Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The reading room was cold at this early hour, the fire not yet lit, the pinkish gray of predawn showing through the window. Minerva had been awake for some time, too restless to sleep after the terrible dream. Catherine’s journal was where she had left it, lying on the small table.
She opened it as she settled in the chair, angling the pages to catch the dawning light, and found the place where she had stopped. Trap it. Trap it. Trap it in the stone.
Turning the page, she read on. The handwriting worsened, some lines entirely illegible, the paper torn in places where the nib had pressed through.
North. The north corner. The old ones knew. Bind it. Bind the darkness, the cold. Foundation stones in the corner. It must be the corner. Bury it deep.
Again, she turned the page. The handwriting here was not the large, lurching script of the previous pages. It was neat and precise.
William came in for his tea, and I told him the camellia needs cutting back. He said he would see to it in the morning. I must remember to tell him again. He forgets if I do not remind him.
There is something I meant to write down, something important. I had it a moment ago. I stood at the window last night and I remembered something I used to know and now I cannot—
William will be home for supper. I must not forget.
Minerva rested her palm on the page. Catherine had written about William coming home for supper. William, who had been dead for decades. And she had known in the same moment that she had forgotten something important. Poor woman.
After closing the journal, Minerva set it down on the table, turning her face to the window and staring out at nothing.
From the kitchen came the sounds of movement, careful, quiet. Nessa was awake.
Minerva found her at the kitchen window, the morning light falling across her face. She stood with a cloth in her hands and a frown marring her brow. When she heard Minerva, she turned quickly, her expression smoothing over.
“Good morning,” Minerva said.
“Morning, Miss.”
“Did you sleep well?” Minerva asked, moving fully into the kitchen. She crossed to the table and sat.
“Well enough,” Nessa said. She twisted the cloth in her hands, her gaze flicking to the window and back. “I’m not certain, but last night—”
Minerva waited in silence for the girl to gather her thoughts and say what she meant to say.
“Last night, I saw someone standing by the gate. It was late. You’d gone to bed. I came for a drink of water and I saw him there—” She jutted her chin toward the front of the house. “He wasn’t doing anything. Only standing there.”
Minerva studied her for a moment. “Your father?”
Nessa bowed her head and nodded.
“How long was he there?”
“I don’t know,” Nessa said, voice thin, hands still twisting the cloth. “I saw him when the moon came out from behind the clouds. I turned away from the window and went back to my bed.” She shivered. “I was so afraid.”
“He stood at the gate, but he did not come through,” Minerva said.
“No.” The word was laced with relief. “I checked this morning as the sun came up. All the doors were bolted and the gate was latched.”
Minerva rose and went to Nessa, taking the cloth from her hands and setting it aside. Then she took the girl’s hands in her own.
“If he comes again, Nessa, you can wake me.”
“Oh, no! I would never, Miss. I would never.”
“You will wake me,” Minerva said, her voice both gentle and firm. “If he comes again.”
Nessa exhaled and her posture eased, shoulders lowering. “Yes, Miss.”
She returned to her tasks and set about making breakfast.
Minerva went outside and walked to the gate, confirming that it was, indeed, still latched.
A latch. Paltry protection, that. Easily opened by anyone reaching over the top of the gate.
Her thoughts spun to what Thom had said about empty pockets and a heavy hand, to the bruising on Nessa’s face and the fact that she had been more afraid of her father than the vengeful ghosts she and all the village believed resided in Cliff Cottage.
Later that morning, Minerva and Kitty headed to the village.
She suspected that if she told Kitty about Mr. Penrose’s visit, about the fact he had almost kissed her, and the fact that she had wanted him to, Kitty would insist on hearing the most minute details.
Minerva wanted to hold the memory close and private for just a little longer.
So, she decided not to tell her.
And she knew from experience that if she told Kitty about the dream, she would insist on making Minerva sleep with an iron nail or a sprig of rowan tied with red thread beneath her pillow.
Or make her turn her shoes soles-up to confuse wandering spirits.
Or turn a small mirror away from the bed to divert errant dreams. Or salt the house—or Minerva herself.
So, Minerva decided not to tell her about that either.
Instead, she carried both secrets with her as they walked the narrow path that followed the cliffs, half-hidden in the long grass.
It was little more than a track, worn by passing feet rather than wheels, but it was a faster route than the road.
The late morning sun was thinned by clouds.
Gulls cried overhead, sharp and quarrelsome, the sounds making her think of torn cloth and torn flesh. The image made her shudder.
Cliff Cottage had long disappeared behind them, swallowed by the rise of land and the low stone walls webbed with moss, when the spire of Fowey’s church rose in the distance.
They had walked nearly an hour, taking their time, enjoying the air and the sea.
Now, the town presented itself in drips and drabs.
Whitewashed stone houses dotted the rise, with low doorways and small-paned windows.
Nets lay over a low wall near the quay as men worked them, heads bent.
As they followed the narrow street, they passed two women whose conversation slowed then resumed. The men on the street did not look openly; instead, their gazes slid sideways.
“That’s the look people get when they think the devil’s come calling but don’t wish to be rude about it,” Kitty said.
Minerva choked back a startled laugh and patted her bonnet. “I feel no horns,” she said, keeping her tone light. But she felt set apart as surely as if she wore a sign that proclaimed it.
“A place like this…” Kitty said quietly. “You need to belong to someone. And we do not.”
“We belong to each other,” Minerva said, linking her arm with Kitty’s.
“And once the people here grow accustomed to our presence, we will belong to this place.” She hoped that was true.
She wanted to believe her own assertion, but she had the sense that if she looked back, she would find eyes quickly averted and townsfolk purposefully occupied, hands busy, heads lowered.
Was it merely that the villagers were wary of strangers? Or was it Minerva herself who made them uneasy? She could not say why the thought formed, but she pushed it aside, determined not to gather trouble without cause.
One man did not avert his eyes. He was a large man, tall and wide, hatless, hair and beard unkempt.
He stood in a gap between the baker’s and the chandlery, arms folded, expression unfriendly, watching her with deliberate intensity.
She looked away first. She did not know why she should feel that as a small defeat, but she did.
They went first to the baker’s, stepping into the cramped, low-ceilinged space, the heat inside a brief respite from the wind.
The air carried the scents of yeast and bread and smoke and through the arch at the back Minerva could see the great brick oven, its mouth dark and still now.
There was a woman behind the worn wooden counter, her cheeks red, her hair tucked away beneath a white cap.
Though she did not smile, she greeted them politely enough as she set aside the two loaves Minerva requested.
Then she said, “You’ll be Mrs. Todd’s cousin.”
“Yes,” Minerva said and offered her name.
The woman tipped her chin, more in challenge than acceptance. “A sad business that.” She paused. “You do know the truth of it.”
“The truth?” Kitty said.
The woman took her time wrapping the bread, paper crackling. Her sharp eyes flicked to the street and back. “She’d been unsettled,” she said at length.
Minerva forced herself to keep her posture relaxed, her gaze on the bread. She thought that if she revealed her interest as too keen, the woman would say nothing more.
The woman leaned forward across the counter, her voice dropping low. “Mrs. Todd wasn’t right at the end. Seeing things, she was. Talking about things.”
Minerva thought of the dream, of the taste of salt and iron on her tongue. The breath at her ear.
Kitty leaned toward the woman and whispered, “What things?”
The woman glanced at the door, then shook her head.
Kitty opened her mouth, but Minerva gave her arm a warning squeeze. Sometimes, it was a lack of questions that would yield answers.
After a long moment, the woman huffed a sharp exhalation through her nose and drew back.
“Thank you for the bread,” Minerva said.
The woman gave a tight nod, pressed her lips together, then said in a rush, “She claimed the cliff called to her. That it remembered. Nonsense, of course. Everyone knows she was addled there at the end.”
“Oh.” Eyes wide, Kitty rested the pads of her fingers against her lips. “Mam used to say that when a story won’t stay dead, it’s because it hasn’t finished with you yet.”
“A wise woman, your mam,” the woman said.
Behind them, the door opened and two customers entered.
Minerva knew she and Kitty would garner no more information here today.
She offered a smile, bid the woman behind the counter farewell, and took the opportunity to usher Kitty out the door.
She felt three sets of eyes on the back of her neck and could only imagine the whispered words that would be exchanged now.