Chapter 24
SAGE
Troy has been gone for two days. Without him, Grayfleet Hall feels colder, darker, and the corridors seem to stretch longer, even with the fires going.
The east wing, whenever I leave my room, breathes its secrets at me through keyholes and cobwebs in dusty corners.
It’s Halloween, and for once, this house doesn’t need decorating.
Kathy is busy preparing for the wedding. And Mundel has more to do off the island than on it.
I’m left to my own devices.
Only Ben appears wherever I turn…not stalking me exactly. He’s like a shadow, his nails clicking against the stone floors as he pads after me, like one of those old clocks that count the seconds. Occasionally, he grumbles and lies down at my feet, offering me his fur coat as a cozy foot warmer.
The library has been a great distraction. I like to run my fingers over foiled spines of the shelves, scanning for anything useful. Today, I note it’s mostly business texts in the corner I’ve chosen for research.
But wait.
A thin volume appears to be in the wrong place. It has a strange title that glares at me in gold lettering…Buile Suibhne.
Suibhne.
Wasn’t that the name engraved on Troy’s mother’s ring?
I ease the book out from where it’s stuck. The cover is emerald green, an unwanted reminder of a certain someone’s eyes that I can’t get out of my head, with an intricate weave of Celtic knotwork, with the birds and berries hidden among the pattern.
It looks like a book my mother would have on her witchy shelves. This is definitely not a business book. Did someone put this here deliberately or make a mistake?
I try to slip the ring off to check the title matches the engraving, but it’s stuck.
Making a mental note to try again with soap later, I open the book and flick through it.
One of the pages feels stuck. Teasing the edge with my finger, I peel off a loose page, and it flutters to the floor.
It’s not a page from the book. It looks like notebook paper, the kind for writing old-fashioned letters, but there are no words on it.
“You’re feeling better, then?”
I turn quickly. Kathy is in the doorway. Using my foot to hide the paper, I step forward and smile, hiding the book behind me.
Her brow furrows.
I smile brighter and meet her eyes. “Yes, much better now that it’s warmer in here.”
Yesterday, I stayed in bed most of the day, pretending I had a migraine. Ben sat outside my room, like he was keeping guard. And Kathy checked on me almost every hour. I did feel horrible, but that wasn’t because of my head.
Kathy gives a stiff nod. “It’s always nicer here when the fires are lit. Just let me know if you need anything from the pharmacy, and I can ask Mundel to pick it up on his way back. He’s flying in today.”
Mundel is coming back? Does that mean…?
“No, I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You probably need to eat. I’m about to serve breakfast in the dining room. Why don’t you come along when you’ve finished in here?”
“Is—” I start to ask, but catch myself.
Her eyes soften with understanding. “He’ll be back tonight for dinner, too.”
Heat crawls up my neck at the look in her eyes. She knows exactly who I was about to ask about, and the sympathy on her face makes it so much worse. She can see right through me to the pathetic girl who’s already smitten with Troy.
Just like the women who fawn over him, the kind she expected me to be exactly like.
I nod, trying to look indifferent, but something inside me crumples. Why do I care even where he is? Why does the thought of him leaving make my chest feel hollow?
This is the man I came here to destroy. I shouldn’t be acting like…whatever this pathetic neediness is.
You’re supposed to kill him, not moon over him, Nell offers unhelpfully.
Kathy leaves abruptly as she appeared, giving me time to scoop the fallen paper.
It feels slightly stiff and wavy in my fingers, and when I hold it up to the light, there’s a faint lemony scent.
It reminds me of the secrets I would write to Nell, that only we could read once they were baked (or so we liked to pretend).
I was so excited when I found the method in an old history book that I almost burned down the bakery the first time I tried it.
Pulse pounding, I shove the piece of paper back inside the front cover and then stuff the book in my cardigan pocket. Hopefully, Troy won’t miss it. I bet he hasn’t even read half the books he owns. But as I walk to breakfast, my mind races at what could be on it.
I’m practically buzzing when Kathy has finished serving, and I have the kitchen all to myself for once.
Carefully, I place the paper in one of the ovens at a low temperature.
After a few minutes, marks begin to darken on the page.
Hastily, I pull it out. I don’t want to leave it too long, and it turns black.
As soon as the paper is cool enough to hold up, the first line leaps out at me.
To my dark Sweeney…
The rest of the day passes in a haze. I end up back in bed, under my blanket, trying to make sense of it.
Ben is outside my door again. I feel like Troy has somehow set his dog on me to make sure I don’t go where I’m not supposed to. But I feel a little safer with him around, especially at night.
At my feet is a stack of books I’ve borrowed, mostly cookbooks.
Troy doesn’t seem to have anything else to read from this century.
Every book is either a classic or a rare edition that shouldn’t exist. There were some business books on the shelves where I nabbed the Sweeney book, but I’m loath to read through those.
Anyway, there’s only one book I’m interested in.
It’s about a king called Buile Suibhne who talks to birds and slowly loses his grip on reality, who he was before, and his crown.
The word Suibhne is etched inside Troy’s family ring, but I don’t know what it means. I don’t even know what language it is.
And the letter inside it is more confusing.
It’s definitely from my sister. I take it out and reread it.
What looks like Nell’s neat cursive handwriting, very similar to mine, is scrawled over it in burnt ink.
But it’s only half a letter. The rest seems to be missing.
And the words…it feels like a confession.
What happened to my sister?
Was it really Nell who wrote this?
I study the old fold lines before carefully recreating them, a triangle rather than a square. It’s how we used to fold letters when we were kids.
Nell was here at Grayfleet before she died, so she must have hidden the letter then. But who is Sweeney? What was my sister’s relationship with them, and why would Nell hide this letter in this book in Troy’s library?
Could Troy know who Sweeney is? Is that why he killed her? Was she in love with someone else? The letter feels intimate, even if I don’t have the second half.
But the only other man here, apart from Troy, is Mundel.
And I don’t see it.
The sound of a helicopter whirring above the house stirs me from my makeshift nest. Then it fades into the distance. I sit listening until it’s gone.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Oh my God, what is that? I startle at the powerful knock at the door, my heart almost jumping out as I clutch the book to my chest.
“It’s me, dear.”
“Oh, Kathy.” I quickly shove the blanket over the letter. “Come in.”
Kathy peers around the edge of the door and then opens it wide.
“I was just about to bake a batch of pies and cakes for the wedding. Thought you might like to join me since I know you enjoy pottering about in the kitchen like I do.”
“Yes, I would. Thank you.”
“Good. Sometimes there’s nothing like getting your hands in some dough after a difficult day. Helps settle the nerves.” She glances at the book I’m holding.
Inwardly, I curse. I didn’t hide it this time.
“Mad Sweeney, a bit dark for you, isn’t it?”
“What did you say?”
“Mad Sweeney, the Irish folk story you’re reading.”
I stare at the cover, every nerve in my body on full alert. “It’s Irish?”
“Yes, like Master Troy’s family.”
“I didn’t know he was Irish.”
Something shifts in her expression, becoming more guarded. “Well, his family was. Before they came—” She stops abruptly.
I stare at her, my brain working overtime to connect the dots. Kathy already admitted to me that she knew Troy when he was younger. What else is she not saying? “You knew Troy’s family?”
Her hand goes to the door frame. “Ah, no. I just know his heritage.” She won’t meet my eyes now. “From what I’ve heard, I mean. Around the house.”
But her fingers are twisting the fabric of her apron. Kathy is worse than I am at lying.
“I should get back.” She’s already backing into the hallway. “Come down when you’re ready.”
As soon as she’s gone, I stuff the letter inside the book and stash it with the rest of my evidence.
Then I fix myself in the mirror. I’m wearing one of my new dresses with an oversized cardigan.
Boxes and boxes arrived from London yesterday morning.
I should put the clothes away, but somehow that feels like I’m staying, and deep down I know I’m not.
When I get to the kitchen, Kathy tells me she has to run a few errands and leaves me to it. My insides deflate a little. I was coming down to grill her about Troy, but she can’t wait to get away fast enough.
“I’ll be back to check on you soon, but I really must run to the village,” she calls.
Then she’s off, out the door, closing it to keep Ben out. He’s not allowed in the kitchen.
For a few hours, I lose myself in the task of baking; the smell of the yeast, the feel of the dough soft under my hands, and the satisfying ache in my arms as I knead it into shape. Nothing else exists when I’m in the warm kitchen. For once, I’m able to switch off and let my mind become quiet.