Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

  “She wasn’t meant for Simon. She’s meant for you.

  Take her, and she’ll give you Thoth’s spell of eternal life.

  She should share it with you.”

  “Hastings.” She ignored the pain as the vicar twisted

  her hair again. “Hastings, listen to me. He’s lying to you.

  He wants Rosewood Hall and everything in it for himself.”

  It was the one clue holding the whole of the story together.

  As Usi had aspired to possess the grandest palace in Egypt

  and the Pharaoh’s throne, the vicar wanted Rosewood Hall

  and its wealth.

  Reverend Fairfield chuckled with disdain. “She’s

  trying to trick you. If she doesn’t share with you that life

  she has taken from Simon, she can keep it for herself. It

  was your son’s ka. It should be yours, not hers.”

  “Hastings, please don’t heed him,” she begged.

  The old man glanced at her, then ordered, “Go,

  Andrew.”

  “But — ”

  “Go. She’s mine. I will have this done as it should be

  done. Privately.”

  “Forget your English puritanism. She is of Egypt. Take

  her now.”

  “No,” Hastings said. “This must be done correctly.

  You have told me that.”

  “Ready yourself.” As Hastings nodded, then coughed

  hard again and again, the vicar turned to Darcy and smiled.

  “You could have been mine, and then you wouldn’t be

  here.”

  “Why would I want to be yours? I love Simon.”

  His hand struck her cheek, knocking her back against

  the wall. “That was your first mistake, and it may be your

  last as well. I’ll tell you farewell now, Darcy.” He let her

  name hiss through his teeth.

  “You,” she cried, holding her hand to her throbbing

  cheek. “You’re the monster of the wood.”

  “I knew eventually you’d see the truth.” He raised his

  hand again. “When it is right in your face.”

  She cringed away as she stared at his long fingers, a

  legacy he shared with his father and Simon. “Why did you

  create the monster?” she asked, able to be daring for she

  had little to lose now. Simon . . . No, she must not think of

  him now. She must think of saving his father from the

  vicar’s treachery. But if Simon was already dead . . . No!

  Not now.

  “Hastings has believed he’s dying since the first time

  I met him. Now, with my help, he finally is.”

  “You are poisoning him.”

  He laughed. “I’m trying to get him what he thought he

  wanted. But, at this late point, the old fool has changed

  his mind, so I offered him the cult as a way to escape

  death.”

  “Even as its rigors were killing him.” She thought of

  the wet shoes Hastings had worn when he slipped on the

  stairs.

  “But then you, dear Darcy, arrived with your exotic

  beauty and that necklace.” He flicked his fingers against

  her pendant. “The story of Thoth serves me well. Hastings

  will probably die making love to you in an effort to regain

  his youth. Then you’ll die because no one comes into these

  cellars.”

  “You beast!” She swung her fist at him.

  He caught her wrist and shoved her to the floor by

  Hastings’ feet. “Hastings, enjoy yourself.” He pulled the

  door closed, and she heard the bar drop back into place.

  She ran to the door and pounded on it. Even if she

  screamed, no one would hear her. Turning, she faced

  Hastings, who wove toward her.

  She grasped his arms. “Hastings, you must heed me.

  He was lying to you. I’m not Thoth’s handmaiden. I’m

  Darcy Kincaid, your son’s secretary.”

  “You wear Thoth’s pendant.”

  “It’s a common emblem in Egypt.”

  “But you are Thoth’s handmaiden.” He reached for

  her, then fell to the floor. With a moan, she bunched up the

  blanket and put it under his head. Not that it mattered.

  They both were doomed to die here.

  As the lantern sputtered, she clenched her hands at

  her side. She would not fear the darkness in this room. It

  was the darkness within a man’s arid soul she needed to

  fear.

  When Hastings moaned, she bent over him and

  whispered, “Don’t try to talk or move. Help will be here

  soon.” The lie was the most acrid she had ever spoken.

  Or was it a lie?

  Darcy stood as she heard someone lifting the bar. The

  door swung open, and she fought to prepare herself for

  what torment Usi’s ka was about to inflict on them now.

  “Locke!” She stared at Hastings’ valet. “How did you

  find us?”

  “Dr. Hastings used to come down to this section of

  the cellar to make wine. When I discovered him missing,

  I thought he might have wandered in here again.” Regret

  and grief filled the valet’s voice. “He has been going often

  to places of his younger years. I think he’s seeking his

  youth again.”

  “Hastings needs help right away.”

  He pushed past her and knelt by the old man. “Who

  did this?” He scowled. “You?”

  “Of course not! I wouldn’t lock myself in here. It was

  Reverend Fairfield.”

  “He did this to his own father?”

  Remembering how her grandmother had told her one

  could have no secrets from one’s own servants, Darcy

  swallowed her surprise and nodded. “Did you see him?”

  “Yes. He was going out on the terrace with a glass of

  Dr. Simon’s best brandy.”

  Snarling her favorite curse, Darcy went to the door.

  “I’ll send someone for Dr. Tompkins.”

  “And send some footmen down here to take Dr.

  Hastings to his rooms. It’s too cold here for him.”

  She nodded, pausing. “My grandmother . . . Where is

  she?” Explaining all of this to her grandmother would take

  too much time, for Lady Kincaid would heap

  recriminations on her and ask so many questions that

  Reverend Fairfield might learn of their escape. Then he

  would make his own.

  “She is asleep,” Locke assured her.

  “Just asleep?” She glanced at Hastings, wondering if

  the vicar had included her grandmother in his scheme to

  see them all dead. Her grandmother was spiteful and

  narrow-minded, but Darcy realized with a pulse of

  amazement that she deeply cared for her. Love? No, that

  would be too strong a word, but Lady Kincaid was the

  only relative she had in England.

  Running along the narrow corridor, Darcy sprinted up

  the first staircase she encountered. She was amazed to

  come out into the passage under the front staircase. Ringing

  for the servants, she quickly sent a half dozen footmen

  down into the cellars and another into the village for the

  doctor. She ordered a pair of maids to her grandmother’s

  chambers, telling them only to make certain her

  grandmother was alive.

  “Come with me,” she added to the housekeeper and

  the wide-eyed butler who were staring at her inr />
  uncharacteristic silence. “Simon may need your help.” She

  did not want to voice her fear that it might already be too

  late.

  The moonlight sent a pink sparkle onto the stairs, but

  she was not relieved the night had not yet passed. Gas

  could kill swiftly. Tearing open the door of her room, she

  choked and pulled it closed. Her rapid orders sent Mrs.

  Pollock and Fraser scurrying to turn off all the gaslights

  along the hall. Below she heard doors being opened, and

  windows were being slid up on both floors.

  Fraser pulled off his coat and draped it over her

  shoulders. Only then did she recall the flimsy nightgown

  she wore. When she thanked him, he said, “Miss Kincaid,

  if you wish to stay here—”

  “No.” She opened her door again, stepping aside to

  let any gas out. Waving her hands, she took a deep breath

  of fresh air and ran into her room.

  The teapot was where they had left it. The vicar must

  have arranged for both pots to be laced with the sleeping

  powder sent from the asylum, so he could abduct her and

  kill Simon.

  She could not silence a sob as she ran into her

  bedchamber. It was dark with the draperies drawn. She

  groped for the knob on the gaslight. She twisted it as far

  as it would go. The hiss, so like the monster’s voice,

  vanished. Choking, she lurched to the windows where Mrs.

  Pollock was already pushing aside the draperies and raising

  the panes.

  Moonlight splashed into the room. She took a deep

  breath of fresh air, then rushed back to the bed. The

  silhouette of a motionless form brought her to her knees

  beside the bed. She heard Mrs. Pollock weeping behind

  her.

  Putting her head down on the blanket, she whispered,

  “Simon, I’m so sorry. I never meant any of this to happen.

  If I’d left when you asked me to, you could have focused

  on your book. Maybe he wouldn’t have seen you as a threat

  to him.” She stretched out her hand, wanting to touch him

  just once more.

  The silhouette collapsed beneath her fingers. With a

  gasp, Darcy pulled back the covers. Pillows were bunched

  up in the middle of the bed, and she saw where the sheets

  were pulled toward the opposite side as if someone had

  crawled off the bed.

  She looked at the far side of the bed and the window

  which she always raised before going to bed. Had it saved

  Simon? But, if it had, where was he?

  Ignoring Mrs. Pollock’s questions, she ran around the

  bed to the window. She shouldered aside the draperies,

  half-hoping she would find Simon here and fearing she

  would.

  She found nothing. Where was he? A footman burst

  in to say Simon’s bedchamber and his office were both

  empty. Where was he?

  Behind him a maid announced her grandmother was

  hale and awake and demanding to see Darcy.

  “Not now,” Darcy replied. “Tell her not now. I need

  to . . .”

  She stared out the window. A light! Out by the maze.

  Darcy clutched the molding. That light had drawn her

  out of Rosewood Hall before, and she had been captured

  by that horrible beast in the wood. Why was Reverend

  Fairfield going out there again? As she watched, the lantern

  vanished. Not into the wood, but into the maze.

  Pulling on the wrapper still hanging over the footboard,

  she gasped when something flew off from it to land on the

  floor. She bent and picked up a black wig. The one

  Reverend Fairfield had been wearing! He had come up to

  be certain Simon was dead, and now he knew Simon must

  still be alive.

  She looked out the window as a second lantern

  twinkled in the darkness. Was that Simon? Was he

  following his brother into the maze? She had to reach

  Simon and warn him before he walked into the trap his

  brother might have set for him once Reverend Fairfield

  discovered Simon had escaped.

  Do not repeat your mistakes, for you will not be given

  another chance. Ahwere’s voice echoed in her head.

  Meskhenet had gone to try to save Kafele without

  getting help. Darcy could not make the same mistake.

  “Send for the constable, Fraser,” she ordered. “Tell

  him I’ll talk to him as soon as I return.”

  “Return? From where?”

  “The garden.”

  Mrs. Pollock cried, “Don’t go out there, Miss Kincaid.

  The people in the wood—”

  “Are being duped by Reverend Fairfield.” She

  squeezed the housekeeper’s trembling hands. “Go! Please.”

  As soon as Mrs. Pollock rushed out of the room, Darcy

  looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know who or what you

  are,” she said, “but I need your help now. Where are you?”

  The clouds of light thickened near the ceiling.

  “Can you help? Can you help me find Simon?”

  She watched the clouds drift toward the door, gathering

  speed. She followed them, then halted when she came face-

  to-face with her grandmother. Lady Kincaid was drawing

  in a breath to puff up like a toad as she did each time she

  was about to list all of Darcy’s shortcomings.

  “Not now,” Darcy said. “I cannot stay and argue with

  you now.”

  Her grandmother stood in the doorway and did not

  move. Outrage bristled from her gray hair and her pursed

  lips.

  “I will come back later, Grandmother,” Darcy said. “I

  must go now.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. I must go now.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  “What does it matter what I wear when if I don’t get

  to Simon in time, he may be killed?”

  Her grandmother sniffed. “What nonsense is this? Are

  you asking me to believe another of your silly stories?”

  Darcy pointed at the clouds of light waiting for her

  just beyond the doorway. “Look at that and tell me this is

  just a silly story.”

  “Look at what?” Lady Kincaid turned and gasped,

  “What madness is this?”

  “That light, I assure you, is the least deranged aspect

  of anything tonight.” She grasped her grandmother’s arm.

  “Please step aside. I will explain later.”

  Before Darcy could say more, the lights throbbed and

  grew brighter. A glowing finger reached toward her

  grandmother, who promptly swooned. Startled, Darcy

  crouched next to her grandmother. Putting her fingers to

  Lady Kincaid’s neck, she was relieved to discover a slow,

  steady pulse. She had not guessed her grandmother would

  faint so easily. Or was it just a faint?

  “Did you do something to her?” she demanded of the

  lights.

  They flickered before beginning to vanish.

  “No! No! I did not mean to suggest you had harmed

  her. I am sorry.” She stepped over her grandmother and

  held up her hands to the lights. “Please. I need your help.

  If you abandon me, what happened before is certain to

  happen again.
”

  The lights strengthened, and she knew her pleas had

  been heard. As they moved, she followed them down the

  stairs. She paused only long enough to send help to her

  grandmother, then chased the lights out onto the terrace.

  Straining to see them against the darkness, for their light

  was feeble, she was not surprised when they moved steadily

  in the direction of the maze.

  Darcy did not slow as she entered the labyrinth. She

  had followed the pages of Meskhenet’s story last time.

  Now she had these lights to guide her. As she hurried

  through the maze, she wondered if it had grown in size.

  At the center of the maze, the moon reflected on the

  pool, and the miniature temple was as white as dried bones.

  She crossed the stepping stones and ran into the temple.

  Without a lantern, she could not see beyond the arc of

  moonlight by the entrance.

  A hand grabbed her. She screamed as she was tugged

  to the ground. When a gun fired, she tensed, waiting for

  the fatal pain. The bullet struck the wall near where she

  had been standing.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She looked at the shadow beside her, not willing to

  believe her ears. “Simon!”

  “Shh,” he ordered as he put his finger to her lips.

  “You’re alive,” she whispered.

  “I am now, but I shall not be long if that shooter has

  his way.”

  “It’s Reverend Fairfield.”

  He stared at her, and she could see his shock in the

  light from the clouds now hanging overhead. “You mean

  my cousin tried to murder us?”

  “Your half-brother.” She motioned the clouds away,

  for they were alerting the vicar to where they were. The

  gun fired again. Bits of marble rained down on her. “He

  wants to—”

  “Kill me. That’s obvious.” His jaw tightened. “And

  you?”

  “Yes, and your father.”

  “Father! Is he—?”

  “He is still alive.” She put her hand on his arm as he

  coughed. “Why did you come out here?”

  “You were gone, and I saw a lantern. When it did not

  go into the wood, but into the maze, I thought it might be

  you seeking a place to hide where you’d be safe.”

  “Just what Reverend Fairfield wanted you to think.”

  As if she had shouted his name, the vicar called, “Come

  out. I know you’re in there.”

  Simon motioned for her to say nothing, then he waved