by Linn Chapel
Holt eyed the pot doubtfully. He lifted the lid to look inside. “Tea made from flower buds,” he murmured in a tone laden with disapproval. He replaced the lid. “Why didn’t you make a pot of real tea?”
“Chamomile is a calming herb. I’m trying to relax,” she explained as she poured herself a cup.
His gaze became probing. “Are you worried that we’ve been followed to Langley? There’s been no sign of any trespassers.”
“I know.” She looked away, not meeting his eyes. “I’m just feeling the strain.”
The ringing of the old desktop phone in the living room interrupted Holt’s line of questioning. Moments later, Hugh swung open the kitchen door.
Tressa had been able to understand Hugh’s accent better with time, and she could make out his words now without much trouble. “It’s Mr. Pendleton, sir, calling from London.”
Holt’s eyes narrowed. He had been idly tipping his chair back on two legs, but now the chair returned to the floor with a bang. Tressa’s nerves leaped in response, for the sound had broken the stillness like a gunshot.
Holt crossed the room to the door. “Excuse me, Tressa. I must answer this call.”
The next morning, Tressa awoke in her chamber at Cup Cottage with a deeply unsettled feeling. On one hand, she cringed from the thought of spending any more time alone with Holt. On the other, she wanted to find him and question him about Wesley’s phone call.
The tug of war within her emotions grew stronger as she walked up the lane, but when she arrived at Arbor Cottage for breakfast, she found that her dilemma had been postponed, for Holt had not yet risen for the day.
When Peter and Luke joined her for breakfast, she learned that Luke was about to make another trip to Wells, although he didn’t expect the visit to yield much in the way of fresh information. Peter had decided to remain behind at Langley, this time. Filled with pent-up energy, he soon convinced Tressa to lend a hand with his choreography.
Once Luke had trundled off in the estate car, Peter led her up the lane to a spot just past the bridge where his edgy mood quickly melted away. He swept his arms upward with enthusiasm and marveled that the leafy canopy with its dappled shade created just the mood he needed for his latest immersion project, Starbright. He couldn’t film any sequences, but with Tressa’s help, he’d test a few ideas.
As he demonstrated some moves, Tressa followed along in unison, watching closely as she learned them. Then she repeated the sequence on her own. Stretching one arm above her, fingertips extended, she spun in a circle.
She paused in mid-twirl, for she had suddenly caught sight of a group of hikers. They were rounding the bend in the lane, coming from the small country highway. Startled, Tressa let her arm drop.
She assessed them worriedly. Now that all the hikers had rounded the bend, she counted their number: six people were approaching, both male and female.
Peter left the edge of the lane and joined her. “Let me handle this,” he said in an undertone.
Tressa felt her scalp tingle with wariness. “Do you think they could be mercenaries – vampire mercenaries?”
“No, they’re humans,” he whispered back. “I can tell by the way they’re moving. But they could have been sent by the Operation to spy on us.”
Together they waited, prepared for deception. The group of hikers strode closer and Peter stepped forward. Then the man who appeared to be their leader gave a cheery wave. After an exchange of greetings with Peter, he explained that his group was seeking a little-used walking path to Glastonbury.
Peter seemed to relax and he gave their leader a nod. He had been studying maps of the region ever since they had arrived at Langley, Tressa knew. Now he pointed past the hikers, to the highway. “You’ve taken a wrong turn. If you go back to the highway and head south, you’ll find the path you want.”
The leader was grateful, but he seemed in no hurry to leave. Inspecting both Peter and Tressa with curiosity, he asked about the rehearsal he had seen taking place under the trees. Tressa blinked nervously, but she needn’t have worried, for Peter took the question in stride. Effortlessly, he spun a convincing cover story about rehearsing on location for an American film.
As Peter was giving his explanation, another hiker approached and drew Tressa into a separate conversation. He was an American in his early twenties, with hair that was sun-bleached, like Peter’s, and a friendly manner. Maybe a little too friendly, thought Tressa uncomfortably.
As the minutes passed, the hiker discovered in a roundabout way that she had no romantic ties with her rehearsal companion, for he was her brother. The American visitor became even more obvious in his attentions at that point. Tressa sighed to herself. Once again, she felt that familiar sinking sensation.
Just before he rejoined the group, the friendly American urged her to join him for a day in Glastonbury, giving the name of the inn where he would be staying for a week. She murmured a vague reply.
Peter came to stand by Tressa as the hikers retreated. “Those were no spies, as far as I could tell. They’d obviously been walking for a long time because their boots were coated with dust. Details like that can’t be faked. But who was that fellow who was talking to you?” he asked.
“Just another American who’s touring the countryside on foot. Peter, I had to admit that we’re brother and sister because of our resemblance. But I didn’t tell him our names, or anything about our troubles.”
Peter thought that over. “Well, he seemed harmless enough. He was attracted to you, but that’s no surprise. Did he want to see you again?”
She glanced at Peter. “Yes, but I told him I was too busy with our filming schedule. I liked your story, by the way.” A smile tugged at her lips.
“Ah, those glamorous film careers,” Peter joked, but there was an edge to his words. “If only it were true. Think about it, Tressa – some traveling, some acting, with nothing to worry about except spending all our dough.”
Tressa cuffed her brother on the shoulder and he laughed a bit sheepishly. She knew how hard Peter had been struggling to support himself with only a string of day jobs to keep him afloat as he worked nights in his studio. He’d been cracking jokes about an easy life of riches for years, but she knew that even if Peter became fabulously successful, he’d never rest on his laurels for long. Whatever drove him to create his video immersion experiments would still be there, spurring him on – and Peter knew that better than anyone.
He shrugged and led the way back to the bridge. “I’m too hungry to rehearse anymore. Let’s have some lunch.”
Walking side-by-side with Peter down the shady lane, Tressa’s thoughts began to wander. What would it be like to really have a career in show business?
She’d been on stage before, after all. When she was younger, she’d taken acting classes along with Peter, although she had stopped after a year, feeling out of place in the limelight. But she could always take up acting lessons again and pursue a career in films. Maybe she’d be more exciting, then. More scintillating.
She gave herself a mental shake, knowing she’d never be able to face the cameras day after day. She’d mumble or forget her lines. Or freeze.
She was just like Peter with his jokes about the kind of idle, wealthy life that he’d never enjoy or tolerate for long.
But maybe she didn’t need to be exciting and glamorous. What if she were merely sought-after and seemingly out-of-reach? She had the perfect opportunity to test the waters while she was here in England, for she could meet the American hiker in Glastonbury, not just once, but many times.
Would Holt be jealous? Would it hurt him enough to break through his reserve? Would he lose his temper over the young American?
Her heart thudded – half in fear, half in anticipation.
But that was an even worse idea than the acting lessons. It was bound to backfire. Considering the truth of where she must stand in Holt’s affections, he’d feel no jealousy whatsoever. No, he’d feel only anger over her involvement with an ou
tsider. And he’d be justified in that anger, for such a scheme would compromise the safety of everyone who was hiding at Langley.
And if she wanted to create the appearance of dating the American hiker, she’d be forced to spend time with him. Lots of time. Entire afternoons and evenings. What if they ended up alone someplace and he tried to kiss her? She felt ill at the thought.
Peter turned to say something at that moment and when he had finished, he added, “Do you feel alright, Tressa?”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing, Peter.”
He said sympathetically, “You didn’t eat much for breakfast. A good meal will make you feel better.”
Embarrassment swept over Tressa as they continued walking. It seemed that her self-confidence had plummeted to an all-time low, and it wasn’t hard to guess the reason behind that. But fantasizing about unrealistic solutions wasn’t going to help.
Arriving at Arbor Cottage, she followed Peter past the lilac bushes with their billowing purple blooms. Entering the kitchen door, she greeted Hugh and offered at once to help with lunch.
Before long, her wayward thoughts were firmly trained on safer, more practical matters, such as rinsing fruit and slicing cheese.
Dark clouds spread slowly like a blanket across the sky that afternoon and a misty rain began to fall. From the front window of Arbor Cottage, Tressa watched the estate car roll away again with Luke at the wheel. This time, Peter rode along in the passenger seat.
Peter had explained very carefully that they’d draw too much attention to themselves if they appeared in Wells day after day as a threesome. But as Tressa silently watched the estate car disappear around a bend, she wondered if the real reason they’d left her behind was that they’d come to consider her a liability, a useless daydreamer, someone who’d only wander away and get lost again in the medieval streets of Wells.
She watched Hugh drive off next in an old farm truck stocked with lumber and tools. He’d be gone for the morning, she knew, for he planned to repair one of the rental cottages that lay on the other side of the tree-covered ridge.
Tressa had assured Hugh that she would keep an eye on his wife while he was gone, and when she climbed the stairs to check on Jane’s condition, Tressa found that the elderly woman was sleeping comfortably. As Tressa returned downstairs, she thought gloomily that once again, she was left to her own devices.
Finding an umbrella near the back door, she ventured outside. The rain was light enough for her take a walk, and with any luck, she’d be able to keep her worries at bay for an hour or two by exploring more of Langley.
Stepping through the garden gate, she followed the lane past Cup Cottage, walking onward until an unfamiliar cottage came into view. Its broad, thatched roof stood above a sweep of lilac bushes.
Knowing that it must be Windy Top Cottage, Tressa slowed her pace. As she gazed at the diamond-paned windows, she wondered if Holt were within. If he caught sight of her, would he come outside? Did she want him to?
But there was no sign of any movement behind the windows and the cottage door remained firmly closed.
Her eyes followed the outline of the steeply thatched roof, and then moved behind it to the stony outcrop that must have given Windy Top Cottage its name. Half-hidden by mist, the craggy peak brooded over the cottage and its grounds.
With the rain pattering lightly on her umbrella, she walked onward through a woodland. Under the shade of the trees, the hedgerows were sparse and ivy clambered through the spindly branches. All was quiet and still, so when the sound of wings burst from the woods, Tressa’s footsteps faltered with sudden alarm.
A small flock of birds emerged from the trees and flew off. As Tressa’s breathing returned to normal, she realized that her footsteps must have spooked them. She was about to walk onward when she heard a faint shuffling on the forest floor, somewhere out of sight.
Peering cautiously through the hedgerow, she caught sight of a furry body lying on its side near the roots of a large tree. When she parted the branches to see more clearly, she realized that it was a rabbit.
The animal’s hind legs twitched feebly. Concerned, Tressa folded her umbrella and pushed aside the tangle of ivy and branches. As she approached the wounded animal, its legs grew still. She could see the panting rise and fall of its chest, but as she came closer, even that ceased.
Saddened, Tressa ran her eyes over the brownish-gray body. There were no wounds, no signs of a struggle.
Perplexed, she made a survey of the nearby trees and undergrowth. When she found no sign of a hunter’s snare, she wondered if the cause of death had been old age or disease.
Still, she felt a ripple of unease go through her. There was one kind of predator that inflicted no obvious wounds, making only twin punctures that healed over quickly.
If she were to examine the rabbit’s body closely, would she find a pair of tell-tale punctures under the fur?
Tressa edged away from the rabbit, unable to follow through with such an inspection. She stumbled back through the hedgerow. Her umbrella was snagged by the ivy but she left it behind.
Emerging breathlessly out in the lane, she ran toward Arbor Cottage, intent on reaching the only working phone at Langley. It was the old telephone that rested on Hugh’s desk at the back of the living room.
When she reached the caretaker’s cottage she locked the front door, then ran through the kitchen and locked the rear door as well. Peering through the diamond-paned windows of the living room, she could see only rain falling on the empty lane outside.
Now that she was safely within the cottage, she gave herself a mental shake. The countryside around Langley was too sparsely populated with humans to support the kind of two-legged predator she had feared.
She went quickly upstairs to check on Jane’s safety – just to be sure. Peering into the bedchamber, she found that the older woman was still sleeping soundly.
In the hallway, Tressa dragged her wet hair out of her face. Her dash through the rain had left her feeling damp and chilled, so she returned downstairs where she pushed an armchair closer to the living room hearth. Sitting down, she leaned forward to dry her damp hair and clothes in the radiant warmth.
She’d have to retrieve the borrowed umbrella from the hedgerow sooner or later, but the prospect of revisiting that spot caused a nervous tremor to pass through her. Staring into the fire, she thought about making a burning brand for protection. Dry wood was close at hand, stacked next to the hearth, but all the chunks were too heavy to be practical. Besides, if anyone saw her walking about Langley with a makeshift torch and asked for an explanation.... But still, there had to be some way to defend herself – and Jane – when everyone else was gone.
She might be soft, as Peter had said, but that didn’t mean she was lacking in courage or foresight.
Carrying a burning brand wasn’t practical. Wooden stakes, on the other hand, were both practical and discreet. She could pack some in a tote bag whenever she wanted to explore outside. Indoors, she could keep more stakes stashed away in a handy closet or cupboard.
Cautiously exiting the cottage, she crossed the short distance to the barn where Hugh kept his tools and supplies. The rain had stopped, and all was quiet but for the heavy plops of water dripping from the lilac bushes.
Tressa opened the barn door and stepped into the shadowed interior where a row of wooden stalls ran down one side. She walked uneasily past the stalls on her way to the workbench, checking each of the enclosures with a sense of trepidation. They were all empty.
Reaching the workbench, she found a set of woodworking tools lined up within reach. Hugh must have been using them recently, for fresh, fragrant shavings still coated the table.
Next to the workbench, Tressa found a crate packed with scrap wood. Thinking that some of the smaller pieces wouldn’t be missed, she extracted several narrow lengths of wood and laid them on the workbench. Her carpentry skills were basic, but she felt sure that she could complete the task ahead.
A w
ooden stake didn’t have to be fancy. It just had to work.
Using a saw, she cut the pieces into segments, each about the length of her forearm. Then alternating between a chisel and a plane, she pointed one end of each segment. When she was done, she’d made nine stakes in all.
The nine stakes were proof that she was capable of thinking ahead, proof that she knew how to take precautions for her safety. She didn’t always race headlong into danger, even if Holt had convinced himself otherwise.
Tressa stashed a few of the stakes in a niche inside the back door of Arbor Cottage, then walked down the lane to Cup Cottage, feeling much more confident now that she had the stakes.
She stashed a few more of them in a little cupboard just inside the kitchen door of Cup Cottage. As she was climbing the stairs to store the rest under her bed, she heard the voices of Peter and Luke downstairs at the front door.
Feeling a little sheepish about her fears, Tressa quickly packed the stakes into a canvas tote. Sliding the tote out of sight underneath her bed, she descended the stairs to join her brothers.
Her hopes of hearing fresh news about the Operation were dashed when she learned that Luke’s efforts had come to naught. Wearily, he cited various technical problems with the Internet as he lay limply on the sofa. Meanwhile, Peter paced restlessly about, coming at last to stand by one of the windows. He leaned his hands on the sill and stared out the glass panes with their black lattice grill, looking just like a prisoner in a cell.
Hugh served a hearty dinner, as usual, but there was little in the way of conversation during the meal. Their feeling of being in the dark only increased when Hugh mentioned that Holt had gone to London the previous night.
Tressa exchanged glances with Peter and Luke, wondering what could have caused Holt to leave the estate unguarded. The chance to speak openly finally came as they walked down the lane to Cup Cottage for the night, but none of them could come up with a reason for Holt’s sudden departure.
“We’ll ask him for an explanation when he gets back,” decided Peter.
