The larger house sat perched at the top of the hill. The resident was out, so he took the opportunity to gather information. The lock on the door required no skill to open.
The scent of a single female hit him full force the moment the door swung closed behind him. Heather from the moors and the woody scent of shaved pencils, her scent permeated every room of the house. Underneath that, the common odors of everyday life—cooked foods, soaps, ink on paper—nearly masked the older, bitter scents of sickness.
Curious, Reven explored the house. The kitchen was bright and clean, if confusing. A large cast iron box sat in what was shaped like a fireplace. Warm to the touch, it heated the room efficiently. A primitive means of preparing meals? How fascinating.
Further into the house, he found the dining room complete with a table long enough to sit eight grown Mahdfel, so easily a dozen or more Terrans. An adjacent room seemed to hold no purpose other collecting vast amounts of chairs and settees. The furniture seemed heavy and very old-fashioned to his eyes. Varnished in deep tones and covered in thick, luxe fabrics, the furniture crowded the room. His memory dredged up the word parlor from somewhere. The parlor had an abandoned, unused air to it.
Upstairs he found a large room lined with windows. Canvas squares leaned against the walls. In the center of the room stood a wooden table, covered in multicolored splashes of paint, the pattern too chaotic to be deliberate. A chemical odor lingered heavily in the air, despite the dust on the floor indicating that the room sat unused.
Soft, color-filled landscapes covered the canvases. Occasionally, the figure of a dark-haired female appeared in the paintings. The details of her features were always hazy, but the light seemed to caress her fondly. The images reminded him of the creation stories of his mother’s world, Sangrin. The Eternal Mother traversed the darkness, drawn to the spark of life that glowed within the Eternal Father. He recognized the Eternal Mother as his mate and he glowed for her. When they joined, they created all life in the universe.
The story was sweet, but Reven always thought it was backward. Surely the spark of life resides within the female. He would journey across the unknown darkness for his mate, if he could sense her across the distance.
The female in the painting glowed like a beacon. The light kissed her form, embraced and celebrated her. Each brush stroke was made with absolute devotion. He envied such passion.
Reven found more drawings in a vastly different style on the table. Detailed and precise, the drawings focused on a single subject and replicated it with accuracy. Pages and pages were filled with native plants, flowers, domestic livestock, and occasionally a person in profile. The other paintings had been wild in their emotion, but this artist was curious. They studied anything with an interesting shape, or face when it came to a person. The inquisitiveness of the artist intrigued him. He idly wondered what the artist would say if they ever saw him.
Finally, he traced the delicious aroma of heather and wood fruit to its source: a bedroom.
Reven stood in the doorway. The fruit and tart scent was strongest here, as was the bitterness of prolonged sickness. Under that, faint and fading, was the scent of a male.
The female who lived alone once had a mate.
Entering seemed disrespectful. He did not need to prowl through the house, but he found himself curious about the female who lived in such a large, empty home. The room was a private space, and he should respect that boundary.
He closed the door to the bedroom, knowing that one female would be easy to track. He did not need to know more and prepared to leave the house as silently as he entered.
Reven’s hand hovered over the knob on the side door.
Voices.
He pulled back into the shadows. A Terran male and female walked past, heading to the front entrance. Snatches of their conversation indicated that they wanted to pay the lady of the house a visit.
They rapped on the door.
Surely, they would realize that no one was home and leave. He waited.
“I don’t understand. Mrs. Halpine is always home,” the male said.
Reven took the words to heart. If the lady of the house received frequent visitors, then he needed to find a new location.
The pair gave up and turned back, finally understanding that the house stood empty. Apparently, they did not find the person they sought. Reven followed, to gather what information he could from their conversation. It was risky, but risk was exactly what brought him to Earth.
Chapter Four
Elizabeth
To save time, Elizabeth took the footpath that cut through the copse of trees and ultimately led to the stone clapper bridge, then across the river and up the hill to Sweecombe. Normally she took the main road—the long way around, much preferring to walk in the sun for a few extra minutes than to save time by cutting through the shadows—but night came quickly, and the sun already slipped behind the trees. Gray clouds on the horizon promised a return of darkness and possibly snow. If the snow proved dense enough, she might try making a snowman.
She perked up at the idea. Growing up in London, she never had the chance to frolic in fresh, clean snow. Too quickly, the snow in the streets turned to slush, and the snow in the parks became gray and dingy. But here, on the moors, no industry pumped out clouds of smoke to tarnish the pristine landscape. The most she’d have to worry about soiling her snow were sheep and a few of the wild ponies that were brave enough to venture close to the lodge.
Well, and the beast.
She rolled her eyes at the notion, positive that what the drunken Jonas had witnessed that night was a ram or stag in the moonlight, nothing more. She was far more likely to run afoul of Jonas after a night soaked in gin than a beast.
Perhaps keeping a rifle at the ready was not a bad idea. She didn’t fear her neighbors in the village, but everyone knew she was a widow alone in an isolated house. Nefarious individuals might view her as a target for burglary or worse.
Mr. Baldry kept the hunting rifles in good working order. She hadn’t shot a rifle in years, not since her father took her on a pheasant hunt when she was sixteen. After that, her mother declared hunting an unsuitable sport for a young lady. Elizabeth took up croquet and the piano, instead, and excelled at neither.
Once home, she would find a firearm that felt comfortable to hold. Hopefully, she would never need to use it, but if the worst happened, she should act like she knew how to.
Awareness pricked along the back of her neck. She was being observed. Casually, she lowered her hood, as if to enjoy the sun as it streamed through the trees, and turned her head to glance behind. She spied no one on the footpath or obviously lurking in the trees.
She should have stayed on the main road and ignored the temptation of saving ten or fifteen minutes.
Leaves rustled and a twig snapped.
Don’t panic. It could be an innocent deer.
She held the basket loosely in one hand, ready to swing it at anyone—or anything—if need be. Another twig snapped. She spun in place, and an apple broke free from the basket.
It rolled down the path and stopped at a pair of highly polished tall leather boots.
“Mrs. Halpine. We were just calling on you.” Gilbert Stearne, a local farmer, retrieved the fallen apple and brushed it on the lapel of his coat before returning it to her with a flourish. His hair, normally wind-tousled or under a cap, had been slicked back with a very reflective product.
His sister, Felicity, stood nearby with a sour expression on her face.
“Mr. Stearne, Miss Stearne,” Elizabeth said, giving them a small nod. “I’m sorry that I don’t have time to chat. I must get home before it’s dark.”
“We’ll see you home then,” he said with a nod.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” She’d rather he didn’t, but she could see no way to decline.
“I expect you need to be home before the Sabbath,” Felicity said.
Her words struck Elizabeth as odd and potentially troublin
g. “If I were a Jewess, but I am not,” she replied, tone cool.
“Pardon me. I assumed, with a maiden name of Josephson.”
Elizabeth let her face fall into a neutral expression. Her maiden last name of Josephson frequently drew that assumption about her religion. Yes, her grandparents had emigrated from the Rhine in Germany, and her father converted when he married her Anglican mother, but she hardly wanted to discuss her lineage. Besides, she got the keen feeling that Miss Stearne did not care for the particulars, as long as she could smugly judge Elizabeth’s pedigree.
“A common misconception, but I assure you I was christened and baptized in the Anglican church. Same as you,” Elizabeth said.
Miss Stearne flushed. “I don’t think—”
“We hardly see you at Sunday service,” Gilbert said, speaking over his sister.
This was why she avoided going into the village. People making awkward conversation and questioning how she lived. The butcher, miller, and grocer made regular deliveries. She didn’t need to go into the village, not really. The purchases in her basket would have kept until the Baldrys returned. The next time she wanted to enjoy the good weather, she’d take her paint box out on the moors.
“My grief kept me housebound. Only recently have I felt able to leave,” she explained.
“You artistic types feel everything so deeply,” he said with another short nod, as if that explained everything.
Elizabeth loathed explaining herself to Gilbert and his sister, but she hated people gossiping about her and her artistic ways. Still, he spoke the truth. Some days it took all her strength to get out of bed and dress. The idea of facing the village set her skin crawling.
“Mrs. Halpine, Elizabeth,” he said, voice warming. “Let me see you home. The stones of the bridge are slick after dark.”
Felicity adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “I’ll head home then. I need to get our tea started.” With a small nod, the woman set off towards the Stearnes’ house.
“Will she be all right? It is quite dark now,” Elizabeth said.
“Felicity knows the way. She could travel there blindfolded.”
As quickly as the light vanished, she might as well be blindfolded.
In short order, they came to the narrow footbridge. Flat stones were stacked on pylons just above the water. In heavy rain, the bridge vanished into the waters. In the winter, the wet stones iced over. Elizabeth did not once lose her footing, but Gilbert held her hand, just in case she slipped. A tumble in the icy waters would be disastrous.
Bridge traversed, they climbed the steep ascent to Sweecombe. Her calves burned with exertion, not accustomed to such labor.
“Can we happily say that your mourning has come to an end?” Gilbert waited for her reply with a hungry expression.
Elizabeth tugged at the sleeve of her blue coat. Wearing color did not mean she stopped mourning David. Her life would always feel his absence, but she also could not stop living. David wanted her to have a rich, full life. He made her swear.
“It’s early days yet,” she said. Gilbert wanted to court her. It was more than her ego speaking; she knew this for a fact. In the past year, he made frequent calls in the spirit of neighborly friendship. He also made not-so-subtle comments about finding new joy when she came out of mourning or the solace and comfort of a trusted companion.
David made her promise not to waste the best years of her life mourning him. More and more, she thought to her future. Sometimes love figured into those daydreams.
She couldn’t picture Gilbert Stearne in those daydreams, however. She found the man a bore and lacking imagination.
She scolded herself for the unkind thought. Though Gilbert might not have that creative spark that called to her, he was a thoughtful and dutiful neighbor. He called on her during foul weather, just to make sure she had enough coal for the fire. Last spring, he mended a stone fence on the far side of her property and refused payment.
Perhaps there could be something said for the solace and comfort of a trusted companion.
Elizabeth stopped outside the front entrance. Gilbert clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for an invitation for a cup of tea. She had a sinking feeling that if she invited him in, he’d prove impossible to remove. He’d start the fireplaces to warm the house, and then he would find another task that required him to return the next day. Gilbert was a good neighbor, but she did not want him wheedling his way into her home.
“Thank you for your assistance, but I am home quite safely now,” she said.
“In the spirit of the season, would you join us for Christmas dinner?”
The question caught her off guard. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother—”
“Nonsense. Felicity ordered a goose large enough to feed ten.” He reached for her hand and gave it a firm squeeze.
“Mrs. Simmons is determined to send me a hamper for my dinner.”
His grip tightened to the point of pain. “Excellent. It will be cold and will keep another day. Come to dinner and Felicity will send you home with enough provisions to last until Mrs. Baldry returns.” He smiled with too much teeth, like a man unused to the effort.
She wrenched her hand away, much preferring him when he didn’t try so hard to be charming. Rough around the edges, she believed him to have a good heart and knew him to have a good work ethic.
Judge not, she reminded herself and pushed back a lock of stray hair from his brow. A thick, oily substance coated her fingers. “What do you have in your hair?”
“Bear’s grease. I thought a little effort wouldn’t hurt. Do you not like it?”
She gave her fingers a careful sniff and found the unexpected scent of lavender and thyme. Studying his appearance, she noticed the polished boots, cleaned free of mud, and the tweed suit, no doubt his best.
He shuffled his feet impatiently, waiting for her response. He made such an effort to impress her, which touched her fondly, but that was as far as her affections went. Fondness. She liked him and wished she could feel something warmer for him.
Elizabeth gave a soft smile. “In the spirit of friendship, I accept. I cannot promise you anything more than that, Gilbert.”
His eyes caught the last of the light as she said his name. “I admire you as you are, Elizabeth. Don’t put on airs for me.”
“I expect the same of you, Gilbert Stearne.” She wanted to add that she admitted her neighbor as he was but felt that might be misleading. He was a good man, if dull, but she felt no attraction to him.
“Until Christmas Day, then.” He moved to press his lips to the back of her gloved hand.
A low, threatening growl stopped him mid-motion.
Reven
Terrans were frightfully unaware of their surroundings. Reven stayed to the shadows and pressed against the side of the house. The two Terrans passed only a few steps from him, but neither noticed.
The seductive scent of pencil shavings and heather drifted away from the female. This was her domicile. The female was tiny. Perhaps the excessive clothing she wore gave her a vulnerable, delicate appearance.
The male, ruddy-faced and with rust-colored hair, smelled sour and unpleasantly of the dirt. Not the freshly tilled soil, but of something dark and unpleasant, and not the fading male scent Reven found inside the house. This male was not the female’s mate. By his stance and the hungry expression on his face, he very much wanted to be her mate.
Reven disliked the male on principle.
The male lifted her hand and pressed it to her lips. She frowned as if she did not welcome the touch.
The warning growl came unbidden.
The ruddy-faced male dropped her hand in surprise. “What was that?”
“Thunder?” the female offered. She stepped back, increasing the distance between them. This pleased Reven.
“Could be the beast. I should check your house, to make sure it’s safe,” the male said.
“You don’t believe that poppycock, do you?”
“You can
never be too safe.”
To his disgust, Reven agreed with the male.
“There is no beast on the moors, nor is it hiding in my house. Good day, Mr. Stearne.”
“Until next week.”
The door opened and closed heavily. Reven waited for the male to don his cap and leave. Finally alone, he returned to the shuttle and planned to move it overnight.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth
The lights drew her out.
The entire day, she kept her mind occupied and did not dwell on the beast or the lights on the moor. More importantly, she distracted herself from the sense of being watched. That uneasy sensation never left, not even after encountering Gilbert and his sister.
When evening fell, Elizabeth found herself unable to concentrate on her novel. The usual creaks and groans of an older house tickled at the edge of her perception, always snagging her attention. Hot water rushing through the pipes under the floor whispered. The wind rattled at the windows.
She was entirely alone but felt as if an observing presence lingered.
Giving up on reading, she made a pot of tea. Ordinary, routine noises filled the kitchen and drove away the sense of being watched. She listlessly nibbled at the bread and cheese, finding she had no appetite.
Her abdomen felt bloated, actually, as if she needed to purge. Mild cramping at her sides assured her that her discomfort was nothing more than her regular monthly courses. Some women bore their cycle with ease. Elizabeth had never been that fortunate but found that walking and moderate stretches often eased her discomfort.
Unable to sleep, she paced the corridors of the house. Feeling overly warm, she decided that fresh air would help clear her head and set her at ease.
Wearing her thick stockings and nightshift, she bundled up in her coat and winter kit. Remembering the panic from the night before, she slipped a small pistol into the coat pocket. She found the firearm in the cabinet with the rifles and judged the compact size suitable for her needs. She refused to believe that a hellish beast prowled the moors, but she was a woman on her own. If she encountered a scoundrel, she did not want to find herself without recourse.
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