by Hester Fox
“I’ll take good care of her, you have my word,” John says, beaming down at me.
They clasp hands. “I know you will, Barrett. I can’t say I’m sorry to have you as a son either.”
“The best son we could ever ask for,” Mother adds, with a wistful smile.
We have some time before Ada is ready so I twine my hand into the crook of John’s arm. “Will you come with me for one last thing?”
John follows my line of sight up past the house to the woods. Darkness flickers across his brow. “Are you sure?”
My hand tightens around him. “I’m sure.”
We set off up the little hill with Snip blazing the way, past the summerhouse and through the still woods. How many lifetimes ago it seems that Emeline, John and I followed this very path on an oppressive summer day. Then I had longed only for him to notice me and grace me with one of his rare, beautiful smiles. Now we walk as husband and wife, as two people who have bared their souls to each other, looking into them like mirrors.
The pond sits like an expectant blue jewel, impassive and cool. John gives my hand a squeeze. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
I pick my way over the rocks to the loamy shore, the only sounds a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves and the long, content call of a mourning dove.
You took my sister, my secret and nearly my life, I think as I look out over the placid water. But whatever you are, you also gave me a gift, whether you meant to or not. You gave me strength, the will to face what I am.
A water bug skates across the surface, tiny rings rippling in his wake. Otherwise the water is still and silent. No shadow creeps at the edge of my mind today, no dark fingers worming their way into my deepest thoughts.
I reach behind my neck and fumble to remove my locket. The tiny braid of Emeline’s auburn hair catches the late afternoon sunlight. How I would love to hold it every day, to never let this last memento go. But no trinket can replace the love I hold for her in my heart, and as long as Emeline is not at rest, neither can I be. I touch a kiss of farewell to the warm metal, focus my intentions and then toss it out in the water.
I linger a moment longer before turning to leave, when a movement out of the corner of my eye stops me.
Standing under the willow tree, just like that hot summer day looking for mermaids, Emeline watches me. Her dress is fresh and crisp, white as a snowdrop, her auburn hair glossy in the perfect ringlets I used to do for her. I raise my hand, half a wave, half a silent plea to reach out and make her stay. Raising her hand in turn, she hovers for a moment, like a hummingbird in flight, and then just as suddenly as she appeared, she’s gone.
“Rest in peace, my love,” I whisper into the sweet spring air, blinking back a tear.
The water shimmers in the evening sun, pollen hanging lazily in the low shafts of dappled light. John waits, hands in pockets looking out past me to the pond. He’s as still as a statue, the wind tousling his golden hair, and my heart swells. I give him another minute to bid farewell to his own ghosts before rejoining him at his side.
“I’m ready.”
Hand in hand we leave the dusky woods, walking back together to Willow Hall and the future that lies beyond.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Widow of Pale Harbor by Hester Fox.
Acknowledgments
MY HEARTFELT GRATITUDE to the amazing team at Graydon House, who worked so hard to make my story into a real book, complete with gorgeous cover and design. So much care and work went on behind the scenes, and I’m grateful to each and every person who was part of the process.
My editor extraordinaire, Brittany Lavery, who expertly and patiently guided me through a new process, and whose enthusiasm for my story and willingness to take a chance on me has meant everything.
The entire team at HQ for all their hard work and an equally stunning cover. Special thanks to Sarah Goodey for bringing my book to the UK and for her enthusiastic support.
I am incredibly humbled and fortunate to have such a strong advocate in Jane Dystel, who has believed in me and worked tirelessly on my behalf from the start. Miriam Goderich for her interest in my early manuscript and her continued support and work on my behalf. My thanks also go out to Amy Bishop and the rest of the team at DG&B.
Trish Knox, my outstanding critique partner and valued friend, who provided feedback and encouragement, without either of which this book certainly never would have been finished.
E. B. Wheeler, for her early reading and constructive feedback through Pitch Wars.
Jason Huebinger, for creating and running #PitDark, through which I connected with my agent.
In creating the fictional New Oldbury and Willow Hall, I relied heavily on the resources provided by Historic New England, both in print and from their historic properties. In particular, I am grateful to the wonderful guide who patiently answered my questions and led me through Barrett House, the historic home on which Willow Hall is modeled.
My friends, family, the Twitter writing community, and all my other cheerleaders. It’s much appreciated.
Finally, Mike, for his unfailing support, enthusiasm and encouragement. And for all the latte runs.
If you loved The Witch of Willow Hall, you won’t want to miss the next atmospheric tale from Hester Fox. Read on for a special preview of The Widow of Pale Harbor, coming October 2019!
The Widow of Pale Harbor
by Hester Fox
1
This was the fourth dead raven to appear on Sophronia Carver’s front steps in as many weeks, and there was no explaining it away as coincidence this time.
Except that this one wasn’t dead, not quite.
Sophronia had never killed a living creature before, but as she stared down at the raven with crooked, twitching wings on her front path, she got the queasy feeling that the most humane course of action might be to snap the poor thing’s neck.
Tugging her shawl tighter against the chill salty air, she crouched down to peer at the bird. Its feathers were blue and black, iridescent as the ocean on a moonless night. The bird stared back at her, unmoving except for the slow blink of its glassy eye. She wanted very much to reach out a finger and stroke its slick feathers, but that somehow felt like a breach of confidence, like telling a secret that did not belong to her.
“Helen?” she called without tearing her gaze away from the bird. “Helen, come quickly.”
Slowly rising to her feet, she gazed about the estate grounds and craned her neck to squint at the roof of the great old house silhouetted against the heavy clouds. Perhaps the bird had fallen from the eaves. Or perhaps Duchess had felled it, though the old cat could barely bring down a mouse. That at least would explain how it had come to be laid so carefully across the center of the front path, as if it were some sort of pagan offering.
When Sophronia had come across the first dead raven, she had assumed it had been the victim of some sort of sickness, or perhaps weakened by storm winds. The next two she had likewise justified, but with a growing sense of uneasiness.
A prickle of cold blossomed down Sophronia’s spine as she realized that she could no longer dismiss the dead and injured ravens as coincidences. Someone—or something—was leaving them here for her to find.
She stiffened, darting a glance about her, as if someone might be lurking just beyond the broad lawn or out past the gate watching her. But there was no one, the only movement the breeze through the flaming autumn trees, the only sound the faraway cry of a gull.
The path was supposed to be Safe. The entire grounds of the estate were supposed to be Safe. It was only out past the wrought-iron gate and into the town beyond that chaos and uncertainty reigned. There were too many blood-spattered memories beyond the gate, slivers of a hellish night four years ago. Better to stay inside the grounds, where she had control. Sophronia had long ago learn
ed to push all the bad memories and specters out of the house and into the world beyond, firmly shutting the gate of her heart and mind against them. So to see a creature in distress, so close to death, well, that was not Safe.
“Helen?” Sophronia called, louder this time, her voice carrying up the path to where the front door stood open. A moment later a pale woman of about forty, her dark hair pulled severely back from her face, appeared in the doorway. She frowned at the sight of her mistress standing over the bird.
“Duchess must have caught it,” Sophronia said with a shake of the head as the woman stepped briskly over to where she was standing.
Helen gave her a skeptical look and then leaned down to examine the bird for herself. “Duchess couldn’t catch her own tail,” she said, scorn edging her husky voice. “It’s the town brats making trouble again, I’d wager.”
Sophronia pressed her lips tightly together but didn’t say anything. They’d certainly had their share of children from the town coming up to the house, peeking through the windows and knocking at the door, all so that they could earn bragging rights with their friends for glimpsing the infamous widow.
Suddenly it was too unbearable to look at the exposed and broken bird a moment longer. Sophronia might have called for the groundskeeper, but he was out on the far end of the property cutting back the grass. Helen was capable and strong, though, and had a way with animals. “You’ll try to save it, won’t you? And if you can’t, you’ll make it...” Her words trailed off, but her meaning was unmistakable. Quick.
Carefully, Helen positioned her hands under the unprotesting bird, then held it slightly away from her as she lifted it. She ran a practiced hand along its wings, her dark brows furrowing in a mixture of concern and anger, as if the cruelty of nature never ceased to surprise her. “Wings are both broken. And there’s something wrong with its foot.” But then she caught Sophronia’s anxious look and softened. “I’ll see what I can do, Sophy.”
Sophronia gave her a warm smile and watched her whisk the raven off to the barn, Helen’s movements brisk and efficient, her posture as neat as a pin. She had taken Helen on as a servant and companion during her early days as a lonely young bride, but over the years the older woman had proved herself to be a true friend in every sense. Now it was just the two of them against the world, as Helen was so often wont to remind her.
The first raindrops were starting to fall when Sophronia finally allowed herself to stop thinking of the crooked bird and what it might mean, and return indoors. Before the thump of the raven landing on the path had startled her from her reverie, Sophronia had been watching the storm roll in upstairs. Her late husband had always pompously referred to the large room lined with bay windows as the “upper piazza,” taking to heart the designation of the big old house as Castle Carver. Sophronia preferred to think of it as a sort of entertainment, drawing back the curtains like those in a theater, the ocean and endless gray sky a stage on which the rowdy gulls acted their plays.
Sophronia wandered through the house, restless. There were submissions to her late husband’s magazine piling up, submissions for which Sophronia was now responsible. Usually she enjoyed curling up in the parlor, tucked up under a warm quilt with a cup of tea as she read through the stories and essays, curating which ones she would send along to the editor for submission. But the raven had rattled her, and Sophronia was too fidgety and anxious to read.
She continued back upstairs to the piazza and threw the windows open. The rain was picking up now, the clouds building into something even heavier and expectant. There was no moment so promising, so exciting, as the moment before a storm broke. Living on the Maine harbor, with naught but a finger of land to separate her home from the gray Atlantic, she had the opportunity to witness many storms, all from the safety of her window.
But today’s storm was different; she could feel it reverberating in her bones. Perhaps the raven had been a harbinger of things to come, an omen. Or perhaps it was just as Helen said, children from the town playing their cruel tricks on her, just like they had for years since her husband died.
Sophronia sighed, drumming her fingers against the windowsill. God, she was so bored of it all. Bored of the solitude, bored of the little town, its people and their narrow minds, bored of the shell she had become. Tonight she and Helen would eat a small supper in silence—they had few words left to say that weren’t old and stale, used up over the years—and then they would sit in the parlor, play a game of cards, and perhaps Sophronia would read a book while Helen plucked away at the old pianoforte. Tomorrow the laundry girl, Fanny, would come, and hopefully bring some gossip or news with her. They would chat for a little, and then Fanny would leave, and stillness would settle back over the house. Same as every other day, but monotony was the price of Safety. If the grand old house was indeed a castle, then Sophronia was its ghost, forever trapped, restless and roaming the halls.
She leaned out to close the window, but paused, letting the wind sweep up around her in an invigorating embrace. The building energy of the coming storm electrified her bones and pricked tears from her eyes. Change was sweeping toward Pale Harbor, and God knew, she needed it.
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Copyright © 2018 by Hester Fox
ISBN-13: 9781488096747
The Witch of Willow Hall
Copyright © 2018 by Tess Fedore
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