Chapter 2 #2
It was not until the following afternoon that the landscape changed again. They passed through a mountain range, and Will only occasionally looked up from the notebook he had spent the last several hours filling with designs. Then the ravines opened to reveal a windswept peninsula.
Will was instantly on his feet and at the window. The sea. Even now, it still felt like home to him. Silver waves crashed against the coast, barren fields and empty forests stretched before it. But all of that faded into insignificance when he saw Bloodgrove.
Will stared out of the train in disbelief. How did people live and build in a place as hostile to life as this narrow peninsula, severed from the world by mountains and a raging sea?
The cover of clouds was so dense that the sun lent scarcely any color to the thousands of turrets and roof ridges.
It was as though someone had gathered every cathedral in the world, hurled them against the slope, and left them to tower over one another in endless cascades of spires and pointed arches, gables and eaves, stone pennants and gargoyles.
Wrought-iron snow guards lined the roofs, and tall garden fences stood beside cobblestone streets and tracery that would have put the Capitol’s finest stonemasons to shame.
Yet everything was blackened and sooty from the smoke belched by chimneys and the few factories.
It mingled with the low-hanging clouds above this monstrosity of a city.
Will could describe it no other way. It called to mind the frames of charred skeletons, mountains of ash, and the ruins left behind by a fire.
Bloodgrove.
What a name for a city in which one feared slicing open a hand with a single careless movement.
A perversion of an idyllic grove nestled between babbling brooks and summer lindens—distorted and blackened.
Perhaps that was where the rumors of curses and dark magic came from, for the city looked as though an evil mage had built it.
He shuddered. And this was where he was expected to work. To design.
How was he supposed to do that when his rooms spoke of wind and clouds?
Will had considered asking Duchess Wilkinson about his new client during their second lunch, but he had been too occupied evading her interrogation.
When they entered the station, the sun hung like an immense fireball between the rain clouds and the sea.
The building was enormous and yet oppressively narrow. With only two tracks, it lay wedged between a grand townhouse and rows of gloomy mansions.
The train staff, pale and dull-eyed, helped unload his luggage.
Will’s gaze traveled along the soot-blackened train. Duchess Wilkinson was met by a gentleman who took her beneath the arms and half carried her out of the station—presumably, her son.
The sight of her being welcomed with such affection moved Will. On the rare occasions when he visited his parents, his mother always waited for him on the platform as well.
Then he spotted Mr. Arcos leaving the first-class car.
When the ambassador saw Will, he paused briefly, touched the brim of his hat, and vanished with the next cloud of steam.
With no idea where he was supposed to go, Will followed his luggage as it was wheeled out in front of the station.
To his surprise, a black carriage was already waiting for him, harnessed to two powerful black horses that pawed impatiently at the cobblestones.
A coachwoman jumped down from the box, opened the compartment for him, and helped stow his suitcases.
Before he could tip the railway employee, the man had already disappeared. Frowning, Will sank back against the carriage’s quilted seats. At once, it lurched into motion at an alarming speed.
The city swept past the window, set aflame by the final light of day. Yet even the long rays of the setting sun could not drive away the shadows hiding in the corners of the buildings, as though the night could not wait to claim the city.
The streets emptied. Iron grates were pulled across storefronts, awnings folded away, and bolts drawn shut. With so few resources for so many inhabitants, the city likely suffered from crime.
At last, they came to a stop before one of the dark, grand townhouses.
The last light painted its steep roofs red, while the house beneath lay submerged in the twilight of dusk—hardly a single lamp burned behind the tall, barred windows.
The coachwoman set his suitcases on the sidewalk and departed without a word of farewell.
Will looked down the silent street. It was scarcely more than an alley, with mansions crowding either side, standing shoulder to shoulder with their neighbors. As with the other houses, a tall wrought-iron fence separated the residence from the street.
Will took a deep breath. He was here now. There was no turning back. In a city as isolated as this one, surely no one had heard of his scandal. He shook off the tingling at the back of his neck, straightened his shoulders, and arranged his features into their most charming expression.
No, it could not be an escape when everything in his body was screaming at him to leave this place.
It would have been an escape if he had torn up the letter and the bloody ticket, burned them in a fireplace, and boarded a train heading south.
But this, he told himself as his heart hammered, was continuing the fight for his dream.
His fingers closed around the heavy door knocker, fashioned in the shape of two birds of prey locked in a death spiral.
The blow echoed through the house.
Four months. In the new year, he would pack his suitcases again and return to the Capitol. His work here would become legend—he would be the man who had gone to Bloodgrove and returned successfully. He would be the man who brought progress to Bloodgrove.
The gate swung open.
“Mr. Frank. Duchess Ormonde is expecting you.”