Chapter 28 The Old Housekeeper #2
“They told everyone that he was missing, but I know different. They took him.”
“Who took him?” Leena insisted, trying to keep pace with the conversation that was rapidly falling out of her grasp.
The woman leaned forward, baring teeth that were surprisingly strong and white. “The Wake.”
Leena’s breath caught. “Why would they take the boy?” Her hands gripped the fabric of her dress until her knuckles turned white. “Is Lord Hargreaves in the Wake?”
The old woman kept rocking back and forth. “They took him, that little darling.”
Leena knelt by the woman, urgency welling in her throat. “What was the boy’s name? What was his name?”
The woman continued to mumble.
“Please,” Leena pleaded. “Try to remember. What was the boy’s name?”
The old woman’s foggy gaze landed on Leena once more. She tenderly brushed a curl from her face.
“You are beautiful,” she said vaguely. Then her eyes fastened on the golden chain around Leena’s neck, pulling at it gently to reveal Margery’s broken timepiece with the name Fray engraved on it.
The old woman abruptly rose, as if seeing Leena’s timepiece had triggered a lost memory. She walked toward the hearth where a small box lay, opening it carefully. Turning, the old woman showed her an identical timepiece, and Leena could not hide her surprise.
“Where did you get this, madam?”
The old woman found her chair again, looking down at the watch vacantly.
“From Lord Avon, weeks before his death. He entrusted me with it, for I am his most loyal servant.” The old housekeeper exhaled a harsh breath.
“Mrs. Graham, he said, do not be afraid of Weavingshaw and keep its secrets safe.” One wrinkled hand touched her mouth.
“Mrs. Graham, he said, I trust you with my life.” She closed her eyes briefly, as if petrified she would lose a memory she held with every heartbeat.
“Mrs. Graham, he said, never let Lord Hargreaves come upon this. I have…”
When she opened her eyes, there were tears in them. She blinked as if through a dream.
Leena wanted to reach for her and hold a hand to her scrawny shoulder in comfort, but dared not, for she did not know if the old lady was speaking from a memory, a nightmare, or confusion, and whether she would reject such a gesture.
And yet, Leena knew she had been right to follow her instinct to visit the old housekeeper.
There was something here that was vital for her to know.
She could not understand why Margery would possess the same timepiece or what her purpose had been in giving it to her for safekeeping.
She cursed herself for not carving out time as she had wanted to do to question Margery.
“I understand,” Leena responded slowly. “May I see it?”
The old woman handed her the timepiece freely. Leena stood to inspect it better by the fire. It was identical to hers, down to the elegant letters of the inscription: Fray.
But just below that was another engraving, this time the letters rough and uneven, as if someone had done it in a hurry:
Avons can cross.
When she unlatched the cover, she found to her surprise that the clockface went up to thirty-six rather than twelve, or eighteen, as Margery’s did.
She could not account for this strange style of clockwork or for its purpose, for it was clear it did not tell the time.
But it was equally clear that the discrepancy was deliberate, and not the mistake she had once assumed from Margery’s timepiece.
Here, like Margery’s, a single hand was positioned at zero.
Leena peered intently at the woman, whose attention was now on her own hands. Before the old lady could mark her actions, Leena switched the two timepieces, returning Margery’s to the box while keeping Lord Avon’s.
She knew she would later feel the remorse of her duplicity, but for now she composed her features as best as she could, returning to the old housekeeper’s side.
The old lady’s eyes suddenly seemed very focused as she stared back at Leena. For a moment, Leena thought she looked as if she had full capacity of her senses, so watchful was that look.
“He came to see me.” The old housekeeper gripped Leena’s hand once more. “His Lordship still hasn’t forgotten me. He sat and spoke with me. He filled my shed with chopped logs. The master has always been kind to me.”
Leena swallowed. Was the old lady alluding to seeing Lord Avon’s ghost? Or was this another distant memory?
Careful not to disturb her flow of speech, Leena prodded, “Is it Lord Avon you speak of, madam?”
“Yes, of course—who else would I be referring to?” the old woman scoffed, releasing her hand.
“But, madam, Lord Percival Avon has been dead these past ten years.”
“Well, of course he has; I was at the funeral. I speak of Master Bramwell, the new Lord Avon.”
Leena’s reaction was visceral. The humming in her ears, the pallor of her cheeks, the heaving of her breath were all entirely beyond her control.
She hadn’t anticipated this revelation, and yet she had known it deep in her gut. Maybe she had known it since the moment she’d seen St. Silas enter Weavingshaw, absorbing its energy in hungry gulps.
The sixth sense that led her to see ghosts had already warned her that the master had come home.