by Ava Stone
Quent scoffed. “He never listens to me either. Don’t take it personally. Just the way he is.”
“But if we don’t get Miss Eilbeck back before midnight on Samhain, she’ll be lost forever.”
“Midnight on Samhain?” Quent questioned.
“It’s the one night of the year when the veil between the living and dead is at its thinnest. It’s possible to get her back that night.”
“How?” Quent asked.
Blake frowned. This day wasn’t just odd. It was becoming ridiculous.
Mrs. Small gestured towards the corridor. “Follow me.”
Blake shrugged when Quent glanced at him. As there was nothing better for him to do, at least until Brighid emerged from the herbarium, he might as well go along and hear more dark tales from the superstitious housekeeper.
Mrs. Small led them to a darkened arched doorway. “The dungeon.”
She really didn’t expect them to go down there, did she? “Tell me there aren’t medieval torture devices down there.”
“Not anymore.” The housekeeper retrieved a ring of keys from her pocket, unlocked the ancient iron door, and pushed it open. “We’ll need a candle,” the woman said. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a thrice.”
He peered around the edge of the door into the darkness and a chill ran up his spine. “Someone already searched in there, right?”
“Thorn and one of the maids,” Quent answered.
“Thorn? Was he searching the dungeon? Or searching the maid?”
“Probably both,” Quent replied.
It was better than Thorn chasing after Brighid’s skirts. He hadn’t lost a friend on account of a woman before and he was glad it wouldn’t happen this time.
Mrs. Small returned with a lit candle and she led the way into the darkness. Quent lit the torches along the walls as they descended until they finally emerged into the dungeon. Blake looked around. The place made him uncomfortable and he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be locked away down here and tortured. Nobody would ever hear the screams.
In the center of the room was a large, stone hearth, where they heated the irons to torture the poor souls locked in the cells. Another shiver ran up Blake’s spine, and he almost wished he was back in his sick bed, far away from this place.
“Marisdùn has always been haunted,” Mrs. Small began. “Benign spirits mostly, until Mrs. Routledge opened a portal down here.”
Quent eyed her skeptically. “A portal?”
“Your great-grandmother was a witch, Lord Quentin. Drawn to dark magic.”
“A witch?” Blake asked in disbelief. He did not want to think about witches. It only reminded him of Brighid and the fact that he hadn’t even kissed her yet. He wished he could take back all the times he called her that name. He never truly meant to hurt her.
“My grandmother was her lady’s maid.” She glanced about the room as if she expected someone or something to jump out at her. “She was entrusted to find all sorts of things for her mistress. Certain plants or stones for spells…goats or chickens for blood rituals.”
“Good God.” Quent winced.
“She sought power and would have stopped at nothing to get it.”
“What do you mean by that?” Blake asked as the discomfort of this room pressed in on him.
“She thought she could harness the dead, but they didn’t want to be used for her purposes and they took her instead.”
“They took her?” Quent asked. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Mary Routledge held a séance in this dungeon,” Mrs. Small explained. “She called all those who’d died on Marisdùn grounds to her.” She shrugged. “A lot of people have died here over the centuries from Roman Centurions to the black plague sufferers to soldiers on either side of the border wars. Marisdùn has been flooded with their souls ever since that séance. They’re not all happy souls. But none are less happy than Mrs. Routledge.”
Blake recalled the ghost who had been in his bed. He had thought she was a happy soul; at least, until she tried to suck the life from him.
“What does this have to do with Miss Eilbeck?” Quent asked.
Mrs. Small began to walk the perimeter of the dark, cavernous room. “Somewhere in here, Mrs. Routledge opened a portal. A portal we can use as well as the spirits, if we can unlock its secrets.”
Blake glanced about the room. What exactly did a portal look like?
“When Miss Eilbeck disappeared, she was in the gardens, not in the dungeons,” Quent reminded them.
“It’s not Samhain yet, Lord Quentin. She’s here somewhere, in a realm invisible to our eyes. If we don’t get her before midnight when the veil is the thinnest, she’ll be lost to us forever.”
“How did my great-grandmother disappear? You said the castle took her.”
The housekeeper nodded. “One Samhain, they came for her, the spirits. She was in the dining hall with her husband and he saw her vanish with his own eyes. He fled the castle with his children within the hour.”
They never returned. That much Blake remembered from the stories of his childhood.
“She just vanished like Miss Eilbeck did?” Quent demanded, “Into thin air, without a trace?”
“Her wailing could be heard for hours.”
“How do we use this portal?”
“How do we find it?” Blake added.
“A witch opened it, my lord. And a witch can use it again.”
“A witch?” Quent scoffed. “Where the devil are we to find a witch?”
Another shiver ran down his spine. If he were correct, he knew the answer. “I might know a witch.”
He met Mrs. Small’s eyes. She offered a knowing smile and a nod. They were thinking of the same person.
“What do you mean, you might know a witch?” Quent asked. “You are joking, right?”
Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. If only it were in jest, “Brighid Glace.”
Quent drew back. “The young woman who treated my eye? The healer?”
Blake nodded.
Quent turned to Mrs. Small, as if to seek assurance. He probably thought Blake had lost his mind.
“That she is,” Mrs. Small confirmed. “Of course, she’ll deny it with her dying breath, but she is one just the same.”
His friend eyed the housekeeper skeptically. “How do you know?”
“Dear boy, Brighid Glace and her female ancestors have always been witches, and healers, so don’t get strange ideas in your head.” Mrs. Small picked up the candle and began walking up the stairs. “She is good and don’t you ever forget that; nothing like your great grandmother.”
Blake’s stomach churned. Not just with concern over Miss Eilbeck. At some point, he’d have to face Brighid and admit that he did in fact suspect her of being a witch.
“This has to work.” Brighid dusted off the crystal and placed it in the one small window, chastising herself the entire time. Her mother had told her over and over that the crystal must sit in the window each full moon to gather energy to be of any use. Right now there was only the sun, and the crystal had sat in the trunk for well over a decade. It might take days to warm it and they didn’t have that kind of time.
Samhain was only three days away. If Callie wasn’t rescued before the sun’s rising on the first of November, she would be lost to them forever. Brighid would not be able to live with herself if she didn’t use everything in her power to bring her friend back.
Power. Why had she denied it for so long? Why had she pretended that it didn’t exist? Her mother had embraced hers, but it scared Brighid. She’d tried for so long to reject what she was and because of that, she may not be able to save her friend.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she swiped them away to better read the words in the ancient tomes. She had lost Blake or soon would. She couldn’t lose her friend as well.
Why didn’t the words make sense? It was if she was trying to read a foreign language. Squiggles and line
s ran together. These books should tell her what to do, but she couldn’t read them. With a frustrated cry she slammed the book closed and turned to see what else she could use.
The glass she retrieved from the trunk lay in the center of the table. Only fog. She wiped and wiped but the glass would not clear. She would never see a vision through the mist.
Fighting the urge to fling it across the room, she placed it back on the wooden block, taking deep gulps of breath, trying the calm her racing heart.
Mrs. Routledge was a formidable witch, one her great-grandmother had feared. Brighid was not equipped to go against her, especially not when her magic was weak from going unused.
If she had practiced, as her mother insisted, she would be able to see Callie. She’d know what to do. She’d be able to read the blasted words in the books.
At the pounding on the door, her head jerked up. Blake was back. She could not let him see her this way. Though a small part of her heart held out hope that he could look past this, her head knew the truth and she could not bear to see the horror and disgust in his eyes.
“Open the door, Brighid,” he shouted.
She swiped more tears and tried to ignore his shouts.
”We need your help,” he called.
She was helping. The best way she knew how. No amount of searching the castle grounds would locate Callie. They would all be better served to be on their knees in prayer.
Brighid fingered the cross at her neck and offered a quick prayer for Callie and for herself.
The sound of keys rattling on the other side of the door caused her to drag in a breath. The only other person with a key to this room was Mrs. Small. Surely the woman wouldn’t enter without permission, knowing she was in here. Not only was it not done, it was forbidden and had been from the time the first stone was laid to the herbarium. Mrs. Small could only come in here if there was an emergency that required the healing herbs.
Her breaths came quick as the lock clicked and the door slowly opened.
Oh, God, Blake could not see her like this. He just couldn’t.
The door opened fully and he stepped inside.
“We need you, Brighid.”
She gulped, staring at him. All of her dreams just shattered. “I’m doing what I can.”
He glanced about the room. His gaze first resting on the ball in the window, then the mirror on the table and finally the books spread out before her. “I can see you are,” he said gently.
“Please, go away.” A sob broke from her lips, and Brighid brought a fist to her mouth. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
He smiled gently. “Crying? Or using your gifts?”
She turned her head, unable to look at him any longer. He knew the truth and there was nothing she could do to deny what he clearly saw with his own eyes. “You must hate me now. Please go.”
She didn’t look but she knew he was still there. The sound of his footsteps moved closer and closer. Why must he do this? Did he have to look her in the eye when he condemned her?
Blake placed a finger beneath her chin, forcing her face to him. “How can I hate you when I am so very much in love with you?”
What was he saying? “You would have nothing to do with me if I was a real witch. You said so yourself.”
“A part of me always knew you were one.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Yet, I still love you.”
It was as if a light opened inside of her. Warmth swept through her body, lightening her soul. Blake leaned forward and before she could prepare, his lips touched hers. Their breaths mingled as he molded his mouth against hers. The room charged with energy, wind rushed about them and every part of her being came alive.
When he broke away from her, Brighid stumbled back, grasping the table to hold her upright. She had difficulty catching her breath, but it was if she had come to the end of a long race, and won. She glanced around the room. The crystal began to lighten, the mirror no longer fogged. She grabbed a book and read. The words were now clear.
Blake grabbed the wooden table to steady himself. That kiss was more than anything he could have ever imagined. It was magical. Blood pounded in his head and he was slightly dizzy.
As his head began to clear, he focused on the woman before him. He always believed Brighid to be enchanting, but she truly was magical. “Can you find Miss Eilbeck?”
Her eyes met his and there was deep concern in those grey depths. “I will do everything I can to bring her back, but I fear making a promise.”
“What do you need me to do?” Brighid should not be alone in this, yet he had no idea how he could be of service. If it was only to stand by her side and hand her herbs, he would do so.
She bit her bottom lip and looked at the books. “I am not certain yet. I need to read.”
“Then I shall help you.” He grasped a book and pulled it toward him. There was nothing but scrawls and lines. “How can you read this?”
A small smile pulled at her lips. “I couldn’t until you kissed me.” She placed a delicate hand against his cheek. “I believe you brought me my magic, Blake Chetwey.”
As much as she craved to give herself over to Blake’s arms and wish everything else away, she could not. She was charged with a task whether she asked for it or not. “We need tea,” she offered brightly, no longer willing to let Blake see how much she feared failure. She must call upon all she knew, and those of the past, to guide her through the next trying days. If only there were someone who was also magical or had a connection to the spirits, but it fell to her to do what must be done and Brighid had never been more frightened in her life.
“I’ll summon the cook or one of the maids.”
“No!”
Blake stiffened at her outburst and narrowed his eyes, waiting fo her explanation.
“Could you please go to the kitchen and bring back a kettle of water?”
He gave her an odd look, then did as she asked while she gathered the herbs most likely to assist with clarity. Unfortunately, she only had licorice root available, but it would do. After she had Callie back, she would see about fully stocking the herbs and would no longer be negligent in allowing those with magical properties go to waste.
She bent to lift the cauldron from the fireplace. She barely lifted it off the hook before she let it drop again. Goodness that thing was heavy. How had the women in her family moved it? If she couldn’t lift it empty, she certainly couldn’t when it was full.
“Allow me.” Blake stepped in front of her and lifted it as if it weighed no more than a feather. The only evidence of its weight was the straining of his arms against his jacket. “Where shall I put it?”
Brighid gestured to the far corner where they were not likely to trip over it.
“Won’t you need it? Don’t witches mix all of their brews in cauldrons?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “They are cooking pots more than anything. I don’t recall my mother or grandmother ever using it. It has always just hung there, and put out of the way when tea needed to brewed.”
Taking the flint, she lit the kindling, which took to flame immediately. The wood had probably been sitting here since her mother placed it there years ago.
“Cook would have been pleased to prepare a cup of tea,” Blake offered.
“It must be brewed in here.” Once again the questions lingered in his eyes but he did not speak. “The power is in the room, as are the herbs, and the tea will be stronger if made in here.”
While she waited for the water to boil, Brighid settled before the books. The answers were here. She just needed to find them. Blake hovered at her elbow, more of a distraction than a help, but she didn’t dare ask him to leave. She might need to rely on his strength. “If you could, please write down my notes.”
“Of course.” Blake drew of a stool to the side of the table, pulled the foolscap before him and dipped the quill in the ink, waiting for her to speak. She never dreamed he would support her, or even help. She jus
t hoped it wasn’t because of the urgency of the situation. Would he turn from her when it was over?
“I’ll need hemp seeds and hazelnuts.”
He wrote the words down without question. “The water is hot.”
Brighid glanced up. She had forgotten she was to brew tea. “Thank you.” She stopped reading only long enough to prepare the tea and tried not to grimace as she drank. Licorice was not a flavor she preferred, but it would help bring her clarity. Chamomile would do the same, but also relax her and Brighid feared getting sleepy and she could not afford to rest now.
She read page after page of the tomes and Blake continued to write when asked. The darker it grew, the more candles Blake lit. He didn’t need to be asked. It was almost as if he anticipated her needs.
Cook placed food on the small table just outside the room and Blake retrieved the tray. The two ate in silence as Brighid read and Blake made notes.
Her brain filled with knowledge of her ancestors and vivid recollections came to mind of her grandmother’s and mother’s instructions. She had blocked their words out for so many years because it was all too frightening. If only she had heeded her mother and worked at her craft, gaining knowledge and strengthening her gift, she would be prepared. Were three days enough?
Blake had never felt more useless in his life. What could he offer? Refill her cup of tea, place a plate of food at her elbow, and write notes when she spoke? There had to be more, but Blake knew there was nothing he could do.
The woman he loved was a witch. Not some creature from a storybook, but a living, breathing, enchanting, beautiful woman, who now had the weight of the castle upon her shoulders.
He didn’t understand how she could read the scratches in those books and he might never. This was a part of her he could never touch, but it was who she was. It is what her mother had been, and the women before them.
He studied the gentle tilt of her jaw and the way she bit her lower lip while concentrating. If they were blessed with a daughter, would she also carry the gifts of her mother? Would Brighid still need to come here, to Marisdùn Castle, or could a herbarium be created for her use at Torrington Abbey?