The Rowanwood Curse (Hal Bishop Mysteries Book 1)

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  I settled myself down on the sofa, careful not to jostle my arm. “Good morning.”

  He jumped, running a hand over his face and turning to frown at me. There was a plaster over the scratches on his cheek, covering the black lines that I was certain were still there.

  “Ah. Good, you’re finally up.”

  “Finally?” I scowled at him. “It can’t be that late—the sun’s scarcely out.”

  He waved a hand dismissively; evidently, he was in no mood for argument. “We must get as early a start as possible—I’d like to have this done before Sir Jasper returns.”

  My stomach twisted a bit at the thought; if we completed our object today, Cecilia—or rather, the fetch that had replaced her—would be dead at the end of it. “And how—how are we meant to go about doing this?”

  He tapped the empty pipe on the arm of his chair. “We’ll go and see Mrs. Ogham first of all. She’ll have some supplies I need.”

  Having thus decided, we retrieved our coats and headed out into the early morning chill. The landscape was blanketed in snow, and a cold wind howled in my ears. It was a long walk down to Mrs. Ogham’s, and I was glad to see the cheerful little cottage tucked at the foot of the hill. A faint curl of smoke wound its way up from the little chimney, and the warm feeling of the magic about the place blanketed me—just like the first time we’d gone to see her, I had the feeling of a weight being lifted from my shoulders.

  Hal rapped on the door, and after a moment, it cracked open, just enough for Mrs. Ogham’s bleary face to peek through. Her brow furrowed when she saw us standing on her porch.

  “Has someone taken ill?” She pushed her hair back from her face. “It’s far too early for a social call.”

  Hal rocked back on his heels, his pipe sending clouds of smoke about his head. “So it is. I’ve come to a conclusion about Miss Pryce. I’ll need your help.”

  She looked from him to me, then shut the door. There was a moment’s bustling noise, then the door opened, and the yarbwoman let us inside. It was warm and close in her little cottage, and she had put a tea kettle on to boil. She set down a plate of biscuits, and, finding myself hungry, I took one. Hal watched me, his face impassive, but with an odd look in his eyes.

  Mrs. Ogham poured the tea and sat down. “What’s your conclusion?”

  Hal took out a slip of paper from his pocket and slid it over to her. She drew her spectacles from her pocket, and read over the list, brows drawing together.

  “Beeswax candles and salt?” She took her spectacles off and looked at Hal gravely. “What are you summoning, Mr. Bishop?”

  Hal leaned back, blowing a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “What you call the beldam, I believe.”

  Mrs. Ogham’s face darkened, and she tossed the slip of paper back onto the table. “I want no part in this—I’ve given you my warnings, and you’ve not listened. Well, I wash my hands of you.”

  Hal smiled ruefully. “You have warned me, I admit.” He glanced over at me and the smile faded. “But I have no choice now. And it is the only way to save the girl.”

  “The only way?” Mrs. Ogham regarded him shrewdly for a moment, and her face went suddenly pale. “Then you think—a changeling?”

  Hal nodded, and she ran a hand over her face.

  “Wonders never cease,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I didn’t think such things happened these days—not really.”

  My brother touched the plaster on his face, almost unconsciously. “And yet I am certain that it has.”

  “Have you told Sir Jasper?” Mrs. Ogham’s voice steadied. “What does he think of this notion?”

  “He does not know.” Hal’s brow furrowed. “Time is of the essence.”

  The yarbwoman blinked at him, then nodded, getting to her feet and going into the other room. She emerged with a box, full of the items my brother had requested. He stood and went to take it from her, but she held onto it, looking over at me.

  “Watch him,” she said gravely, turning back to Hal. “When you call the fairy. Watch him carefully.”

  Hal looked over at me, an unreadable expression on his face, and took the box from her gently. “I intend to.”

  I rubbed at my arm, the biscuit suddenly a cold lump in my stomach, and followed Hal from the cottage. He hefted the box up to his shoulder, keeping his face hidden from me, but I could see the smoke curling up from his pipe.

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jem,” he said, with that neutral tone he used when he didn’t want to give away that he was anxious.

  “You’ve said that before,” I said, before I could stop myself.

  Hal stopped, bringing the box down from his shoulder, and turned to me, his face grim. “I told you there’d be danger in this,” he said. “You don’t—I can send you home. Even now, it’s not too late.”

  I looked down at my feet, clutching my arm in its sling. “But you won’t go home.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” I looked back up at him, furrowing my brow. “You said you have no choice—what did you mean? We don’t have to—we could go back and finish the probate work. I wouldn’t complain.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And leave Cecilia to her fate?”

  “No, I suppose not.” I chewed my lip a moment, shifting my feet uncomfortably. “But that’s—that’s not what you meant.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he turned away from me. “No.”

  “Then what?” I shook my head. “Just tell me—I thought you were done keeping things from me anyway.”

  He set the box down, running a hand over his face, and it was a long moment before he spoke. “Your arm—I have to break this curse, or you’ll lose it. You might even . . . .” He broke off, shaking his head, and ran both hands through his hair. “It was careless of me—but I’m going to make it right.”

  I stared at him for a moment, unable to speak. It felt as though I’d been hit by something I hadn’t seen coming, and had the wind knocked out of me. I dragged in a breath. “But you said . . . .”

  And I stopped, because he hadn’t said I’d be all right. He’d said I’d be all right once the curse was broken. But it had never occurred to me that I was in any real danger. I clutched at my arm, remembering the smell of the wound, the green pus, and the angry red skin—I was going to be sick.

  Then there were hands on my shoulders, shaking them. “Jem, I’m going to make it right. You hear me? Whatever I have to do.”

  I blinked, and looked up to see my brother’s face, pale and set. I shrugged his hands from my shoulders, and took a deep breath, dragging the chill air into my lungs. I closed my eyes and waited for the nausea to subside.

  “I’m sorry,” Hal said quietly. “I didn’t think—but you’ll be all right. I promise.”

  I opened my eyes. He was looking down at the ground, arms folded over his chest, brows drawn tightly together.

  I blew out a breath, the cold air fogging up before my face. “Then I suppose we’d better break this curse.”

  He looked up, shoulders relaxing slightly, but the frown didn’t leave his face. “I have to break it. You don’t.”

  I lifted my chin, mouth setting in a stubborn line. “No, we are going to break it. Anyway, I have to stay and make certain you don’t do anything stupid.”

  I said it lightly, but I wasn’t entirely joking—I’d seen the look on his face when he grabbed my shoulders. Whatever I have to do. I shivered—whatever state of mind one ought to be in when summoning one of the Fair Folk, I was fairly certain Hal wasn’t in it.

  “I think you have that backwards.” Hal’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile, and he hefted the box back onto his shoulder. The lines hadn’t entirely smoothed out of his forehead, but some of the tension had left his face. “Well, if you don’t want to go home I can’t make you. We’d better move along if we’re going to get this done.”

  He started walking again—not in the direction of the Hall, as I’d expec
ted, but down toward Gilley’s farm.

  “Why are we going this way?” I pulled my muffler up against the wind. “What do we need from Mr. Gilley?”

  “A location,” Hal said. “I want to know where his ewes died.”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I think that would be the ideal place for summoning the spirit.” He shifted the box. “It obviously has a strong connection to the curse—it may even be where the summoning was done to begin with.”

  He lapsed into a brooding silence after that, and I made no further attempt to engage in conversation. I had a good deal to brood over, myself—I rubbed my arm, and fancied I could still smell, faintly, the putrid odor it had given off when the bandage was removed. And there was Cecilia—the plan to surprise her fetch into its true form. I chewed my lip; even if we managed to break the enchantment before Sir Jasper returned from the mine, there would still be the matter of explaining to him why his daughter looked to be dead—explaining to him, against all appearances, why we hadn’t yet failed.

  Mr. Gilley was already at his work when we came down to the farm, and met us at the gate, mopping his brow. His broad red face broke into a friendly smile as he waved us down.

  “Hallo, magicians,” he called. “What brings you out this early? Not hunting after that beast again, I hope.”

  Hal’s face soured. “No, not today, Mr. Gilley.”

  “Good.” The farmer’s face took on a haunted look, and he shook his head. “If I never see such a thing again in my life, it’ll be too soon. How’s that arm of yours, lad?”

  “All right,” I said, darting my eyes over to Hal.

  He did not change expression, but simply explained what we wanted. Mr. Gilley’s eyebrows went up to the brim of his cap.

  “I tell you,” he said. “I’ve never had such an odd week as this ‘un. Come along, I’ll have Tommy fetch the cart.”

  The cart being fetched, Mr. Gilley took us up to the heft. The wind was sharper up here than it had been in the valley, and I brought my muffler up around my ears to shield them from the chill.

  “Won’t you have trouble finding the place?” I said, raising my voice over the keening of the wind. The country all looked much the same to me, especially in the snow—all shades of white and grey and brown.

  “Nay.” Mr. Gilley’s voice took on a somber tone, and he slapped the reins. “I told you I’d never seen aught like happened to those ewes—it’s not a thing I’d forget. And the spot’s marked.”

  “You marked it?” Hal raised his eyebrows. “To what purpose?”

  “Didn’t say I’d marked it.” Mr. Gilley’s jaw tightened. “But when you see it, you’ll know why I thought the grazing was poisoned.”

  He brought the pony cart to a stop near a large stone, and we climbed out. The wind was beginning to make my ears ache, and I rubbed them through the muffler. We followed Mr. Gilley around the stone, and at once I knew what he had meant.

  Just behind the stone, there was a patch of black—as though the earth had been scorched. There was no grass there, not even dead grass, and the snow did not cover it. It was not solid, but cracked and sprawling, like a web; I clutched at my arm, remembering the web of lines spreading out from my wound. Even standing there, a foot away, I could feel the magic—faint and old, but there all the same—twisting, winding, curling, and sending a chill down my spine. My stomach twisted, and I stepped back.

  Hal glanced over at me, brows drawing together, then turned to Mr. Gilley. “Yes, this is the place.”

  “I told you it had been marked, didn’t I?” The farmer blew out a breath, a cloud of steam fogging the air before him. “Never seen aught like it.”

  “No, I imagine not.” Hal went back around to the cart and brought down the box that Mrs. Ogham had given him. He set it down beside the stone. “I’ll leave this here—then it will be ready when we need it.”

  “What are you going to do here, then?” Mr. Gilley tucked his hands under his arms. “I’d stay away from this place, if was you. The sheep wouldn’t go near it, after the ewes died.”

  “We are going to summon a spirit.”

  “Should have known.” Mr. Gilley’s face went sour. “Suppose it’s no good to ask you not to do that on my land.”

  “Not in the least,” Hal said equably. “As I say, there is a girl’s life at stake. And it’s for your own benefit as well—if all goes to plan, that beast will trouble you no longer.”

  The farmer gave a long-suffering sigh. “Well, as long as the missus doesn’t know about it. She was in a right state after that beast-hunt.”

  Hal’s lips quirked up. “I don’t believe there’s any need to bother her.”

  Mr. Gilley brought us back down to the farm, and we took our leave, walking back to the Hall. The good humor brought about by conversing with Mr. Gilley dissipated—Hal’s face had set into grim lines, and he walked ahead of me with long strides, pipe sending great clouds of smoke into the air.

  “We are nearly ready,” he said, as we approached the foot of the hill. “One final thing, and we can begin.”

  There was a finality about his tone that set my teeth on edge; it was as though he were announcing that we had crossed the Rubicon—there was no turning back now. I followed him up the hill and into Rowanwood Hall with a hollow feeling in my chest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Once inside the Hall, we made our way directly up to Cecilia’s room, where we were let in by a distraught, wide-eyed Jenny. Cecilia—or her fetch, as I had to keep reminding myself—sat in her window seat as always, shawl draped about her shoulders. Only a few ragged patches of hair remained on her scalp. She turned around, and I saw sores covering her face, eyes rimmed round with red, her lips bleeding.

  Hal took Jenny aside, whispering to her, and Cecilia climbed from the window seat and scuttled over to me, in a movement more reminiscent of a spider than a girl. She reached out and touched the sling on my arm and I flinched away.

  “Bad of our pet to bite you,” she said, voice low and rasping. She nodded over to Hal. “Made him angry.”

  I swallowed thickly. “Yes. Too bad for you.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Her mouth spread in a rictus grin, showing bleeding gums. “Made him desperate, too.”

  She scuttled back to her window seat before I could answer, and when Hal looked up, she was back to staring out the window. Jenny left the room, and I could hear her footsteps clattering down the stairs. Hal walked over to the window seat, hands in his pockets.

  “Not much longer,” he said.

  “You think you’re clever,” she spat. “You don’t know how stupid you are.”

  Hal glanced over at me, grimacing. “I have a fair idea.”

  She laughed, a barking noise that made my throat hurt to listen. “No, you don’t! So stupid. You won’t save anyone.”

  “We’ll see.” Hal sat down in the chair by the little table, filling his pipe. “Only time will tell now.”

  He waved me over and I sat down with him. The hollow feeling of dread in my chest had grown, and there was a headache pounding behind my eyes. I looked at Cecilia, staring out the window, and felt my stomach twist. She’d said Hal was desperate—she’d been gloating over it. I chewed my lip, rubbing my arm absently.

  “Something troubling you?” Hal watched me, brow furrowed.

  I took a deep breath, shaking my head. “No—but what are you going to do?”

  He smiled around his pipe. “You’ll see.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments; then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Jenny came through the door, balancing a tea tray on which sat a boiling kettle and a bowl of eggs. This she set on the table before Hal.

  “There you are, sir.” She gave a short glance to Cecilia and shivered, before backing away to the opposite corner of the room, to the little chair beside the bed.

  Hal took the eggs from the bowl, lining them up on the tray in front of him, and began cracking them, one at a time. He poure
d the egg into the bowl and arranged the shells upright, like little cups, before him.

  I frowned, and opened my mouth to ask what he was about, but he laid a finger to his lips and pointed behind me. I turned to see Cecilia watching the proceedings with a strange expression—curiosity mingled with deep, deep fear.

  I turned back to Hal, who was still busily engaged with the eggs. Having now cracked them all and stood them before him, he pulled out a packet from his pocket—a bit of the tea we’d been given by Mrs. Ogham. He opened the packet and put a careful pinch of tea into each of the broken eggshells; then, with equal care, he poured a bit of boiling water into them.

  Cecilia came around to the side of the table, red-rimmed eyes wide. Her jaw worked, and when she spoke, it was though the words had been torn from her. “What are you doing, magician?”

  “What does it look like?” Hal said mildly. “Brewing tea, of course.”

  Her jaw worked again, her face twisting into that unrecognizable inhuman scowl. Her voice took on the low, rasping quality of before. “One thousand years and more I’ve lived, but never seen a thing like this.”

  Her face twisted, even further out of human proportion, and she fell to the floor, backing away in a crab-crawl from the table. Her voice was a screech, like nails drawn over slate. “You thrice-damned son of a whore! You wicked, evil magician!”

  She twisted, body contorting itself into impossible shapes, blood trickling from her nose, her mouth, her eyes, her ears. She opened her mouth and began wailing, a horrible sound, like a dying animal, and a chill wind blew through the room, extinguishing all light.

  I sat frozen, watching her, and across the room, Jenny had thrown her apron over her head and was rocking back and forth—underneath the wailing I could hear her reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

  The door flew open, and Reeves appeared, his slightly-widened eyes the only obvious signs of his perturbation. He stepped forward, but Hal stood, putting a hand up.