Chapter 22
twenty-two
After a long moment of silence, my mother screams. It is a happy scream, but it shocks me to my core all the same.
The idea of sound coming from her mouth.
That mouth. The mouth I wiped blood from, that sang me lullabies and coughed until her lungs dried up.
The mouth that pressed kisses to my fevered skin, taught me about flowers in the garden, laughed when I toddled haphazardly across the kitchen floor.
The mouth that curled inward, turned red to black to gray.
The mouth that couldn’t even say goodbye when all was done.
Making sound. It feels impossible. Should be impossible.
All along, I have known finding her was my goal.
Bringing her home, back to life. And yet here I stand, gazing into her eyes, like pools of deepest blue, itching to touch her golden hair.
Her cheeks almost rosy in all the blistering candlelight.
The pallor of sickness is gone, as if it never was.
I want to believe it, and I wait for the sweet relief to course through my veins.
But all I feel is the cold.
“My Addie!” Mother shoves her seat back and runs at me with open arms.
When she enfolds me, she smells like lemons, lavender, and earth. Warm, good earth. But I keep myself from breathing it in fully, from believing this is real and happening. I reach through her hair and press a finger to her throat.
Nothing.
My mother is dead. I watched the men take away her body, lay her in a grave, and cover it with dirt and a stone cross.
Esme Thorn, Devoted Mother, Dutiful Wife.
Died Age 36. Blessed be she by Ithrandril.
Those words always made me angry. Mother.
Wife. She was so much more than that. More than what she gave to other people.
An artist, a light, a place of warmth and growth.
My arms hang limp at my sides while she squeezes.
“My darling, how I’ve missed you.” Her voice is soft and calm, sweet as river water. Her hand runs over my tangled hair, and I almost break at the touch. So gentle, so familiar, it hurts.
I push away. “How—”
Her face is full of tears. They glisten in the fire’s glow, each one a diamond. I fight the urge to brush them away, to throw myself back into her arms. But I smell something else beneath the scent of earth and citrus.
Iron. Sulfur.
I step back, holding out a hand for Bram to catch. His fingers wrap solidly around mine, and I press my thumb to my throat.
A-live, a-live, a-live.
But my mother is not. There is a tug of unease in my belly. I should feel happy, relieved at finding her. But I don’t. There is something wrong, a catch in the air. Not of lemons or ripe soil, but a sour tang. Mother’s face is too perfect, too new.
She is supposed to be dead. Her eyes go soft as egg whites, and I brace myself against Bram.
“Adelaide, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. Please.” She puts her arms out again, beckons me in.
But if I go, if I accept this reality, what do I do if it proves to be false? Can a ghost be trusted?
Bram is steady at my back. He is real and solid and there. And even if he is dead, he is the most alive person I have ever met. Violent and fierce and wildly unyielding. I knead my thumb against his hand.
“How do I know it’s you?”
Mother’s face twists at this, her lips curving down. “Oh, my Morning Glory. Of course it’s me.”
But it isn’t. There is something wrong. Something in the way she smells. In the way she carries herself—as though she is the most important creature in all the world. Her dress is finer than anything she ever owned in life, and her ears and neck drip in pearls.
My mother wore linen and wool. Simple, hardy fabrics to get her through a day in the gardens, in the kitchen, tearing after me when I toddled down to the banks of the river.
She wore her simple flame-shaped locket for Ithrandril about her neck, nothing else, and smelled of soil, flowers, and rainwater.
But the face is right. And that’s what scares me the most.
“Do you remember what you said to me the day you died?”
Her face softens, and she sighs. “How could I forget?”
The air between us releases, like it is being pressed from trapped space. My ribs release a breath, and I step forward. There are tears in my eyes now, hot when they slip down my cheeks.
“Say it. Please.”
Her hand wraps around me, and even though it is cold, it feels familiar. “Chase Death, my dearest. That way, he will never catch you.”
I fall against her, every inch of my body loosening. We hold each other there, sinking to the floor while our chests rise and fall in sobs. I cry until my lungs burn, until the salt water clings to my cheeks. When I finally do pull away, Mother is smiling. Each tooth so white it shines like ivory.
“You must be exhausted after your travels.” She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I can have someone take you up to a room, draw you a bath. Would you like that?”
All I can think about is warm water running over my body, thawing the frost, cleaning the muck from my ankles. I should ask after Ransom, but the pressure of his body against mine is still too raw and real, so I push him away and nod.
“I would give anything for a bath.”
Mother throws her head back, a laugh like lilting birds filling the air. Behind us, at the table, the men and women mirror her, their heads tipping toward the ceiling, a symphony of glee. I smile and look to Bram.
But he is not grinning. His eyes are fixed on those seated, on each of their laughing, lolling tongues. I frown and turn back to Mother.
“Can a room be cleared for Bram as well? He is the one who helped me find you.”
Mother flicks her gaze to him. For a moment, there is something behind her eyes, an emotion I cannot make out. A flash of something akin to recognition. But then she softens, turns to spun sugar.
“Of course he can,” she says, voice butter smooth. “Your friend is welcome to stay as long as he needs.”
I look to Bram, but he seems to stare right through me. His lips quirk in a forced smile, and he inclines his head.
“Thank you, my lady.” His eyes slide back up to look at her. “You are, in fact, the lady of this castle, are you not? There is something oddly familiar about you.”
Tension fills the air, a stone dropped into a glass of water. My mother’s face tightens, skin stretching over bones, and I notice death there for the first time. A graying pallor to her cheeks, sunken hollows. A mask of sorts.
And then it is gone, replaced by a brilliant smile. “I am. And you are the Avery boy, are you not? Died of unknown causes, isn’t that right?”
Bram squares his jaw. “I believe there is someone who knows the cause.”
My skin prickles. The silence between them sits too long, thickening with each breath. Bram holds my mother’s gaze, challenging her, looking for a fight. I reach for his hand and look between them. Wolves in the night. And then I think of Rascal.
“Where is my dog?”
Mother’s blue eyes catch my own. “What, the hellhound? You’ve not made him your pet, have you?”
“He’s Bram’s, actually,” I say. “But can he not stay in my rooms with me?”
There is silence, only the guttering of candle flame. My heart is a hammer and anvil. It clangs against my ribcage like a stuck bird. There is a giggle from one of the ladies at the table, and my stomach turns.
“That’s enough.” Mother’s voice cuts the air like a knife.
“I will see your pet is sent to your rooms, Adelaide.” Her arm comes around me, heavy as a paperweight.
“But you must rest now. I will come find you before the party, and we will talk.” Her hand clamps around mine, spins me so I am facing her. “We have so much to catch up on.”
I want to tell her to wait, to stop. What party? Aren’t I supposed to find her and bring her back? Back home to Rixton with Father? Back home so I can know love once more? But she is already pushing me toward another door, already waving over a woman in black.
“Take these two to the rooms in the eastern wing, Istelle. And make sure the Haunts release the hellhound. Though, have care with the beast. We don’t want him tracking in…refuse.”
The voice is so unlike my mother’s, I try to turn back, but Istelle’s hand is steadily pressing between my shoulder blades, forcing me out the door.
Bram says nothing, just grabs my wrist, pulling me behind him.
We follow the woman in black from the room, out into dim light.
The last thing I see of my mother is the door closing on her pale face.
In the sallow light, her skin looks like cracked porcelain.
When I pull myself from the bath water, I notice a slip of paper on the bed that was not there before.
I reach for a towel, wrap it around my body, and cross to the bed.
It seems wrong, this room. Out of place.
The bed all delicately carved wood and white duvets.
Lace pillowcases and a linen pouch of something that smells of lavender, tucked between the sheets.
Everything else about the castle is dead. Dark stone, rotting lichen, the steady drip-drip of condensation and mold.
I reach for the note, only for a knock to sound at the door.
My heart leaps into my throat. I pull back and glance around the room for something more substantial than a towel.
My eyes land on a silk dressing gown in shades of ice and hoarfrost. I hurry to throw it over my shoulders and tie it tightly.
In the tarnished mirror, my hair is dripping wet.
A small groan of frustration echoes from my throat.
The last word I would ever use for the gauzy fabric is substantial.
The knock comes again. Harder this time.
“Come in!”
“I was just coming to say—I—Addie!”
I turn at the sound of Bram’s voice, the catch of shock.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize—” He ducks from the door, red creeping up his cheeks.
“It’s fine. I have clothes on, Bram. You can come in.”
Curls sweep across his face when he slips into the room, gently closing the door behind him. “Sorry, I just—” He clears his throat. “Did you get one of these?”
He waves a slip of paper. The edges scalloped and tinged with red. Its twin rests atop my pillow. Bram passes me the paper. It is cold in my hand.
“Read it,” he says, voice like whiskey in my belly.
A midwinter masque. To be held when the moon has turned to blood. Blackbourne Castle.
Rascal lifts his head from where he was sleeping on the duvet and groans his disapproval. But Bram is silent. He watches me, for what I don’t know.
“We can’t go,” he says finally.
“What do you mean? Who did this come from anyway?” I flip it over, searching it for a name, her name, anything. But it is blank.
“Who do you think?”
There is a bitter edge to his voice, and it makes me angry. “You’ve been an absolute brute to my mother, do you know that? A brute. You’re beginning to act a whole lot like Ransom.”
His eyes sliver with shadow. Before I can take my next breath, he is across the room, pressing me against the wall.
A dull ache starts deep in my chest, anger mixed with something else.
Oil in water. His eyes are like a wolf before a hunter, hungry and afraid, all at the same time.
The chill of him cools the water on my skin, a shiver cascading down to the small of my back.
“Say it again,” he growls. “That I am just like that no-good, deceitful, arrogant son of a bitch. Say it.”
My stomach flutters from the touch of his skin on mine, the softness of his breath against my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” His hands leave the wall and smooth down the sides of my waist, my skin catching fire as they go.
I suck in air, lightheaded and desperately eager.
“Bram…” My voice is thick, choked with roots of desire and ache.
It is all the encouragement he needs.
He curls his arms around the swell of my bottom and swoops me onto the bed.
Rascal protests loudly and jumps to the floor.
Laughter ripples from my throat. Real, true laughter, before it is smothered by Bram’s mouth, which is somehow as warm as brewed tea.
He is far gentler than Ransom, reverent almost. As though I am something holy.
His hands blaze up my breasts and curl around my chin, and his tongue slides past my lips. He tastes exactly how I wished he would. Spring sunshine and dew, ink-stained pages, and something like lemons. Something I cannot place.
The ache inside me deepens, the one I have felt for days but never knew how to name.
For Ransom, it came easier. I knew what to call that: contagion, infection, lust. But with Bram, it is somehow different.
A slow kind of falling. His hands slide along me, as though they were meant to.
Like whatever we were molded from is made of the same stuff and we are finally fitting together after so many years apart.
I yank at the collar of his shirt, and he rewards me with a low growl from the back of his throat, flipping me on top of him.
His hands are cold through the fabric of my dressing gown, his hips pressed against me.
I inhale—sharp and sweet. Feel his lips drag along my jaw, teeth snicking at my skin.
His fingers brush against my knee, the soft skin of my thigh.
I gasp, his teeth wicked against my neck.
And then Rascal bays.
I freeze, and Bram’s body goes rigid. The knob clicks on the door to my chamber, the hinges creaking open.
Mother stands at the threshold, putrefaction in her eyes.