Chapter 9
My pulse still raced when I left Master Voss in his quarters.
I tried to remain expressionless as I headed downstairs with Mr. Hoffmann, but all I could think about were the master’s strange books.
Maybe the valet suspected what was on my mind, because a strained silence hung between us until we got to the foyer and passed the pair of Greek statues.
That’s when I noticed the copper gate leading to the basement.
It was closed tight.
“Don’t worry, we locked it,” the valet said, gesturing toward the gate. “That way, you won’t accidently find yourself down there again.”
The way he said this sounded so reasonable, and I was too busy managing new worries over everything in Voss’s quarters to question it. So I huddled inside my own troubling thoughts and followed him to the staff dining room, trying to puzzle out who I trusted more, him or Voss.
I never decided.
Breakfast was cornmeal porridge dotted with butter, and the mood at the table was tense.
Or maybe that was just my mood. I was ravenous, having not eaten anything since I’d been on the train yesterday.
However, I waited until I saw the rest of the servants eating it, just to be sure I wasn’t going to be drugged again.
Filomena had also baked soft rolls for Master Voss’s meal—“Because it’s the only thing he’ll eat.
” That, apparently, and milk from one of the dairy cows on the property, housed outside in a big barn near a herd of goats that I could see grazing from the dining room window.
No one mentioned the boy in the basement.
They barely asked how I was feeling. Even Voss had showed more sympathy.
I couldn’t get away from them fast enough.
But once we’d finished breakfast, I heard Voss announce to Hoffmann that he was heading into town with the coachman.
And if I’d thought I’d have some peace, I was wrong.
Throughout the morning, everywhere I went, one of the staff appeared to inform me about something, or to interrogate me.
They had questions about the cough syrup and the vitamin elixir, and Mrs. Culpepper suggested coordinating supervised visits to the master’s suite twice a day.
Filomena needed to discuss the master’s diet, so that we could come up with a plan to reintroduce foods other than bread and milk.
All the while, they acted as if everything was normal in the manor.
Perfectly, perfectly normal.
After lunch, I spotted Mr. Hoffmann coming inside the front door after checking to see if he could spot the master’s carriage returning from town.
He couldn’t spy Voss yet, but while he was outside, the valet retrieved a stack of mail that had been delivered.
And that made me remember that I could write to Sister Helen.
Of course! I wasn’t stuck out here. All I had to do was tell the good sister about my situation here.
Likely she would die of shock, but perhaps she would send people out here to check on me.
“We get mail delivery out here?” I said to Hoffmann near the base of the Artemis statue. “How often?”
“Once a week, give or take,” he replied. “If you’d like to mail anything, there is a collection box at the front gate. But I must warn you that it often takes weeks to deliver anything outside the area, depending on the season.”
My shoulders dropped in disappointment. I supposed “weeks” was better than nothing, though.
Before the servants could track me down again, and while Voss was still in town, I quickly stole away to my room and sat at the desk to compose a letter to Sister Helen.
When I took out a fountain pen and a beautiful sheet of paper—finer than anything I was accustomed to writing letters upon—Bethany decided to show up.
“You’re back! How was he? You saw him, right? Are his eyes still that icy shade of blue?” She clasped her hands as if she could barely control her excitement.
“He has a collection of books about devils and the occult.”
“He… what?”
“Yep,” I said, unscrewing the top from the fountain pen. A bottle of dark ink sat nearby. “Now, I’ll tell you all about it after I write this letter.”
“A love letter?”
“No, a hate letter,” I said, shooing her away from the desk. “Give me space. This will only take a second.”
“Ugh. I want to hear about the master!” she said, plopping down on my bed in frustration.
“In a second.” I cleared my head to consider what I should say in the letter, biting the end of the fountain pen, then began writing:
Dear Sister Helen,
I’m afraid that you have sent me into a terrible situation, though not your intention. Be aware that the servants drugged my tea and assaulted me.
I touched the spot on my neck that hurt last night. It still felt tender, so I made an addition:
Be aware that the servants drugged my tea and assaulted me, and the master has a collection of occult books about devils and demons.
Perfect! Sister Helen would surely be alarmed by that. It felt a little dishonest, because I didn’t really know whether the master was telling the truth about inheriting the books, but I needed to get the good nun’s attention. I scribbled an end to my letter:
I also have reason to believe there is a young man being held hostage in the basement. Please send help immediately. I fear that I am in danger.
Regards,
Nurse-in-training Molly O’Rinn
“There we go,” I murmured, fanning the page so that it would dry. “If that won’t get her to take action, I don’t know what will.”
Bethany gasped from the bed. When I turned to see what was the matter, she disappeared.
“No one will come to your rescue,” a strange voice said from somewhere across the room.
I stood up quickly, knocking over the desk chair with my bustle. And when I swung around, I found nothing. The room was empty.
Or was it…?
Movement caught my eye near the doorway. The door was still closed, but there was something there… I could feel it.
My hackles rose.
A dark figure stepped out of the shadows. Every muscle in my body turned to stone when I knew for certain it wasn’t Bethany. She didn’t have such a fine, regal face.
This face belonged to the chained boy from the basement.
The Black Groom… Crypt Boy.
But how?
My stomach dropped as fear and curiosity streaked through me in equal measure.
Standing here now in the light of day, the boy matched the memories I had of him through the years, dressed in sharp, black gentleman’s garb—a velvet cutaway coat, silk waistcoat, riding boots that stopped below his knees. Even the strange boutonniere with the red feather.
One thing was different, though. His fancy clothes were tattered and dusty. They hadn’t been when I’d seen him around the city. One of his riding boots was badly scuffed, with embossed lines circling the ankle area.
Had he broken out of his shackle?
Was I in danger? My gut wasn’t sure. He was tall and imposing, peering down a long nose at me.
Long arms crossed over a broad chest, causing the dusty, black arms of his woolen jacket to strain over muscular biceps.
I stared at him mutely, partly fascinated, but mostly with a quickly growing fear that made me take a step back.
“Y-you were chained. How are you here?” I asked. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am, Molly O’Rinn.” His words sent shivers down my arms. He spoke in the same odd cadence he’d used in the basement, in a deep voice full of melodies.
I touched the claddagh ring on my finger. “Y-you were at the funeral for my mother’s friend.”
He nodded once, solemn.
“And when my father died.”
Another brief nod.
A tense silence stretched between us.
I licked dry lips and said, “When I was a child, I wondered if you were connected to my mother, but then I saw you in the street when that carriage crashed last year.”
He didn’t nod again, but instead waited with unnerving patience as my gaze zipped over him, looking for details. Clues to his existence, his identity. He was the palest man I’d ever seen, and his light gray eyes were flecked with silver.
Oh! Eyes! I squinted to inspect them, hoping to confirm that he was merely a ghost, but—
His eyes reflected light. White glinted where it should, just like it would on a live human being. And his dark figure cast a shadow on the silk rug.
“You’re no ghost,” I accused, heart pounding wildly. “Impossible! You haven’t aged, you haven’t…”
He stared at me, blinking slowly. Waiting.
I backed up another step, and both of us stood very still, staring at each other. Wild thoughts raced through my head until he broke the tense silence. “Ask me what you want to ask me, Molly O’Rinn. We don’t have much time left, and I shouldn’t be here.”
It was startling to hear my name from his mouth again, and it put me off balance. Why didn’t we have much time? I had no idea, and with so much doubt in my mind, I whispered again, “You’re not a ghost… are you?”
“No.”
Well, okay then. Just as I’d thought. But it hadn’t really cleared anything up, had it? Because there was still something other about him. And it wasn’t merely the fancy boutonniere or the golden jewelry I could see peeking out from beneath the cuff of his jacket.
It was the fact that he hadn’t aged since I was a kid.
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.
“I am no one,” he replied, adjusting how his arms were crossed.
Aha, I thought, peering at his shoulder. “Are you hurt, sir? Is there something—”
He did the thing that dogs do when they’re injured: he quickly dropped one of his arms to give the impression that nothing was wrong. The angle of his left shoulder gave him away, and I couldn’t tell for sure, but there might have been bloodstains on his black velvet jacket.
“Stay out of the crypt,” he said, lowering his brow menacingly.
“What?” I was utterly confused. This boy had been chained in the crypt. Now he wasn’t. The servants had said I’d imagined him. Yet here he stood, in my private room.
I hadn’t imagined him.
Was he a prisoner here or not?
Was he human… or not?
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, titling his head inquisitively. “Can you not hear?”
“I can hear just fine.”
“Stay”—he took a sudden, long stride toward me—“out.”
He continued to stalk me across the room, a rhythmic jingle accompanying his stride—What’s making that noise?
—until I’d backed up all the way against the wardrobe.
There he stopped in front of me, inches away, and my heart pumped so hard, it felt like it was trying to burst through my chest. I began trembling all over.
“Do not return to the crypt,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “Do not cross the border of the aegis outside.”
“Border of what…?”
He made a soft snorting sound. “Molly O’Rinn can see me, but she can’t see a thousand monoliths pointed toward the sky?”
My heart fluttered nervously. Was he talking about the stone obelisks lining the property? “I don’t know this word. What is an ‘aegis’?” I asked.
He sighed. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with here. You’re going to get yourself killed. Or something much worse.”
I couldn’t reply. Maybe my voice was hiding in fear.
I wished I could do the same, but he just loomed in front of me, penning me in.
Studying me as I studied him. The planes of his face made sharp angles where skin met bone, and there must have been a thousand black lashes fanning out around his silvery eyes in a striking manner, as if kohl had been penciled around them.
So grave and serious. So oddly beautiful. I wanted to memorize every pore of his strange face, to puzzle out his mysteries, but I was overwhelmed by familiar scents wafting from him. One that I’d smelled often in the surgical wing of the hospital.
Coppery blood and the sweet smell of infection.
Definitely his shoulder.
“You’re wounded,” I mumbled. If I needed more proof that he wasn’t a ghost, here it was.
I’d never once seen an injury on a ghost. They all looked as they had when they were alive—at least, that was my theory.
I couldn’t prove it. But my first week at the hospital, I saw the body of a man who hadn’t survived a leg amputation.
Later that day, I spotted his ghost walking around with both legs, as if he’d never had surgery.
The boy quickly rotated his body to hide the injury. “Stay out of the crypt and don’t cross the aegis,” he repeated one last time as he backed away, intense eyes connecting with mine. “I cannot protect you. Not in my current state. You’re on your own.”
His words startled me. Why would I need protection? And why would he be… ashamed that he could not offer it to me? I wanted to ask, but my tongue was still tied. When he cracked open my door and began to slip through, I found my voice.
“You said before that I was a prisoner like you,” I called out to his back. “But I’m not a prisoner, and seeing how you’re walking around freely, it doesn’t look like you are either!”
“Things are not what they seem, nightingale. The master of the house will return soon.”
What did that have to do with anything? “And should I ask the master why there is an injured boy patrolling these halls and entering my room without consent?”
His head turned. Gray eyes flashed at me. “If you do, the next time you see me, I probably won’t be able to walk. But I cannot stop you. I have no power here. Goodbye, Molly O’Rinn, daughter of Cat O’Rinn. Go n-éirí an bóthar leat.”
Chills ran down my arms. I certainly didn’t speak as much Irish as my mother had, but I understood this popular phrase well enough, which basically meant, “Bon voyage. May the road rise to meet you.”
“Hold on!” I demanded when he turned again to leave. “You aren’t Irish, but you speak my native tongue? And how do you know my mother’s name?”
“I speak all languages,” he deadpanned. “And I know all names.”
That just couldn’t be true, could it?
“Bollocks, you liar,” I accused under my breath.
One dark brow shot up. “I am many things,” he said in a low, proud voice. “But I am not a liar.”
Before I could think of a reply, his eyes flicked across the room toward the window, and he sighed deeply. “Please tell Bethany Cross there’s no use hiding. I can still see her. But the real danger is that others may be able to see her here too. She should take care.”
My eyes followed his, but I couldn’t see Bethany by the window. And which “others” was he talking about? Voss? If so, how would he know that Voss could see her?
WHO IN THE NAME OF GOD IS THIS BOY?
“Wait!” I cried, rushing toward my closing door.
But I couldn’t get there in time. The door shut, and when I opened it again and raced into the hall to call after him—
There was no one there.