39. Petra
PETRA
The entire family gathers in the foyer for dinner. Everyone is dressed in their finest. My mother wears her veil, of course, so I am the only one without mine. My father and brother are impeccably dressed, as well, waiting in composed silence for the carriage to arrive.
And still, the question gnaws at me: Who are we going to see?
I’ve never known my father to have connections outside our insular community. He’s famously strict, a devout man with an almost fanatical adherence to rules. And yet now . . . he merely glances at me, studies me from head to toe, and gives a single, curt nod.
Approval. Silent and unexpected.
Not a word about my unveiled face. No rebuke. No lecture. Nothing.
We step outside and into the waiting carriage. The ride is short. I count each second to steady my nerves: exactly eight minutes before we arrive in front of a sprawling estate.
We disembark. A wrought-iron gate swings open for us, manned by a uniformed staff member. We walk through it and then continue for nearly half a mile along a winding, tree-lined road. Whoever this person is, they must be unfathomably rich.
Even with my limited exposure to the world outside, I know this isn’t ordinary wealth. It’s the kind that makes my own family’s fortune look modest.
When we finally reach the house, another servant opens the door, takes our coats, and gestures us inside. We are led down an impossibly long corridor toward the drawing room.
The hallway itself feels like a gallery—lined with paintings on either side. Some are vibrant: fields of flowers, sunlit scenes, genteel moments of daily life. Others are dark, grim, and haunting. It’s an odd juxtaposition that makes the air feel heavier with each step.
But one painting in particular stops me in my tracks.
I linger behind to get a better look. In the corner, scrawled in elegant hand, are a signature and a title: Sinful Desires.
“Sinful . . .” I whisper.
“Petra, come on.”
My father’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. I hurry to catch up.
Once I fall into step beside them, he looks down at me, eyes hard.
“Don’t you dare embarrass me today,” he hisses. “Do you hear me, Petra?”
“Yes, Father,” I murmur, lowering my eyes.
“Do not speak unless asked.”
“Yes, Father. Of course.”
The drawing room is lavish, with gilded walls, rich tapestries, and more paintings, some of which echo the eerie tone of those in the hallway. In the center, two sofas form an L-shape, and already seated are two people.
One of them I recognize immediately: the man from the square on the day of the murders. He’s the voice I overheard speaking with my father, the one behind that disturbing plan to purge sin and dismantle the faculty at St. Anselm Hall.
The other must be his daughter. She’s young, perhaps two or three years my junior, with golden curls tumbling around her face, the rest pinned neatly at the back of her head. Her cheeks are full and rosy, but her eyes remain fixed to the floor, her hands knotted nervously in her lap.
The downcast expression surprises me. She doesn’t even glance up when we enter.
“Jeremiah, welcome,” the man says, his voice sending a chill down my spine. Maybe it’s because I’ve already cast him in the role of villain, or maybe it’s because I can tell that title fits him far too well.
“Thank you for hosting us, Andrew,” my father begins as we step into the center of the room. The introductions follow. “You already know my son.”
“Yes, of course. How do you do, young man?” Andrew replies, shaking my brother’s hand with a measured nod. “This is my wife Caroline, and this is my daughter, Petra.”
I incline my head, as does my mother. We don’t speak—because we haven’t been given leave.
“This is Mr. Andrew Snowden,” my father announces, his voice swelling with admiration. He launches into a stream of compliments—eminent, respected, generous—but I stop listening, distracted by the sudden click in my memory.
Snowden. The name has appeared in the Radcliffe Herald countless times.
One of the wealthiest men in the region, known for his dominance in textiles and recent investments in railway construction.
The papers often mocked his pretentious airs and flamboyant displays of wealth, but what stuns me more than anything is that he and my father are friends.
Snowden isn’t a member of our congregation, so when he spoke of “our community” in the square, he must have meant the town, not the church. But how does someone like him know my father?
And why would my father—rigid, devout—defer so readily to a man outside the faith?
A servant enters, announcing that dinner is served. We rise and follow, filing into the grand dining room where our places are already set.
Leah is seated next to my brother. My father takes the spot beside my mother, opposite Mr. Snowden. I find myself across from him, a position that makes me uncomfortable.
There’s something about this man—something far more unsettling than anything I’ve ever felt when it comes to sin or temptation. It’s deeper. More dangerous.
“Thank you so much for joining us today,” Mrs. Snowden begins with a smile. “It’s a wonderful occasion for our families to get to know one another.”
“Of course. My son and daughter were very excited to be here,” my father replies.
Lies. At least on my part. My brother, for all his efforts to impress, is clearly trying to earn favor, eager to seem older, more important.
“We’re grateful you made the trip,” Snowden says. “Especially with how unpredictable things have become, it’s not always safe to travel after dark.”
“And whose fault is that?” my father growls. “That damned Arnoult. We must catch him before he does something else to shatter the peace of our city.”
Snowden snorts. “Don’t worry. I’m making it my personal mission to see that he’s caught, and punished, for all he’s done.”
“Yes, yes, I have no doubt,” my father agrees. “You’ve got your own score to settle with him.”
Snowden sighs. “Can you believe he used to rent properties from me? Said he needed spaces for academic use. I had no idea he’d turn them into dens of iniquity.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what he means, but I stay quiet. From the corner of my eye, I see Leah stiffen, her shoulders trembling. Strange.
“What properties?” my brother asks, thankfully voicing what I can’t.
Snowden waves a hand, as though brushing away something distasteful. “As you may know, I own most of the buildings surrounding St. Anselm University—or what’s left of it.”
He chuckles darkly.
“Arnoult rented several of them from me. One became his personal residence. The others were used for his . . . seminars.” He pauses, then adds with a pointed smile, “At the time, I didn’t question it.
The university is large, with plenty of rooms. I assumed he wanted privacy.
But now I see that he needed somewhere unobserved. Somewhere hidden.”
“So you’ve known Mr. Arnoult for quite a while?” my brother asks.
Mr. Snowden nods. “Seventeen years, maybe more. He arrived in Radcliffe nearly two decades ago. No one suspected anything at first. It’s only in the last few years that the rumors started—about his seances, his gatherings.
Some say he holds rituals on the full moon.
Some even claim he invited Madame Blavatsky. ”
My father frowns. “Who’s that?”
“She was one of those self-proclaimed mystics who claimed to hold all the secrets of the universe,” Mr. Snowden explains. “She died five years ago, but there are rumors she came to Radcliffe shortly before her death to meet with Mr. Arnoult.”
“You really think he was behind the murders?” my brother inquires.
“Of course. Who else?” my father says curtly.
But Mr. Snowden clicks his tongue. “Now, let’s not be hasty, Jeremiah.
Arnoult couldn’t have acted alone. We already suspect he was in league with that industrialist, Rutherford.
After all, those properties he rented from me weren’t cheap.
And I seriously doubt a professor’s salary from a provincial university could’ve covered the cost. He had to be backed by someone.
” He leans forward, lowering his voice slightly.
“And considering how Rutherford died, I’d say it’s obvious he was involved, too. ”
“Didn’t you think it was strange?” I blurt, unable to hold back. “That he could afford them, I mean, when you rented the properties to him?”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Silence falls across the table. My father’s jaw tightens, and his fists clench. I brace for the inevitable scolding.
But Mr. Snowden speaks before he can.
“No,” he says calmly. “I didn’t question it at the time. He told me he’d come into an inheritance—said his financial situation had improved significantly. I took him at his word. I see now I should’ve looked deeper.”
Realizing I’ve opened the door for more questions, I rush to ask another before my father can shut it.
“Then why would Mr. Arnoult hold a grudge against you? Shouldn’t he be grateful, after using your properties for so long?”
Mr. Snowden chuckles. “Smart girl you’ve got, Jeremiah,” he says.
“Yes, you’d think he’d be grateful. But vermin like him don’t know gratitude.
Over the years, I’ve confronted him several times—questioned the strange goings-on in those buildings.
He always had some excuse ready to throw me off.
It’s only in the last couple of years that I began to push back more forcefully.
” He exhales and turns to my father. “You already know what’s been happening. ”
“Indeed,” my father mutters grimly. “The devil’s work.”
I frown, waiting for them to elaborate.
Mr. Snowden shifts in his seat. “The first real confrontation we had, when I told him to vacate the property, he claimed his lease was valid for another ten years. Said I couldn’t touch him. The more I threatened to sue, to evict him regardless, the stranger things became.”
He takes a slow breath, his voice thick with memory.
“It started with my mother. The night I came home after one of my fights with Arnoult, my mother had a seizure.”
His voice falters.
“She only lasted three days before she died.”
Silence envelops the table as we all stare at Mr. Snowden.
“Then, of course, was the death of the horse stock on my estate. Ten horses died! Barely one month after my fight with that vermin.”
Shock and disbelief fills the faces of everyone at the table. Everyone but Leah.
“There were other odd instances; noises late at night that no one could explain, some strange apparitions . . . But by far the worst was the death of my dear wife.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh.
“One day she was completely fine, the next she came down with consumption. She wasted away slowly, and we had to watch her become a shell of herself.”
A collective gasp rises from my mother, my brother, and my father. I, too, am stunned. But when I glance toward Leah, I’m struck by her stillness.
She doesn’t react at all.
“Enough talk of the morbid,” Mr. Snowden says, waving a hand dismissively. “Today is a day of celebration. We should focus on the joy of the present.”
At that, I frown. Celebration? What exactly are we celebrating?
My father smiles fondly, straightening his back with pride.
“I’m happy to inform you that the engagement party has been set for later this month,” Mr. Snowden announces.
Engagement party? Who is getting engaged?