Chapter 20
Alaric was returning to the castle when Peregrine found him. The man was waiting in the entrance hall, and he raced for Alaric in a panic.
“Alaric! There you are!” his friend cried out. “Where have you been?”
Alaric’s eyes widened. “What? Nowhere! Why?”
Peregrine frowned at the strange response. “The magistrate has just arrived, Alaric. He is in your study, with two of his men.”
“The magistrate …” Alaric shook his head. “Yes, of course. That is what I… my study, you say?”
“Yes.” Peregrine narrowed his eyes. “You are expected.”
Alaric cursed himself silently for acting like such a fool.
His mind was still at Aisling’s tomb, very much focused on what had almost happened between him and Miss Kavanagh. He had not expected it. He had not sought it. But it had nearly happened … a kiss that somehow felt wrong and so very right at the same time.
What was that?
The question hounded him as he rushed from the gravesite.
Technically, he had done nothing wrong, but he very nearly had.
For weeks now, Alaric had sensed a kinship between himself and Miss Kavanagh, but always he told himself it was nothing more than a budding friendship, one found because she understood him better than anyone else did.
Now, with her lips on his mind, he knew that was not the case. Nor did he want it to be.
“Alaric, is something the matter?” Peregrine pressed him as Alaric stared ahead stupidly and in a daze.
“What?” Alaric shook his head again and focused. “Of course not – I mean, yes. Of course there is. Or there will be, depending on how this goes.”
Peregrine eyed him with deep skepticism and distrust. “Yes, well, shall we?”
Alaric powered ahead as if he thought to outrun what had just almost happened.
As Peregrine had said, the magistrate awaited Alaric in his study. He was middle-aged, tall and powerful, with a beak nose, beady eyes, and an expression that spoke of no nonsense. He stood erect, stern, a bulwark against a storm.
With him were two younger men, his constables, and they tried their best to match their superior’s posture as Alaric strode into the study and took his chair.
“Thank you for coming,” Alaric said.
“Of course, My Lord,” the magistrate said. “Now, would you like to tell me what this is about?”
“My wife’s death,” Alaric snapped. “What else?”
The magistrate’s lip twitched. “My meaning is, all signs suggest that she became stranded in the lake. We have assessed the remains, and there is no indication of foul play. Unless we are missing something?”
Alaric had thought long and hard about this. A part of him wondered if he was being too hasty, acting without all the details, and letting his emotions get the better of him.
But such thoughts were like whispers in a gale. He was just so tired of it all. The secrets. The lies. The not knowing. He had his suspicions; his gut told him they were correct, and until proven otherwise, he would see them through to the bitter end.
“I believe my wife was murdered,” he said with a hiss.
“It has been brought to my attention that my cousin, Lord Crispin Harcourt, was closer to my wife than I knew.” He looked away when he saw the surprise in the magistrate’s eyes.
That, and the judgment. “My belief is that my cousin lured her onto that boat and left her there. Or worse.”
“That is a very serious allegation, My Lord. Do you have any proof?”
“Send for my cousin.” He nodded once at Peregrine, which saw his friend duck from the room. “I will ask him directly, and his answer will be your proof.”
“And if he denies the claim, My Lord? As I said, there is no evidence that we can see which supports your … accusation.”
“Just you wait,” Alaric growled.
Peregrine returned a moment later, bringing Crispin with him.
His cousin slunk into the room with his shoulders dropped and his head bowed.
There was no confidence in the man, no suggestion at all that he meant to fight.
And when he did look up to meet Alaric’s eyes, the truth reflected in them as if he screamed it.
I knew it … damnation! I knew it.
“Lord Harcourt.” The magistrate turned to face Crispin. “Lord Thornwyck has just made a very serious accusation against you. Do you know of his claim?”
“I do,” Crispin said softly as he bowed his head again.
“And?” the magistrate pressed. “If you mean to refute it, I suggest you do so.”
Crispin shook his head. “Aisling … she is dead because of me. Were it not for my actions, she would be alive right now, and I …” He exhaled, and somehow his body seemed to shrink. “I am so sorry, Alaric. Please, know that I am.”
Alaric’s hands turned to fists by his side, and he set his jaw so tight that it hurt. A fire burst aflame inside of him, sweeping across the room, setting to cinder and ash all in its path.
His own cousin … his own wife … how could they!
“Well then.” The magistrate appeared unsure. “I guess that settles it.”
“What will be done?” Peregrine asked.
The magistrate clicked his fingers at his men, and they were quick to bind Crispin’s hands behind his back. Crispin, to his credit, did not put up a fight. If anything, it looked as if he wanted to be arrested.
“We will take him in for further questioning,” the magistrate explained. “And then …” He hesitated and looked back to Alaric as if for confirmation. “Then, we will see.”
“Good,” Alaric snarled. “And do me a favor, will you? Try not to be too gentle with him.”
His cousin was led from the room, but before he stepped through the door, he looked up one more time and offered Alaric a pitiful pout.
It spoke of guilt. It spoke of sadness. Most of all, it told Alaric that the fight had left his cousin.
He had murdered Aisling, and two years later, he was ready to pay the price.
“Crispin …” Peregrine fell into the chair across from Alaric with a deep sigh. “I cannot believe it. He and Aisling …” He grimaced. “Alaric, I am so sorry.”
“For whom?” Alaric said darkly. “My cheating wife? My murderous cousin? Or for me, the man who has to live with it?”
Peregrine winced. “I suppose all of the above.”
***
News of Crispin’s fate returned later that evening.
As the messenger told it, Crispin did not refute any of Alaric’s claims, and he appeared more than willing to be charged with the death of Aisling Thornwyck. Still, the reason was not given, but that would come in time. For now, it was enough to know that he was guilty.
But if that is the case, why do I not feel vindicated or anything close to satisfied?
Alaric’s mood was sour as he stalked through the castle searching for his sister. He had not seen her all day, and he was certain that she was hiding from him. But why would that be? She, like Alaric, should have felt relief at having learned the truth.
This strangeness only added to Alaric’s confused mood, the sense that something else was at play that he could not reason with. He wanted this done with, put behind him once and for all, but a cloud hung above his head, and it threatened a raging tempest when it finally broke.
He found his sister in her feather room, a surprise, as he had checked there earlier. That she had returned to her favorite spot told him that she was done with her hiding and expected him to find her.
“There you are,” he announced and stopped short halfway into the room. “Verity, where have you been?”
“Why do you care?” She stood with her back to him; her attention fixed on one of the glass cabinets where her many feathers lay dead. “Or are you here to accuse me as you did Crispin?”
“Verity …” Alaric leaned back as if struck. “How could you … I did not accuse Crispin for any reason other than a desire for justice. He killed my wife, Verity. And his fate is his own doing.”
“No.” She shook her head, and her voice was whisper-quiet. “You accused him because you needed closure. This was not done to honor Aisling’s memory, but to sate your own desire to temper the guilt you have felt ever since her death.”
“That is absurd!”
“Is it?” Her voice was sharp. “Do you deny the guilt you have carried with you for years? I see it, Brother, the way it hangs across your shoulders like an ill-fitting coat. Guilt not born because you did not save her, but because you did not care when she died.”
Alaric clenched his jaw. “Careful, Verity. Words spoken in anger are words that cannot be taken back.”
“Anger?” She cackled with cold laughter. “I am not angry, Alaric. I am … resigned. You have accused the wrong man, and because that man blames himself for reasons that are …” She sniffed, and Alaric realized she was crying. “Crispin did not kill Aisling.”
“He did,” Alaric said with a firm nod. “He admitted as such.”
“No,” she hissed, and her body started to tremble. “He thinks that her death is his fault, but that is not the same as killing her.”
Alaric went to argue, but his words caught in his throat. “What … what does that mean?”
Finally, his sister turned around, her eyes stained red and glistening with tears. Her cheeks were wet, and her chin trembled furiously. And the look she fixed on him was one of such wretched fury that Alaric felt a sudden desire to turn and run, lest he be caught in her wrath.
“Crispin loved Aisling, you fool!” she cried. “He loved her! And she used that love against him.” She sniffed and wiped her nose again. “I do wonder what she might think to know that he is going to die for her. Likely, she would not care!”
Alaric’s hackles rose. “Verity, you are upset. But I warn you, do not besmirch my wife’s name.”
“Ha! And now you care, do you? Now you love her so,” she snarled.
“No … you never loved her as Crispin did, and she never loved him. And the result was chaos left in their wake because those who loved them back …” She turned away, and her voice dropped to a whisper.
“This never should have happened. I only wish … I wish that you had listened to me in the first place.”
“About what?”
Again, she looked at him with menace in her eyes. “When did this all begin, Alaric? When did things turn this ugly? It was not so long ago, so you ought to remember.” Her eyes widened. “That’s right, say it.”
Alaric looked at his sister as if she had lost her mind. “That is … you are obsessed, Sister. That is what this is!”
“This all began when Miss Kavanagh came into our home,” she cried out. “I told you that she was bad for us, Alaric. I told you what people have been saying.”
“She is not a witch, Verity.” Alaric wrung his hands in the air. “Listen to yourself!”
“There is a dark energy around her,” Verity pressed desperately. “Perhaps she does not do it on purpose. Perhaps she is unknowing. But bad things happen around her, Alaric. She is chaos personified. The Devil is her plaything. And she has cursed this home –”
“Enough!” Alaric roared. “I will say it again, Verity. You are clearly upset. You are lashing out like a scared cat who thinks itself cornered. But I must warn you not to speak ill of Miss Kavanagh again.”
Verity’s eyes widened in realization. “She has gotten to you, too.”
He scoffed. “Do not be absurd.”
“She has,” Verity said. “Her talons are in you, Alaric. I see them, how they make you bleed. Be careful, because I fear this is not the end. So long as that woman is here, things will get worse. I promise you that.”
With that final threat uttered, Verity put down her head and swept past Alaric.
He let her go, shocked and utterly bewildered by what had just happened. His sister … she was always so level-headed … always so calm, controlled, and sure of herself. That she was suggesting such things was madness!
Alaric walked to the window, determined to dismiss such a silly accusation – that is what it was! Of course, it was. How could it be anything else?
At the window, Alaric looked across the garden only to see Miss Kavanagh walking through the hedges. Her face was pinched, her hands fidgeted, and her lips moved silently as if she was speaking to herself. By her feet walked Muirne, following her as if their minds were one.
Do not be foolish, Alaric. Verity is mad!
And yet, as he watched Miss Kavanagh walk, Alaric could not help thinking more on what his sister said.
She was right, in some ways. It was when Miss Kavanagh arrived that things took a turn for the worse.
First, Lady Honora died, then his cousin’s affair was discovered, and then his wife’s body was found …
Coincidences, all. All of which happened long before Miss Kavanagh walked through these doors.
But he watched her further. He felt that pull that she had on him, one that he was drawn to like a moth to the flame, and one that he had gone to willingly because he assumed it was his salvation. But what if …
He gasped and stumbled back.
Alaric did not want to believe it. He knew that he was being insane! But what if his sister was right? Was there a chance that Miss Kavanagh, for all her grace, kindness, and comfort, was something else?
Was she a witch? And had Alaric fallen under her spell?