada went into the forest in search of something to eat. Her parents were busy tending the horses, as they had briars caught in their hooves, and in no time at all she was as lost as she could be, wandering through the woods as the sun began to set. There was a chill in the air, and Spada, who was usually fearless in the face of everything, grew worried that she would be unable to find shelter for the night. No sooner had she almost given up than she found a magnificent house in a clearing.
It was ancient, made of rough, large stones and timber, but the windows were full of light and the smoke coming from the chimney was sweet with the smell of baking. She approached the house with little hesitation and pulled the rope next to the entryway. A short, squat man with curling whiskers answered the door and was more than happy to take in the lost gypsy girl.
“You may stay the night,” he said. “But you must stay the entire night, for the forest is dangerous and I’m certain your family would rather have you lost than dead.”
Spada found the sense in this, and agreed to spend the entire night in the strange little man’s home. He led her through the house to a large dining room, where they dined on many succulent dishes, and to a room with high ceilings where she was given a comfortable bed. She quickly fell asleep beneath a pile of soft blankets.
The girl slept for quite some time, so long in fact that she was surprised upon waking to see that the sun had still not risen. Spada found this to be very strange, and she left her room to learn how much time had passed. She located the little man in a parlor with a great black fireplace and told him of her concern.
“But my dear,” he said, “you’ve been here but an hour. I suppose you’ve enjoyed it so much that it must have seemed longer.”
Spada found the sense in this and was about to return to her room when the little man invited her to a game of cards. No longer tired, the girl played with him for quite some time until they were both feeling hungry again, and the little man called for his servants to prepare the dining room once more. Spada and her new friend ate many succulent dishes, and when she asked to retire for the remainder of the evening, she was led to another bedroom altogether, with an even larger bed and pillows so delicate she felt as if her head were resting on air.
When she awoke Spada was certain she must have slept at least half the day away, but when she looked out the window she was dismayed to find that the sun had still failed to rise. She rushed through the great house and found the little man seated in a study filled with books and paintings. She told him of her concern.
“I agree that the night seems very long indeed,” he said. “But that is only because we have done so much in such a short time.”
Spada found the sense in this and was about to return to her room when the little man suggested that she join him in playing music. Coming from a family of musicians, the girl found this to be a very practical way to pass the time, and together they played and sang until their fingers hurt and their voices were raw. The little man called to his servants to prepare the dining room, and for the third time that evening Spada feasted on many delicious dishes. When they were finished the little man excused himself for a moment and left the girl alone in the company of his butler.
The servant, who always observed his master with a small measure of disdain, began speaking to the girl in a hushed whisper as soon as the little man had left. He warned her that she had been tricked, and that the little man had stolen the sun from the sky and hidden it somewhere in the house to keep her with him for one long, eternal night. Spada thanked the butler for telling her, but found that this information neither frightened nor upset her. In fact, all she could feel for the master of the house was sympathy and a little pity.
“He must be very lonely if he is willing to go to such lengths to keep me here,” she said. “If the sun is in the house, then I shall find it and prove to him that he does not need to use such tricks to make us friends.”
The little man returned to the dining room and escorted Spada to another fantastic bedroom, this one with a bed lined in lullabies. She slept very soundly, but when she awoke she did not go in search of the little man. Instead, she went through the house and examined every reflective surface in search of the sun. She peered into mirrors and silver goblets, golden doorknobs, and gilded cages, looking carefully for anything that contained the sparkle of daylight. When she had satisfied herself that every reflection in the house was natural, she found the little man waiting for her in the kitchen wearing a ridiculous chef’s hat. Neither of them brought up the unending night. Instead they baked all of Spada’s favorite pies and cakes and ate everything that they made until their stomachs were ready to burst.
In due time, the little man escorted her to a new bedroom with a plush, delicate bed lined with dreams. This time, before he left her he paused at the door and wished her a pleasant evening. She drifted off to sleep.
When she awoke, Spada set off into the house in search of every candle flame and burning fireplace that might contain the stolen sun. She peered into every gaslight that lined the hallways, and into every room with a blazing hearth, and when she was satisfied that she had examined every available source of firelight, she found the little man in an empty ballroom. He wore his best dancing shoes and seemed eager to teach her his favorite steps, but the look of defeat on Spada’s face was enough for him to ask her what was wrong.
“I know that you have stolen the sun,” she said without any anger or accusation, much to the little man’s surprise, “and I’ve been looking for it in every place I could think of. I was certain that if I could find and return it, you would see how you did not need to trick me
to win over my friendship. I would have given it freely, and do still.”
The little man was very clever and usually good at anticipating every possible outcome of a situation, but Spada’s declaration caught him off guard. His eyes glistened with tears more brightly than was possible, and Spada discovered that he had hidden the sun not in his house, but in his heart. So great was his affection for the gypsy girl that he could no longer keep it to himself. His chest welled with emotion, and as it did the ballroom filled with sunlight, which streamed out through the windows of the house and into the sky above the forest, calling to the gypsies still searching for the lost Spada.
When the girl’s family arrived at the great house, they were invited into the ballroom, where everyone played music and danced and sang, and Spada never left the little man’s side, not even when the sun had set and the first frost of winter licked across the earth. The mountains would wait until spring, for a true friendship was as rare as the sun in the sky.
“Was that a true story?” James yawned and lifted his head from his mother’s shoulder as she finished. Lily closed the book and set it on the nightstand. Paul, who was wide awake, kept his head in her lap and stared quietly into space.
“Every story starts with a bit of truth, no matter how small,” she said.
“Then they probably changed the ending to make it happy,” said the boy as he stretched his arms over his head. “Her family wouldn’t have been glad at all. The little man tried to steal her away.”
Their mother was becoming visibly uncomfortable. Children were supposed to fall asleep with a bedtime story.
“I suppose he must have been very lonely,” said Lily.
“Lots of people are lonely,” said Paul without moving. He blinked and sighed. “That doesn’t make it all right to do something wrong.”
Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling Page 13
