The Dark Kingdom Anthology

by Krissy V et al.

  Or perhaps it’s just Alaine’s tiny waist that makes them appear so.

  A faint sound draws my attention from the painting. As soon as I look down the long passage ahead, I’m almost certain there’s a flicker of movement in the far back. But as soon as I blink and try to focus, it’s gone.

  “I hope you’re not haunting this place,” I mutter, scowling up at Lady Alaine. “Things are hard enough as it is, thank you very much.”

  Alaine says nothing, her beautiful smile that of an angel’s.

  The kitchen is a heap of organized chaos. Cooks and scullions scuttle about like crabs cleaning the ocean floor — picking up this and setting down that — all amidst a cacophony of banging pots and scraping cutlery. I stand on the threshold of the wide room for a moment, somewhat lost as I search out Mrs. Potter’s face. It’s hot and humid in here, the air so thick with the smell of roasting meat that I can taste pork in the back of my throat.

  My stomach turns over uneasily, and I flatten my hand on it to keep it steady. I still have a small hump over my belly. Howie took up a lot of room — most of which he left behind after I’d squeezed him out fourteen hours after I’d had my first contraction.

  I still can’t believe I birthed him into this world…and survived. But despite how he looked, Howie was as fragile as Rose.

  A hand falls on my shoulder. I jerk, spinning to face Mrs. Potter as my cheeks drain of blood.

  I push the visceral image of a doll-like Howie — the last one I have of him — from my mind. “I need a breast pump,” I tell Mrs. Potter.

  Brandon

  “Where is she?”

  The serving girl glances at me, and then drops a curtsey. “Can’t say, m’lord.” Then she’s gone, scampering out as if the Devil himself is nipping at her heels. I face a long table, but the seat opposite mine is empty. Had Mrs. Potter not reminded the girl of this meal? Or was she trying to find her way down to the dining room, getting lost in the maze of stairways and passages?

  Mrs. Potter told me she’d asked for a breast pump, and then disappeared into her room. Perhaps she was still in there. I try to imagine what on earth she’s doing, and then have to force myself to stop when I realize the thought is arousing me. I take a sip of my coffee, and then shrug a little to myself.

  Nothing shameful about it. I’m a man, and she’s a very pretty girl. I happened to see her partially naked, so why wouldn’t I be aroused? The fact that my wife’s corpse hasn’t yet started rotting shouldn’t factor into anything.

  Or should it?

  Alaine wasn’t my first love. I’d lost loved ones before she passed. Perhaps what I’m feeling is normal. Expected, even. Lust would be a damn sight better than the void I’ve been suspended in for so long, even if it was sinful of me. At least it would mean I can feel again.

  My stomach growls as my gaze scans over the luncheon spread.

  The master of the house waiting on a guest. I guess it’s manners, but Pippa hasn’t exactly been the picture-perfect nanny either, has she? I grab a thick slice of bread and raspberry preserve, not bothering with butter before spreading out a large dollop over the bread. The cook ground the flour so fine, the bread is almost pure white.

  White, red.

  Alaine’s sheets, drenched in blood. So much blood. Everywhere, even on Rose. I should have seen it as the omen it was but I’d been blind with rage, mute with terror.

  I’d been slicked with blood, too, because the doctor had been unable to stop me taking Rose into my arms. I’d nearly snapped the umbilical cord before they could sever it so neatly—

  Pinned both ends, their tiny scissors so clean amid a sea of blood and mucus and afterbirth

  —And release my babe from her dead mother’s womb.

  They might have thought I was trying to save the child…But I was trying to save my wife.

  I couldn’t. Alaine died on that hospital bed, and I was left with a blood-soaked infant wailing in my arms. She’d never stopped howling, except when she wore herself out to the point of exhaustive sleep.

  Until Pippa arrived at my manor.

  Perhaps I’d been too hard on her. After all, she was merely performing her duties, wasn’t she? What did it matter what Rose fed on, as long as the child didn’t die?

  Heaven knows, this house cannot handle another death beneath its eaves — there simply wouldn’t be enough room for all the ghosts.

  Chapter Six

  Pippa

  I blow a strand of hair from my face, set my jaw, and give Rose my best smile. It’s a weak attempt — I’ve been trying to get the child to take to the bottle for what feels like over an hour. I’ve missed lunch, and after the paltry breakfast I had, my stomach’s been growling at me for a while already.

  “Please, Rose. It’s the same damn milk.” I put the rubber teat by her mouth, but she closes her lips with resolute determination, scowling up at me as if I’m doing her a grave injustice.

  Letting out a heavy sigh, I shift her up, pop out my breast, and practically shove it in her greedy little mouth.

  “This is the last time,” I mutter, rocking back in Brandon’s chair and turning my attention to the window. “Your next meal is from the bottle, or you’ll starve, so help me God.”

  I do my best not to nod off while Rose is suckling, and instead study Brandon’s room in more detail. There’s a small shelf with a few well-worn books above the fireplace, but I’m too far away to make out their titles. Some are thick volumes, some thin. Maybe, the next time I’m feeding, I’ll take one down and read it. I left in far too much of a rush to bother with packing more than the bare essentials. In my frazzled state of mind, reading hadn’t factored into my plans.

  There’s the slightest of sounds, and on instinct I pluck Rose from my bosom and pull my dress up. Rose’s mouth is still open, and I don’t hesitate for a second. Before she can close her lips, I shove the bottle’s rubber teat into her mouth.

  “You missed lunch.”

  My skin breaks out in goose flesh at the sound of Brandon’s voice. “I wasn’t sure how hungry Rose would be.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” I murmur, and then send a dazzling smile over my shoulder. “She’s taken to the bottle,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “That’s remarkable!” Brandon’s eyes light up, and he strides forward.

  Rose squirms, spits out the bottle and makes as if she wants to cry, but I lift her to my shoulder instead and burp her.

  “Sometimes, all you need is a little determination.” I blush, and will my lips to seal. I’ve already lied to Brandon about so many things, now I’m pretending I’ve managed to switch Rose to the bottle in just a day? “Of course, I’m not sure if she’s absolutely ready yet, but—”

  The baron reaches for me, and I stiffen. The air is suddenly too warm, my cheeks glowing red, my muscles so tight they’re ready to snap. He lifts the bottle from my lap and holds it up. It’s half empty — Rose’s blanket was drenched in my breast milk how we fought our battle over that bottle — but at the exact moment I should have said something…I keep quiet.

  “Half a bottle! I’m sure she won’t go back.” The baron’s eyes dart to my bosom, and then he averts his gaze. Clearing his throat, he gingerly sets the bottle down in my lap and steps back, his gloved hands going behind his back. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says gruffly, and then storms out.

  Rose lets out a warning moan, but I wait for a few too-loud heartbeats before letting her suckle again.

  Always getting yourself into trouble, aren’t you, Pippa? What’s he gonna do when he finds out?

  “Shut up,” I mutter.

  Rose glares at me from around my nipple until I realize I’d been scowling at her. I let out a soft laugh, close my eyes and give her a little squeeze. “None of this is your fault, sweet child,” I whisper, stroking at her red cheek. “But you’d really be helping me out if you’d take the bottle.”

  She squirms a little, lets out a huff through her nose, and
settles in for the long haul as she closes her eyes.

  For some reason, an image of Brandon and Alaine’s portrait comes to mind. I reach up and touch my hair, bundled up in a messy nest of curls on my head. Perhaps, tomorrow, I should at least attempt to make myself presentable. Rose might take better to a surrogate who actually looked something like her mother, not this hot mess who can’t even get an infant to bottle feed.

  I begin rocking in the chair, and lose myself in its rhythmic creak. Fortunately, I have no further interruptions. It’s just Rose and I in front of the fire for the longest time.

  What I wouldn’t give for this to be my life again.

  Oh God, what I wouldn’t give.

  * * *

  To pass the time before supper and another inevitable battle with Rose and the bottle, I take a stroll through the manor again. This time, I head down the other passage, away from the music room and studio. The first door I find is closed and, when I push against it, it refuses to open.

  Locked.

  But in that moment I was right up against the wood, I caught a whiff of something. I pause, glance around the empty hallway, and step right up to the heavy door. It appears as all the other doors in this manor do — thick and ancient and well used. But there’s something wrong with it.

  It takes me laying my face against the wood and staring down its surface before I realize what’s wrong. The wood is warped. This close, there’s no mistaking the scent of charcoal and ash — like a fireplace left dormant too long.

  I try the handle again, but it remains closed.

  “You canna go in there, ma’am.”

  I spin around to face one of the serving girls who’d been in the dining hall. “What is it?”

  But the maid presses her lips closed as if it would take several of her fingernails being removed before she’d dare breathe a word. And then she’s off, hiking up her skirts and running from me like I have the plague.

  A locked room that smells of smoke? What could the baron be hiding behind this warped door?

  Brandon

  “M’lord, may I have your ear for a moment?”

  I sit back in my seat, and stare at the closed door a little ways off. Mrs. Potter knows she’s not supposed to enter my room unannounced — I only allow the staff to use those nasty secret corridors of theirs when they’re carrying firewood or somesuch so I don’t get splinters all over my carpets — but Mrs. Potter, God bless her, has a mind of her own. The fact that she’s come through the servant’s entrance is a sure sign that, whether I give her leave or not, she’ll have her damn say. “Go ahead,” I say, closing the ledger I was working on.

  “Milly said Miss Goodwin is snooping around the manor.”

  I wait for Mrs. Potter to move to the front of my desk, but instead she remains behind me, out of sight, like some demonic familiar who’s come to suggest sinful deeds in my ear. I twist in my seat, sling an arm around the back of my leather chair, and give her a long-suffering stare. “Milly?”

  “The one with the black hair,” Mrs. Potter says, waving her hand as if it doesn’t matter which of her underlings reported the news.

  “Snooping?”

  “She’s been seen going into every room that doesn’t have a lock, m’lord.” Mrs. Potter narrows her eyes. “And keeps trying those that do.”

  My hackles rise, but I force out a laugh and the feeling goes away. “She’s not a spy,” I say, turning back to my work and flipping open the thick leather-bound ledger again. I run a gloved finger down the page until I find my place. “And she’s welcome to go anywhere she wants.”

  “Even the nursery?”

  My mouth goes dry. This is the first time Mrs. Potter has ever mentioned the nursery. I push to my feet and, when I face her, she ducks her head into her shoulders as if convinced that I’m about to deliver a beating. “I’m starting to think we can do with less staff around this place if they have enough free time to stalk my guests,” I say, my voice as tight as my chest. “There’s still time to send some of them home before the snows, Mrs. Potter.”

  She drops her gaze, stiffens, and then gives me a reluctant nod. When she turns and heads back the way she came, I clear my throat at her and she spins and heads out the study door instead. As she puts her hand on the doorknob, I add, “And what did I tell you about using the servant’s passages?”

  “Sorry, m’lord,” she mutters without looking at me. “Won’t ’appen again.”

  “Damn right it won’t.”

  The door closes a touch harder than necessary, but I just shake my head and go back to my work. Time flows as it always does as I lose myself in the row upon row of numbers and dates, but before long my mind goes back to what Mrs. Potter told me.

  Even the nursery?

  I shove away the ledger and rub my eyes. When I glance up at the clock, I let out a low groan. Still two hours before I can even consider pouring myself a drink. I drum my fingers on my desk, and then shake my head and drag the ledger back in front of me.

  This is certainly not the time for self-indulgence. I need to keep a clear head when there’s a stranger in the house. Especially if what Tilly says is true. Dunnwood Manor is cursed. Not with a witch’s spell or fairy dust — but with darkness. Everyone who roams these halls has a secret they would never want uncovered. And, if they didn’t have one, Dunnwood Manor will graciously provide.

  Chapter Seven

  Pippa

  If it hadn’t been for the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, I wouldn’t have known I was no longer alone. Barely moving, I pull Rose from my nipple and swap out the rubber teat again. This time, the babe is so close to sleeping, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Are you having success?”

  I jump a little, and can only hope it comes across as natural. I glance at Mrs. Potter over my shoulder, consider giving her a smile, and then decide she’s not worth the effort.

  “I am,” I say dryly. “Is there something I can help you with?” I should probably not be so catty with the help, but then again, she shouldn’t be spying on me.

  “Sir Brandon asked me to pass on a message,” Mrs. Potter says, and then moves until she’s blocking the heat of the baron’s fireplace.

  It’s a strange dance we do, the baron and I. When I knocked on his study door an hour ago and he let me in, we stared at each other for a few seconds before either of us moved. Then he simply ducked his head and left, not saying a word.

  I would have heard the study door open — it has a very distinctive creak about it — which means Mrs. Potter must have used the hidden staircase to come in unannounced.

  “He says you are to keep to your rooms until you are needed. The manor is not yours to walk about in at your leisure.”

  My face heats up as I stare at Mrs. Potter with wide eyes. “He said that?” Indignation turns my saliva sour.

  Mrs. Potter clutches her hands in front of her hips, and dips her head down. “Are you calling me a liar, girl?” Her eyes dart down, narrow, and then she leaves via the study door.

  Rose is feeding from the bottle. Perhaps she hasn’t noticed the switch, or she’s so sleepy and satisfied it doesn’t matter, but God as my witness, she’s—

  The babe’s eyes pop open as if I’d been projecting my thoughts out loud. Then she spits out the bottle, and opens her mouth to begin wailing in protest. I press my eyes closed, let out a sigh and end her demanding cries before they begin.

  * * *

  I go back to my room when Rose is asleep in the crib. I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Brandon, wanting to demand an explanation from him, but he seems to have disappeared from the manor. Perhaps he was away on business. Perhaps he’d stay away until the end of winter.

  It shouldn’t, but the thought saddens me. The manor was dour before, but now it seems every damn brick in this place was constructed out of loneliness and desperation.

  Feeling blue again, Pippa?

  I rub my hands over my eyes and will away Howard’s voice. The last thing I nee
d right now is his condescension.

  The fire spits in the hearth, drawing my eye. I stare at it, and for a long time I can’t decide if I’m glad there isn’t a clock in this room…or if it might be the only thing to keep me sane.

  My skin starts crawling, and I scratch my nails along the inside of my arm until I’m leaving behind bright red marks. I decided to change into my nightgown, since it’s obvious I’m not seeing the outside of this room again until the morrow. Supper should have been served by now, but it seems I wasn’t on the guestlist this time.

  Did I anger the baron in some way? Is he considering sending me home? The thought brings a chill to my bones that the heat flowing from the fireplace can’t thaw.

  I need this job. Not just for the wages — although God knows I was a few pennies away from starvation — but for the distraction. Ever since the agency contacted me and informed me I’d been accepted, the gray clouds that had been suffocating my mind withdrew. I’d glimpsed blue sky and sunshine for the first time since Howie…For the first time in what feels like months.

  It’s been less than a fucking week. That how quick you forget about us? One fucking week?

  I lick my lips, get to my feet, and begin to pace. There’s not much room for that in this room, but it’s better than perching at the foot of the bed, being hypnotized by the fire.

  Fire.

  The smell of burned wood fills my nose. It has nothing to do with my little fireplace here — it comes from memory.

  That warped door.