Chapter 8
eight
The night gathers quickly outside my window. Shadows ghost in the garden, turning the mangled bushes to lurking ghouls. One wrong move and I am swallowed up, taken down to whatever awaits the dead.
Bram said he lingers in some liminal space of the wood.
A part I cannot see. Not fully. A place neither dead nor alive.
Ithrandril saving the souls who strived for goodness in their life and the rest rotting away until Erybrus claims them.
Where restless souls—those claimed neither by Ithrandril or Erybrus—bide their time, their unfinished business, like worms trapped beneath skin.
My stomach buckles with the thought. Of Mother wrapped in the darkness of the deepening wood, hiding from whatever things Bram was so afraid of. Each breath painful, each moment agony while she waits…
Waits for what?
What could possibly keep her from peace? Her choice should be easy.
I dredge up every option, every moment of my life and hers that might be the reason she is trapped there, in some wood beyond. The realization cracks across my surface like shattered porcelain, and I find myself on the floor, head in my hands, tears running down my cheeks.
You deserve to be happy. Clara’s voice filters through my mind.
And maybe that is all Mother wants for me. Happiness. Maybe it is the thing keeping her trapped between life and death. Mortality and eternity. Holding her back from making her final choice.
I reach for the bell where it sits on my desk, my teeth grinding. The handle is worn, the wood smooth, like it was made to fit my palm. I push to my feet, holding it aloft.
Two faces beneath one hood.
Two souls stolen.
I will make this devil deal if it will bring Mother back. If it will rescue her from a fate worse than rotting bones. One flick of my wrist—that is all it will take. Such a simple movement for so great a thing. I pull in lungfuls of air, swallowing until my belly is bursting.
Once, a fool. Twice, a thief.
I push the thought away and—
Hooves clatter on the lane outside the vicarage.
I drop the bell into my pocket, hurrying to the window just in time to notice a streak of black rush over the bridge.
Wheels screech in front of the vicarage, sending my heart pounding in my ears.
There is only one carriage like that in town, only one that comes from the north.
It is, no doubt, from Blackbourne Castle.
Gently, I reach for my sweater and slip my feet into sturdy boots. The pages of Mother’s journal rustle in my waistband. I pull it out and lay it on the bed. While I do not understand the scribblings, I doubt anyone can. It doesn’t serve me to keep it.
I am careful not to allow the door to swing shut behind me as I slip out into the hall, easing it closed.
Each step sends a flutter against my ribs, my heart nothing more than a starling caught inside a chimney.
Downstairs, my father moves along the hall.
His footsteps are heavy, each one a noose around my throat. Why has the carriage come?
The news of Lord Black’s death swept the village the day after Bram appeared in my bedroom. Father is writing the eulogy, locked up in his study, pacing before the leaden glass windows. The bodies to bury, it seems, never run dry.
My guts swim, turning inside out on themselves while I tiptoe to the edge of the stairs. Father is in the foyer now, cane scratching the slate tile. There is a rap on the door. Three sharp knocks. My breath stills when the door opens. I catch the scent of woodsmoke and frost.
Low voices, words I cannot make out, shimmer in the air, and I wind down the stairs until I am standing in the kitchen.
“You cannot possibly mean that. I demand I accompany her.”
It is Father’s voice, cold and sharp as mint leaves.
“Apologies, Vicar, but it is what he requested.”
I do not know the other voice. Then again, the servants at the castle rarely make their way into town, their every need already met within the great gray stones.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow it.” Hinges creak while Father tries to close the door, but a palm slaps against the wood, stopping him.
“The young lord was very specific, Vicar Thorn. She is to come alone, and she is to come now.” The voice clears its throat.
“Otherwise, he will be forced to take unfortunate actions. You know where the power in this town lies, Vicar, and as much as you’d like to believe otherwise, it isn’t the church, Ithrandril save me. ”
Bile churns at the hollow of my throat. My fingers worry at my sides, nails piercing flesh. I swallow as much air as I possibly can. It is no use. My heart is already slipping out of tune.
A-live, a-live, a-a—
Father’s cane makes an arc on the floor. “Very well.”
My breath shudders when he comes around the corner.
I have not seen my father in days, not up close.
Shadow dusts his jaw in unkempt tangles, his shirt is wrinkled and stained by what I can only presume are tea and ink.
His eyes are ringed in violet, and his shoulders slump while he makes his way into the kitchen.
There is a cruel smile on his lips when he sees me.
“You’ve been summoned,” he says.
She. Whoever waits on the other side of the door said she.
But surely, they did not…They must not mean me.
What could anyone at Blackbourne Castle want with me?
And then the ghost of his hands brush my skin, Ransom’s hands while they cleaned the cut, wrapped the silk around my heel, and told me…
told me what? I push the memory away, squaring my jaw.
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to ignore the anxiety tying knots in my stomach.
He comes closer, each scratch of his cane a shovel of dirt on my coffin. Father comes so close I can smell the stench of him—burnt black tea, iron, and sweat. I almost gag when he leans in. A candle gutters on the table.
“It appears our new patron would like to have words with you. And yet”—his breath is hot and moist on my cheek—“if anyone finds out, you are surely ruined.”
Ruined.
I roll the word around on my tongue until it is sharp, bitter, and hot before projecting it back in his face.
“In your eyes, Father, I already am.”
I go to move past, but his hand strikes like a viper, fingers burying into my upper arm. “What Erybrus has conceived with lust only births sin. Whatever you do, daughter-mine, do not let him touch you. The Lord Blacks are tricky gods.”
My lips wrinkle a sneer, and I take in my father for all he truly is.
Broken, battered, a shell of a man. I bare my teeth in the low light of evening.
“There is only one trickster god, Father. The one who looks back at you from the mirror every morning, whispering words of deceit and decency alike, while you keep your daughter tied to a chair.” I spit the words like belladonna berries and sweep past him, leaving behind nothing more than a trail of bitterness.
He does not move to stop me while I curl around the wall and into the foyer. A man stands on the threshold, his face pinched as though he has bitten something sour.
“Are you Ms. Adelaide Thorn?” he asks.
I bob my head. “I am.”
He angles out into the night, pointing a gloved hand toward the carriage, where wax-wick lamps glisten like will-o’-the-wisps.
To lead me into darkness, take me down, swallow me whole, and spit out the bones.
I gulp air, one finger pressing the vein bleating in my neck. The response is strong and steadying.
A-live, a-live, a-live.
“Do I need to bring anything?” I look back toward Father.
He still stands in the kitchen, one hand white-knuckling the back of a chair.
“Just yourself, Ms. Thorn.”
The words cut sharp. So, I will not be staying. Ransom will take what he needs, and I will be left powerless and—if Father has his way—boarded onto a coach and sent away.
Ruined. Cured. This is all I am to my father. Spoiled, in need of healing. I reach for my wool cloak, where it hangs by the door, and sweep it over my shoulders.
I slip my hands into my pocket, once more curling fingers around the bell.
Bells for protection.
I twist to look at Father, but he is gone. All the better. No one left to say goodbye to. I button my cloak against the cold and turn toward the man with the pinched, sour face.
“To Blackbourne Castle, then?” I step out into the darkening night, breath frosting on my lips.
“Aye, Ms. Thorn.” He nods. “To Blackbourne Castle.”