8 Midnight
Chapter Eight
Midnight
M ae stilled in her pacing to glance at the small clock atop her nightstand. At ten-thirty, her candle was nearly spent.
Though Locke was likely watching every accessible door, she had the tunnels. Her father had told her and her brother about them for good reason. She might very well make it. She could run to the next town, sell what little items she had. She could not sell the watch, of course, since it might only be a matter of time before the police…
She turned to her bed and snapped back open her half-filled carpet bag. She couldn’t do it. After spending her whole life within the comfort of the estate, she feared the harshness of the outside world.
And when it came time, she had failed to tell Mr. Rosewood too. The fool would never believe the tale, let alone notify the constable. Locke, the devil he was, had known this all along.
She really only had two choices: run away or give into the bastards’ blackmail. Either on the street or by Ellsworth’s hand, death seemed inevitable.
She shut the bag again. Perhaps she would rather starve. She hoped that hadn’t been the fate of the scullery maid, but the truth was, new employment would be impossible without the proper references, not only in Bristol, but elsewhere too. It might even be assumed she’d stolen the items she’d be selling—or perhaps done worse .
Would it be so terrible to agree? a voice whispered again. She had been miserable these last few years. She could not blame that solely on the wretched Mrs. Rosewood, either. She hated this new post and that would never change, no matter where she escaped. Every one of her pupils would be the same. They’d never value their education like they ought. Even fascinating subjects like astronomy. They’d bemoan anything that hadn’t to do with catching a husband and she’d spend the rest of her life fighting for their attention.
She could become a companion, she supposed. But what freedom would she have then? This fortune—if it did indeed exist—was her one and only chance for true independence.
She was no fool, though. She did not believe Locke’s promise of protection for a moment. They only wanted her to agree to their plan. Though his days of piracy were over, he still craved his gold. And this was his only way to get it. Sure, they planned to keep her alive long enough to open the supposed vault. Afterward? They would not risk a witness to their crimes, much less losing a third of the fortune. Pirates were not known for their generosity. No, they were known for destruction, theft, rape, and murder. Ellsworth’s sudden zest for generosity had been even less convincing.
Helping them for now would at least give her time to think and plan, however. And she might even discover clues about her family along the way. But more than secrets and possibly gold, she wanted Ellsworth to suffer for what he had done, to personally swipe that wicked smile from his face.
After all her family’s misfortunes, it’d be better than doing nothing, as she had been. It was high time she righted those wrongs. She could not simply run as they raided her family home. Any Blackthorne—having discovered the fortune’s possible existence—would at least try to take it back.
Ellsworth and Locke were just desperate enough that maybe it was real. The letter, too, had been in her father’s own hand. Even if she did not know how or when her family had earned that money, that didn’t mean it didn’t exist.
But if it did, it was hers.
She blew out her candle, preserving its final hours for the night ahead. She laid out her warmest cloak and sat down atop her bed.
She could outsmart them. She was sure of it. She had been raised a Blackthorne. All she needed to do was think.
*
Nearing midnight, Mae waded through the darkness of the corridor, the light of her candle surrounding her in a halo. It proved useful on the stairs, but as far as finding the right passage, she relied solely on her memory.
In the silence, she struggled to control her loud, rapid breaths. The night seemed to hum with possibility, the still air full of mischief. Though no one seemed about, she did not quite feel alone.
Her hand shook as she braced the wall for balance. She was in the old gallery now. The one her ancestors had built almost a century before her grandfather had added the new wing. Mae knew it best by the air that had grown wet and stuffy and the stone floor that felt gritty beneath her feet. Here, the contrast between past and present felt more distinct. Her mother’s memory stark and painful.
The room had been her mother’s favorite. She’d walked through here every day until her death. Mae had been just nineteen. Doctors hadn’t known the exact cause. All they could say was that it had had something to do with inflammation.
On her death bed, Tala had finally begun to miss home, growing homesick alongside her other illness. Perhaps to soothe herself, she’d told stories set in her faraway homeland. She’d describe days so hot and humid, one could squeeze water from the air. Origin stories of the moon and stars had cajoled Mae to sleep. Unlike the wedding ring and so many other items Mae had been forced to sell, no one could ever take those stories away.
Maybe her mother was here with her now. Covered in dust, the room certainly looked haunted.
Years ago, its white marble and etched plaster walls had glittered with cleanliness. Today, its present condition was an insult to her mother’s memory. The gallery would never return to its previous state. The manor’s oldest wing had been neglected too long for that.
But tonight, its abandonment would serve her purposes well. She could go about the search for the vault without a sound reaching the Rosewoods. Searching in the emptiness of night—that had probably been Locke’s thinking too.
Mae swept the candle across the room. Stripped of furniture and paintings, the room lay barren, yet there were still marks of the past. Sconces held half-spent candles and the outlines of paintings stretched long, like scars.
Mae froze. A clicking of claws came nearer. Likely a tiny, harmless mouse. Still, she didn’t dare linger. She sprinted toward the double doors and swung them open, setting off a low whine.
Mae stepped back, a near-scream escaping her lips.
A man stood in the opening, the moonlight gleaming off his black waistcoat.
“Locke.” Mae sank with relief. The weak glow of candlelight had sharpened the angles of his face, making him look grim yet enticing all the same.
“Did you think me a ghost?” He laughed, its low, masculine thunder strangely comforting.
Mae shook her head. She believed in far too many ghost stories for her own good. “How did you know to wait for me here?”
“This is the closest door to the courtyard.”
Mae eyed him. “You’re rather intelligent for a pirate, aren’t you?”
“Intelligent enough.” Locke licked his fingers and smothered the wick of her candle. In an instant, the darkness closed in. Only a feather of his outline remained.
“Light carries for some distance,” Locke explained. “You wouldn’t want to risk us being seen…”
“’Course not.” Mae agreed, still skittish when Locke reached in for her candle. He dumped the melted wax and pocketed it.
“Lead the way.”
Picking up her skirts, Mae took off across the courtyard. In the dark of night, the dead emptiness made her skin crawl. Only the ever-persistent ivy had managed to survive. Its still-dormant tendrils streamed down the stone walls, giving the manor a sinister, if not altogether haunted atmosphere.
“You won’t regret this.” Locke swooped beside her. “You’ve made the right choice.”
“I made the only choice.”
Mae shivered in the cool, night air. He had been watching in case she decided to try and run, hadn’t he? He had threatened her.
“Still brave of you, especially in the face of Ellsworth. Foolish men are dangerous men, I always say. They’re not easy to predict.”
“That applies to both of you, then.”
He laughed. “Perhaps Ellsworth is the one who should be afraid.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m serious. You didn’t crumble—you stood your ground earlier. Less could be said of most men, given the circumstances.”
The words gave her pause. What could he mean by telling her this?
“You wanted to strangle him right there in the woods had you the opportunity. I could see it in your eyes.”
“He deserves nothing less.” Her brother had been strong on her mind, then. No matter how long she had tried to ignore it, the intense anger that gripped her years ago had never faded.
The local vicar had often told her to forgive Ellsworth. Sometimes she even thought she had. Then something would remind her, she would find a favorite book or trinket of William’s and that deluge of anger would return.
“Around Ellsworth, my temper makes me feel capable of all sorts of things. More likely, it will get me killed.”
“You have your doubts that we’ll succeed, I take it?” A piece of pottery cracked beneath his step.
“I do.”
Mae paused at the cellar doors. Heavily rusted chains and a padlock barred their entrance.
“Allow me.” Locke pushed her aside. A loud crack resonated, followed by a clamor of chains.
Mae stared stunned at the remains now piled on the ground, barely noticing when Locke returned her candle. In an even gentler, smoother motion, he struck a match and connected flame to wick.
“Ellsworth should arrive at any moment.” Wearing his most inviting smile, he opened the door and waited for her to proceed.
Mae nodded false gratitude and stepped around the broken rust. Her previous strength seemed to vanish within the deeper darkness ahead, her knees weakening with each step of the descent.
She worked hard to regain herself. It had been so easy to foresee success from the warmth of her bedroom, but here in the darkness, she doubted her survival, even more so her ability to hand Ellsworth’s death. She had never before faced danger like this. She was not strong or brave and she certainly was not prepared. Rather, she had mostly been prepared for a life of parties, frivolity, and dependence. None of which had done her any good.
Even her anger was not strong enough to sustain her. If only she had been trained in more practical matters, taught how to fence or throw daggers like her brother. Against these men, her weak, skill-less limbs were useless.
Her rushed and panicked mind had remembered something, though. In her father’s library, she had read the ancient works of Greek scholars. She had learned something of the art of war and strategy. That the blade itself—had she to obtain one—incited violence. She could use it as well as they. It was a simple act of driving metal through flesh, wasn’t it? She could do it. She just hoped her determination would be enough.
Stepping farther inside, she made a feeble study of her surroundings. The low-ceiling cellar her family had once used to store vegetables and fruits was as deserted and decrepit as the courtyard before. Illuminated by candlelight, empty barrels and broken crates lay scattered beneath inch-thick cobwebs. Like the moors after a heavy rain, cold moisture hung in the air.
“This is where rumors say your fortune lies?” Locke asked.
Mae’s heart still roared in her chest. “I was never one to believe in legends.”
“Servants were likely to frequent here.” Locke stepped onward, eventually disappearing into the darkness. “But if there was any indication of a vault, word would have spread quickly.”
Mae said nothing. She no longer had the strength to deny the legends. For years, they had seemed so outlandish and implausible, but now she feared she was falling victim to hope.
Lantern in hand, Locke stepped back into the light. “Do you mind?”
Mae placed her candle inside and watched as he slipped it onto a nearby hook. She imagined him doing the same below the deck of a ship. Only those surroundings, even aboard a pirate ship, had to have been more hospitable than this.
At the sound of the door, the image faded like a cloud of smoke. She hadn’t even time to calm herself.
“Didn’t run off, I see.” Ellsworth sauntered in, the two men from earlier gathering behind him.
When they eyed her crudely, she stared back with daggers. She wouldn’t let Ellsworth or his men think she was afraid of them, not for a moment.
Ellsworth reached into his waistcoat. A timepiece and chain swooped out of place. She recognized it at once.
“Look familiar?” He dangled the glistening disk in front of her face. Mae blinked. It was her father’s, given to him by her grandfather and so on. Before the auction, she had wanted so badly to keep it. In the end, when the items had not brought in what had been expected, she’d had no choice. She had not known Ellsworth had been the one to claim it. The thought filled her with so much disgust, she snatched at it. When he pulled it back, she cursed herself. Of course he would do that. She hated herself for giving in, for submitting to his games. Not to mention this whole charade.
“Every day, it serves as a reminder…” Ellsworth studied the watch in reverie. “That no one, not even a Blackthorne, can best me.”
Looking into his pale, emotionless eyes, Mae saw her brother once more, a mangled sight of blood and flesh.
“You’re wasting time.” Locke moved between them. Even Ellsworth’s men were smart enough to step back.
“You are nothing.” Mae stepped to the side, letting loose the words she had held in too long. “Even now that they’re dead, you’re still nothing.”
“With your lot in life, you should look upon me with envy.”
Mae despised that priggish grin of his. He had wanted it all, most rapaciously her family’s social connection, merchants or not. Ellsworth would kill if it meant he could accomplish the same.
To him, reputation and appearance meant everything, though his own were far from intact. Since their broken engagement, his good name had never recovered. Now he was on a quest to restore it. She couldn’t bear the terrible acts he might commit for that purpose. It brought on the urge to turn back and run. But, clenching her fists, she forced herself to still, to face this adversary like her father and brother might have.
“How wonderful it is to be in the Blackthorne Manor once more,” the villain said. Mae’s unsteady eyes followed Ellsworth as he weaved around a crate. “Fills me with memories. I can almost smell your brother’s cologne. Whiskey, was it? He always wore too much.”
“Get on with it.” Mae’s temper simmered.
“If you insist.” He patted down his waistcoat and took out the same letter from earlier. “Something’s missing. A clue.”
Mae grabbed it. Swallowing the urge to shed more tears, she shrank back and read once more.
William,
As all the Blackthornes before us, I bequeath you a most profitable key. One that shall be known only to the flames. Find the key swiftly, for you are not alone in your search.
Beware of Ethan Locke. He is your enemy.
A. Blackthorne
Mae looked up at Locke, wishing now that she could heed the warnings. What’s more, she knew nothing of what her father had meant for William to do.
She didn’t understand it. Why go through the trouble of keeping the so-called “key” to their inheritance known only to William and said flames? Surely, that meant she should burn this paper. Still, why such secrecy? Could it really have been necessary? Could a bank not have sufficed?
“Think,” Ellsworth demanded. “We haven’t all night.”
Not knowing why, Mae turned to Locke, but in the darkness, his expression was impossible to gauge.
“Surely, your father told you something.” Ellsworth paced. “Maybe as a child?”
Mae worked to remember what seemed a thousand years past. Between managing the business and estate, her father had spent little time with her. Though she could recall every rare moment, he had said nothing about a fortune. When she had been a girl, it had seemed to be all around them.
“Did he pass anything down to you? Anything at all. Perhaps a locket?”
“A key…” Locke drawled.
Mae shook her head.
“Think harder.” Frustration rippled across Ellsworth’s face. The men behind him kept shifting, moving from leg to leg, restless too.
“Maybe…” she started. Her father’s note repeated in her mind. Known only to the flames. It wasn’t quite right, was it? After reading the note, William would have known about the fortune too. Why had her father written that? It couldn’t mean…
Letter in hand, Mae moved to the single lantern that hung low enough to reach. She opened the glass door and brought the letter close.
Ellsworth grabbed her wrist, but Mae was resolute. “I must.” She took the lantern with her other hand and freed it from the hook.
Ellsworth squeezed tighter but did nothing as she shifted the paper closer to the flame. Then, all at once, brown letters leached out across the paper. Mae held it closer. More words came to life, their letters darkening to match the other writing. It was as if they had been there all along. She put the lantern back on the hook, near laughter.
That was why her father had been so intent on playing that invisible word game with William. It was a delicate balance of getting the parchment close enough to warm it without setting it aflame. William had shown her once. She, of course, had not been allowed to put her fingers anywhere close to invisible ink, let alone a flame. Unless I did so in secret, that is. After some practice as a child, she had mastered the trick.
That wasn’t the only thing her father had insisted on teaching her. There were also the tunnels, hidden throughout the house like veins that were each marked with the Blackthorne sign of escape: two horses rearing toward each other in a perfect mirror image. He’d wanted her to know how to navigate them just as well as the halls. She’d thought it had been just so she didn’t get lost if she happened to stumble upon them. Rather, it had been so she could escape men like Ellsworth and Locke. They both gave a whole new meaning to the term “fortune hunter.”
“Well?” Ellsworth pressed.
“It’s the heat. My father left us another message.”
Behind her, Locke’s breath caught. She balanced the letter in her hands, her heart shuddering in her chest.
On the parchment she read:
Ars Gratia Artis
Genuine excitement sparked inside her.
Latin. The phrase spoken so often by her father seemed to whisper in her ear.
“What does it mean?”
Mae nearly jumped at words. For a moment, she had forgotten Ellsworth. Best of all, her shaking hands.
“‘Art for the sake of art,’” she answered.
“And just how will that tell us where the damn key is?” Ellsworth grumbled.
Mae closed her eyes, letting the words transport her back to childhood. Her father had been near fluent in Latin, it being the official language of the Romans. Unlike her tutor, he had respected the ancient society more for their war generals than philosophers. With unmatched fervor, he had told Mae tales of conquests that had known no bounds, not by way of land nor morals. It had always fascinated her that men could want power so badly they would kill not a few, but hundreds of thousands of men for it. At times, it had even seemed part of the fun.
“Well?” Ellsworth barked. He, for one, is like the Romans , Mae thought, thinking of death as little more than a means to an end .
She searched her memories again. This time, it was clear.
“My father’s garden…The key my father mentioned in the letter has to be there. I know exactly—”
“What about the vault?” Locke asked, his eyes aglow.
“There can’t be a vault in the gardens,” Mae said. “It has to be here. This letter is only meant to direct me to a key.” And perhaps another clue, but Mae didn’t want them to know that. If she found the clue first, there was a chance she could keep it secret.
“Which wing?” Locke focused on her intently.
Everyone stood to attention. Ellsworth’s men prodded at each other, already celebrating.
“Here, near the west wing.”
“Go with her,” Ellsworth ordered. “Keep to the shadows.”
But Locke, who was clearly unaccustomed to taking orders, did not move an inch.
“That, I’m afraid, must wait till morning.” Locke took the letter from Mae. “Miss Blackthorne is finished for the night.”
Ellsworth’s face scrunched up. “We’ve just arrived…”
“It is night. We can’t very well search the garden in the dark.”
“And if she lied? Don’t be an idiot. Let her go and she’ll find the key for herself.”
“Go.”
“Not so quick.” With the swiftness of a vulture, Ellsworth snatched up Mae’s arm. His men closed in too, ready to pounce. “First we’ll show her what we do to betrayers…”
Mae stifled a squeal, expecting a blow at any moment. She had little faith in Locke’s protection, but desperate, she turned to him still.
His face had shifted, his displeasure needing no words. Almost instinctively, Ellsworth shoved her away. Her hands thudded to the floor. Yet the dirt, dust, and cobwebs were far more preferable than his touch .
“Mercy? For her ?” Ellsworth recovered his dignity with a storm of laughter. “Not many women aboard those pirate ships, are there?”
As the London scum joined in the laughter, Mae stayed low, inching backward along the cold dirt.
With practiced swiftness, Locke unbuttoned and pushed aside his waistcoat. The hilt of a blade shone in the darkness.
Mae was certain of violence now. At any moment, he would take that knife and send it sailing through the air. Instead, he folded up her father’s letter and tucked it into his pocket, the faintest smile touching his lips.
Quite visibly, the men relaxed. One of the London men even let out a low chuckle. Had she the air left for it, Mae would have cursed at him for his little game. She could not deny that part of her had wanted him to kill them all.
She cringed at the thought. Even in her head, it sounded harsh. She should have been ashamed. How had she, a simple governess, come to desire such violence? She should have been praying for the constable to arrive. She wished they would because even if Locke did take these lives, who would protect her from him, this bloodthirsty pirate? Alone, she was ripe for the picking. Vulnerable to his needs and desires, as the London men had suggested. She was caught up in this patched-up partnership now. At the mercy of whoever earned the upper hand.
Gathering herself, she inched to her feet so as not to gain notice. All the while, an even deeper terror cut through her. Ellsworth would be a much worse fate than Locke. She hadn’t the bravery for that. She knew all too well what he was capable of. She had seen it firsthand and had heard from servants too. His bouts of violence came without warning. Even now, there was no knowing how he might react to Locke’s defiance. But if he did lash out, it would be without hindrance, without restraint.
“You cannot be serious.” Ellsworth eyes flickered. He couldn’t have been afraid, could he? “She’s a pretty lass. But to accomplish anything, we must take on unsavory tasks, instill fear…”
“Mmm. Machiavelli.” Locke darted forward, his still-open waistcoat flailing. “A wise man.”
Inches from Ellsworth, he tightened a hand around his right shoulder, the fine silk of Ellsworth’s coat crinkling beneath Locke’s grip.
Though the other men tensed, they stayed in place. It was astonishing, really. In a matter of hours, whether from the reputation behind his name or the blows he had delivered in the woods, Locke had instilled a fear deep enough to keep the scum in place.
“You want the key for yourself. Is that it?” Ellsworth asked. “You’re trying to leave me out of whatever you discover.”
Locke did not argue and his grip did not falter.
“You shall have to kill me first,” Ellsworth said. “I shall stop for nothing else.”
“Ambition is not always a virtue.” Locke finally relaxed his hold and patted him hard on the back. “One day, it shall be the death of you. Just as it was your father’s.”
When Ellsworth went rigid, Mae could hardly suppress a feeling of triumph. She was no stranger to Ellsworth’s undying respect for his father. He idolized the man more than Christ himself. Any other man saying these words about his father would have suffered.
Locke, she was sure, would not.
“Go,” Locke said a hair more softly to Mae. “Meet me in the courtyard again at first light. I’ll be alone.”
Without further delay, Mae headed to the stairs, the last words lifting her.
“As for you two…” he continued loud enough to hear. “Tonight, you will search the cellar. I’m sure the vault is here.”
Mae raced up the rest of the steps, trying not to think of what awaited her. After tonight’s confrontation, Locke’s partnership with Ellsworth was shaky at best.
One thing, however, was certain: within the bricks of her family’s manor, she was no longer safe.