Chapter Nine
N INE
On the walk to my quarters, Bishop keeps shooting me a glare that tells me I’m doing something wrong.
I don’t need to ask what it is. I’m not walking too slowly or too quickly or anything else that might annoy him.
The problem is that I’m being quiet, and as much as he grumbles at me for asking questions, he likes my silence even less.
He interprets it as a danger. And he’s right.
Silence means I’m doing something he won’t want me doing.
Thinking.
I’m also cataloging my surroundings. Our town house has the luxury of electric lighting, but out here in the countryside, it’s still gas, and if I didn’t have excellent night vision, I’d find it very dark. The walls are wood-paneled and the floor is also wood, without a carpeted runner.
The hallway is stately and grand and stark, not a single piece of art on the walls.
When boots pound behind us, I turn, but it’s only one of the men running to catch up with another.
When he reaches his target, he slams him into the wall, making me jump, but they both laugh and jostle, the whole hall shuddering.
That explains why there aren’t any portraits or paintings—they’d fall with that sort of treatment.
It’s a reminder that this isn’t only a house of men; it’s a house of werewolves.
We take a grand staircase to the second level and then pass through two halls of closed doors before reaching an open one.
Bishop turns sharply, and we enter a small room with a narrow bed.
The tiny bedchamber is cold and barren, but I won’t complain.
At least they don’t expect me to curl up on the floor.
Bishop strides through that room, and throws open a door at the back. Then he steps aside and waits.
I enter the next room cautiously, expecting the door to slam shut behind me, but Bishop follows me in and then stands there, waiting.
I look around. The large chamber is lit but shadowy, with wood-paneled walls and wood flooring. Rugs have been laid beside the four-poster bed and next to the ceramic washbasin. A fire already roars in the hearth.
Crossing the room in a few strides, Bishop opens a small door and waves without comment. I peer inside to see a tiny room with a thoroughly modern flushing toilet.
When I turn back to the bedchamber, I realize something else. The room has no windows.
“This is where I’ll stay?” I say.
“Yes.”
I motion to the tiny adjoining room with the narrow bed. “That’s for a guard, I’m guessing, in case I try to escape.”
“There will be a guard for your safety.”
I meet his gaze. “There are no windows in here, and the only exit takes me past a werewolf. Please don’t insult my intelligence by pretending it’s not also to keep me from escaping.”
“I believe that presuming you won’t try to escape is proof that I’m not insulting your intelligence.”
“Fine. At this stage, I acknowledge that I’m in danger and probably need protection.”
“At this stage…” he murmurs.
“Don’t expect me to continue playing the obedient captive if my life is in danger.”
“It won’t be.”
I want to ask for his word on that. On the surface, the request would be sarcasm, but I’m afraid that underneath, it would be an honest question.
Bishop Daniels isn’t an ally. Don’t try to make him one.
I look from this room to the adjoining one. “My father didn’t brick up windows and add a guard room just for me.”
“No, Trevelyan was built for the Pack, which means it has some architectural peculiarities. This is one of them. A werewolf’s first transformations are difficult and uncontrollable. This room protects him and others.”
“Sensible.”
“I’m glad you agree,” he says dryly.
I look around the room. “I’ll need clothing and toiletries. I thought of mentioning that before we left London, but I didn’t want to be accused of stalling. Perhaps one of the maids will have clothing I can borrow?”
“Everything you’ll need is in the wardrobe.”
I sigh inwardly. There hasn’t been time to get “everything” I’ll need, given the complexity of a woman’s attire. But I’ll deal with that tomorrow.
“There are also books,” he says. “Apparently you’re fond of them.” He waves to a small bookcase. “Trevelyan has a library that Julius has been restocking. You can ask him for more titles if these don’t interest you.”
“Will it be Julius standing guard tonight?” I say.
“No, he’s still in London. I need to do a few things, so it’ll be Oliver. Is that all right?”
“It is.”
“Good.” He turns just as I hear light footsteps. “And here is your lady’s maid. Good evening, Marjorie.”
A woman appears. She’s in her late twenties, slight of build, with light brown skin, raven-black hair, amber eyes, and a face lovely enough to make any man look twice. Unlike the maid at my father’s London house, Marjorie meets my gaze with a confident smile.
“Good evening, m’lady.” A half curtsy. “I’m Marjorie, and I’ll be taking care of you.”
She has a faint French accent, and I reply with “ Bonne soire. ”
She laughs. “I’m afraid I don’t know much French, miss. My mother brought me across the channel when I was three.”
“Well, then, I’ll pretend that I’m disappointed we can’t converse in French, rather than admitting that was just about the only phrase I know.”
“I’ll take my leave,” Bishop says. “Good evening to you both.”
“Oh, Mr. Bishop?” Marjorie says. “I know you asked whether Tabitha should help me with Miss Cordelia. I’ve thought about it, and I think she should. She was very excited to hear that Miss Cordelia is a witch.”
Bishop’s expression grows grave as he nods. “I wondered about that. I wasn’t sure whether she’d appreciate it or find it an unwelcome reminder.”
“She’d appreciate it.” Marjorie looks at me. “Tabitha is only twelve, and a witch, but she’s mute, so…” She shrugs. “Her magic is useless. She can’t cast spells or incantations.”
I struggle for words, trying not to appear too horrified at the thought. “I’m sorry to hear that. But yes, I’d love to meet her. Thank you.”
Marjorie glances over at Bishop. “You asked about Ann. I decided to give her the choice. She said yes, she’d like to help with Miss Cordelia.”
“If that’s her wish.”
“It is.”
With a nod, Bishop takes his leave.
Marjorie moves to the wardrobe and opens it to reveal hanging clothing and a tower of small drawers. She tugs one of the drawers.
“I hope I’m not too bold,” I say, “but if Tabitha is a witch, may I ask whether any of the other women here are supernaturals as well?”
Marjorie chuckles. “The Alpha’s daughter doesn’t need to worry about being too bold with the servants. But you’re kind to ask, miss. Yes, we’re all supernaturals. It makes things easier, since we know what our employers are. I’m a half-demon.”
“What type?”
“Fire. Ann is a necromancer. Together with Tabitha, we’re the only three who’ll work with you, so the others don’t matter.” She turns and holds up a nightgown. “Ooh, this is pretty.”
It is indeed pretty—white cotton for the warmer weather, with ruffles and lace trim.
“It probably won’t fit,” I say wistfully. “My body isn’t the standard size.”
Marjorie’s grin sparks. “Oh, I believe there are many men who think that should be the standard size.” The smile vanishes in a grimace. “And now I’m being too bold. And too coarse.”
“My aunt sold salves and prophylactics to brothels, and I always volunteered to make the deliveries. I appreciated frank discussions of things I’d never hear in a London drawing room.”
She laughs. “Then we’ll get along splendidly, Miss Cordelia, and I’ll be relieved if I don’t need to pretend my dressing skills come from being a proper lady’s maid, rather than helping my colleagues dress for the evening.”
Her sidelong glance gauges my reaction, and I try not to look surprised. I prattled on to Bishop about how I was accustomed to brothels, and now my maid is telling me she used to work at one, and I don’t want to look naive, even if, in this moment, I suddenly feel exactly that.
“Then I won’t need to pretend I’ve ever had a proper lady’s maid,” I say. “The only person who helps me is my aunt. She’s excellent at fixing my hair but always pulls my corset strings too tight.”
“No need of that here, miss. No one would know how tight or loose a corset should be. That’s one advantage to being in a house full of men.”
She helps me out of my dress, corset, corset cover, and petticoats. I keep my drawers and chemise on, and when I put the nightgown over my head, I expect it to get stuck halfway down. Instead, it falls over me, neither tight nor overly roomy.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the looking glass. The nightgown fits me perfectly, and that isn’t possible. There’s no magic that does such a thing, only a seamstress with a set of measurements.
Wordlessly, I walk to the wardrobe. Three dresses hang inside, all of them beautiful and very clearly new, in exactly the colors and styles I wear.
I take one down and hold it out.
It’ll fit. It’ll fit perfectly.
“Do you want that one for tomorrow, miss?” Marjorie asks.
“No, I just… I wanted to see what’s here. I didn’t expect men to know what a woman needs.”
“True, but your father is very thorough.”
I open one drawer and then another. Everything is there. Each undergarment I might want or need.
All in my size.
“Miss Cordelia?”
I disguise my confusion by stifling a fake yawn. “Sorry. I’m keeping you up, and I can’t imagine the hour.”
“Nearly three, miss. But I napped earlier. If you’re hungry or want to talk, I’m here.”
“I’d love to talk, but what I need to do is sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow? And meet Ann and Tabitha?”
“Of course, miss. I expect you’ll want a late breakfast, so we’ll come by at noon to dress you and bring you a tray. If you wake up earlier, you only need to speak to Mr. Oliver.”
“Noon will be fine. Thank you.”
I don’t sleep for hours. I’m too unsettled.
What have I gotten myself into?
I can’t think of it that way. I got myself out of something—with help. The problem is that the help came from strangers, and now I’m in their home, and I am not prepared.
I made mistakes at the town house. I endangered Audrey, and I… I killed Henrietta. But I didn’t mean to kill her, and I got Audrey to safety, and I avoided being caught by that half-demon. Considering my lack of real fighting experience, I did fine.
But now I’m here, among werewolves. If anything goes wrong, I’m trapped. I’m deep in their lair, in a guarded, windowless room, and my father might call me a guest, but how quickly might he decide I’m a captive instead?
Stop that. I’m anxious and overreacting.
My father has been nothing but kind and considerate.
I imagine him compiling that wardrobe for me, in the hopes he could convince Lenora to let me get to know him, spend time here, and I’m touched.
Everything is perfect. Just enough pieces for a visit…
a visit that might never have come if Lenora had her way.
If only she’d talked to me.
If only she’d trusted me enough—thought me mature enough—to tell me about my father and let me make choices.
But she didn’t… and I don’t know how to feel about that.
I take deep breaths. I’ll fix this. I’ll let my father handle this threat against me, and then I’ll go home and speak to Lenora.