The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 30

Maeve didn’t particularly want the sun to rise. When a bright shaft of light spilled through the drapery, she cursed at it and flipped over, hoping to pretend it was still night for another hour. Her bodily needs, however, had other ideas. Then she smelled something sour and realized the scent wafted from her own skin.

A creature from the depths of hell indeed.

There was no bathtub in her washroom, but she found one situated in the hall lavatory, complete with pearly bars of soaps. She took her sweet time, hissing as the heat from the water seeped into her stiff, aching muscles.

She tried not to think of Tristan yet, which soon became impossible, and she spent the latter half of her bath stuck on the fact that he never tracked her. He’d kept her name from Nan and Shea. He rode through the night and saved her miserable life, then kept vigil at her bedside for days, only to be barked at and thrown out of her room.

He never broke her trust, and he deserved an explanation for what happened.

But she didn’t have the rose journal or any proof her father was murdered, only her word, which she doubted was enough to convince anyone.

After Maeve had toweled off and dressed in her laundered clothing, she found that her appetite was the next creature that needed taming, and food sounded much better than wallowing in a bath.

She padded through a maze of creaking floors, past enormous rooms filled with furniture covered in white sheeting, then caught the scent of baking bread and followed it down a small servants’ stair to a cheery kitchen encased in windows. Three woodfire hearths sat along a back wall behind two oaken monastery tables that could each easily seat fifteen. A tall, dark-haired woman dressed in slim men’s trousers stood beside them, covered with flour and scowling.

“Shea made me finish baking her soda bread so she could clean a few rooms.” Nan ripped a heel off a loaf and lobbed it at Maeve.

It hit her in the forehead.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For disappearing for two weeks, making me lie about it, then scaring me half to death! That bread was a favor. It would have been a hard slap to the face if you didn’t look halfway to the grave.”

Her roommate rushed around the table and threw her arms around her.

Regardless of whatever Nan wrote, it felt good to see her.

Nan pulled away and held Maeve at a distance. “I honestly thought you would die. Shea nearly called the head doctor at the Post, but Tristan was adamant that we leave him out of it, that you would be arrested if anyone knew you were here.”

Maeve searched Nan’s face for any clue that she might be suspicious of her, but there was nothing but earnest joy, along with a fair amount of baking flour stuck to her red lipstick.

“You don’t know how good it is to see you.”

“I think I have an inkling. Here—have a seat. Eat some burned bread.” Nan pulled a stool to the counter and heaped a plate with blackened soda bread.

Maeve chewed while Nan spoke nonstop about the past few days, describing at length the struggle it was for her and Shea to get Maeve into her nightgown.

“Don’t fret, we made Tristan leave the room.”

“Thank you dearly for that,” Maeve said with a full mouth, then decided it was time to ask Nan about the article. “I saw what you published.”

“Did you now?” She grinned unabashedly. “Sorry I kept it from you. I was paranoid of showing it to anyone. Even Shea didn’t see it until it was ready to publish. Did you read it? The editor at the Herald adored it, but how could he not?”

“So that whole time you were never working on poetry?”

“Me? A poet?” Nan laughed and slapped the counter, sending up a small plume of flour. “The truth is, I spoke with the Herald about writing articles before I ever came to the Post, but the editor told me that he simply didn’t like hiring women.” She rolled her eyes. “He barely gave me the time of day, but that article changed his tune. He still swears to hell and back that he’ll never hire me as a staff writer, but he promised to print another article about the Post if I have one juicy enough.”

“Do you have one?” Maeve asked slowly.

“Oh dear. You think I’ll out you, don’t you?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

Nan took Maeve’s hand. “I won’t. Besides, the one article was risky. Steward Mordraig would kick me out immediately if he knew I was behind it, and I’m sure Tristan would only be too happy to turn me in if I did anything to hurt you. He’s already threatened it.”

“He has?”

“Twice.”

Oh.

“Have you spoken to him? He’s been beside himself.” Nan propped her elbow in the mess of flour, then leaned toward Maeve. “I knew you two had an understanding, but I didn’t realize how deep it went.”

Maeve’s neck burned. “No. I mean, he and I…It’s nothing.”

“ Nothing? That boy barely left your bedside.”

Maeve bit off a piece of soda bread to keep from having to reply to that . Her relationship with Tristan was too complicated to explain to Nan this early.

A moment later, Shea burst into the kitchen in a flurry, carrying dustcloths in both hands. “I thought I heard you two in here.”

She walked around Nan and pressed a soft kiss to the side of Nan’s neck. After which Nan met Maeve’s eyes with a secretive smile of her own.

“Why didn’t you two come get me?” Shea asked.

“I just came down. Thank you for letting me stay here,” Maeve said before there could be any awkwardness.

Shea brushed her off. “No need for thanks. This house belonged to my grandfather, a good man who had the ill luck to be in Inverly that day. My mother can’t stand to be here anymore. She says it feels like walking through ghosts—whatever that means.” She sighed. “But I like to come. My grandfather always preferred laughter in this house, and turning your back on someone because they’re not with you anymore isn’t how he taught me to live.”

Her words caught in Maeve’s chest, and she couldn’t help but think of her own father.

Shea took her arm. “Come. I promised Tristan I would fetch you when I saw you.”

Maeve’s pulse skittered. “Tristan?”

“I’m coming around to him, you know?” Shea smiled. “He’s an odd duck, but a loyal one. He has something he’s eager to show you in the front parlor.”

Nan brought a few mismatched teacups and a jug of juice as Shea led the way through two empty ballrooms filled with slipcovered furniture, to a smaller parlor with burgundy wallpaper, a pair of worn velvet club chairs, and the largest hearth Maeve had ever seen, with a marble stag’s head perched at the center of the mantel, meant to command attention. But her eyes couldn’t seem to tear themselves from the man standing in front of it.

Tristan’s hair was damp from a bath, and he had a small shaving nick on his neck. A gray knit sweater clung to his torso, one side tucked into a pair of low-slung trousers. There was no easygoing humor in his features. He pushed his spectacles up his nose and met Maeve’s eyes with a brooding intensity that caused every nerve in her body to swarm to her stomach.

He must hate her after last night, but she didn’t know how to turn things back to normal between them. She didn’t know what normal meant between them anymore.

Then Tristan reached above the mantel and pulled down a book. A leather journal bordered by a silver tracery of roses.

Maeve stiffened.

“The Silver Scribing” was penned across the front.

She hadn’t seen her father’s handwriting in seven long years, but she knew it almost better than her own.

Tristan turned the journal, a grim set to his mouth. “I haven’t opened it. In all honesty, I never wanted to see this again, but since you risked yourself to get it, I decided to give it a shot. My father has a locked cupboard filled with historic books in his closet, and I know where he keeps his keys. This journal was tucked inside.”

Without so much as meeting her eyes, Tristan came forward and placed it in Maeve’s hands.

She jolted as the cool leather slid against her palms; it felt like touching a piece of herself that had died.

It took all her wits to open it. The old pages felt as thin as onion skin, covered with her father’s small handwriting bleeding together like a coffee stain. It would take ages to sort through the entire journal, to understand why her father was targeted.

Maeve shut the journal.

Everyone watched her, waiting for an explanation. What could she say to this?

No lie came. She doubted manufacturing one now would ever be convincing. Tristan would see through it the moment she uttered a syllable. He expected her to lie. As it was, he looked ready to pounce on the first word from her lips.

But even if she came up with a convincing lie, Postmaster Byrne would soon discover the journal missing and suspect that Tristan was involved. That they were all involved.

Maeve’s gaze traveled across each of their confused faces as the reality of the situation struck her like a sudden blow. Her friends were now in grave danger because of her, and none of them had a clue.

This was it.

She owed them the truth.

Her fingers grew slick. They slid against the smooth silver roses and flipped the journal over. The initials J.A. were scratched with pigment on the underside. Her breath caught in her throat.

“What do you think that stands for?” Nan asked.

“It stands for Jonathan Abenthy,” Maeve said. It felt like she was floating outside of her body. “This is his journal. I know because I picked it out for him when I was eleven. He’s my father.”