Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Snow fell inside a bedchamber that Adrian never entered anymore, flakes drifting down from the rafters, covering the floor in a glittering layer. Little piles of it formed tiny hills, a draft blowing spindrifts across the room.
The bedchamber had not changed, but the year had, rolling back to a time in which his mother and father had been alive.
They stood there in the strange, snowing room like actors waiting for their prompt.
Adrian’s mother was young and beautiful, dressed in a ballgown, as if they were just about to leave for the evening.
His father wore only his shirt and trousers, his tailcoat and cravat thrown over the back of a chair, a half-drunk bottle of brandy suggesting the reason for his state of undress.
Adrian was in the doorway, his line of sight indicating his age; he was shorter than he was in real life, in the present day.
And if he had been himself, at thirty-three years of age, he would not have been lingering in the doorway; he would have been in that room, putting himself between his mother and father.
His mother was smiling, a strained and unnatural smile. But as her gaze turned toward Adrian, her smile softened and her mouth opened as if she was about to call him to her.
Before a word could leave her lips, Adrian’s father raised his hand and struck her, hard, across the face.
“No!” Adrian heard himself roar, his legs propelling him forward.
He threw himself at his father as his mother staggered back, but the drunken, cruel man whirled around at the last moment, strong hands grabbing Adrian by the collar.
His father shook him, the man’s black eyes glinting with menace. “Monster,” he seethed. “Despicable monster. Look at you—scarred because you are weak, because you are pathetic, because you are no son of mine. You should have died on a battlefield. You should never have been born.”
Adrian tried to kick out, to get his fist to connect with his father’s vile face, but the nightmare had twisted the past, tangling timelines together. He had the stature of a boy, but if his face was scarred, then he was older. Just after he returned from war.
But Mother would not have been here… She was gone by then.
His eyes searched desperately for her as his father continued to shake him, but she had vanished, drifting away like those flakes of snow.
And in the corner of the room, as always, a dark shadow crouched and watched.
A faceless, shapeless thing that forever haunted his nightmares. A ghoul among ghosts of the past.
“Hell spat you out,” his father snarled, a hand tightening around Adrian’s throat. “A devil. That is what you are—a devil.”
Just as Adrian felt like the life was about to be squeezed from him, his head pulsing with the pressure of blood that had nowhere to go, eyes bulging, that wretched bedchamber disappeared.
In its place, Adrian’s own room, the familiar brocade canopy above him.
He was in his bed, the linens damp with the sweat of his fear, his breath coming in ragged pants that plumed in the air above him.
The fire must have gone out, the winter cold creeping in…
or the ghosts were still lurking, their presence dropping the temperature of the bedchamber.
“Ridiculous,” he hissed, his voice anchoring him, orienting him back in reality.
There were no ghosts in Blackwall Castle. There were only ghosts inside his head, but even they could not haunt him while he was awake.
Throwing back the coverlets despite the chill, and his preference for wearing nothing to bed, he padded across the cold floor to the fireplace.
A few prods stirred up the embers again, and he added a couple of logs and some coal to get it burning to the point where it would make a dent in the chill.
What is the use? I will not sleep again tonight.
With that in mind, he pulled on trousers and a shirt and walked out. The library called to him, for that was where he kept his best port, and a night like this called for the warming, spiced, heady liquor.
A few steps down the hallway and he halted. An echo of footsteps, not his own, pricked his ears.
A moment later, a figure careened around the corner, hurrying along with her nightdress and housecoat hitched up in her hand. Someone who should not have been in this part of the castle.
Valerie gasped as she saw him. “Are you well?” she asked, still running. “I heard screams.”
She heard me? Adrian bristled with embarrassment, putting on a scowl to hide it.
He had no control over what his physical body did while his unconscious being was wandering in the horrors of the past. He had occasionally asked if Jarvis had heard anything, on nights when the terrible dreams came, but the butler had sworn firmly that he had not.
“You should not be here,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I know; I am not supposed to be near you, I am not supposed to cross paths with you, I am not supposed to be where I might bump into you.” She sighed, shaking her head. “But when someone screams so painfully in the night, it overrules the rest.”
He squinted in faint confusion. “But how could you possibly have heard anything if you were where you were supposed to be?”
Valerie went to the nearest window and moved her hand in a sweeping gesture. “My chambers are just over there.” She pointed. “At first, I thought it was a fox. When I realized it was not, I sought to find the sound.”
He approached the window and frowned across to where other windows winked from the opposite wing of the castle. A courtyard existed between the two, far below, which was meant to keep the east and west wing separate, but he had not thought about how noise might travel.
How loud was I? He dreaded to think. What troubled him more, however, was how often the rest of the castle had heard him and said nothing.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” he said coolly. “You may return to your chambers.”
Valerie waved a dismissive hand. “I cannot sleep anyway. I have too much to think about. Indeed, I was quite awake, worrying over what food to bring for the party, when I heard you.” She hesitated.
“If neither of us can sleep, perhaps we can discuss the party for a while? I have so many ideas, I would quite like someone to rein me in.”
“Is it the silence again?” he asked, recalling her struggles.
Her throat bobbed. “Not this time, no.” She paused. “So, what do you say?”
He never had company after one of his nightmares, content to deal with the aftermath himself. But if she could not sleep, and he could not sleep, what could be the harm in discussing the matter of the orphanage party together? Maybe, it would be just distracting enough to make him tired again.
“I mean to have a drink in the library,” he replied. “I cannot stop you if you want to follow.”