“Don’t be afraid of the Keyvnor ghosts!”
Angel fought the urge to laugh at her silly aunts, their wild hair flying in the wind as they ran alongside the coach. But when it seemed they had nearly exhausted themselves, she hung her head out the window and called, “I love you!” to the both of them. At which point they slowed to a stop, their forms getting smaller and smaller as Angel’s coach took her further and further from them.
When they were completely out of sight, Angel pulled herself back inside and latched the window shut, blinking back her tears all the while. It was silly of her to be so very emotional. She’d not even be gone a week, for heaven’s sake. And it wasn’t as if she was traveling the length of England. For heaven’s sake, she’d be to Bocka Morrow in an hour, or maybe two, if the impending storm had anything to say about it.
She pulled the blanket from the opposite seat and shook it out, before covering herself neck to toe with it. Perhaps she should have accepted the warm bricks Aunt Agnes had offered, but she thought it silly with such a short distance to go. Besides, there were much colder places than the southern tip of Cornwall. They were quite blessed with weather here. Though today seemed to be one of the colder days this year. And with the dampness of the ocean air, it was a cold that seeped into the bones and took up residence until such a time as it was driven out by a hot bath or roaring fire.
Angel glanced out the window at the dark skies again. They seemed to be moving over her, toward Penzance, thank heaven. A bit of sun would help drive away the frigidness.
She leaned her head back against the squabs, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath in, allowing the rumbling carriage to lull her into a more relaxed state of mind. She was on her own now – quite a frightening idea. Not that she feared being alone, necessarily. She was alone a lot, and often sought solitude in the familiar woods near their home. But this was different. She would be with other people – a lot of other people – and yet, she wouldn’t know a single soul. That seemed far lonelier than her solitary adventures around Mousehole.
Unable to calm her nerves, she reached into her reticule, which was tucked safely inside her bosom, and retrieved the list of names her aunts had assembled for her. Sacha. Rowena. Gretchen, Maevis, Elethea… Nine in all. Angel wondered what it must be like to be part of a coven. To have so many sisters of the craft nearby. Of course, she had her aunts, but they only made three. As far as Angel knew, they were the only ones of their kind in or around Mousehole.
It wasn’t long before the carriage pulled into the drive of what Angel could only assume was Castle Keyvnor. It looked just as intimidating and ghostly as the rumors had declared. Not that she worried the ghosts would contact her. Much as she was fascinated by the spirit world, she seemed to have little connection with it. Aunt Tilly, however, spoke to those on the other side quite often, which added to her reputation of eccentricity. She claimed she couldn’t always tell the difference between someone who was alive and someone who was not, so sometimes, it appeared as if she were talking to herself. Such a trait tended to be off-putting to non-magical people.
Aunt Agnes wasn’t quite as in tune with the spirit world, though she could sense their presence. Her true talents, however, lay in tea leaves. She did all sorts of things with them – healing brews for the sick or predicting a person’s future by reading them. All Angel saw when she looked at the leaves were…leaves.
Unfortunately, Angel’s talents hadn’t revealed themselves to her yet. They ought to have by now – heavens, she was twenty years old already! And yet, here she was, a supposed magical being from a long line of magical beings with absolutely nothing magical about her.
Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. Magical things did happen to her, or around her, rather. All completely unintentional and uncontrollable, though.
The carriage rolled to a stop and a moment later, the door swung open. Angel sat for a long moment, staring at the dirt of the drive, her heart racing. This was a mistake. She ought not to have come here. She should turn around and go home, back to her aunts, back to the familiarity of Mousehole, and—
“It’s her! Tamsyn, come quickly! She’s here!”
Panic settled into Angel’s breast, and she clutched at her heart with one hand while gripping the edge of her seat with the other. Just outside the carriage, a young woman smiled eagerly at her, waiting for her to come out. But Angel felt glued to her spot. She hadn’t been expecting such a reception, and truthfully, she would have much preferred settling into her chambers first before being bombarded by…well, she didn’t exactly know who this girl was. Only that she had red-tinged hair and earnest brown eyes.
“Are you all right?” the girl called to her. “Is your dress caught or something? Do you need my help?”
She started for the carriage, as if she meant to climb right inside of it, but Angel finally managed to find her voice. “No, no!” she called back, forcing the girl to stop in her tracks. “I-I’m fine. Let me just…” She made a big show of gathering her reticule off the seat. “Here it is.” Once it was tucked safely beneath her coat again, Angel stood to half-height and accepted the hand of the footman awaiting her.
Her feet had barely touched the ground before the young woman engulfed her in an embrace. “We weren’t certain you would come, but I’m so thrilled you have! Tamsyn and Morgan will be too. Oh, here is Tamsyn now.” She turned to Tamsyn – one of the brides to be married on Christmas Eve.
“My dear cousin,” Tamsyn said, pulling Angel close for yet another embrace, though this one was slightly less oppressive than the last. “We are so glad you’ve come to celebrate with us. Was your journey long?”
Angel shook her head. “Mousehole is a mere hour or so away.”
“Mousehole! What a brilliant name. However did your town come to be named Mousehole?”
“Gwyn, please do calm yourself,” Tamsyn said to the young woman. “Please excuse my sister, Miss Quinn.” Then she gestured to the pair of servants standing off to the side. “Morris is our butler. He and Mrs. Bray will see to your needs while you’re here. Did you bring a maid?”
Angel shook her head.
“Mrs. Bray, you will see that Miss Quinn has someone to assist her?”
The stoic older woman nodded.
“That really isn’t necessary,” Angel tried to protest. “I’m quite used to dressing myself.”
Her cousin gave her a kind half-smile. “Nonetheless, you shall have assistance, Miss Quinn.”
“Please,” Angel said, “do call me Angel. We are cousins, after all, are we not?”
“Indeed we are!” Gwyn exclaimed.
“We shall see you at supper, Angel,” Tamsyn added.
Angel nodded to both of them before following the housekeeper inside. It was just as Angel had imagined: dark, drafty and a wee bit terrifying. But by her wand, she couldn’t feel the presence of a single spirit. Not that she knew what that would feel like, but she felt…well, nothing. And she assumed that if she were the kind of witch to communicate with the spirit world that she would feel something.
“This way,” Mrs. Bray said, and Angel continued following in her wake.
They were halfway up the main staircase when Angel finally felt something. An awful something, to be more precise. A whoosh of nausea and dizziness threatened to knock her off balance, so she paused, gripping the banister, attempting to keep her wits about her. Don’t fall down the stairs, she told herself. Don’t lose consciousness. For how embarrassing that would be to tumble to her death within mere minutes of arriving at the castle.
With fierce determination, she pressed on, forcing one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, until…
The feeling passed. Heavens, it was gone just as quickly as it came. Angel pinched herself to make certain she hadn’t actually died just then, but no, she was quite alive. A bit drained all of a sudden, and a bit on edge, as one tended to be after such an episode, but alive, nonetheless.
So, she continued to follow the
woman up the staircase, down a corridor, up another staircase, down another corridor, around a corner, past a large window overlooking the gardens, until finally… “Here you are.”
“Goodness,” Angel mused as the older woman unlocked the door. “How will I ever find my way back downstairs again?”
Mrs. Bray flung the door open to reveal a small, modest room with a single window and simple furnishings: a bed with what Angel hoped was a heavy quilt, a spindly chair, a writing desk, and an armoire. Upon the small nightstand was a washbowl and a snowy white towel.
“The bell is here,” Mrs. Bray said, pointing to the bellpull that hung on the wall beside her. “Will there be anything else?”
“How far is the village?”
The old woman’s eyebrows shot up. “The village?”
“Bocka Morrow,” Angel clarified, though she wasn’t sure why she needed to. Was the woman kept so busy that she didn’t even realize there was a world outside the castle?
“Of course. Out the drive and down the hill, in the direction of the sea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bray. That will be all.”
The housekeeper left the room, closing the door behind her, leaving Angel in solitude again, and wondering what on earth had happened to her back there. If that was what a ghostly encounter felt like, she sincerely hoped that would be the first and last of them.
Chapter 4
Ethan couldn’t be certain if it was the dampness of the sea or the fact that he had two exhausting young ladies in his charge, but something was causing his head to ache horrifically. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep for days on end. But the aforementioned young ladies prevented him from doing so. He had to be alert to their whereabouts, and available to them should they need him. Bless it all, he’d be one happy man once the two of them were married off. After practically raising four young women, he deserved a respite, didn’t he? Some time in the country, or maybe in Brighton, by the sea. Hell, he’d take a night alone in London, if that was all he could get. Just a bit of time for himself, where he wasn’t thinking of the girls, or his duties to the estate, or his duties in Parliament, or—
Damn, this headache was getting worse by the moment. But if he couldn’t lie down and rest, he’d head down to the library and see what libations he could find there. Brandy was always good for numbing the pain a bit, as long as he didn’t drink too much, for then it would have the opposite effect.
With careful steps, he made his way through the maze of Keyvnor corridors, down several flights of stairs, until he was on the main floor. As he passed through the main hall, his senses were accosted with the most sweet-smelling perfume he’d ever enjoyed. Was it roses? No, lilacs, he thought. Gentle and soothing and…
He stopped in his tracks and lifted his eyes to find a young woman climbing the staircase behind Mrs. Bray. But this was no ordinary young woman. No, he could see from here that she was…different, to say the least. Her long hair was not bound into curls or a chignon, but rather gathered at her temples into clips, leaving the rest to trail down her back, where it came to a stop just above her perfectly-rounded bottom. And it was so blonde, one might even say it was white.
Her clothes were even more unconventional than her hair, almost in the style of the gypsies, but lighter in color. White, to match her hair, with bits of cream-colored lace.
But the most remarkable part of all this was that his headache was completely gone. Vanished, as if setting eyes upon this odd beauty had cured him.
“How strange,” he muttered to himself as he watched her ascend the last few stairs in his sight, and then, as soon as she was gone, the ache returned, and with a vengeance this time. The pain was so great that it caused Ethan’s stomach to churn, nearly bringing him to his knees right there in the Great Hall.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” A footman stood before him, slightly blurred by Ethan’s pain.
“Fine,” Ethan replied, trying to will himself better. “If I could just get to the library.”
“Of course. May I lead the way?”
Ethan gave a slight nod and then followed the man toward the library. Anything more vigorous and he was certain his head would have lopped right off onto the floor.
“Do you know who that girl was?” he ventured as they walked. He might have been in excruciating pain, but he wasn’t going to let the opportunity to find out about that girl pass him by. “The one that just arrived?”
“Miss Angel Quinn, Your Grace,” the man said, and then added, “Though if you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t think she’s someone with whom your kind ought to be associating.”
As a matter of fact, he did mind the man’s saying so. Ethan would associate with whomever he wished to associate. Still, curiosity was getting the better of him. “And why is that?”
They had come to the library, and the man turned to him, his lips pursed. “I ought not say, Your Grace.”
“Well, I think we’re past that. You’ve sparked my curiosity. I’d like an explanation.”
The man cleared his throat. “Well, she…that is to say, there are rumors…of course, I could be wrong, but--”
“I haven’t got all day,” Ethan pressed.
“She’s a witch.”
Oh, Lud. He ought to have expected this sort of nonsense. Everyone seemed to lose all good sense and reason when they stepped through the doors of Castle Keyvnor, as if the place actually had the power to suck it right out of people’s brains. Well, most people. Not Ethan, of course. No, he was one of the few that still had his wits about him.
“Well, thank you for that information,” he said to the footman. “I shall take it into consideration. Now, if you will excuse me, I must do something to ease the ache in my head.”
“Ache, Your Grace?”
Was the man daft? “Yes, ache,” Ethan confirmed, the pain stealing his patience with every utterance from the footman’s mouth.
“Shall I retrieve a powder for you?”
“A powder?”
He nodded. “Does the trick for me every time.”
Ethan didn’t have the wherewithal to argue or ask more questions, so he muttered, “Fine,” and waved the man away before making his way to the sidebar. He sloshed some brandy into a tumbler, and a bit onto the sidebar as well, and then threw it back, savoring the sweetness on his tongue and the burn as it made its way to his belly. Unfortunately, it did nothing for his head. Not a damn thing. Perhaps this powder the footman spoke of would do the trick for him as well. He could only hope. There was no way he could get through the next few days of festivities feeling like this.
He poured another drink and then took a seat, allowing his head to loll back against the velvet cushion of the sofa, and closed his eyes. In his mind, he could see her. Well, her profile anyway, for that was all he’d been able to enjoy of her…so far. The flowing white hair, the lilac scent, the clearing of his head – how on earth had she done that?
“Your Grace?”
Ethan started at the footman’s voice and immediately wanted to throttle the man for disturbing his daydream about the beautiful witch. What was her name again? Angel, wasn’t it? Yes, it suited her. She was far more angel than witch.
“Sorry to disturb,” the footman went on. “But I’ve brought your powder.”
Ethan squinted at the salver, which held the plate of white powder. “And you’re certain this will cure me?”
“I’ve never known someone it didn’t cure, Your Grace.”
“What do I do with it?”
“Sprinkle it on your tongue, then chase it with your beverage.”
Ethan did as he was told, and then lay back again, waiting for the chalky stuff to work its magic. “Thank you,” he said to the footman.
“My pleasure, Your Grace. Will that be all?”
“That will be all.”
Chapter 5
Angel stepped out of the castle and stood for a long moment at the top of the stairs that led to the drive, drinking in the view
before her. She’d not had time to enjoy the loveliness of the grounds when she’d arrived, what with her long-lost cousins accosting her and all. But it was truly beautiful, in a sparse, wintery kind of way. She could only imagine what it would look like in the spring.
A gust of wind lifted her hair and skirts simultaneously, and Angel took a deep breath of the fresh, cool air before she began her descent of the staircase. She had a bounce in her step as she followed Mrs. Bray’s instructions: to the end of the drive and down the hill. She couldn’t wait to meet the others, even though her belly swirled with apprehension. Would they be welcoming of her? Or were they a closely-knit group that didn’t care for outsiders? Heavens, she’d not really considered that possibility until now. But there was only one way she would find out, so she pressed on against the gusts of wind that grew stronger as she drew closer to the sea.
From the top of the hill, she could see the quaint little village below, the sea just beyond, and two large ships bobbing at the docks. Sailors and civilians bustled up and down the street, a fish monger bellowed about her wares, brandishing a slimy creature in her hand, and a few children looked to be playing a game of chase. It wasn’t very different from her own village, really, and Angel was quick to take comfort in that fact as she made her way down the hill.
She wasn’t entirely certain how she was going to find the others, but when she saw the sign for the apothecary, something told her that was a good place to start.
A bell dinged above her when she pushed through the door into the shop. Tiny bottles lined the shelves that extended all the way up the walls, and the whole place smelled of herbs and flowers. An older woman with silver-streaked black hair, almost identical to Aunt Agnes’s, greeted her from behind a counter, as if she were simply another townsperson coming to buy perfume. But then she stilled.
“Oh, my,” she whispered. “I wondered when you would come.”
“You know who I am?” Angel asked, skeptical that the woman could know her on sight.
Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2) Page 12