Chapter 23 The Hunting Party
Leena awoke that first morning in Weavingshaw to the sound of howling.
She would later learn that the wolves’ calls were ceaseless, a hungry lament. She suddenly felt glad of the Deathgrips that surrounded the house, as if in protection against an encroaching and wild forest.
It took considerable effort for Leena to come down to break her fast that morning.
The events of the previous night had stretched her body to its limits.
All she wanted was to continue to sleep in her grand guest room, painted in hues of blue and yellow.
Yet Mrs. Van’s sharp knock and the message she conveyed in short, clipped words—that the master bade her a good morning and to please join him downstairs—left little room for argument.
In spite of her fervent desire to separate herself from the fashionable guests, she understood the unmistakable importance of their presence among Mr. Martin’s hunting party.
Tongues would still wag, no doubt, but they had to try their utmost to keep the true reason behind their presence a secret.
And besides, Leena thought wryly, she was already drenched in secrets. Another would not tip the scales.
She met Rami and St. Silas in the hallway, both walking from their own wing dedicated to the bachelors. Rami looked as sleep-deprived as Leena felt, but St. Silas seemed refreshed, immaculately dressed in his habitual dark clothes. Leena had to retie Rami’s sloppily done cravat.
While Leena herself looked a far cry from the girl who used to run wild in the refugee camps as a child, she knew that she, too, didn’t fit the magnificence of these halls. Yet, she reminded herself, she was here to play a role and to hunt a ghost; everything else was merely a mask.
As she attended to Rami’s cravat, St. Silas’s eyes skimmed her briefly. Then he nodded brusquely and started to make his way down the hall. She didn’t acknowledge his evaluation; the way their conversation had ended last night still reverberated in her head.
The confidence with which he guided the Al-Sayer siblings to their destination led Leena to believe, once again, that this was not his first visit to Weavingshaw. Although he had neither confirmed nor denied it, Leena still wondered if he had been a servant here once, long ago.
Leena took a deep breath just as the footman swung open the door to the breakfast parlor.
It was a moderate-sized hunting party, consisting almost equally of lords and ladies.
The men were supposed to start the hunt on the first morning of the gathering while the ladies lunched at a picnic on the beach.
However, the unpredictable northern weather had plans of its own, drawing dark billowing clouds over the cliffs that released a torrent of rain, preventing anyone from stepping outside.
Meaning the entire party had gathered in the breakfast parlor instead.
Leena was not surprised to find their entrance caused a small stir—or, in fact, the opposite. The room fell into a deep silence as every guest halted to stare at the three of them: brown-skinned Leena, amputee Rami, and, of course, the Saint of Silence.
St. Silas walked toward the breakfast buffet without even acknowledging the shock he had caused, but Leena and Rami stood a moment in acute embarrassment, never before having received such politely hostile stares, a few men offering her barely stilted bows.
Finally, Rami nudged Leena and they both followed St. Silas stiffly.
Slowly, conversation started to resume, although even more hushed and stilted than before.
Eventually, after sitting down as far from the group as possible, Leena began to follow the conversation that was most pressing to them: What should they do with their time should it rain for the entire week?
Mr. Martin, who had pretended to be busy when the Al-Sayers and St. Silas walked in, was now attempting to reassure the guests that there were plenty of activities planned to keep them entertained—including a grand tour of Weavingshaw and its renowned art gallery.
Leena, with her eyes mostly on her plate, didn’t at first mark Lord Hargreaves sitting by Mr. Martin’s left side, but jerked up when she heard his voice.
“I think this is a splendid idea, Mr. Martin. Our guests, I am sure, would be delighted to learn the great history of this house. We should commence directly after breakfast concludes.”
Leena could not look at Lord Hargreaves without seeing his dead wife thumping her heart and pointing toward St. Silas. The words of the letter flashed through her mind, Lady Hargreaves both begging and cursing her husband, unable to reach her peaceful rest until that something had been fulfilled.
It was as if Lord Hargreaves was able to read Leena’s thoughts, for he turned and looked directly at her with a pleasant smile, and inclined his head a fraction.
She didn’t know how to respond. It had been years since she had worked for him, and she was not even sure if he still recognized her as his former employee. So she merely nodded back and turned to Rami.
A portly lord who sat near the window spoke next. “Eh, what say you, Martin, if we were to take a tour of the crypts? They are the oldest in the country, I hear, housing all the dead Avon Lords.”
Lord Kilworth, looking irritated, responded, “Impossible! The crypts are the most dangerous part of Weavingshaw. No one has set foot there since—” Leena knew he cut himself off just as he was about to say, Percival Avon’s death.
Mr. Martin interjected, shaking his head sadly. “I would be more than happy to oblige you, my lord. However, we are in the process of renovating much of the architecture there, as some of the walls are not sound.”
Leena heard St. Silas scoff beside her. She turned to him.
If she were to step out of the roles they were playing and observe him objectively, she would have had no doubt about saying St. Silas belonged here.
The part of the bored gentleman he was playing was done so well she nearly believed it herself.
His long frame was draped across his chair in decadent ease, his nonchalant expression flickering between the window and their host in tedium.
And yet she knew, from watching St. Silas so long, that he was not bored. That he was indeed charged with energy. That tic in his jaw, so subtle, was making its appearance.
As breakfast concluded and the guests readied themselves for the tour, Leena knew that she could not excuse herself from this activity. She still had to play her part as a guest—however unwanted—and could not find a legitimate reason to leave and go in search of her own pursuits.
With great reluctance, she prepared herself for the inevitable, and was then dismayed when St. Silas informed her that he would not be joining them for the rest of the day. So now she’d have to tackle the gentry with only her brother on her side.
“Stay sharp,” was all St. Silas said to her before he was gone.
—
Oddly enough, the more isolated Leena felt from the other members of the party, the closer she became to Mrs. Van.
The initial fear and repulsion she had felt for the demon had turned into fascination.
That afternoon, after the awkward tour of the house—on which Leena saw all the portraits of the Avons from the first Marquess to the last—all Leena wanted to do was isolate herself in her room.
But that was not to be; she would have to make an appearance at dinner.
Mrs. Van was already present to help Leena change into her evening dress and to re-pin her curls.
The housekeeper proved an extremely talented lady’s maid as well, and she’d made Leena look every inch the noble, even if she did not feel like one.
Everything Leena wore felt like a costume meant for someone else, and she missed her old cambric dresses.
“The master has told you about me?” Mrs. Van asked as she twisted a gold-filigree band through Leena’s hair. She said it matter-of-factly, but her unusual elongated fingers had tightened their hold on the hairpiece.
“Yes,” Leena replied steadily.
Mrs. Van’s cool eyes met Leena’s own in the mirror. “My mother was human, but my father was a demon.” She paused. “Are you afraid?”
Leena sucked in her cheeks. She thought of the blood that ran through her own veins, viewed disdainfully as common by the nobles, as foreign by the Mors—and how, in the end, blood was just blood when it was hemorrhaging.
“No, I don’t fear you,” Leena said, and was astonished to find that it was true. “In fact, I owe you a debt for curing Rami. You’re very talented—at everything you do.”
Mrs. Van gave her a small, weary smile, and Leena suddenly felt less lonely in this house filled with ghosts.