And there he was. My first impression was that he was extraordinarily tall. He had removed a glossy top hat, revealing black curly hair speckled with silver. A long dark coat embroidered with green trim with an attached cape hung from his lean frame. Three modestly sized fabric bags were lined up beside him, and he had a small birdcage tucked under one arm, though I could see no bird in it. His face was . . . Well, not like mine exactly, but I could certainly note the resemblance. His eyes were also dark, even blacker than mine, and he, too, had a narrow face. It was dominated by a hawkish nose, too big, some would say, but it balanced a square, cleft chin. All in all he was not necessarily handsome, but striking, and stood with a casually authoritative tilt to his hips, as if, after mere moments, he belonged in this place.
He shifted the birdcage to his other arm and let his eyes roam around the room, and that was when he saw me.
It was time to go downstairs and come out of hiding. I pretended like I had not been spying on him, but of course my pale cheeks flamed with embarrassment. That would not do. I pulled my shoulders back and marched down the stairs like a queen about to address her subjects. He had sent a letter groveling for my acceptance, after all, and that meant I had the upper hand. I had begun to wonder if he was suffering from some terrible illness and wanted to make amends before he passed. Men always became frightfully concerned about their reputations when death hovered near.
“There you are,” he said as I reached the bottom step. The severity of his face changed, and he gave a full-bodied sigh, brows tenting with relief.
“Does Mrs. Haylam know you’re here?” I asked, keeping a safe distance. I crossed my wrists primly in front of my waist. There would be no leaping into arms or embracing today.
“She does,” he replied. He put down the birdcage carefully on the floor and took a few steps toward me, gesturing with his top hat. “I . . . told her to wait on accommodations. It is your decision whether I stay or go.”
I had expected him to have an accent like mine, but travel or time had worn it down, altered it, until it was not Irish or anything else, but uniquely his own.
“Then Mr. Morningside extended an invitation,” I said. “I had no idea it would reach you so soon; this is all very . . . hasty.”
“Oh! Oh.” He bit down hard on his lower lip and worried the edge of his hat with both hands. “There was no invitation, Louisa. I came on my own.” He must have seen the rising fury in my face because he held up a hand as if to keep me from lunging. “Please don’t be angry. Please. I just needed to see you with my own eyes. If you want me to depart at once then I will.”
I closed my eyes, feeling my hands turn into fists, the nails biting hard into my palms. The nerve of this man. The enduring nerve. I took in a deep breath, promising myself it was not worth throttling him then and there. Still. I was hurt, beyond hurt, aching in a place in my heart I didn’t know existed. Breathe. Breathe. “How did you even find me?”
“I hired a few men,” he said with a shrug. “They started in Waterford, spiraled out from there. They found your old school, but the headmistress had not seen you in months. There were only so many towns near enough to walk to, so they started again there.”
“You hunted me down like a thief,” I murmured, icy. “How flattering.”
“How this would all look when I found you was not my most pressing priority,” he said, gaining a little sternness of his own. But he backed it down, hanging his head, playing the beleaguered father. “I suppose I should have given that more thought. I’ll go.”
“No!” I hated myself for how fast it came out, how little control I had over the word. “No . . . Not yet. There are things I want to know, things I want to hear from you, and then you can be on your way.”
“I had hoped to leave with you,” he admitted. “Foolish, I know, but one does dream. What father does not want to spoil a child who deserved spoiling all along?”
“You don’t know me,” I shot back. “You don’t know what I deserve.”
“Well then, I should like to change that.” My father, for he was that—the resemblance could not be denied, especially now that I saw him more closely—came toward me. He stopped a polite span away and bowed at the waist. “Croydon Frost; our meeting and these introductions are long overdue. Longer than you can possibly imagine.”
“I can imagine. I was alive for all of it.” But I gave a short curtsy and sighed, sweeping by him and inspecting his luggage. The scent of pine perfume drifted from his possessions. “Don’t expect me to, I don’t know, love you or something. Or act like your daughter.”
“Very well.”
From the kitchens, I saw both Poppy and Mrs. Haylam spying on us intently. They did not even attempt to hide their interest. “And when I ask you to leave for good you had better do it.”
“I understand,” he said, but I heard the sadness in his voice.
“I have work to do here, so I can’t spend all my time with you. I’m quite busy, you know, so don’t expect courtesy.” He said nothing, but there was agreement in the silence. I picked up one of his bags and gestured to Poppy. “Mrs. Haylam can decide where to put you. Welcome to Coldthistle House.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Can you believe it? It’s . . . I don’t know if there’s a word for it, Mary; it’s outrageous!” I was storming back and forth across poor Mary’s room, complaining her ear off about the sudden appearance of Mr. Croydon Frost. “To come here without my consent! To send that ridiculous letter asking for my permission and then to totally ignore it! And to think, I was going to invite him, only to rob him of course, but still! I hate him, Mary, I hate him already!”
The tirade ended with me flopping next to her on the bed, where she was bundled up, back to the wall next to her window, a book opened on her lap. She looked much better, her cheeks fuller and red with health. It was such a good turn for her that I almost forgot the fury in my heart.
“Calm yourself,” she said, taking my hand and squeezing it. I could tell she was eating up all this gossip, however, green eyes sparkling with interest. “You have known the man five whole minutes; perhaps it is too soon to judge what might come of this.”
The only good thing that might come of it was a fortune to spend getting all of us away from the ugly perils of Coldthistle House. It would be a lonely life to fleece my father only to spend it in solitude with no friends to share in the wealth. I grinned at her and shook my head. “You’re too kind, Mary, nobody deserves you. Except perhaps Chijioke.” That glow in her cheeks redoubled and her face fell. “No, forget I said that! I’m sorry, truly, it isn’t my place to pry. . . .”
“He told you about the carving,” she said, looking away toward the window. “I wish he hadn’t.”
“I have no idea what was going on between you two and it isn’t my business. The only thing I will say is that he’s been a wonderful friend to me these past months. Lee has decided he despises me, which is his right, and I would have been terribly alone without Chijioke to keep me company,” I said. “Just . . . Well, here you are telling me to give things time, and now I will say the same to you.”
Mary nodded and patted my hand. “Then I will take my own wise advice.”
I left the bed and went to the window, pulling the half-drawn curtain aside. Mason and his father were in the yard having a talk, not a friendly one judging by the boy’s fevered gesturing. The casement had been left open, and there was a woodsy scent on the air.
“It seems no one here has good luck when it comes to family,” I said softly. “I should tell him to go. Hating him is exhausting.”
“You could try forgiveness,” Mary suggested.
“No,” I sighed. “That sounds exhausting, too. Besides, I don’t believe in forgiveness. A thing either bothers you or it doesn’t; forgiveness is for the other person, to make them feel better about being cruel or selfish.”
“And yet I’m sure you would like Lee to forgive you.”
I flinched. She was right. “T
hat won’t happen, and it shouldn’t.”
Mary closed up her book and folded her hands over it. I could feel her staring at me, but I wouldn’t take my eyes away from Mason and his father. “Why are you so determined to suffer?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I wish I knew.”
Thunk.
“Hey!” I jumped back from the window. Someone had thrown a rock, narrowly missing the glass.
“What was that?” Mary asked, leaning out of bed.
I pulled the curtain completely aside and opened the window wider, letting in a gush of humid air and the sulfurous tinge from the nearby spring.
“Did you need something, sir?” I called down. The two Breens were the only people I could see on the lawn, and one of them must have thrown the rock.
Mason searched the windows for the source of the voice, then spotted me and shielded his eyes, frowning. “Hello up there. What did you say?”
“Did you need assistance, sir? I heard the rock you tossed this way. . . .”
“Rock?” He shook his head and glanced at his father, who looked equally confused. “You must be mistaken! Perhaps it was the house shifting or a bit of grit on the wind?”
House shifting indeed.
“My apologies for bothering you, sir,” I called back, leaning against the sill to watch them closely. If they tried to trick me again I would catch it.
“How odd,” Mary said, gazing over at me. “Do you think he’s fibbing?”
“Obviously,” I muttered. “There are two more men I wouldn’t mind asking to pack and go.”
Through the closed door to Mary’s room I heard Mrs. Haylam’s voice. She was calling, or rather shouting, my name. I slammed my head back against the wall, frustrated. Could I not have one moment of peace alone with Mary? Was that so much to ask?
“Duty calls,” she said sadly, reading my thoughts.
“As ever. Will you be terribly cross if I go? I promise to come to you again soon, friend. I’ve missed you so much, it lifts my spirits to see you getting better.”
Mary reached out her hand and I crossed to her, squeezing her warm little fingers and smiling. “I will only be cross if you stay away too long.”
“You’re an angel,” I said, turning to go. “Or . . . well, whatever the equivalent would be, you know, for us.”
Her amused laughter followed me out the door, and I tried to hold on to it, tried to wrap it around me like a shield. At least she was on the mend; everything else may have been odd and confusing, but her steadfastness gave me a drop of hope.
I took the steps quickly, aware of a strange emptiness in the house. Other than in my horrid dream, I had not seen a single Resident all day. They had been swarming Mary’s door previously, most likely to protect her from whomever killed Amelia, but now they were gone. Then I remembered my conversation with Mr. Morningside, and wondered if they had been sent to scour the grounds for the wolf monster. That made sense, considering they could cover far more ground than any of us on foot and blend inconspicuously into the shadows of the trees.
Mrs. Haylam waited, foot tapping, in the foyer. She looked haggard, tired, with noticeable smudges of purple under her eyes, her bun drawn up more tightly than usual. All bad signs.
“Have you seen to Mr. Breen’s room?” she asked without a word of greeting.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied obediently. I was in no mood for a fight, and neither, clearly, was she.
“And the washing from yesterday, you hung it up?”
“Yes, and the pantry is swept.” Half-heartedly, I added in my head.
Mrs. Haylam’s good eye swept over me as if it could detect deception. She nodded then and pointed to the green door behind me. “Mr. Morningside wants you back to work. You can socialize later.”
I gave her a polite curtsy and turned toward the door, then stopped and told her as she returned to the kitchens, “Thank you for giving my . . . For giving Croydon Frost a room.”
“Don’t thank me, girl. If it were up to me, he’d be sleeping in the barn.”
“No arguments there,” I said, and I heard her cackle before I opened the green door and let it swallow me up.
Year One
Journal of Bennu, Who Runs
We made land briefly at Knossos before gaining passage to Pylos aboard an Athenian merchant ship. I had never been at sea, and at first the constant rolling and rocking made me ill for hours on end. By the time we reached Pylos, I felt like an accomplished sailor, accustomed to the sway of the deck and growing fond of the fresh salt tang on the air.
Nothing could prepare me for the beauty of Pylos, with its crystalline waters and the crisp white houses piled on the coast, explosively green fir and cypress trees hugging the towns like a thick emerald shawl. Arriving at dusk, we watched as the city above began to glow faintly with lanterns, then guard fires lit along the walled walkways as we began our climb buffeted at our backs by the cooling sea wind.
“It will be good to sleep on firm ground again,” I said to my companion. We both wore voluminous ivory hoods that draped around our necks. They served to hide his unusual markings and my heavy satchel.
Khent peered at me from under his deep hood, smirking. “And it will be good to eat mutton again. I tire of all this fish.”
I had noticed his peculiar eating habits in Knossos. He ate almost no onions or barley with his meals, and he took his meat and fish off the fire long before I would consider it edible. But then he was an odd sort in general, I found. He often heard things clearly that I could not, and slept fitfully, waking at the tiniest disturbance. But he was otherwise an amiable traveling companion, and I was grateful to no longer be facing these dangers alone.
We took our time entering the city proper, for our legs had become accustomed to the sea, and it felt good to walk and stretch, and to look about and see more than just turquoise in every direction. I was winded and ready for rest when we passed under the gates. It was a time of peace, and we were not questioned, for we blended in well with the busy ebb and flow from the docks.
“It will be more difficult to find shelter here,” Khent warned me. “Mother and Father are worshipped everywhere, but here temples to the old gods are more vigilant. We may be better off at an inn.”
“Our safe houses are being watched,” I agreed. “They are not safe anymore.”
Khent nodded, and together we pushed through the crowds lining the streets. The market had begun to close, and merchants and buyers alike were beginning to close up and head home. “I do not know how far Roeh’s influence has spread, but the Dark One has servants everywhere. Necromancers and poison-fingered demons, beautiful women that lure you away and rip out your heart in the night . . . We will be hunted from every direction, my friend. The sea was a reprieve, but that refuge is no more.”
“The Dark One,” I murmured. I could see Khent searching for shelter, eyes canted up as he checked each passing door for signs of an inn. It seemed, too, as if he were inhaling more, sniffing, as if his nose could lead him to a safe destination. “Meryt and Chryseis spoke of him once, but only in whispers. I don’t know how anyone could worship an evil thing.”
“We are not so different,” Khent replied. As we left the market square, flanked on all sides by tall, shining white buildings, the crowd thinned but the smell of cooking food intensified. My stomach roared, soured from too much dried fish and hard bread on the boat. “Mother and Father command trees and creatures, wondrous beings who spring from water and air. But they command the boar, too, which sometimes kills the hunter, and the oleander that poisons the hound. It is said the Dark One’s servants only come for the most nefarious among us, but his servants are new to this world, and I do not trust it will remain so forever.”
“Evil hunting evil,” I murmured, thoughtful. “That is not so bad.”
Khent laughed. He had an infectious laugh, a giddy sound that was completely unique to him. It sometimes reminded me of hyenas giggling to one another on the plains. “Are we not pe
rforming evil in their eyes right now? We are servants to other masters, more powerful masters, and if Roeh and the Dark One want to see them destroyed, then I would hesitate to call either of them ‘friend.’ Ah! Here.”
He stopped us outside a small inn. The sign had been defaced, but I did not read enough of the language to know what it said. It was loud inside, filled with early drunks, the perfect place for two quiet young travelers to disappear. Nobody would hear us above the din of the men, mostly sailors, who boasted and played dice and exchanged insults, keen for a brawl.
We found the innkeep slumbering in the corner while his wife and daughter hurried to refill cups and deliver steaming bowls of fish stew, olives, and bread to the sailors.
Khent half shouted, banging his fist in front of the innkeep’s face, and I assumed he had asked for a room. The man jumped awake, sallow-faced and saggy, with thin black hair and a patchy beard.
They haggled briefly, the innkeep glancing between us suspiciously, then he handed over a key and snatched the coin out of Khent’s fingers before we could change our minds.
“Charming fellow,” Khent sneered, dragging me away from the back of the inn and toward a table at the hearth. “Keep your voice down; we don’t know what prejudices lurk among these people.”
“I am too weary to speak much anyway,” I said, joining him at the small table and falling onto the bench like a sack of bricks. The strap of the satchel had carved a deep runnel in my shoulder, a purple-and-black bruise that only grew worse with each passing day. Sometimes Khent offered to carry the bag, but I had been tasked with delivering the book, and so I never allowed him to keep it for long.
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