Chapter Four
“The Red Clover’s order is nearly ready.
” Sélie’s face is worn, but she gives me a half-hearted smile as we work behind the counter.
The hours have ticked away slowly, minutes dripping like honey, slow, painfully so, as we mixed pots of color, crushed violet petals, creating then lining up rows of gold-flecked liner, currant lip stain, sea salt lemon scrub, and all kinds of beauty in a jar. “Would you like me to deliver it?”
Her hesitation is palpable—she knows that my audition was an embarrassment. That I haven’t danced since—I wouldn’t have wanted to after that, even without the pain of Aven. But I snatch the opportunity.
“No, I’ll take it. I have some other errands to run,” I tell Sélie, the lie coming out easily. It’s for her own good. There’s no use getting her hopes up. “You can close without me?”
“Of course.”
I’m glad she doesn’t ask questions because I don’t want to admit the real reason I’m going out. She’s more likely to offer to go with me than talk me out of it. But I can’t put her at risk. It’s dangerous, if what Marieta said is true. Wouldn’t a demon sooner kill me than help me?
Nonsense, I tell myself. It’s nonsense. A fool’s errand. Demons don’t exist—do they? But I suppose I’m a fool because I must at least try.
As Sélie starts another order, I leave the shop with the paper-wrapped package in hand, the black ribbon around it perfectly tied, just as Mavis taught us.
When I find a young boy on the street, I motion him closer and ask him to deliver the order for me.
“Take this to The Red Clover dance hall, please, to Julian.” I toss him a couple of extra coins, which he takes eagerly. “Get yourself a treat too.”
“Thanks, ma’am!” He scampers away, the box under one arm.
I call out, “And be careful with that.”
He throws me a cheeky grin over one shoulder, and I trust he’ll do what I asked, even if it’s not the usual way we conduct our business, preferring to hand deliver all our orders ourselves. This will save time.
Besides, I don’t want to go into the theatre, to face Julian after everything.
I have somewhere more important to be. Now that Marieta has put the idea into my head, I won’t be able to settle until I see who is really living in the mansion.
And if—if if if if if—he is a demon, can he help me? Can he bring Aven back to life?
As I hurry through the streets, I pass the sweet shop, the general store, the mail office, the bakery. Seagulls swoop overhead, hoping to catch bits of dropped food from the lingering market vendors. A horse neighs. Farther away, behind me at the docks, a ship’s horn blares.
The square is still littered with people, but I weave in and out of them gracefully.
When I walk by the butcher shop, I keep my eyes straight ahead, not only to avoid the bloody cuts of meat hung in the window, but to avoid talking to Marieta.
She’ll just go off spouting things about resurrection and demons.
I worry if she tries to talk to me, I’ll change my mind, my rebellious nature pushing aside the seed of intrigue planted inside me now.
Because I’ve decided. I’m going to seek out a demon, to beg him to bring my sister back to life. Even if it costs my own.
The Colehart Mansion is as far from our cottage as you can get without leaving town and entering a bit of nothing before reaching the next village—a small place as bland as The Pins is odd. This area is quite isolated, in the most foreboding sense of the word.
As the sky begins to streak with the golden orange rays of sunset, I arrive at the main road leading to the property.
I can’t help thinking over what I do know about demons, the tales I’ve heard from Sélie, the stories I was always so certain were fictional.
That they’re monstrous in form, winged and scaled and tailed, with black eyes and forked tongues.
That they can kill you just by looking at you, that they have no soul, are unable to love—not that they’d even want to.
I tighten my mouth and will my feet to move. There’s no point putting it off now that I’ve made up my mind.
Be careful, be careful, my footsteps repeat as the road widens slightly and the house looms ahead.
I could just swerve left and cut into the woods, find the curving, narrow road which can barely call itself a road, which starts in the heart of town and leads all the way to our cottage, forged by years of Mavis coming and going in her old wagon.
I could meet Sélie there at home. Except, home feels far away at the moment, with the large house so close, too close now for me to turn around and pretend it’s not because I’m scared out of my wits, even if there’s no one to see me lose my nerve.
I refuse to let fear make me back down, so I continue, only slowing to take stock of the property.
The patchy lawn is thirsty, though it’s been trimmed recently so there’s a shabby neatness about it.
With one more breath for courage, I stride up to the wrought iron gate, covered with swirling black vines and iron roses.
I push, expecting it to be locked, but it gives immediately, swinging open with a moaning creak.
I eye the grand estate ahead of me. It was once grand, at least. Still beautiful, stately, though it’s lost a lot of its fineness as it was vacant for so long.
There are even a few boarded up windows.
The cream exterior has turned dirty yellow in spots, and it’s missing the railing in one area of the porch.
Skin prickling, I tread the long brick path which leads straight from the gate to the house, noting that some of the bricks are broken along the edges.
Stepping up the crooked steps, I avoid the parts that are sunken in the middle, lest I fall through.
I hesitate at the door, swallowing down my apprehension.
It’s light enough outside, and there’s a gentle wind on my face, but nothing feels light or welcoming about this place.
Everything is too quiet—you can’t even hear the thrashing of the waves from here.
A long inhalation and I lift the heavy lion-shaped knocker on the solid door.
The sound of the gold ring thuds against the wood, echoing in my ears.
After a moment, the door opens a fraction.
A man’s hard-lined face peeks out, a shock of white hair falling over his brow in a wild way. He smells of smoke and furniture polish, his weathered skin like tanned leather. His cold blue eyes flick down to me. “Yes?”
My voice falters. He isn’t a demon, but I wouldn’t exactly call him benign. Doubtfully I ask, “Are you the man of the house?”
“I’m the butler.” His voice a rough timbre from his chest. “I work for him.”
“May I see him?”
The man opens the door and stands to his full height—tall and proud. He wears a butler suit, complete with white gloves, but the outfit is strange on him, like he’d be more at home wielding a knife or a pistol than a silver tray.
“He is not seeing anyone,” he tells me, voice firm, even a little annoyed.
“Please.” I clasp my hands together. I know this man is entirely human, but my instinct is to run back to the road. Instead, I root myself to the porch. “May I see him, please? My name is Corliss Bell, and I’ve come with an urgent matter.”
The butler seems to assess me with a healthy dose of skepticism, and I shift under his critique, glancing down at myself.
My curving figure, waist cinched in a wide corset belt, my leather boots just peeking out below my rose-pink skirts.
My updo and the short, puffed sleeves and rounded neckline of my dress leave my tattoos visible, tendrils of leaves inked across my collarbone, vines on my arms, flowers, swirls.
There’s just a faint whiff of rose perfume and ocean mist clinging to my skin, but surely, he can smell the desperation on me, a hint of sweat and nerves.
Then again, most people don’t have noses as good as mine.
I look perfectly decent, maybe not a fine lady, but a lady nonetheless, even if untraditional.
I nervously twist the ring on my finger, a gift from Aven. I wore it for luck.
“What do you want?” he asks bluntly.
“I need to see him—”
“I already said no—” He starts to shut the door, and I shove my foot in the crack. He widens the gap in surprise, indulging me. He sighs. “Well then, go on.”
“I need his help,” I say, then add on, “If what they say is true…” I let my voice trail off, in what I hope is an intriguing way.
“What who is saying?”
I stall, not sure how to say it. I can’t very well ask if his employer is a demon, can I?
I look past his shoulder into the foyer, trying to catch a glimpse of the lord of the house in the background, peering around the staircase maybe, or lurking around a doorframe, a shadow slinking across the floor. There’s no one else nearby.
Finally, I whisper, “Is he…does he have magic?”
The butler barks a crackled laugh which ricochets in the air. “Don’t spread rumors. Some folk are best left alone, dangerous. He’s one of ’em.”
I snap out, “I don’t care if he’s dangerous, so long as he can help me! Does he have magic or no?”
“Magic? That’s a pretty word for what he does.” He laughs again. Like I’m a fool.
I fold my arms against my chest. “Please. A life depends on it.”
“Then you should know he’s in the business of taking lives, not saving them.”
“You mean—”
“Not magic, girl.” He leans in, eyes dead set on mine. “Murder.”
My mouth falls open. Murder-for-hire then? So, he’s not not dangerous.
“Now leave and don’t come back.” Then the unpleasant man nudges my foot off the threshold and slams the door in my face.