by D K Girl
‘Children?’ Silas enjoyed this conversation less and less. Had Mr Ahari not said the Blight could turn a lost soul into a monster? Perhaps one with blue skin and iron claws?
‘In this past year, an uncommon number of little ones have gone missing,’ Clarence said perched on the edge of his seat. ‘And there are those of us who will tell you it is Black Annis who’s taken them.’
Silas tugged at the collar of his shirt, giving himself a moment to think. This appointment had taken quite the turn. ‘Do you have some proof of this?’
‘Very sensible question.’ Pitch nodded with a put-upon frown.
The carriage made a sudden neck-cricking halt, the driver letting his displeasure be known before they continued on.
A distressed Clarence continued his breathless story. ‘Since the thawing of last winter there have been half a dozen disappearances, and no end to sightings of Black Annis.’
‘I’m certain there hasn’t been,’ Pitch said, scrutinising a nail. ‘Humans do so love an excuse to scare the wits out of themselves. Are we almost there, dear fellow?’
‘Yes, sir. Only a few more minutes—’
‘Will there be cake?’
Clarence’s mouth bobbed opened as a goldfish’s might, thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. The carriage hit a particularly deep pot-hole, throwing them all around in their seats. Silas took hold of the leather strap over the window, just in case Leicester’s roads worsened.
‘Clarence,’ he said. ‘What of those disappearances has you convinced Black Annis is responsible? Are any of the sightings of merit?’
And if they were, what in heaven’s name was Silas to do about it? If this creature were a teratism Mr Ahari had said, quite clearly, that ankou were not able to remove them from the world. Silas’s maddened thoughts settled on something of more comfort. If Black Annis did exist, was it not possible she was a monster entirely. Not a lost soul gone foul? And if the monster did exist, would this not become a case for the smooth-faced monster killer seated at his side. Silas quietly marvelled at the ridiculous nature of his own thoughts. Here he was, hoping for the existence of a true born monster.
‘And will your master serve cake for tea?’ Pitch flared his fingers before him, surveying the state of his nails. ‘Vanilla slices will do, I suppose. I’m dreadfully hungry.’
Silas glared at him, having less and less trouble believing that the man was indeed a spawn of Satan.
‘Clarence, please tell us what has you believing Black Annis is responsible for these disappearances,’ Silas said.
‘Not three months back, two young-uns had been out to collect firewood and didn’t return. The only trace they found of them was a scrap of bloodied clothing on the edge of the woods where Black Annis’s bower lies.’ He touched at his throat, tears welling once more. ‘Only a few dared search too deep, and even then they didn’t linger long. Nothing was found, but the parents of those little ones heard strange things the night before the children disappeared. They live mighty close to the woods, and say they heard her wailing, and gnashing her teeth till dawn. Her nails marked their walls too, cuts in the stone that hadn’t been there a day before.’
‘Did they see her?’ Silas asked.
‘Not directly, sir, no.’
Silas relaxed his grip on the handhold. Perhaps Pitch was right about the human propensity for fright. The children had wandered into the woods and were lost. The parents were stricken with grief, searching for cause. Silas stared at the passing scenery, seeing none of it. All at once Clarence reached for him, pressing his hand down upon Silas’s own.
‘Mr Mercer, my brother’s girl is another who has gone missing.’ His voice cracked and wobbled. ‘She’s barely five years in this world. But the authorities just as soon believe my brother responsible, killing his child to ease his cost of living, and won’t hear word of Black Annis. The Order will believe us though, won’t they, sir?’ His fingers tightened against Silas’s, before he released his hold and sat back. Teardrops dangled from his chin and he made no move to wipe them clear.
‘Oh by the gods, must you cry?’ Pitch pulled his checkered scarf to cover his mouth and nose. ‘It’s not terribly fetching.’
Silas moved before he could think his actions through, throwing his elbow hard against Pitch’s arm. He was rewarded with an almost comical look of astonishment.
‘Clarence, I am terribly sorry for the loss your family has endured,’ Silas continued. ‘But I’m not sure that we can assist in this matter. We were brought here to attend to the spirits of Knighton House.’
The carriage began to slow, the clip of the horses’ hooves changeing pitch as they met a new surface, one less resonating than the cobbles.
‘And I’d not ask you to ignore your task, of course.’ Clarence’s hands returned to toy with the brass buttons upon his coat. ‘This evening will go as planned. I would never dream of interfering with that—’
‘Because you lack the power to do so,’ Pitch said, with blunt efficiency. ‘You are a servant.’
‘Yes, yes…that’s right, sir.’ The poor man’s finally held colour upon his cheeks. ‘Of course. But on the morrow, might you come with me before you depart back to London, and see Dane Hills for yourself? Her ladyship has heard of the stories, she would be amenable to you pursuing such a tale. Perhaps, if men of such…standing…can place themselves nearer to Black Annis’s bower, they might learn the fate of these children.’
Pitch wrinkled his nose. ‘I can tell you now if it’s not one monster that has taken them, its another. And likely human at that. There are many with a taste for fresh young meat.’
‘Tobias, please.’ Silas spoke through ground teeth.
The driver brought them to a standstill with far more grace than Isaac seemed capable, a gentle nudge that did not threaten to heave them from their seats.
‘Please…sirs…my brother and his wife are fair out of their minds…Bethany is their only babe—’
‘Do stop begging, it’s turning my stomach,’ Pitch said brightly, buttoning up his teal coat in preparation to alight. ‘If I am not provided with a slice of pie, or a decent hole to bugger I may snap that skinny neck of yours—.’
The man flinched, pressing into his seat. ‘What—’
‘Tobias!’ Silas pondered when the next train to London might be, for he wished more than anything to be upon it.
‘I jest,’ Pitch said. ‘Of course. We will go to these precious hills of yours, Clarence.’
Aghast, Silas stared at him. ‘What?’
‘We will go to Dane Hills, is what I said. Mr Mercer are your ears failing you yet again? We will go, and if there is something that needs killing, then I shall kill it.’
‘Thank you, Mr Astaroth.’ Clarence appeared ready to cry all over again.
‘But what if it turns out to be a…’ Silas muttered. ‘What if there is a chance that it—’
‘Is a teratism?’ Pitch threw all discretion to the wind. ‘Then we tell him of it.’ He frowned. ‘Really, are you quite that stupid? I suspect we will find nothing but the shadows of wild imaginations, perhaps some tiny corpses floating in a pond in the woods, but if not it may well be something I can drive a blade into and I don’t see why I should not be able to find amusement on this trip. Now, Clarence, pray tell, what desserts are on the menu this evening?’
‘Ahh, there’s…I’m not sure—’ Considering the look Pitch levelled at him it was a wonder Clarence did not soil his trousers then and there. ‘But, but rest assured, Mr Astaroth, I will personally see to it that you have more sweetness than you can abide.’
‘Then you set out on a mission bound to fail, I’m afraid, but at least my belly will fill,’ Pitch said. ‘Shall we go in?’ He rose, hunching over in the confines of the carriage. A full-cheeked footman opened the door and greeted them with a nod. All Silas noted of Knighton House was that it was grand and imposing and he did not wish to set foot inside. The whole visit felt as though it were spinning out of his paltry co
ntrol faster than he could blink.
Clarence gestured for Silas to alight before him. ‘Sir, could I ask you just one more thing.’
Silas nodded, though he’d rather have delivered a firm shake of the head.
‘When you cast them out, the ghosts here I mean…it won’t…won’t hurt them too much will it? Because they truly have been no bother.’
Blasting his failure to refuse to answer another question, Silas struggled to find an answer. It had not even occurred to him yet to consider how a lost soul might feel when the scythe found them. Silas recalled the young girl at the Baron’s home, and decided upon his answer.
‘No. I do not believe it harms them. They are lost, and I make them found. It is as it should be.’ He blinked, quite pleased with his eloquent answer.
‘Everything must die and rot and vanish into nothingness, Clarence,’ the daemon declared from his position outside the carriage. ‘Now, Silas, get your great arse off the seat, man. There is blood to let and cake to be eaten.’
Chapter 17
The lady of the house, Mrs Evelyn Donisthrope, was quite beside herself upon their arrival. Barely had they alighted from the carriage and made their way through the grand sandstone arch that framed the solid oak entrance than the door was swung open to reveal her hurrying down the staircase to greet them. Her gown of butter yellow and black lace flared around her as she moved across a superb Oriental rug of the richest reds and blues. Mr Donisthrope’s factories were doing very well indeed, if Knighton House were indication.
‘Mr Mercer, Mr Astaroth, it is so wonderful to have you here.’ Her chestnut eyes flitted from one to the other, barely resting a moment on Silas before moving on to Pitch. ‘Oh my, you are both so…’ She giggled, most unbecomingly, and did not bother to finish her declaration.
‘So appealing?’ Pitch took her hand and pressed it to his lips, gazing up at her from beneath lowered, dark lashes. A world away from the rather cruel beast who had just taunted Clarence so.
Lady Donisthrope tittered again. ‘It is said that I am to be wary of you, Mr Astaroth.’ She batted eyes in return. Silas shuffled his feet, discomforted at being in the midst of such clear flirtation. If only the woman knew quite how sound the advice was.
‘Wary?’ Pitch gasped, still holding fast to her hand. ‘Whatever for?’ They laughed softly together, the sense of a shared secret between them.
‘Oh, Mr Astaroth.’ She touched at his arm, her neck pink with a blush. ‘You are delightful.’
It was far more than Silas could bear. He coughed, interrupting the excruciating moment. ‘Mrs Donisthrope, the Order thanks you for setting your trust in us to assist you with these, ah, hauntings.’
‘Of course.’ Her attention moved to him for a fleeting moment. ‘I’ve just recently heard about your work at the Baron Feversham’s, it’s said you were quite remarkable. Many a London acquaintance of mine is quite jealous of your presence here, at our humble Knighton House.’ With that, Silas’s moment was over, her gaze returning to Pitch. ‘I do have so many questions, Mr Astaroth.’
‘And I can assure you, my answers are astoundingly varied.’ Pitch tossed his head, and a perfectly curled tendril of hair fell down the side of his face.
To Silas’s astonishment, Mrs Donisthrope’s fingers darted to it, shifting it to rest behind his ear. The move seemed to startle her as well for she sucked in her breath and took a step back.
‘Forgive me, I am rather too hysterical with excitement.’
‘Nothing to forgive.’ Pitch’s words slipped like oil from his cupid’s bow lips.
Silas decided he was feeling quite unwell. ‘Your ladyship, might I enquire as to where our rooms are? It’s been rather a long journey, and I had hoped to freshen up.’
Pitch lifted a slender brow. No doubt Silas breached a rule of etiquette with such a request. Their host would show them to their rooms eventually, but if Silas did not extricate himself from Pitch’s company he might cause a scene. Added to that, he rather wished the chance to muse over what Clarence had told them, and consider a course of action.
Mrs Donisthrope, if she were insulted by the slight, showed no sign. ‘Of course, Mr Mercer. Clarence, would you be so kind as make sure that the cases are delivered to the rooms immediately?’
Silas had quite forgotten the man was still standing with them.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Clarence’s colour had not much returned, and he appeared far more road-weary than Silas felt. He hurried back out into the chilly sunless day, hat in hand, darting an unreadable glance at Silas as he went.
‘Sophie,’ Mrs Donisthrope called.
A solemn women with sharp features and brown hair pulled back tight from her face, appeared from another room. ‘Yes, my lady?’ She seemed to start at the sight of Silas, but quickly gathered herself and bobbed to her mistress, the hem of her simple grey dress cupping the floor.
‘Would you please see Mr Mercer to his room, and attend to his needs. We could have a bath drawn for you, if you wish Mr Mercer?’
‘No,’ Silas said, the single word sharp as a knife. ‘Please forgive me, I don’t travel well, I’m afraid.’ A blatant lie of course, considering the company he’d managed well enough, but the idea of stepping into a pool of water brought with it the very same cold rush of terror it always did.
‘Terrible traveller, I can vouch,’ Pitch said. ‘Spent most of the journey locked in the lavatory.’
Silas held his tongue, not keen to joust with the daemon in the foyer. He was still not certain Pitch didn’t intend to punish him as promised for the consumption of the chocolate cake.
Mrs Donisthrope smoothed at her skirts. ‘Mr Astaroth, would you like to take to your room as well? Or could I interest you in some tea?’
‘I have rather more stamina than my companion. I’d be delighted to join you, on one condition,’ Pitch said, brandishing the lop-sided smile that seemed to be his trademark weapon of seduction. ‘Clarence made a promise of cake, and I am rather partial to the sweetness of such things. There was some to be had on the train of course, but Mr Mercer is ever the glutton and I was left sadly, denied.’
Mrs Donisthrope returned to her childish giggles. ‘You shall not be denied here, Mr Astaroth. You’ve come to the right place if sweetness is what you seek.’ There was a lowering of lashes yet again. Silas could barely contain his sigh. ‘Cook is quite the hand at desserts. I’ll have them serve tea in the front parlour. Are you sure you won’t join us, Mr Mercer?’
‘Quite sure, as delightful as it sounds.’
‘Very well, thank you Sophie, you can be on your way now.’
With a nod, and a swish of grey cotton skirts, Silas was at last led away. He spared Pitch no time, though the man wished him well with his rest.
Silas followed the maid up the grand staircase that dominated the foyer. It, like the building it was situated in, was white. Silas swept his hand along the railing and found marble beneath his fingertips. Evidence yet again that Mr Donisthrope was doing very well indeed with his boots and shoes. Sophie led him down the corridor in silence. They walked along a runner cluttered with exotic flower motifs, and he recognised only dahlias among the elaborate pattern. The hall held a multitude of heavily framed landscape paintings upon its walls. Among them was a wonderful castle perched upon the flat peak of a rocky hilltop.
‘Edinburgh Castle,’ Silas muttered beneath his breath. He fell behind, slowing to take in the details. Though he could not read the nameplate beneath the work, Silas was utterly certain of the castle’s name. And rather thought he recalled standing at the foot of that very hill, on a stunning summer’s day, gazing upon its beauty. Silas could fairly taste the crispness of the air, and hear the distant call of bird life. ‘Excuse me. Is this Edinburgh Castle?’
The maid had moved some distance ahead. ‘Of course,’ Sophie rather sniffed, then seemed to catch herself. ‘Yes, sir. It is.’
‘Wonderful painting,’ Silas said, for lack of anything else to say. Truly, he must hav
e someone teach him to read so as to avoid being looked upon as the maid had just done. ‘I’m sorry for the delay, do go on.’
As he followed behind his escort, her shoulders rigid, her posture most upright, Silas considered asking about having a message sent to Mr Ahari. But he faltered at the talk that might arise from such a communication. Would he be assumed a coward? Truthfully he likely was one, but that did not mean Silas wished it common knowledge.
‘Here you are, sir.’ Halfway down the length of the hall, Sophie pushed open a door. ‘There’s a basin inside, I’ll bring some warm water for you right away.’ She stood back to allow him to pass, and as with most people she had to tilt her head to make eye contact. ‘Can I bring you anything to eat or drink, sir? I suspect you have rather the fine appetite.’ The stern faced woman smiled. Quite unexpectedly, and rather sweetly. ‘I once worked with a woman in Inverness who had a young son large as life, just like you. He was barely in his eighth year and he was nearly as tall as someone double his age. She could never keep up with feeding him.’ Something in his own expression must have concerned her because her smile dipped. ‘I’m sorry sir, did I speak out of turn?’
Silas gathered himself. Her words had served to remind him that he had been someone’s child once, and he’d dared imagine for a moment that she spoke of his own mother. But what would even his own mother think of him now? The strange anomaly he’d become. Silas stood barely a step away from a living, breathing human being but the divide between them yawned like a chasm.
‘Forgive me, I have had rather a harrowing time of it of late, and not slept well.’ Silas stepped into the room. ‘I won’t be needing any food, but thank you.’
She dipped her head, a faint wrinkle of concern still upon her face. ‘Very well, sir. I hope this evening goes well for you, and is not too taxing upon you.’
‘Thank you, you’re too kind.’
Silas closed the door and released a long, slow breath. Melancholy would only serve to make his life intolerable. He shrugged off his coat, and dropped it upon the bed, a lavish affair with a creme canopy and matching curtains, with a bedspread of intricate floral design (flowers were evidently of import to the household) and more pillows laid upon it than a handful of people could deal with. The fire danced in the hearth, filling the room with a comfortable warmth. He moved to the window, pushing back the heavy forest green drapes to allow what meagre light there was to fill the room. His view reached out onto the main street where hansom cabs hurried their passengers too and fro. A growler led by four white horses made noisy progress along the cobbles, its seats full to capacity. Across the way, the park was equally bustling. Several women, in starched black and white uniforms, pushed wide-wheeled perambulators with their charges nestled inside. Ladies strolled and chatted in elaborate shawls and dresses that swept the ground, and an artist had set up his canvas by the fountain at the heart of the gardens, working furiously with his colours. It was as Silas stood there, hands clasped behind his back observing the normalcy of the world outside, that the tips of his fingers awoke with a tingling. Quite suddenly the warmth in the room vanished, replaced with a draught that caressed his skin with icy fingers. Silas curled his fingers into his palms, ill at ease. He knew this sensation. This very same affliction had come upon him both in the library at the ball, and at Baron Feversham’s. Silas waited, his lungs quite devoid of air.