Chapter 2
Neighbors gathered to speculate about the new companion from the south, murmuring that she’d arrived half-frozen and wide-eyed, likely unprepared for the isolation of the castle and the eerie cries that sometimes drifted from the woods on moonlit nights.
At first, Blackfen Castle was a rumor, nothing more than a gray blur on the horizon as the wagon slewed across the last bend.
The land dropped away suddenly into a shallow basin, and there it brooded above the fen, something out of time.
The snow shrouded the slopes and lay thick upon the roof’s battlements, muffling the edges so that the building seemed to hover, an apparition formed from mist and memory.
Verity leaned forward in her seat, clutching the blanket tight around her as the wind tore at her.
The approach wound between stands of birch and oak, their black branches veined with frost, and here and there the red-berried rowan and spikes of holly offered color in the absence of sun.
Beyond the stone walls, a line of Scots pine bristled against the sky, the green so dark it looked almost blue in the bitter light.
She felt the loneliness of the place at once. The grandeur was undeniable, but it was not the sort that welcomed a stranger. Every window stared blankly, every ledge and gargoyle bearded with icicles that caught the weak daylight and threw it back like a threat.
As usual, Ephraim Cutter said nothing as they crested the last rise.
He drove the horses with deft, silent confidence, the reins slack in his hands.
Only his eyes moved, flicking from the castle to the snowbanked drive and back.
The wind scraped loose drifts from the trees and tossed them across the path, each gust a pale curtain that closed and opened, then closed again.
As they turned into the approach, Verity became keenly aware of her body, every thump of her own heart. Her toes had lost all feeling at this point. Her hands were numb too, the warmth from the stove had completely faded from her body at the start of their ride.
Then the wagon creaked around a last bend, and the Castle’s main edifice loomed before them.
It was larger than she expected, and older.
The lower story was built of massive stone blocks, flecked with black lichen and moss that the cold could not banish.
Above it, the windows grew taller and narrower, some made with opaque glass.
In the middle, flanked by two squat towers, was the main entrance. Twin pillars rose beside the double doors, supporting a portico. The doors themselves were blackened with age.
Mr. Cutter brought the horses to a halt. He climbed down stiffly, and jerked his chin toward the massive oak doors. “I’ll fetch yer trunk when I unload the supplies. Best knock yerself.”
She gathered the blanket around her shoulders, took a deep breath, and made to climb down.
Her half-boots squelched the instant her weight settled on the step, and she landed on damp leather.
Ice slopped into her left boot and soaked straight through the worn, cracking leather and wool stocking alike.
A soft, mortified sound escaped her. How long before the leather cracked entirely? What would she and these fragile things have to endure before she could get a sturdy pair of half-boots lined with fleece? She wondered how she might procure a wardrobe suited to this forsaken northern wilderness.
Verity drew a breath. Her hands trembled, whether from cold or nerves, she could not say. She stepped forward, boots squealing.
The doors towered over her, each many heads taller than she and studded with heavy, tarnished brass. There was a knocker in the middle, set on the right door. A wolf’s head, cast in gleaming metal, jaw open as if it howled at the visitor. The ring was clamped between its fangs.
She reached up to grasp it. The brass was so cold it bit her skin.
At that moment she noticed the keystone above the arch. The carving there, another wolf, had its mouth stretched wide, like a predator about to consume its prey. Its tongue curled out, exaggerated and wet-looking even in stone.
She felt fear seize her wrist, the memory of the mastiff’s bite in Somerset fresh as the day it happened. Her scar throbbed, a phantom ache beneath her glove.
Then, forcing herself to move, she drew the wolfhead knocker back and let it fall.
The clang was tremendous. It reverberated through the air, shivering along the length of her arm. For a moment, she imagined the whole building rang with the sound, that even the dead in their crypts would stir and listen.
She lowered her hand and waited, heart hammering against her ribs. But inside the doors she heard nothing.
The echo of the knocker faded at last, leaving the world more silent than before. She could only hear her own breathing, sharp and ragged in the cold.
She tried again, unwilling to accept defeat so quickly. This time she raised the knocker with both hands, and the sound was louder, more defiant in the hush. Twice, she let it fall, feeling the vibration shudder into her bones.
Still, nothing came from within. She pressed her lips together. She shivered, tucking the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The cold asserted itself as if it had been waiting for just this moment.
This was absurd. Was she to freeze to death on the doorstep of her would-be employer, not a soul in the house to open the door?
She reached for the handle, expecting it to be locked, or perhaps frozen solid. Instead, the brass turned easily beneath her gloved hand, and gave with a faint click.
The door swung open and immediately she inhaled warm air thick with woodsmoke. Above her, ancient tapestries hung from ancient beams, their faded threads depicting hunts and battles she could not quite make out in the gloom.
She squinted toward the far wall where flames leapt and crackled in a large fireplace. Her breath clouded before her. The fire’s warmth did not reach this far. She pushed back her shoulders and took a resolute step forward, the soles of her boots landing on the polished threshold.
Her gaze traveled upward to where firelight glinted off silver. There was a massive shield mounted above the mantel.
A black wolf snarled from its center, its tongue a slash of crimson against obsidian fur.
One paw clutched sprigs of something violet.
Wolfsbane, perhaps. Flanking the shield stood two stags rendered in exquisite detail, their ears tipped forward, nostrils flared, as if they’d caught a predator’s scent on the wind.
Verity’s tongue darted across her cracked lips.
Her body tensed and half-turned toward the waiting wagon outside.
She remembered that she had nowhere to run to, but something in her longed to flee anyway, to choose the familiar ruin of Somerset over whatever unknown danger might lurk within these walls.
For a moment, she stood suspended between two impossible choices. Then, thinking about Somerset, the snarling mastiff, who and what awaited her there, she pulled the door closed with a hollow thud that echoed through the cavernous space.
“Hallo?” Her voice broke on the word, then strengthened as she took another step forward. “Is anyone here?”
Her words had scarcely faded when the sound of nails quickly clicking against stone echoed through the hall. Verity froze, breath catching in her throat as the clicking grew louder, more insistent, coming from multiple directions at once.
Three enormous shapes materialized from the shadows, so large she first mistook them for young ponies.
Irish Wolfhounds, each one larger and taller than any wolf she had ever imagined, circled her with primal grace.
Their massive paws struck the flagstones with purpose, surrounding her in a tightening ring.
Verity clutched the blanket tighter, as if the threadbare wool might shield her from those gleaming teeth. The eldest, an iron-gray beast with gray frosting his muzzle, led the advance. His amber eyes fixed on her with ancient intelligence while a low growl rumbled from his chest.
The second, a fawn-colored female sniffed at Verity, her movements graceful despite her size.
She cocked her head, studying Verity with unnerving perception that seemed to strip away pretense.
The third, younger and more volatile, circled with bristling blue-gray fur, teeth bared in a snarl that exposed gleaming fangs.
“Oh,” Verity whispered, sinking into herself as the blanket slipped from her shoulders. She bent lower, making herself small. Her legs trembled beneath her skirts, the cold forgotten as terror seized her limbs. The dogs towered above her crouched, diminutive form, their heads level with hers.
In response, all three threw back their heads in unison, releasing a chorus of deep, thunderous barks that reverberated through the cavernous chamber.
The sound crashed against the stone walls and rained down from the rafters.
Her ears rang with it, primitive and terrible.
She covered her head with her arms, certain she would feel teeth tearing into her flesh at any moment.
“Enough!”
The hounds fell silent instantly, dropping to their haunches with military precision. Their massive heads lowered to rest on enormous paws, tongues lolling as the fight drained from their powerful bodies.
Footsteps approached from the corridor beyond the fire. Verity remained frozen in her half-crouch, pulse racing so wildly she felt light-headed.
She kept her gaze fixed on the flagstones, struggling to gather her scattered courage. The heat from the distant hearth was slowly reaching her, seeping through her damp clothes and into her chilled skin, yet she shook violently.
A pair of gleaming black hessians appeared at the edge of her vision, polished to a mirror shine. She lifted her gaze slowly, traveling up dark trousers, past a silver waistcoat, to a face that arrested her breath.