Chapter 16
Poe, the ever faithful companion, was waiting for me on the windowsill, his black feathers fluffed against the chill of morning air.
He said nothing as I approached, only cocked his head and flew to my shoulder, his talons brushing lightly against the lace of my collar.
We descended the stairs together, and though I walked slowly, each step felt unnaturally loud, echoing through the hush of the house. The halls were too still, the air oddly heavy. A draft stirred along the corridor, bringing with it the faint scent of dried lavender and wood polish.
“Where are the maids this morning?” I murmured, more to Poe than myself.
He gave no answer, only clicked once, deep in his throat before brushing his head against my cheek.
I passed through the front parlor, the study, even the music room where the keys of the pianoforte gleamed like teeth. But Mrs. Ashby was nowhere to be found.
I was about to give up when I heard the faint snip of shears.
I followed the sound toward the conservatory.
The room was drenched in pale morning light that pooled across the tiled floor, refracted through glass panes streaked with silver condensation. Mrs. Ashby knelt near a raised bed of chrysanthemums, her hands working steadily, pruning each blossom with quiet ruthlessness.
“Mrs. Ashby,” I said, keeping my voice light. Poe adjusted on my shoulder, his wings rustling softly. “Good morning.”
“Your Grace.” Her voice was even. She snipped another blossom and dropped it into the basket beside her. “You’re up early.”
“I hardly slept,” I replied.
Another clean clip. “Quite understandable.”
“I did try, though,” I added carefully. “Your tea helped.”
That made her pause.
She glanced at me briefly before resuming her task, the faintest hitch in her movement before she carefully snipped one long stem.
“What tea is that, Your Grace?” she mused.
“The one you left by my bedside last night… with the note.” I offered. “I thought I tasted something floral in it with hints of something earthy.”
She set down the shears, her attention focused on me now, though her expression was unreadable. “I didn’t send any tea to your room, Your Grace. Lord Blackthorn said you had already fallen asleep.”
Poe let out a low croak. “There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton…” he paused to chitter, “much of the bizarre.”
Mrs. Ashby’s eyes flicked to the bird for the briefest of moments, her lips pressing into a thin line.
I laughed lightly, ignoring Poe. “I’m quite certain there was tea. It had a note in your hand.
Poe ruffled his feathers.
She studied me for a moment, voice calm as she returned her attention to the flowers. “It wasn’t from me, Your Grace.”
My fingers curled slightly in my skirts. “Perhaps a maid left it then. Lydia, maybe?”
She straightened. “No one would have entered your chambers without permission. I made that very clear.”
“But I drank it,” I whispered, more to myself now. “It helped me sleep so… deeply.”
A pause. Mrs. Ashby’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, Your Grace?”
I held her gaze for a moment too long. Then forced a polite smile. “Nothing at all. It was only… unusually effective. I had hoped you could tell me the blend.”
The lie rolled off my tongue with ease.
Poe dipped his head low, staring at Mrs. Ashby. “Whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor—“ he croaked once, then continued, “and silence, not solitude, was in the room…”
Mrs. Ashby glanced toward the bird again, frowning. “Couldn’t say, Your Grace. As I’ve said, I didn’t make it.”
Silence stretched between us.
Poe bobbed, then shook out his feathers. “The silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token…” he muttered, letting out a low whistle as if he too were uncomfortable.
I shifted, taking a deep breath. “Very well, where might I find Lydia?”
Mrs. Ashby paused her work again, resting her sheers in her lap before looking up at me with a sigh so soft, I almost missed it. “Forgive me,” she mused calmly, “but what is it that you need with Lydia, Your Grace?”
“With all due respect,” I replied, voice clipped, “I am the lady of this house. If I wish to speak to a servant, I hardly think I require permission.”
Her lips twitched, whether in amusement or disapproval, I couldn’t say. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said coolly. “However… Lydia is not one of your servants. She is part of his lordship’s staff.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Ashby sighed. “There are two households under this roof. Yours… and his. Lydia, his valet, the footman, Levi, Tanner the stablemaster. They answer only to Lord Blackthorn. It’s not uncommon in upper noble houses.”
I felt the words lodge like splinters in my chest. The separation. The secrecy.
Poe whistled deep in his throat again, as if he too felt the sting. I shot him a look.
“I see,” I murmured quietly.
She nodded. “I realize you didn’t grow up in such circles. It can take some adjustment.”
The sting was undeniable, but I kept my expression composed. “Well then,” I offered with a polite smile, “I suppose I shall speak to my husband instead.”
“I suppose you should.”
I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me.
“Are you feeling better today, Your Grace?” she asked.
I hesitated. “Yes. Quite,” I said, recalling the day before in the drawing room with Isolde… the chaos, the fear.
She nodded. “Good. Lady Havenshire will return shortly from her ride. She’s in a mood to play. If you wish to avoid her, I’d suggest staying far away from the music room.”
I stared at her for a moment, uncertain what to make of her sudden return to civility. Kindness or calculation?
“Thank you,” I said simply, turning to go.
Poe fluttered his wings once as we passed through the misted threshold. Then, almost absently, he cautioned, “and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.”
I frowned, meeting his intense onyx gaze.
“What are you trying to tell me, Poe?” I whispered with a sigh, lifting my hand to scratch beneath his chin as we moved through the manor.
I wasn’t sure where I was going, but my feet kept moving until I ended up in the kitchen.
It was a sprawling chamber of brick and stone, where copper pans hung from every beam like dulled suns, and dried herbs crinkled softly in the draft from the open windows.
The fire crackled beneath a great black stove, and the air was heavy with the comforting smells of flour, sweet cream, and a bubbling concoction I couldn’t place.
At the center of it all stood the cook, Mrs. Griggs.
She was stout and round, her grey-streaked hair tied in a haphazard knot at the nape of her neck.
Her apron was already dusted with flour, and a worn ladle poked from the string tied about her waist like a soldier’s saber.
One of her eyes was clouded white, like frosted glass, while the other sparkled a lively amber.
She hummed as she stirred a pot, the tune low and mournful.
Mrs. Griggs turned suddenly, catching sight of me. “Oh!” she gasped, then dipped into an elaborate curtsy so low I feared she might lose her balance. “Your Grace! Begging your pardon, I didn’t hear ye come in!”
She straightened, beaming. Her smile was toothy and strange but not unkind. “What can I do for you this morning? Something to settle your fast? A bit of toast? Or jam perhaps? I have a rose hip blend this morning that sings on the tongue.”
“Oh, no thank you,” I replied, shaking my head. “I’m not hungry. I was actually hoping to find Lydia.”
“Lydia?” she repeated vaguely, already turning back to the pot. “Mmm, just a moment, my dear. This mustn’t bubble over—oh blast, where’s my cinnamon?”
I followed her as she bustled from one table to the next, checking a bowl of rising dough before plucking a jar from the shelf and sniffing it suspiciously.
Poe took to the rafters, watching her movements with a tilt of his head.
“Pardon me,” I said again, trying to keep my voice steady over the chaos of clattering jars and mutters about clove ratios. “I was wondering if you knew where Lydia is?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Flour,” she mumbled.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Oh, not you, dear,” she assured quickly. “I meant the flour’s gone clumpy. Damp in the pantry, it is. And I’ve told Tanner about the mice, but does he listen? Oh, no. Not with his ears full of horses, I say.”
I blinked. “Mrs. Griggs… Lydia?”
She gasped, turning back to me with a flustered expression and flour on her chin. “Oh heavens, Your Grace, forgive me! I do prattle on something awful. Lydia, yes. What was it you needed from her, if I may be so bold?”
“I… just wished to speak with her.”
“Ah,” she shrugged, stirring the pot again. “Yes, well. She usually starts the mornings with the stables, then sometimes helps His Lordship with his writing desk. Though what a man needs a maid for at his desk is beyond me. But this morning… no. Haven’t seen her.”
“Not at all?”
She tapped her ladle twice against the edge of the pot. “Not a toe, not a trace. And I’ve eyes like a fox, I do.” She chuckled, the sound low and wet. “Even this one.” She tapped her milky eye and winked with the good one.
Poe ruffled his feathers above, muttering something I couldn’t quite make out above the roar of boiling pots.
“Well,” I said, stepping back slowly, “thank you all the same, Mrs. Griggs.”
“Oh, my pleasure, dear. If you see Lydia, tell her the rose hip jam needs decanting. And tell her to bring me more eggs, the large ones, not those puny speckled things Tanner calls hen’s gifts.”
“I shall,” I promised, unsure if I had just been ordered by a servant.
Poe landed again on my shoulder just as I turned to leave, his beak brushing the edge of my hair.
I paused, my gaze straying to a shelf, half obscured by hanging herbs. A row of jars and tins sat neatly arranged below the greenery. Tea leaves. Medicinal blends, dried powders, and elixirs.