Pharaoh has suffered a great loss with not having her as
his wife.”
Meskhenet’s pose shattered. “Ahwere? Ahwere is
dead? That is not possible! She has not been ill. Was there
an accident?”
“It is not for me to say. You must go to your brother
and comfort him. He will share with you what he knows.”
She started to go to the door, but Usi’s hand on her
arm halted her. He pulled her back to him. When she
opened her mouth to protest, he pressed his mouth over
hers. She tried to push him away, but he ground his lips
down into hers. She did not want him to kiss her, and she
did not want him destroying the warmth left by Kafele’s
lips.
Breaking free, she said, “You are not yet my husband,
Usi.”
“But I am.”
“What?” she choked.
“The Pharaoh and the priests have deemed it to be so.
With the sunset, you were my wife.” He fingered her hair.
“Tonight, you will welcome me to your bed.”
“I cannot be married to you. If Ahwere is dead . . .”
She bit back a sob as she spoke the words she wanted to
denounce as a lie. “I am the next oldest. It is my honor to
be my brother’s wife.”
“Our marriage was consecrated before your sister’s
body was discovered.”
Meskhenet refused to listen more to this serpent who
seemed to be taking pleasure from her grief. Pushing past
him, she went out into the corridor. She hurried toward
her brother’s room. Onuris might be her only hope of
learning the truth . . . and being done with Usi. ~~~
***
“It’s done! This is the final page.” Darcy rolled the
page out of the typewriter and set it on top of the pile
beside it. Over seven hundred pages of manuscript, tracing
so many words—both common and esoteric—back to their
roots, was completed. The past weeks had been a delight,
for they spent hours here working together . . . and then
the nights in each other’s arms. If Reverend Fairfield had
been surprised when she remained at Rosewood Hall
instead of taking his money and leaving, he had kept that
to himself.
As she came to her feet, she saw Simon bent over
another book. She laughed and went to him. Closing the
book, she set it on the table.
“It’s done, Simon. Give yourself some time to enjoy
that before you begin on volume two.”
“Done?”
She laughed again. She should have guessed he would
still be so lost in his studies he would fail to notice the
typing had stopped. Kneeling beside his chair, she said,
“It’s done, Simon, and it is excellent. You have made the
subject of etymology interesting even to me.”
“Even to you?” He ran his thumb along her jaw. “You
know you have a mind that is filled with as much curiosity
as mine. It’s a shame you didn’t have a chance at a better
education. If you’d been born a man instead of a
woman—”
“You wouldn’t want me doing this.” She stretched up
to meet his lips.
He stood, drawing her to her feet. Her eyes widened
at the unadulterated desire on his face. It had not lessened
after they became lovers, and she was enthralled by the
depth of his yearning for her. She raised a single fingertip
to outline his sensuous mouth. Even such a chaste contact
escalated the longing within her. His mouth covered hers,
fueling the brisk fire of her impassioned breaths. His hands
swept up her back, pressing her to him as if he needed to
relearn every inch of her.
A throat was cleared, and Darcy looked over her
shoulder. She stiffened as she saw Hastings and Reverend
Fairchild by the door. Both men were frowning.
Simon did not seem bothered by their expressions as
he announced, “The manuscript is finished.”
“And you were celebrating its completion,” his father
said dryly.
“Among other things.” Simon smiled at Darcy and
held out his hand. She slipped hers into it, hoping he did
not notice how it trembled.
A foolish wish, for he glanced at her, his smile
faltering. He squeezed her fingers gently, and she
understood what he did not say. He would not let anything
diminish his pleasure with finishing his book or with her.
Reverend Fairfield said smoothly into the silence,
“Congratulations, Simon. That is a great feat.”
“Thank you.” He chuckled. “We should have the
manuscript to Caldwell long before the deadline.”
The vicar’s glance at the pile of papers on the desk
sent a sudden chill along Darcy’s spine. “An
accomplishment indeed,” he said, but his voice was brittle.
She thought back to her first meeting with the vicar and
how she had believed he was jealous of Simon’s work.
Maybe she had not been wrong, as Simon insisted. “Don’t
you agree, Hastings?”
“It’s good news.” Hastings clapped his son on the
shoulder, but the motion almost knocked the older man
off his feet. His color was a sickly shade of gray, and Darcy
took his arm and sat him in the chair where Simon had
been reading. Nodding his thanks to her, he added, “I must
say I had my doubts about you ever finishing the book on
time, but you have proven me wrong, son.”
From the corner of her eye, Darcy saw the vicar’s
mouth straighten with fury. She turned to look at him, about
to ask him what was amiss, then saw he was smiling. Had
she mistaken his expression?
“This calls for a celebration,” Reverend Fairfield said.
“I believe you keep your good brandy in the other room,
don’t you, Simon? Shall we drink to the success you
deserve?”
Simon hesitated. “I don’t know if Father—”
“Nonsense,” Hastings said, struggling to regain his
feet. With his son’s help, he did. “I shall not miss this
chance to toast you and your success, Simon.”
“Will you join us, Darcy?” asked Simon.
She was about to say she would, but noticed how the
vicar’s eyes narrowed as he glanced from Simon to her.
His smile remained, but it was a stiff smile.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I need to put my typewriter
away.” She faked a yawn. “It has been a long day, and I
need to rise early tomorrow to post the manuscript. I bid
you all a good night.”
Darcy stood where she was until the men had gone
out of the office. Pulling a cover over her typewriter, she
gathered up the manuscript. She might be misjudging the
vicar horribly, but she could not mistake his venomous
expression when he had looked at it. She would not risk
anything happening to Simon’s hard work. No one would
suspect it was in her portmanteau at the back of her
dressing room. She would find a way to explain to Simon
without driving a wedge between him and his cousin,
whom he seemed to tr
ust.
Going upstairs, she hurried to her room to hide the
pages. She placed them carefully in the box. In amazement
she stared at the top page. She had not typed it, for the
words went at an angle that revealed the paper had not
been rolled evenly into the typewriter. Even if she had not
seen that, she would have known she had not typed it. She
would have remembered:
“This book is dedicated to my beloved Darcy. With
you things I thought impossible are becoming possible
again.”
Tears filled her eyes as she pressed her fingertips to
her lips. She had not guessed Simon would do something
so wonderful. A twinge cut through her, for she had ruined
what he meant to be a surprise. She would thank him when
he came to her room tonight.
Smiling as she thought of how she would show him
her delight with the dedication, she readied herself for bed.
She had no idea how long Simon would stay to celebrate
with his father and cousin, but she knew he would return
here as soon as he could for a most private celebration
with her.
One hour passed, then another while Darcy sat and
tried to read. She rose, setting the book on her chair. She
went to the window. Leaning her elbows on the windowsill,
she listened to the night breeze whispering through the
trees. She yawned, then sneezed as the lace on her
nightgown brushed her nose. Even after an afternoon of
rapture in Simon’s arms, she was eager for more of his
caresses. Her fingertip outlined the small panes as she
delighted in the memory of Simon’s touch. Each time they
were together, they discovered new ways to express their
rapture.
She picked up her notebook from her bed and sighed.
She wished Meskhenet’s story was not taking such a
horrible turn. Instead of writing of sorrow, she wanted to
tell of joy and love and making the impossible possible.
A motion caught Darcy’s eye. “No!” she gasped. In
the bright moonlight, she saw a figure she could recognize
as easily as Meskhenet recognized her lover.
Just past the terrace below her, but within the arc of
light from the house, was the thing that had chased her
through the garden. Here it stood, gazing up at the moon,
its arms raised. She heard nothing from beyond her open
window. It simply stood and reached up as if to grasp the
sky. She looked up, too, and saw the moon was full. Did
that mean something to it?
“Who cares?” she whispered. “Let him do whatever
he wishes.” Maybe she should alert Simon, but if he
confronted this thing, she was unsure what might happen.
Another movement below interrupted her thoughts.
Someone was on the terrace. One of the creature’s
henchmen?
A flash of silver glinted in the moonlight. Was that
Hastings? She had her answer when he turned, revealing
his face.
The creature turned toward the house. It waved its
arms. She frowned. Was it trying to lure someone out into
the garden? Was it trying to lure Hastings out into the
garden?
She gasped when the creature turned and walked into
the night. Hastings stepped down off the terrace. She called
his name, but he did not turn.
Darcy pushed away from the window. Going out there
was insane. Yet to stay when Hastings was walking right
toward that creature . . . She must stop him before he
reached the wood. She shuddered as she imagined the
creature’s evil hiss near her ear.
Pulling her wrapper over her nightgown, she slipped
her feet into a pair of soft shoes. She looked out again and
saw the creature now visible as a shifting shadow near the
rosebushes. Was the thing waiting to ambush Hastings as
it had her?
A bright light flashed in front of her, and she held up
her arm to guard her eyes. Looking cautiously over it, she
realized it was the ball of light floating right in front of
her. She raised a hand toward it, for it had never come so
close, but it edged away.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked.
She got no answer, although she had not expected any.
“I’ll be back as soon as I halt Hastings.” She took a
step toward the door.
The light flared more brightly again.
“I know it’s dangerous out there, but he is Simon’s
father.” Her voice broke. “Simon loves him so much
because Hastings is the only family he has left. I will not
cause Simon to suffer more by standing here and doing
nothing while Hastings might be walking into trouble.”
She stepped around the light. It chased her, trying to
get in front of her. She threw open the door and rushed out
into the hall. It did not follow. When she reached to close
the door, she saw no sign of it.
Darcy did not have time to figure out why it had
approached her and acted so oddly. She ran to Simon’s
door, on the off-chance he might have come upstairs and
stopped there before coming to join her in her bed. He did
not answer her knock. The corridor was deserted. She
hurried down the stairs. Where was Fraser? The foyer was
empty, so she rushed to Simon’s office.
Darcy was astonished when she discovered his office
was empty. She whirled. Her wrapper struck a stack of
books, scattering them across the floor. She waited for
Simon to come through the door to see what was causing
the noise.
When the hallway door remained closed, she threw
open the French door and rushed outside, calling Hastings’
name. No one answered. Not from the garden nor from
the house.
A motion deep in the garden drew her eyes in the
direction of the maze. A glint of silver sent a cramp into
her stomach. That must be Hastings. It moved, and she
saw what could have been a lantern.
It took every bit of her willpower to force her feet
down the terrace steps. Wet grass clung to her wrapper.
She scanned the garden. It was empty. Where was
Hastings?
A glow was fading into the woods beyond the maze.
Then, closer, she saw another one. A lantern. Was Hastings
following the creature?
“Hastings!” Her shout must have reached him, but no
reply came back. If he happened upon the creature and its
companions in the wood, she feared what might happen.
He was an old man, and his heart was weak. The very
sight of the creature could bring on a fatal attack.
Darcy looked back at the house. The only lights
burning were the ones in her room and the one in Simon’s
office. Had he returned there?
She ran back up the steps and opened the door. The
office was as empty as it had been before. Throwing open
the other door, she called as loudly as she was able, “Simon,
where are you?”
Her voice echoed up through the grand staircase at
the front of the house. She waited a minute, t
hen another.
No answer. She called again, and again she got no answer.
It was almost as if everyone had vanished.
Slowly she walked back out to the terrace. A suspicion
she did not want to have taunted her. If Simon was part of
the cult in the woods, he might be there. She could not
believe he was a member of the group led by that thing.
Maybe he was chasing after his father to save Hastings
from what awaited in the wood.
She paused by the wall, wishing she could be certain
Simon was in pursuit of his father. Then, she would be
able to remain here, safe from that creature. But Simon
had not believed her when she spoke of what was among
the trees. Maybe he had no idea what he was about to
confront.
Darcy was down the stairs and crossing the garden
before she could persuade herself to return to her room.
Wishing she had found someone—anyone—to help her
stop Hastings from walking into madness, she hurried past
the rosebushes. She saw a light ahead of her and shouted
his name again. The light continued toward the wood
without pausing.
Then, it vanished.
She gasped. Had Hastings heard her and doused the
lantern to keep her from following? Had he encountered
the beast or one of its followers? Or, and she hoped this
was what had happened, was the light concealed by the
trees at the edge of the wood?
Only her determination to protect Hastings kept her
from turning back when she reached the wood. The
bobbing of the lantern she guessed was Hastings’ had
reappeared, not so far away, and she might be able to reach
him before he encountered someone else.
She feared it was too late when she heard chanting in
that strange language. Simon should be here. He knew
many dialects, so he might be able to guess more than the
pair of phrases that sounded like Latin. She frowned. Even
as little as she knew of the language, she could recognize
it as Latin, but the words were strung together like nonsense
sounds.
“Hastings?” she whispered beneath the voices. He
would hear her only if he was nearby, but he must be close
because his lantern had come this way.
The lantern appeared ahead of her to her right. She
crept closer. Her breath sounded like a shout in her ears.
Her wrapper snagged, and she yanked it loose. Material
Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt Page 24