Of Midnight Born

by Lisa Cach

  Who was going to do Woding’s laundry, mend his clothes, and do a proper job of cleaning? Who would tend to the kitchen herbs and the stillroom? Keep track of the stores and maintain order among the servants? And what would all these men do without the distraction of women? They would descend upon a village inn and throw themselves upon the first poor serving wench they met, like hounds upon a fallen deer.

  The girl could likely buy herself a farm on the coins they’d give her, if she survived the ordeal. Poor wench.

  Still, the all-male situation was convenient for her, so she would not complain despite the curiosity it roused. With just men here, there was no reason to feel guilty about her methods of being rid of the filthy beasts. When Briggs was here, she had taken care not to frighten his wife, or any of the female staff. He would have been gone sooner if she had, but women had a hard enough time of life without her directly adding to their grief.

  But a household of men? Scaring them would trouble her conscience as much as killing fleas.

  Men. Men like Hugh le Gayne. She let the old anger bubble up into her chest, heating it quickly to a rolling boil. Murdering, perverted bastards. She stoked the flames beneath her caldron of hatred, imagining le Gayne’s head floating in the broth, his eyes melting in agony. Spawn of Satan. Lying, thieving, soulless smear of pig droppings.

  To be surrounded by the living was torture enough. To be surrounded by men was not to be endured. The time had come to act.

  She ran down the corridor, her footsteps gaining volume as her fury rose, breaking through the barrier between death and life, becoming audible to the living, the sound a growing pounding upon the wood. Woding, where was Woding, the head of this house and the bringer of these men?

  She found his room, empty of all but furniture. Enraged, she grabbed the curtains on the bed and yanked, but they only waved under her efforts, too securely attached to rings and rails to come down unless she consciously made herself more solid. She was too angry to think of that. She jumped onto the bed, kicking at the pillows, tearing at the cloth on the underside of the tester above her head, succeeding only in leaving faint streaks in the cloth.

  She leaped off the bed, landing past the bed carpet on the bare wooden floor, her feet making a deeply satisfying boom, as if a log had been dropped on the floor. She ran to the paneled walls and banged her fists along them again and again, harder and harder, the sound growing, echoing, louder than what would have come from human hands on wood.

  A narrow door in the wall suddenly opened, revealing a sleep-befuddled man in his nightshirt. It was Underhill, Woding’s manservant-cum-butler.

  “Mr. Woding?” he queried, staring blindly into the dark room.

  Serena screamed at him, and when he did not hear her she threw herself at him, passing through him, the sensation of going through him bringing her instant nausea. The act brought her to her senses even as the man stumbled back, nearly stepping into her again.

  “Who’s there?” he cried.

  She left him, staggering through the room out into the corridor again, feeling sick, and angry at herself now as well for being so stupid as to pass through him. The experience always cost her more than it cost the living, leaving her drained and queasy.

  She moved silently down the corridor, her mind a welter of hatred and weariness. She stopped at the head of the stairs and sat, breathing deeply with her head between her knees, gathering herself together.

  Where was Woding? she found herself asking after several moments had passed. She sat up straight, and the feeling of sickness subsided.

  Beezely brushed against her side, purring, then stepped up onto her lap, twisting onto his back and batting at her hand as she scratched his stomach. And that hulking hound, Otto, where was he?

  A door down the corridor opened, and Underhill came out, dressed now and carrying a candle. Serena pushed Beezely off her lap and followed him.

  He went into one of the rooms left empty after the Briggses’ departure, only a few crates of unknown goods occupying it now, pushed up against one wall. Underhill went through the door in the corner, the one that opened onto the stairs that led to the tower room. He seemed to sense her presence, if only just, peering twice over his shoulder and hastening his step as he went through the door and began to climb the spiral staircase.

  Serena followed, then stopped at the top of the stairs, taken aback by what she saw as Underhill set the candle upon the desk in the tower room.

  What madness was this?

  Taking up half the room was a contraption of polished brass made up of slender arms and balls. As Underhill bumped against it, the balls began to drift about each other, reflecting glimmers of candlelight.

  She took a few steps into the room, her eyes going from the spiderish contraption to a thick cylinder of brass atop a wooden tripod placed near the window. Then she saw the maps hanging upon the walls.

  Only they were not maps of the land, she saw as she came closer. They were charts of the heavens. She could see the bright points of the Bear, and the Hunter, and the other constellations she had learned to find her own names for over the centuries of watching their turnings through the night sky.

  A shiver ran up her spine and she crossed herself, something she had not done since she had lived. God help her, Woding was an astrologer. He knew the secret workings of the universe in ways she could only guess at, and was likely capable of wielding great powers, for good or evil. It had been the astrologers of Paris who had unlocked the cause of the Pestilence, finding its origins in the conjunctions of the planets, and she was certain that any man who could divine such a truth could also own some control of it.

  She remembered the way Woding had sidestepped his sister’s bleatings, deflecting her to other topics or humoring her. She remembered the way he bribed servants to work hard. She had thought him weak. Was he crafty instead, allowing others to underestimate him? Did having a household of men in some way increase his power?

  Underhill had gone up the steep wooden stairs at the side of the room, pushing open the hatchway at the top. Serena followed with trepidation, her long skirts gathered in one hand as she half floated, half-climbed behind him.

  “Mr. Woding?” the servant, ahead of her, said as he came out onto the roof of the tower.

  “Yes, Underhill, what is it?” came Woding’s voice. It was deep, soft, and mildly surprised. She heard no annoyance at being intruded upon.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Is everything all right?”

  Serena gained the top of the tower, standing still a moment as she tried to make sense of what she saw: the man supine in his chair/bed, the dim red lamp, the table and papers. Recalling the charts upon the walls below, she tilted her head back and took in the vast night sky, shimmering with stars.

  “I might ask the same of you. I thought you had gone to bed,” Woding said.

  “There was…ah…a disturbance, sir.”

  There was movement on the other side of Woding’s couch, and then the shadowed head of his hound appeared. A low growl emanated from his throat.

  Serena made a face at the beast, knowing that at least with the animal she had the advantage. “Growl all you want, you heaping pile of dog meat,” she said, knowing that only the hound would hear her. “’Twill only serve to aid me.”

  “Otto, hush,” Woding commanded gently. The dog’s ears flattened, and he gave a discontented whine, shifting on his haunches. “What type of disturbance?”

  “I awoke to knocking, thumping sounds coming from your chamber, as if someone were pounding against the wall. When I went to investigate, fearing you were in some distress, there was no one there and the noise suddenly ceased.”

  Serena went to stand beside Otto, consciously making herself solid, albeit still invisible. She reached down and scratched round the base of his ears, knowing how her presence and contact unsettled the creature. The dog cringed away from her, whining more loudly.

  “You must have been the runt of your litter,” Serena said,
using both hands now to pet and scratch as the dog tried to scoot away from her ministrations.

  “Awooo-woo-woo!” Otto howled in distress, and tried to squeeze himself under Woding’s couch, bumping the man half out of his seat. Serena drifted into insubstantiality and went to lean against the parapet and enjoy the show.

  “Otto! Good Lord, boy, what is it?”

  “Woo woo wooooo!”

  Woding got out of his chair and crouched down beside it, peering at Otto. “Here, now, what’s frightened you?”

  “I have heard, sir,” Underhill said with a touch of diffidence, “that dogs are especially sensitive to…”

  Woding stuck his head farther under the couch, making soothing sounds. “Yes, Underhill?” came his voice. “Sensitive to what?”

  “To the presence of ghosts, sir.”

  Woding was silent for a long moment, and then he slowly came out from under the chair, the sounds of Otto’s whimpering unabated. “Is that what you think made the noise in my bedroom, rather than, say, a particularly vivid dream?”

  “I do not know,” Underhill said, now sounding almost embarrassed. “When I opened your door, I felt a terrible sensation of cold, such as I have heard described by those who have been in the presence of spirits. When I checked the room after finding a light, the covers and pillows on your bed had been slightly disturbed. They were neatly made when I checked before retiring, sir.”

  Woding stood, still looking at the chair where his dog cowered. “If there is a ghost, then judging by Otto’s behavior I would say it has followed you.”

  “Sir?” Underhill said, his voice cracking. Serena clapped her hands in delight.

  “I find it much more reasonable, however,” Woding said, turning to look at Underhill, “to assume that the noise you heard was no more than the settling sounds of an unfamiliar house, distorted perhaps by sleep. Otto, for his part, has obviously been having a hard time adjusting to his new home, but I expect he should calm down in a few weeks’ time.”

  “But the covers…”

  “Otto likely made himself comfortable for a few minutes, when I went to fetch a heavier coat.”

  “And the cold, sir?” Underhill asked, his voice filled with mingled doubt and hope.

  “You had just arisen from your warm bed. Naturally my room felt cold in contrast.”

  Serena made a moue, not at all pleased. She did not like having her efforts reasoned away.

  “Of course.” Underhill all but sighed the words. “I apologize for being so foolish, sir. I should not have listened to the stories going around, or at least should not have allowed them to affect my imagination.”

  “Stories? What stories?”

  “Various, sir. Some of the men we hired from the village have said that the Briggs family moved out because of a ghost, and they relate the legend of a woman by the name of Serena, who went mad and killed her husband on their wedding night.”

  “Liars!” Serena screeched, coming away from the wall. How she hated that story! She kicked the table leg with her insubstantial foot, producing no effect on the motionless table. She kicked it again.

  Woding pressed his fingertips to the table, as if to keep it still, and turned toward her.

  Serena stopped, looking carefully at his face, feeling anxiety rise up in her. He seemed to sense she was there, in a way that went beyond the fleshly chill she caused in many people. She kicked the table leg again. He blinked; then his eyes narrowed.

  This was not good. She didn’t want him knowing she was nearby except when she decided he should know. Her invisibility was one of her greatest weapons, and he was showing signs he might be able to take it away.

  “That story has been around for years, no doubt getting more gruesome with each telling,” Woding said. “My cousin tried to scare me with it when we were children, on a night we camped in the ruins of the original fortress. He did a fair job of it, too. I was barely able to close my eyes.”

  “I’ve heard there was more than that to the night, sir,” Underhill said, a hint of curiosity in his tone.

  Woding laughed softly. “So that tale makes the rounds as well? I suppose I should have expected as much. Feel free to tell any who ask that I was watching falling stars, not my feet, and I lost my footing on a ruined wall. I was careless, and I fell. That is all there is to it, although I almost wish I had been pushed by the ghost of a murderess. It would have made for a better story.”

  What was this? She looked at the streak of white in Woding’s hair, suddenly remembering a black-haired boy lying on the stone stairs, the gash on his head bleeding a river on a night when stars fell like rain. The sense of familiarity and longing, was that where it had come from?

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go back to bed, Underhill. Even if there were a ghost, she could do nothing to harm you.”

  “Yes, sir. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Woding waved away the apology. “You might bring a fresh pot of coffee to my study, before you retire.”

  “Yes, sir!” Underhill turned toward the hatch, apparently happy to have this chance to redeem himself.

  There was a great scraping of claws on stone, and then Woding’s reclining chair was overturned as Otto scampered out from beneath it, pushing past Underhill and all but tumbling down the wooden steps to the study below.

  As Underhill started down the stairs Woding handed him the dog’s blanket. “Put it by the fire in the kitchen. Perhaps he’ll be more comfortable down there.” And then, almost under his breath, “The miserable coward.”

  Woding closed the hatch, righted his chair, and resumed his supine position, his figure dimly illuminated by the redshaded lamp. He looked completely at ease, as if nothing his manservant had said had bothered him. Serena drifted up to sit on the parapet and study him, as he in turn studied the sky.

  He was sly, devious. She had already learned that much. He did not approach obstacles directly, like a normal man, using strength to conquer. He employed instead the tactics of a wily woman, manipulating and obfuscating to get his way. She had always thought such modes a sign of weakness, proof that one was not strong enough to take what one wanted. Even she, female since the day she was born, had learned to fight with strength, not wiles.

  He looked strong, though. If he’d been properly trained, he might have been able to wield a sword with some skill. He had the shoulders and the height for a decent swordsman. She tried to imagine him riding a warhorse, decked out in armor, battle-ax at the ready. Physically it was not too great a stretch, but the soft tones of his voice made such an image ridiculous.

  What strange forces had directed this man’s life, and why had he been placed here with her again after so many years? Was he seeking revenge for the fall he had taken? It seemed unlikely, if he did not even believe she existed. Or did he only pretend to disbelieve, and to not remember that night he had seen her? He appeared as foolish as he had been as a boy, his eyes on the stars when there were dangers near at hand, but perhaps that appearance was an illusion.

  Whatever the case might be, he would not be able to explain away her actions for long. His servants, by the sounds of it, had already half-spooked themselves. It would be short work to finish that job, and have them fleeing the castle as if their drawers were on fire.

  As for him, if he was already aware of her presence in some manner, half her work was done there, too. It would simply be a matter of persuading him that it would be in his own best interest to leave. First, though, she’d have to be certain of what his abilities were. It was always foolish to attack without knowing the armaments of the enemy.

  She would triumph in the end; of that she was certain. This Alex Woding had once nearly lost his life because of her. It would be wise of him to remember that.

  Alex drew an arrow on his chart through Cassiopeia, noting the time along its length. It was the fifteenth arrow on his chart so far tonight, marking the path of a shooting star. If he were one to believe in omens, he thought it would have bee
n a good one that his first night observing in his new home should be one so rich in data.

  He sketched in another arrow, this time through the heart of Pegasus. Time: 3:20 a.m.

  It was strange that it should yet be so early. Most nights with such a frequency of falling stars, the dawn would come before he was ready, the time having flown by with the swiftness of the wind. Tonight he was not concentrating as he usually did, and despite the falling stars could not lose himself in his observations. Ever since Underhill’s abrupt arrival just before midnight, he had been distracted by the sense that he was not alone: that, in fact, someone even now watched him as he made his notes.

  He had to restrain himself from checking over his shoulder. This was all probably his own imagination, fired by Underhill’s tales. Ghosts did not exist. Serena did not exist. He was aware that those were the same thoughts that had gone through his head as a boy, the night he’d fallen.

  At any rate, even if Serena did exist, he would not give her the satisfaction of being noticed. Like a mischievous child, if he ignored her long enough she would likely go away. His musings on his possible childhood encounter with her were pleasant only because the incident was distant and unreal, and therefore suited to idle musing.

  He returned his gaze to the heavens, and twenty minutes later marked the path of another falling star.

  It would be just his luck to have deliberately surrounded himself with the undemanding, relaxed company of men, and then to find himself haunted by a woman.

  Chapter Six

  Serena sat on the path in the sun, amid the flowers of the garden, Beezely stretched out nearby, asleep. The leaves of her cherry tree rustled in a breeze, and she could almost feel the warmth of the sun on its fresh green leaves. The blossoms came and fell later and later each year, the tree warping and cracking with age. She didn’t know what the normal life span of a cherry tree was, but it seemed reasonable to assume that five hundred years was past its limit. She tried to chase the thought from her mind.