Chapter 13 #3
“My grandfather used to tell a tale,” he said, his voice low. “From years and years ago, before even his time. Two brothers lived in a house near the ridge, where your Cliff Cottage stands now. The foundation is the same. Stone for stone.”
Minerva’s thoughts spun back to the cellar, to the rough stones she had thought were older than the cottage above.
“Trevelyan was their name,” the chemist continued. “Men who dealt in ships and shadows. No one could say what passed between the brothers, but they harbored a hatred one for the other that was known throughout the parish.”
“They were brothers and they hated each other?” Kitty asked, leaning her own elbow on the counter and cupping her chin.
“Hatred fierce as a storm tide, my grandfather claimed.” He paused.
“It was said they used the cove below the cliff for their trade, hauling contraband ashore in the black hours before dawn. One night, a barque called the Lady Jane was seen riding too close to the rocks. Word is, the brothers were to meet her there that night.” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the counter.
“But a storm came, sudden and savage. Threw that ship on the shoals and tore open her hull. Every soul aboard died.”
Kitty drew a sharp breath.
“Late that same night,” he continued, “the brothers quarrelled on the cliff above. My grandfather claimed opinion was divided with some saying they both slipped and fell and others saying one pushed the other.” He dropped his voice lower.
“But the story most often told is that when one pushed, the other caught hold and pulled.”
“And then…?” Kitty whispered, eyes wide.
“They dragged each other to their deaths.”
Kitty let out a long, slow breath.
The chemist began straightening the jars on the shelf behind him, his back partially to them.
“My grandfather said…” His voice trailed away and for a moment, Minerva thought he would not continue.
And then he turned to face them once more, his expression resolute, as though he had decided to share a story he normally kept to himself.
“My grandfather said the brothers were not the beginning of it. He said the hatred between them was unnatural. That something had found them and fed on their dislike for each other and made it something that could not be contained.”
Minerva’s thoughts spun back to the cellar, to the thing that had watched her from the shadows.
“What do you mean something had found them?” Kitty whispered.
“My grandfather called Cliff Cottage a hungry place. Said darkness dwelt in the very soil beneath it and in the rocks and the cliff.” He paused. “Whatever dwells there drew the worst from the brothers.”
Minerva thought of the cellar, of the sensation that she was being watched there by an entity dark and malevolent.
“A tragic tale,” she said. The words felt wrong the instant she spoke them, neat and distant, an inane comment about events that did not touch her. But they did touch her; the tale pulled at her in a way she could not explain and was wary to examine.
She thought of the dream, the two presences. She had felt the tether that bound them. Two brothers, the chemist said, had dragged each other to their deaths. Two presences, she had sensed, worming through her like maggots.
A chill crawled along her spine. She tapped her fingers against her thigh. Once. Twice. Thrice.
The chemist held her gaze, unblinking. “Now and again, someone claims to see shapes moving along the ridge when no living soul walks there. Two men, they say, locked in quarrel still. Some claim to hear voices, beckoning them to the edge.”
“Ghosts?” Kitty whispered.
The man shrugged, though his gaze remained locked on Minerva. “Most who claim such things are dismissed as fanciful. Or addled. But every few years or so there is someone who swears the brothers show themselves.”
Pressure gathered behind Minerva’s eyes, sharp and sudden. For an instant, she smelled wet stone and rot and roses left in stale water. She took a breath through her nose and exhaled very slowly through her mouth. The scents faded.
Kitty swallowed. “What do you believe?”
He straightened. “Stories. Every town has them.”
Minerva’s fingers strayed to the pendant.
The chemist’s gaze flicked to the amethyst stone, his expression sharpening. He stared at it a moment longer than was polite.
“Was my cousin one of the people who swore the brothers showed themselves?” Minerva asked.
“Your cousin believed she saw things,” he said. “Whether they were spirits, or dreams that walked in the space between sleep and wake, well, that depends on whom you ask.” He slid the wrapped items across the counter, his expression making it clear he had said all he intended on the matter.
Minerva thanked him, gathered their purchases and followed Kitty toward the door.
Dreams that walked in the space between sleep and wake.
She knew the feel of that space, the wet ground beneath her bare feet, the wind snatching her will, the ravenous sea roaring below. A shudder crawled through her.
The chemist was wrong about one thing. It did not depend on whom you asked. Some things simply were.