Chapter Seven
Lenora
There are exceptions to every rule.
Even the bad ones. The ones burned into our minds from infancy. Cautionary tales told by worried parents designed to keep children in line.
We never had those conversations. As Ushers, the line of morality is a faded gray, easily blurred by a pen and checkbook.
Men like my father, men like Marcus, penned their own rules and it was everyone else who needed to fall in line.
Including the officers standing in the courtyard below, disturbing the coiling threads of fog rising off the slick cobblestone.
Three faceless figures caught in the filmy light filtering through the heavy smear of rain. None of them seem to notice their uniforms are growing damp beneath the onslaught. They stand in a rigid cluster at the bridge separating the world from us.
From my vantage point perched on Marcus’s office window seat, I’m a raven high above their heads, watchful as Mr. Pym shuffles from the house to address them. The elderly butler grips a wide umbrella over his gray head.
The one in the middle reaches into the inner part of his damp blazer and removes a manila envelope. The rain soaks it in the second it takes to extend his hand in the older man’s direction.
Mr. Pym accepts and words are exchanged. I’ve never had Eliah’s talent for reading lips, but it’s clear they’ve come on official business the way they stand rigid against the wet chill.
A soft clink interrupts my attempts to determine their purpose at Usher House.
My head lifts and turns across the grand space of rich mahogany and the deep, faded burgundy accents that chase the darkness from the room.
The afternoon light — what little there is — never passes through the grimy stains crusting the looming expanse of glass dominating two full walls.
Usher House stands with centuries of stubborn pride overlooking the tremulous waves of the Pacific. A collection of good intentions layered together with precarious intentions. The grand estate sits cliffside on miles of fog drenched lands and uneven forest.
As children, Usher House was a goldmine of possibilities.
Our imaginations were the limit. As an adult, it’s a battle to keep the foliage from swallowing the manor whole.
Random drafts. Leaky ceilings. The manor is much too large for regular maintenance.
It’s a labyrinth of slick stones and endless corridors.
There are sections so old, they’ve been lost for generations.
I doubt even Mrs. Pym knows about them or the times Ames, Eliah and I set off to find hidden treasure through the catacombs and only to scare ourselves badly enough that we never tried again.
“Linny?”
I draw in a breath and focus on the man seated behind a wide, wooden desk littered with papers and a tray laden with fruits and tiny sandwiches. Soft, white steam rises from the kettle sprout, filling the room with the hint of chamomile.
“Come have breakfast,” Marcus urges as Mrs. Pym pours two cups of the brew.
I rise from my place, right arm chilled from being cradled against the window too long. I rub it as I cross to them.
It’s a rare event when I’ve found myself in Marcus’s office.
The spacious chamber with the walls of shelves, generations of knowledge displayed in a single room, isn’t as comfortable as my greenhouse, but it has no mirrors.
Beyond my reflection in the windows, there seems to be no need for any, and … the incessant scratching…
It was in my dreams.
Restless. A maddening persistence that I swear is etched into the cavity of my mind. Even in the bathroom with Marcus’s hands lovingly running over me, the creaks echoed.
Faint. Never enough for anyone else to hear. The most subtle little nudges like a boot creeping across thin ice. That brittle creak right before a splinter.
Marcus doesn’t seem to hear it.
But I’m not crazy.
I know it’s there … watching me.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
“Lin.”
I suck in a breath and focus on the two watching me. I force a smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pym.”
The older woman who was essentially a third parent to us, inclines her head. Her gray strands are in their usual knot at the back of her head, swept from her thinly lined features. She’s in her black attire. Simple cotton that covers from wrist to throat and falls to her ankles.
It amazes me some days how little she’s changed since my first visit to Usher House.
Back when my parents were still alive. I barely came to her knees, but she cared for me the same way she looked after the boys.
She never complained at having yet another child to manage.
I don’t wholly believe we were her responsibility, but she was the one who chased away the monsters under the bed and wrapped up injured knees.
Growing up, I think she was the only consistent adult we had.
Until Marcus returned that sweltering afternoon, a truly welcome sight even though I hadn’t believed he would stay. Like my parents, he had an empire to manage. Moreover, given he is a blood Usher.
We were raised understanding that the Family comes first. The Usher name. Our parents were doing what needed to be done so that our futures were secure.
But it was fine. We had each other and we had Mrs. Pym.
Occasionally, our moms when they weren’t at a dinner or luncheon.
We would catch fleeting glimpses of them in their beautiful gowns, faces perfectly set as they made us swear to be good for Mrs. Pym.
When they were all gone, with the exception of Marcus, it was Mrs. Pym and us.
“You should eat, Miss,” she tells me, actively gathering up the plate of sandwiches — tuna. My favorite — and holding it up for me.
Not at all a breakfast meal, but I believe this is her way of making sure I eat.
I offer her a smile. The best one I can muster.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pym. I will.”
To prove it, especially when she remains firmly in place, plate aloft, I nip one from the top … and take a tentative bite. It’s the only way she’ll stop scrutinizing my face. The tiny gesture seems to satisfy her as she sets the plate down, dusts her hands and faces Marcus.
Marcus.
No matter how many times I work the name around in my head, it feels indecent. Ironic given my behavior the previous night in his bed. Actions I don’t regret, but still my cheeks warm at the memory of his fingers, his mouth. I nearly choke on the bit of fish meat on my tongue.
“If there is nothing else?”
I don’t glance at the man seated comfortably in his chair like we hadn’t been naked in his tub only a mere hour before.
“That’s everything. Thank you, Mrs. Pym.”
The other woman inclines her head before stalking with sure strides out the door. The heavy slabs of wood are pulled shut behind her and I am alone with the man that makes my heart skip every time I glance at him.
By no means is the feeling new or even surprising.
I have felt this way about him since before I knew how to recognize it.
But I know what it is and why it’s inappropriate.
Even with Eliah and Ames’s blessing, Marcus has always been much too grand of a desire.
Too selfish for a single person. I had my boys.
His sons. Taking their father as well seemed gluttonous.
That is not to say I can take him now. Last night was a matter of business.
I need Marcus Usher to balm the pain in my chest. To feed the bloodlust in my veins.
I need him to fix me in a way I can’t do on my own, and yes, I will give him anything he wants in return.
Even if the thing he desires is me or the space between my legs.
“Mon c?ur?”
I blink out of my thoughts, realizing with mild embarrassment that I have been standing with the sandwich in my hand, staring at the door.
Face warm, I turn to him. “Yes?”
His body bows forward, then back and the chair beneath him rolls across the marble with a smooth clatter. One hand lifts and he beckons me to him.
And I go.
I circle the ship of a desk and let him pull me onto the rigid muscles of his thighs.
“Eat,” he instructs with gentle firmness.
With what appetite? I want to ask. The morsel I swallowed already is graphite in my gut. Most of me runs purely on tea and rage. I’m decently full.
“Perhaps later—”
“Now,” he corrects sharply. “All of it. No. You stay put.” The arm around my middle tightens when I try to rise. “I will feed you myself if you refuse, Linny.”
The threat is cut from angry snaps of French.
I could fight. Scream and kick my legs like a child, but to what end? Logic states clearly that I require all my strength if I wish to see my plan through. My heart refuses to agree.
Nevertheless, I take a nibble. Then another.
Marcus watches me until I finish the triangle. He pulls us under the desk and reaches across for the plate Mrs. Pym left behind. It’s brought closer to me followed by the cup of steaming tea.
“All of it, mon p’tit.”
I’m held captive and force fed the majority of the sandwiches, including his, and the neatly sliced slivers of apple, pears, and oranges.
I’m so full by the end of it, I don’t have the strength to leave my place in his lap, nor does he protest when I settle my head on his shoulder and he returns to work with me half-asleep against his chest.
I’m floating in that sweet place between here and nowhere, that place where it’s just a subtle silence and nothing feels real when voices bring me back. Gruff, male ones. One close to my ear, guiding me to the surface. But I stay still and quiet while Marcus talks to … Mr. Pym, I think.
“This is everyone?”
Mr. Pym gives a subtle hum. “I checked myself.”
Around me, Marcus’s arms flex and move. Papers shuffle and something hisses free of an envelope.
“Thank you, Arthur.”
I wait until I hear the other man’s steady gait cross the room and the resounding crack of the door shutting before opening my eyes.
“What is it?”