Chapter 3
Word of the monstrous encounter spread like a plague through the city. It was the topic of choice on every street corner. Or so Gerard said. Ceridwen hadn’t been out of the house in the two days since it occurred, not until Bronwyn talked her into attending tea at the home of Elspeth Ainsworth.
A handful of Ainsworth ancestors stared at Ceridwen from their portraits on the elaborately decorated walls, but it wasn’t their studious expressions that unnerved her. Stuffy paintings always listened. The women who attended these gatherings often did not—at least not to a girl from a fallen family who preferred music and plants to parties and gossip.
“Oh, you poor dears.” Elspeth fawned over the sisters the moment they were shown into her parlor.
“Lady Ainsworth.” Ceridwen curtsied in response, despite the ache that still lingered in her back from the monster’s attack, displaying all the grace and poise she could muster for their hostess.
“To have witnessed such a horrible sight.” Elspeth’s hand flew over her mouth as she shook her head. “I can hardly imagine it.”
Fine furniture dotted the space four times the size of their own rooms back home. Picture windows bracketed by heavy green curtains let in the meager light from the cloud-covered sun. Tiered trays loaded with bite-size pastries and sandwiches topped small tables. Their sugary scents and the women’s perfume warred for control within the room to the point their pungency gave Ceridwen the hint of a headache. Her stomach churned at the memory of two nights ago, turning the sweet scents foul and stripping her appetite.
“Come, you must tell us what happened.” Elspeth looped her arm through Ceridwen’s and pulled her toward the gaggle of colorfully dressed women already sipping their tea and chatting in small groups. Ceridwen sighed. As if she wanted to recount that tale. Elspeth meant well. She genuinely liked the woman and her daughter, Lydia. It was one of the few reasons she visited them. They were kind, even if the other guests were not.
“Don’t leave out any details,” Elspeth added with a pat on her arm.
Whatever fanciful tale she expected, the truth was so much worse. Sightings of the monster had been reported since early spring, though some were dubious at best—drunken men stumbling home in the dark of night, shady figures with poor reputations. Occasionally one would sport wicked wounds. Claw marks to the calf. A fierce bite on their arm. A number of animals had turned up dead as well. Wolves, the doubters said, or rabid dogs. And though the monster she’d seen had certain similarities, it was no natural beast.
Ceridwen looked over her shoulder at Bronwyn in a silent plea for help as her heart twisted in her chest. But Bronwyn rolled her eyes and smoothed out a lock of her chestnut hair as she followed after. Her older sister had little patience for such gatherings, not that Ceridwen had much more. But they’d promised Father to try to fit in here. If there was one thing Bronwyn respected, it was keeping Father as happy as possible.
“Make friends. Perhaps find a nice young man,” he’d said. “I won’t be around forever. It would do my spirit good to know you’re taken care of.” As if they were helpless children. Though, the rigors of proper society left little flexibility for a woman to support herself without dropping further down the ranks of class into servitude. The sisters had an older brother, Adair. He’d joined the military and received a post in Teneboure. But Adair could barely provide for himself, much less two sisters, and someday he’d have a family of his own. Ceridwen was determined not to be a burden to him—one more mouth to feed.
A sudden heaviness in her limbs threatened to pull Ceridwen down onto the carpets. She’d longed for marriage once, prayed for someone to look at her the way Father had at Mother. But those days were gone, along with so much else. She’d met the eligible men of Teneboure. They were fine…she supposed, but none of them paid her more than a passing glance. She was pretty enough to warrant those but not much else, apparently.
Lydia set down her tea and practically ran in Ceridwen’s direction, her blond curls bouncing about her head. A year her junior, and with similar coloring and complexion, she resembled Ceridwen more than her own siblings, Bronwyn and Adair. Ceridwen was the only one to turn out like her mother, whereas her siblings got her father’s darker hair and eyes.
“Oh, Ceridwen, it’s so awful.” Lydia took her other arm, capturing Ceridwen between her and Elspeth as they came to a halt near the other women. “What was it like? That monster.”
Lydia and Elspeth released her arms. Bronwyn and another young woman with blazing red hair, Georgina, joined them to form a small circle.
“Red eyes that glowed in the night. Vicious fangs dripping with blood. A lean body of shadow, more animallike than man,” Bronwyn replied, her voice rising and falling as if telling the story to children.
The mere description stripped the heat from Ceridwen’s skin.
Georgina fanned herself. “You must be joking.”
Elspeth drew a circle, the sign of the Goddess, in front of her chest.
“Only a little,” Ceridwen said. She didn’t have the nerve to describe the leather skin stretched too tight over wrongly proportioned limbs. No one needed to share her nightmares.
“Is it true what we heard about the man who was killed? That he was an escaped convict and a thief?” Lydia asked.
Ceridwen nodded. “It’s what Father was told.” Not that it made the death any easier to take in.
“Gerard went to the constable that night to report the murder. When he came to investigate, he found the Lyndstroms’ family jewels in his bag,” Bronwyn said, filling in the details as she often did. Where words sometimes failed Ceridwen, they never did her sister. “And he had a dagger in his hand, covered in blood.”
“The monster’s?” Lydia gasped.
“Maybe. There were no other crimes reported that night.”
“You think he fought back?” Lydia asked.
“He did,” Ceridwen said. “I saw him stab it, but then I—”
The others continued speaking, but Ceridwen barely heard them over the jumbled buzzing in her ears. She drew her hands into fists, clenching at her dress as she willed her face to remain neutral rather than give away the terror trying to break free.
Elspeth snapped open her fan, drawing Ceridwen back to the moment. “At least there’s one less criminal on the streets. Though with the king’s newest tax hike, we’ll see more such crimes. Mark my words.”
In the short years of his reign, the king had raised taxes to the highest rate in living memory. It wasn’t only Ceridwen’s family stretched thin. Father’s poor investments in the wake of Mother’s death had left them on the brink of ruin. They owed too many loans, and with the rising taxes, how could they ever afford to pay them off? Guilt over the thief’s death teased her, but if he’d stolen Nell, it would’ve been her family with hungry bellies this winter. Things would be tight even as it was.
“You’re so lucky, Ceridwen,” Lydia said, touching her arm. “Maybe the monster spared you because you’re so sweet.”
Her cheeks heated at the uncommon compliment, though Bronwyn’s next words wiped away the momentary praise. “It stopped because Father attacked it with his cane, and Gerard went after it with a shovel.”
“Such brave men,” Georgina said with an exaggerated sigh. Her gaze showed little sympathy. She hadn’t joined the company of the girl who said too much and the one who said too little out of concern for the siblings. She wanted the same thing as the others glancing their way and edging closer to the conversation: gossip—the true currency among the ladies of Teneboure.
Ceridwen released the skirts of her dress and smoothed a hand over the simple material, so different from the other women’s layers of fine fabric, delicate lace, and perfectly tailored designs meant to accent curves and shape. Their appearance was a near-constant reminder of her country upbringing and declining fortune. One more reason the other women kept their distance. Shallow gossips. If only she had the nerve to tell them so.
“They say the monster drinks the blood of its victims. Is that true, too?”
“Lydia!” Elspeth scolded.
Lydia winced but let the topic drop.
Elspeth gave a dramatic shiver. “It reminds me too much of the stories out of the capital since the late king and queen were murdered. Goddess, give them rest.”
“Goddess, give them rest,” everyone echoed.
Georgina’s brow furrowed. “Weren’t they killed by their son? Prince Tristram?”
Elspeth nodded. “They say he was under the influence of dark magic. King Rhion had the prince executed for his crimes…and the dark magic.” Her gaze turned far away. “How hard it must have been to sign his death warrant. His own nephew…”
Ceridwen sighed. Their king, Rhion Ithael, might have gotten his revenge, but what about the rest of them? Tales of death and dark magic blossomed under his reign.
Murders. Monsters in the night.
Just like the one haunting their city.
Rumors of the dangers drifted out of the capital like contraband since the death of King Rhion’s brother, King Jesstin, and his wife, Queen Manon—whispered behind decorative fans between friends, shared over a pint at the pub. Between that and his taxes, the king earned more silent curses than praise. But until two nights ago, the monster of Teneboure had never killed a human—that Ceridwen knew of.
Lord Winterbourne, the city’s Lord Protector, had failed for months to heed the mayor’s request for aid to subdue the monster. Perhaps he would now. It was the job of a Lord Protector to guard the citizens under his watch from danger. Not that theirs did much good since he’d arrived during winter. Lazy, useless noble. There was the military, too, of course, but they’d not had any luck tracking the monster.
Some said it was a blessing the city had a Lord Protector at all—Teneboure hadn’t had one for many years until this one arrived. But what good was it if he never left his manor?
Georgina sighed. “It’s such a shame. They say the prince was so handsome.”
“Did you ever see him?” Lydia asked.
“Well, of course not, but Alexa’s cousin said—”
“He was rich and a prince,” Bronwyn interjected. “Women would call him handsome even if he had two heads and the pox.”
Elspeth gasped. Ceridwen winced at her sister’s frank words, though she couldn’t help but agree. Even if he had been the ugliest man in the kingdom, many women would have still sought his favor for the title and money alone.
“Well, that’s probably true,” Lydia replied, always one to keep the peace. “But still, to commit such a horrible crime…” She shook her head.
Shocking. Disgusting. The thought of it still turned Ceridwen’s stomach.
“Well, enough about that,” Elspeth said. “Tell us all about the other night. Start at the beginning.” She motioned us toward the seating area where the other women waited like vultures ready to feast. The fabric of Ceridwen’s skirts crumpled in her fist once more. What would be the focus of their stories later? The monster who stalked the night, or the odd country girl who saw it?
“He was so handsome,” Bronwyn said in a mockery of Georgina’s nasally voice as the sisters walked home arm in arm through the streets. She groaned and rolled her eyes. “And we’ve just fueled more of their gossip.”
Heavy clouds blocked out the sun, adding a slight chill to the day and threatening more rain. The parasol they carried between them would do little good to block an afternoon shower, should it choose to fall, but the frilly accessories were in fashion, and they did happen to own one, so they’d carried it along to the tea. Another attempt to try to fit in, to please Father. The Ainsworths lived in a new home in the wealthy southern portion of the city, far from the family’s home in the aged and unpopular north end.
“At least they can spread the story for us,” Ceridwen said. “I never wanted to talk about it again.” She shuddered just thinking about it.
Bronwyn had told the tale on Ceridwen’s behalf over and over again throughout the course of the afternoon, though her version contained more of the horrific details her sister avoided. The memory pressed heavily on Ceridwen’s heart. Recounting it herself was impossible, and she’d been able to do no more than pick at the rich pastries during tea, despite her love for them.
Ceridwen’s attention snagged on a narrow alley running between two buildings, so similar to the one the monster had emerged from. If she’d helped the thief, could she have saved him? Or would her death be one more addition to the misery of these streets? Her flute had been easily fixed, and despite her promise to her mother, made at her grave to play for her, she couldn’t summon the will to do so.
“With any luck, something more exciting will happen, and they’ll get over this grim fascination quickly,” Bronwyn said, patting her sister’s arm. “Perhaps we can talk Adair into courting one of the women so they’ll have something else to gossip about.”
Ceridwen grinned. “I don’t think he’d need much convincing. You know how he feels about Lydia.” He’d set his sights on her at the spring ball, trailing after her like a pup.
“Yeah, I know he likes her.” Bronwyn frowned. “But with how little he’s likely to inherit, it will never happen. The Ainsworths would never agree to let their daughter take a step down in society.”
“No.” Ceridwen’s gaze dipped to the cobblestones. “Sadly, they probably won’t.” An Ainsworth heir living in a ramshackle house? Never. Adair would be more likely to inherit their father’s debt than any actual wealth. Even with the money Gerard earned from working odd jobs around the city, the family could barely keep up with their loan payments, not to mention the basics needed to get by. Ceridwen let out a long breath. At Gerard’s age, it wouldn’t be long before the better-paying opportunities were given to stronger, younger men instead.
“Bronwyn! Ceridwen!” Jaina waved her arms as she ran in their direction, huffing for breath, cap askew.
Home lay several blocks away. Had she run all the way here? Why?
A sudden chill stole through Ceridwen. Father. Something happened to Father. The family fortune wasn’t the only thing to decline after Mother’s death. Their father had come down with some illness two years ago that never quite left him and flared up at the worst of times.
Tension and worry froze Ceridwen in place, but Bronwyn unlatched her arm and ran. With a deep gasp, Ceridwen tore herself free of the fear and ran after her.
“What happened?” Bronwyn implored, always quick with her words. “Is it Father? Did something happen?”
“No, it’s… Oh, it’s… You have to come right away,” Jaina lamented as the sisters approached. Sweat dripped down her face as she sucked in breaths between words. Tendrils of graying brown hair escaped from her neat cap and stuck to her face.
Jaina shook her head and inhaled deeply before continuing. “Some men came down from the manor, servants of the Lord Protector, and with them…Lord Winterbourne himself.”