Chapter 11
Julian stared at the door in the early morning darkness of the corridor.
Even if he had not done his own investigation of the private wing to determine where Sybilla Foxe’s chamber lay, he could not have mistaken it.
The door was carved with a fine and intricate design, and its thick coat of black paint marked it as unique from the other doors in the wing.
He studied the markings as best he could in the meager light provided by the sconce on the wall behind him, running his fingers over it in spots.
Leaves of some sort, a long blade—a stylized sword, perhaps, but with a tip that ended in the shape of a serpent’s head. There were words or symbols half-hidden in the design, in a language Julian did not recognize.
Was it a protective spell? The Foxe family motto? A warning?
Julian frowned. If he had heeded all the well-intentioned warnings he’d received in his lifetime, he would likely be long dead on some battlefield by now. He raised his hand and knocked twice, his call firm yet not demanding.
“Come in.” Her voice called to him immediately from beyond the door.
Although he had been informed by several members of the staff that “Madam” did not take breakfast—in fact, Julian had not seen Sybilla Foxe eat a bite in the days that he’d been here—he was certain that she was up with the sun. And he was right.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside, unprepared for the sight that greeted him.
Sybilla was perched in a tall-backed upholstered chair cocked at an angle before a wide table set beneath an enormous bank of windows.
Her knees were drawn up, her feet tucked beneath and to the side of her bottom, one arm around her knees, her other hand propping up her chin as she stared out the windows.
Her long, dark hair was in a single plait, snaking over her shoulder and unfurling beneath her arm at her hip.
The peachy sunrise was just a suggestion, its glow seeming to illuminate the silk of her sheer, ivory dressing gown, the lace of it pooling around her bare ankles.
It seemed as though she had donned the matching wrapper as an afterthought, for it hung off one narrow, delicate shoulder, her skin taking on the shy blush of the dawn.
She looked very young just then, much younger than her score and eight years. Young and innocent and very much alone.
Julian wanted to walk up behind her and cup his hand around the back of her neck beneath her braid, knead the muscles there where he knew they would be tense and aching.
He wanted to lean down and whisper into her ear that it would be all right.
He would do his best for her. She didn’t have to be afraid . . .
But he didn’t know that he could promise her any of those things with certainty.
“I hope I didn’t keep you too long last night,” she said quietly, still looking out the windows.
“No, but Lucy seemed determined to see the sunrise.”
Her head whipped around, her light eyes wide, and she instinctively reached for the slipped shoulder of her robe.
“I thought you were Graves,” she said in a tight tone, so unlike the voice she’d used just a moment ago, full of concern and caring in those few short words.
“What are you doing in my room, Lord Griffin?”
“I don’t wish to disturb you,” he said, quietly liking the way she had sought to protect her modesty when she’d discovered it was he who had come to visit and not some dusty old steward.
It was quite at odds with her reputation, but then Julian was very certain that she was reputed to be many things that she was not.
“I plan to start the servant interviews today. I thought you might like to know before I commence, rather than find out midway through the day. I don’t want you to think I am doing anything covertly. ”
“An open book, are you?” she smirked halfheartedly, and then dismissed him by turning her gaze once more toward the windows. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to find by interrogating the kitchen maids. A good recipe for sausage, perhaps. Go on, though. I don’t care.”
Julian frowned, because it sounded as though she truly didn’t care. “I’ll not be speaking so much with the kitchen staff. Only those who were here while your mother yet lived. I have a list of names.” He paused. “Graves is included, of course.”
He saw her shoulders hitch and heard her little breath of laughter. “You have a list of Fallstowe servants? By name? You’re quite thorough, Lord Griffin.”
“I try to be.” He could have left her then, now that he had told her what he planned to do.
He should have, really. But he found his feet taking him to stand at the foot of the massive, carved blackwood bedstead that dominated the room.
It was surrounded by the thickest scarlet-and-gold embroidered draperies he’d ever seen.
The mattresses and coverlets and pillows seemed too plush, too decadent, as if made for luring a soul to sin.
The furniture itself seemed too large, farcically so, and certainly much too imposing for a woman of such delicate stature as Sybilla Foxe.
Julian had the odd and disturbing image of the bedposts gnashing her willowy body, devouring her, the bed’s mouth of mattresses and coverlet tongue swallowing her up whole and with relish.
He thought of the rumors of her lovers. How many men had pleasured Sybilla Foxe in this bed?
“Is there anything else, Lord Griffin?” she said wearily. “You seem very interested in my belongings. Would you perhaps care to go through my wardrobe and catalogue my underthings?”
“Only if I might have something to keep,” he responded cheekily. He looked over his shoulder, and although she continued to gaze through the windows, her lips curled in a small smile, perhaps in spite of herself.
Julian looked back to the evil piece of furniture. “Did you have this made yourself?”
“It was my parents’,” she said, but a moment later corrected herself quietly. “Morys and Amicia’s. He had it made for her shortly after they were married.”
“The carvings on the post resemble those on your chamber door,” he remarked.
“Mm-hmm,” she responded.
“What do they mean?” he pressed.
She turned her head, but instead of her eyes finding him, her gaze seemed to be focused within the heavy draperies of the bed. Her expression was tight, cold, filled with resentment. She turned back to the window.
“Ask her yourself,” she said coolly. “She’s not let me get a decent night’s sleep since you arrived.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sybilla regretted speaking them. Not that she was fearful of his incessant questions, but because it increased the tremendous wailing coming from the bed.
“Your mother, you mean?” Julian Griffin asked almost hesitantly.
“That is precisely who I mean. Apparently your presence is keeping her from her eternal rest,” Sybilla said snidely. Then she closed her eyes and gave a brief sigh at the assault on her ears. It felt as though her hair should be blowing back away from her face, so loud were the furious screams.
“Don’t you feel guilty?” She turned to gauge his reaction and found him considering her thoughtfully.
“Your mother’s spirit is haunting you,” he said flatly.
“Yes.” She met his eyes, something inside her daring him to believe her.
“That’s quite an odd thing to say, Sybilla.”
“It’s quite an odd thing to experience, Julian,” she retorted.
“I can imagine,” he said mildly, and turned back to the bed. Sybilla could have fallen from her chair when he raised his arms and waved them at the offending piece of furniture, as if trying to corral an out-of-control horse.
“Hah!” he called out menacingly. “Get from here, you wretched woman, and leave your daughter in peace.”
Sybilla snickered lightly at his attempt, but then her face went slack as the chamber fell instantly silent. She looked to the bed, and there was no haze, no rippled shadow.
“Did it work?” Julian said, his voice full of good humor.
It was obvious when he looked at her that her own face conveyed great surprise.
“Yes,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”
His eyebrows drew together and he regarded her intently. “You were quite serious, weren’t you?”
Sybilla could barely nod. “Very,” she choked out.
“Sybilla,” he began hesitantly. “Sybilla, are you frightened of this room? Of... of your mother?”
She stared at him, considering his sincere expression, the pained deliberateness of his words. She could sense no intent to use trickery or maliciousness.
And yet, she could not trust him.
“No,” she said. “Of course not.” She swallowed. “Haven’t you heard? All we Foxe women are witches. We’re used to this sort of thing.”
He seemed unconvinced by her flippant explanation. “Are you a witch?”
“Perhaps,” she answered quietly. “Perhaps I am.”
“Would you like to come with me?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“For the interviews. Would you care to accompany me?”
Sybilla gave him a sideways look. “Wouldn’t that somehow defeat the purpose, if the lady of the manor hovered over the servants as they were asked questions?”
“Would you interfere?” he asked.
“No,” she answered honestly. “None of them know anything of import. Save for Graves, but I can tell you now that you could take him a million miles from me, from Fallstowe, and he would still not divulge whatever morsel of information you seek, did it not please him to do so.”
“I’ll leave you to dress then,” Julian said promptly and turned on his heel, speaking to her as he crossed to the door. “We shall meet in the great hall in a half hour.” He paused with his hand on the latch and gave her a grin over his shoulder as his eyes quickly swept her form in the chair.
“Unless you need me to stay—for assistance, of course.”
Sybilla did not want to return his smile, but it was across her mouth before she could properly fight it back down. “I think I can manage, Lord Griffin.”