Chapter 22 Moira
They were near the gates of Weavingshaw.
Leena hadn’t yet had her first look at the estate, waiting impatiently as the carriage made its way at a steady pace through the winding roads of the countryside near noon. They all sat within the confines of the vehicle this time, except for Arthur, who drove the team.
Her mind, already so fatigued with several nights of poor sleep, was an echoing chamber of questions.
What were demons? Had they always existed alongside humans, unsuspecting neighbors and friends? She threw a discreet look at the stoic Mrs. Van, as if hoping to find all her answers imprinted on her face.
When had humans begun to believe that such creatures were nothing more than superstition? To be remembered only during the Festival of Demons, except by a small few who still kept up with the old prayers?
Sitting directly across from her was St. Silas, but Leena refrained from looking at him entirely.
Their closeness last night seemed to have deepened the distance between them this morning.
Every look he’d given her on the shore last night lay like a burr against her skin.
He’d never responded when she’d asked him if he was cursed, but his silence had been as heavy as if it had carried entire cities.
She couldn’t look at him the same way—not after that letter, not after Lady Hargreaves’s striking remorse—so she chose not to look at him at all.
Even though he did not confirm it, Leena was surer than ever that the boy Lady Hargreaves spoke of in her letter was St. Silas. But the rest of the picture remained in utter darkness—most notably Lady Hargreaves’s connection to the now infamous Saint of Silence.
It was St. Silas who broke the silence first, always cutting to the heart of the matter. “While we are staying at Weavingshaw, we will act as guests as we undertake our search for the red diary. I will introduce you and Rami as my wards, whom I am leading into society—”
At this, Rami snorted. “You’re barely older than us.”
St. Silas didn’t acknowledge his remark, which was unsurprising as he rarely acknowledged Rami other than to bark out orders.
Begrudgingly, Rami had to take it, for otherwise St. Silas might change his mind and send him back to Golborne to face certain death by the Black Coats.
That he had even let Rami accompany them was a small miracle that Leena didn’t want to shatter.
St. Silas continued. “We must be thorough and systematic in our search. I have determined several likely places where the red diary may be hidden. We will start there.”
Leena kept her attention outside the window, watching as gray clouds loomed over them in a menacing fashion, warning them away. “Will Lord Hargreaves be present?”
She felt his gaze burning her averted profile. His tone was mild and impersonal, as if everything that had happened with Lady Hargreaves had been merely a slight deviation on their journey. “I have not acquainted myself with the entire guest list, Miss Al-Sayer, nor am I bothered to do so.”
Leena knew with certainty that he was lying.
—
Until she saw her first glimpse of Weavingshaw, Leena didn’t believe in monsters.
The house was immense, and built like a fortress to withstand violent sieges.
More than forty darkened windows watched their insignificant carriage pull up to the front, resembling dilated eyes unblinking in silent judgment.
Ivy draped the pale limestone bricks, and wild roses tangled up from the soil.
The single turret towered over them, parting the mist. To the left were the burned remnants of a crumbling tower, the walls decaying and blackened.
Deathgrips, their still-violet petals a contrast to the dull browns of late autumn, grew like a moat surrounding the house, as if to ward away any wolves that might be growling at the edge of the forest.
Stone statues of Saints decorated the balconies and the expansive limestone steps, though Leena had only ever seen them in cathedrals, never houses.
Dense ivy crept across the old Saints’ bodies, as if binding them to this house.
Guarding the entrance, his hands out in blessing, a strip of gauze over his mouth, was the Saint of Silence.
A house as ancient as this, with its foundations watered by Avon blood, seemed more like a creature of flesh and blood than a building of stone and mortar.
It also seemed to be whispering to Leena: Nothing this lovely could be cursed. But then, the closer the carriage approached, the more her skin seemed to burn, as if sensing the terrible undercurrent that ran like fire through the house’s veins.
“What do you think of it?” St. Silas asked her, his gaze oddly bright.
A shiver went up her spine. “I haven’t caught sight of any spirits yet,” she said cautiously. “But you must give me time.”
He seemed unsatisfied by her answer. His eyes hungrily jolted across the scenery even as a muscle ticced in his jaw.
“Do you hate this place?” Leena asked. After witnessing his barely suppressed reaction, she had the distinct feeling that there could only be one of two answers here, both polar opposites.
Absolute hate or a devouring love.
“Hatred leaves a clean cut.”
Mrs. Van shifted her gaze to St. Silas. Her bony fingers twisted in her lap.
An incomplete answer, but then, this Saint never gave as much as he took.
Leena met Rami’s eyes. He, too, looked uneasy, his hand reaching to cover his missing arm. Leena had felt the change since riding onto Avon land—a feeling of desolation, as if the dead had awakened and were stirring to life.
The carriage slowed to a stop on the curved drive, and the main entrance loomed over them.
No one stood outside to greet them.
Not the host, the butler, or even a maid.
Leena had witnessed guests being welcomed at Lord Hargreaves’s estate back when she had worked for his mother.
It had been a spectacle, with all the servants and the hosting family standing on the front steps no matter the weather.
On the top floor, Leena caught sight of a curtain being drawn quickly, as if someone had desired to watch them while remaining unseen.
The message was clear: They were intruders. It made sense. St. Silas had very likely blackmailed his way here.
This lack of reception was not insulting to Leena and Rami, who would have preferred entering through the servants’ quarters alongside Mrs. Van and Arthur anyway, but cold fury darkened St. Silas’s eyes.
No longer was he discomposed. Slowly, deadly, like the turn of a snake, he stepped out of the carriage.
“I will let them have their enjoyment,” he said with a peculiar twist of a smile, “but it will be short-lived.”
Leena and Rami descended after him in silence.
St. Silas pounded on the door, and it swung open within moments to reveal the stoic face of the head footman, who bowed and asked if the gentleman would like to be shown to the master.
Leena felt like a trespasser entering the arched hallways of Weavingshaw.
The floors were sculpted from deep-veined marble, and a large Avon crest—of wolf and Deathgrip combatant, separated by a quartered circle—was carved into one of the walls, indented so deeply that it would have been impossible to remove without toppling the pillars of the house.
Leena, who had already seen it in a drawing, halted for a moment to stare.
Here, etched in stone, the wolf looked far more menacing and the flower far more poisonous. As if the empty roundel that lay between them might suddenly shatter and the two meet in earnest.
She felt a sudden longing to reach over and trace the words written at the bottom: I complete what is mine.
“Come, Miss Al-Sayer.” St. Silas’s command startled her from her brief reverie. She turned to find that he had not stopped, cutting through the hall without sparing even a single glance at the dizzying architecture of the house.
As Leena followed, she could see her breath in the frigid air. Once, long ago, during a time when money was never thought of, great roaring fires must’ve been lit in every room. Now the cold saturated the foundations of this place. Mr. Martin must hold his coins in a tight fist.
They were shown into a study far greater than any Leena had ever seen. In here, a fire did blaze within the grate, oil paintings and finely woven tapestries adorned the walls, and dark wooden cabinets held delicately embossed leather books.
Leena stopped near the hearth in hopes of catching some warmth.
Rami still stood by the entrance, staring restlessly at the bay window.
St. Silas didn’t bother pausing for an invitation; he threw his long frame into the chair in front of the opulent desk and sat with what felt like coiled energy.
None of the three spoke, each waiting for the inevitable arrival of their host.
It was not long before Mr. Martin made his entrance, closing the door behind him.
Born into poverty, yet wealthier than a king, a bulldog in a suit—this was how Leena would have summarized their host as she observed him covertly.
His appearance didn’t fit the grandeur of this house.
Leena could understand the angelic figure of the late Percival Avon possessing such a place, but Mr. Martin inspired no such awe.
He was a short man with cauliflower ears, his face round enough to lose any delineation of a jaw and his hair all but gone.
He still had the face of a boxer, though his clothes were of the latest cut.
Both Rami and Leena gave a stiff acknowledgment of his arrival, her curtsey only just perceptible.
This was the man who had ordered Rami’s beating and his near death. Leena hated Mr. Martin on sight.
Mr. Martin ignored both Rami and Leena, but gave a stiff bow to St. Silas.
St. Silas did not return the bow.
“Welcome, sir,” Mr. Martin said, his expression cordial except for the slight twist of his mouth. His accent held traces of the Golborne backstreet alleys.