by Cach, Lisa
What was this? She looked at the streak of white in Woding’s hair, suddenly remembering a black-haired boy lying on the stone stairs, the gash on his head bleeding a river on a night when stars fell like rain. It had been a terrible, helpless moment for her: an innocent injured on account of her, and she unable to do a thing to help him. She’d thought about the boy long afterwards, wondering what had become of him. There’d been something special about him that drew her, made her feel soft in a way she hadn’t in centuries; something that made her want to connect with the living.
The sense of familiarity and longing she had when she looked at Woding, was that night where it had come from?
“Go back to bed, Underhill. Even if there were a ghost, she could do nothing to harm you.”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
Woding waved away the apology. “You might bring a fresh pot of coffee to my study, before you retire.”
“Yes, sir!” Underhill turned toward the hatch, apparently happy to have this chance to redeem himself.
There was a great scraping of claws on stone, and then Woding’s reclining chair was overturned as Otto scampered out from beneath it, pushing past Underhill and all but tumbling down the wooden steps to the study below.
As Underhill started down the stairs Woding handed him the dog’s blanket. “Put it by the fire in the kitchen. Perhaps he’ll be more comfortable down there.” And then, almost under his breath, “The miserable coward.” Woding closed the hatch, righted his chair, and resumed his supine position, his figure dimly illuminated by the red-shaded lamp. He looked completely at ease, as if nothing his manservant had said had bothered him.
Serena drifted up to sit on the parapet and study him, as he in turn studied the sky. She tried to ignore the soft feelings that had come with the realization that he was the boy under the stars, and focus instead on him as an opponent.
He was a sly one, she already knew. He did not approach obstacles directly, like a normal man, using strength to conquer. He employed instead the tactics of a wily woman, manipulating and obfuscating to get his way. She had always thought such modes a sign of weakness, proof that one was not strong enough to take what one wanted. Even she, female since the day she was born, had learned to fight with strength, not wiles.
He looked physically strong, though. If he’d been properly trained, he might have been able to wield a sword with some skill. He had the shoulders and the height for a decent swordsman. She tried to imagine him riding a warhorse, decked out in armor, battle-ax at the ready. Physically it was not too great a stretch, but the deep, gentle tones of his voice made such an image ridiculous.
What strange forces had directed this man’s life, and why had he been placed here with her again after so many years? Was he seeking revenge for the fall he had taken? It seemed unlikely, if he did not even believe she existed. Or did he only pretend to disbelieve, and to not remember that night he had seen her? He appeared as foolish as he had been as a boy, his eyes on the stars when there were dangers near at hand, but perhaps that appearance was an illusion.
Whatever the case might be, he would not be able to explain away her actions for long. His servants, by the sounds of it, had already half-spooked themselves. It would be short work to finish that job, and have them fleeing the castle as if their drawers were on fire.
As for him, if he was already aware of her presence in some manner, half her work was done there, too. It would simply be a matter of persuading him that it would be in his own best interest to leave.
First, though, she’d have to be certain of what his abilities were. It was always foolish to attack without knowing the armaments of the enemy.
She would triumph in the end; of that she was certain. This Alex Woding had once nearly lost his life because of her. It would be wise of him to remember that.
Alex drew an arrow on his chart through Cassiopeia, noting the time along its length. It was the fifteenth arrow on his chart so far tonight, marking the path of a shooting star. If he were one to believe in omens, he thought it would have been a good one that his first night observing in his new home should be one so rich in data.
He sketched in another arrow, this time through the heart of Pegasus. Time: 3:20 a.m.
It was strange that it should yet be so early. Most nights with such a frequency of falling stars, the dawn would come before he was ready, the time having flown by with the swiftness of the wind. Tonight he was not concentrating as he usually did, and despite the falling stars could not lose himself in his observations. Ever since Underhill’s abrupt arrival just before midnight, he had been distracted by the sense that he was not alone: that, in fact, someone even now watched him as he made his notes.
He had to restrain himself from shifting his gaze to the left to check the parapet yet again. It was just his imagination, fired by Underhill’s tales. Ghosts did not exist. Serena did not exist. He was aware that those were the same thoughts that had gone through his head as a boy, the night he’d fallen.
He was a scientist; a man of reason. Ordered thinking built upon solid evidence was the only weapon civilized man had against ignorance and superstition. To give significance to vague imaginings and sensations was to become a savage… or a flighty, empty-headed female of the highly emotional, gibbering variety. Like Frances. A stray dog had once barked at her while they walked a country lane, sending her leaping into his arms with a shriek like a murdered cat. After he’d calmed her, he’d endured hours of her childish voice ceaselessly replaying the shocking, terrifying encounter with what was surely a rabid beast intent upon ripping out her throat. He’d watched her talk herself into believing her own words, the encounter becoming more horrific with each retelling, the dog more demonic, until her eyes were wide-open with a feverish glow. He’d tried to reason with her, but the more he reasoned, the more intent she became on retelling the story her own way. She didn’t want the dog to have been just a dog, barking at anyone who went past. She wanted drama, and if she could worm it into the story, a touch of the supernatural, too.
He shuddered. He would never do the same. There was no evidence for the existence of ghosts. Never had been, never would be. No one was sitting on the parapet to his left, watching his every move, waiting for he knew not what.
Even if Serena did exist, it would be a mistake to give her the satisfaction of being noticed. Like a mischievous child, if he ignored her long enough she would go away. Or, more precisely, if he ignored his imagining of her presence, eventually the imagining would go away. He would train his thoughts to behave. His musings on his possible childhood encounter with her were pleasant only because the incident was distant and unreal, and therefore suited to idle wonder.
He returned his gaze to the heavens, and twenty minutes later marked the path of another falling star.
It would be just his luck to have deliberately surrounded himself with the undemanding, quiet, relaxed company of men, and then to find himself haunted by a woman.
Chapter Six
Serena sat on the path in the sun, amid the flowers of the garden, Beezely stretched out nearby, asleep. The leaves of her cherry tree rustled in a breeze, and she could almost feel the warmth of the sun on its fresh green leaves. The blossoms came and fell later and later each year, the tree warping and cracking with age. She didn’t know what the normal life span of a cherry tree was, but it seemed reasonable to assume that five hundred years was past its limit. She tried to chase the thought from her mind.
The clank of the garden gate latch drew her attention, and she heaved a great sigh of annoyance as an old man and a boy of about thirteen came through, the boy pushing a wheelbarrow from which a hoe and shovel stuck out.
Serena stood, stepping out of their way, but Beezely slept on.
The old man suddenly stopped, looking down at the cat. “Why, hello there,” he said. “I almost didn’t see you.” The man squatted down, reaching out to scratch Beezely, who opened a green eye to stare at the man as his han
d approached.
“Grandpa, who are you talking to?” the boy asked. “This old—” the man began, then stopped as Beezely slowly faded away before his eyes. “Cat.”
The boy leaned to one side, trying to see around his grandfather. “What old cat?”
The man stood, chewing at his upper lip for a moment. “A marmalade, rough old tom by the look of him. He’s gone now. Must have spooked him.”
“I didn’t see any cat.”
“No,” the old man said. “You wouldn’t have.”
Serena left the garden, not wanting to be around in any form while the males worked, and willing enough to leave them unmolested. She appreciated the flowers too much to disturb those who tended them.
She didn’t know why the old man had been able to see Beezely. Was it something to do with him, with the weather, with the alignment of the stars? The cat had been seen often over the years, apparently without any intention on Beezely’s part, although she could not be sure of that. Who knew what went on in the mind of a cat?
She herself had been seen only a scant handful of times: once intentionally, and a very few times accidentally, when her emotions were strong and the observer possessed of a nature that allowed such a sighting. That had been what had happened the night young Woding had fallen.
Serena strolled along the path that went around the castle, between it and the parapet of the curtain wall.
Grass grew alongside the path, and in several of the bastions there were benches and flower beds, attesting to the castle’s present use as a residence as opposed to a defensive fortification. Hugh le Gayne would be calling curses down on Briggs’s head if he knew there were roses growing on his walls.
Serena sat down on the bench in the corner bastion, her favorite of the arrow-shaped outthrusts of the wall. She could see for miles over the valley from here, see the gray smudges of the villages, and the green lines of the hedgerows that fenced in the sheep, sheep that looked like so many dots of white from this distance.
The view was as lovely as it was achingly lonely, dredging up memories of what used to be. Clerenbold Keep had long since fallen to ruin and been overgrown, not so much as a crumbled wall visible from where she sat. She had watched it happen slowly, over decades, and it was as if her last link with Thomas and her family had died away with it.
It was more than the sight of her old home decaying that gave her a sweet, almost pleasurable pain in her heart when she looked over the valley, though. She had watched villages come back to life after the Pestilence, and watched them grow. She had seen, from her great distance, people at work in the fields and riding or walking along the roads. It was like listening to a story that she could not be a part of, the characters living in a world to which she could not gain entrance however much she longed for it.
That sweet ache was completely different from the pain of having living people actually share her home. That pain was a knife plunging deep into her heart, each solid step that a living person took a slap in her face, reminding her that she was dead. There was no buffering distance with which to shield her heart, no comforting barrier of space to keep her from knowing that they lived: they ate, drank, slept, stole kisses, had arguments, talked, exchanged secrets. Servants snuck off to couple in unused rooms, giggling and panting–she couldn’t help watching, though to do so left her filled with confusion, shame, and the aching pain of envy. She was dead, and would never have a lover.
Even worse than all of that was to stand in a room and have no one acknowledge her. The sneering abuse of her family had been a joy in comparison, for at least they had, on occasion, taken note of her and reacted to her. Her brothers had sought her out to torture with pranks. Her father had scolded and punished her. Being a ghost, however, meant that eyes always looked through her, not at her; no words were addressed to her; no one listened for her response. She was banished from life, condemned to be as nothing in the only world that mattered: that of the living and their relationships with one another.
The pain of being ignored was too bitter to be borne.
Perhaps it was that pain that had made her visible, and made her frighten Woding as a child, however unintentionally. She remembered observing the boys from a distance, listening to that tale of falsehoods Woding’s cousin had spewed out as truth, debating whether it was worth giving them the fright they deserved for invading her mountaintop. She thought she had decided against it.
And then, in the middle of the night, with dawn but a few hours away, something had drawn her to young Woding as he stood in wonder upon the wall, his very soul glowing in his face, completely entranced by the stars. She had reached out, wanting… wanting to touch something she could not name, even now. And he had seen her.
Strange to think that boy was now a man, older than she herself had been when she died.
White clouds drifted in the blue sky, taking nameless shapes, as if trying to speak to her in an unknown language. Would that they could teach her all she still did not know. Would that they could tell her if there was some purpose to Woding’s being the one who took the place of Briggs. Did it matter that she had first seen him on a night of falling stars, and that he was now an astrologer? Surely there was some significance, some tie to that falling star that had set her on her current path.
The thought brought a breathless trembling that had little to do with fear of his astrological powers, and everything to do with the breadth of his shoulders, the intelligence in his eyes, and the black hair that her white, ghostly fingers longed to touch.
Impossible that he could be meant for her, of course. Her hopes for such things were long since dead, along with her body. But what good was being an invisible ghost if you couldn’t spy on a handsome man?
Alex dozed uncomfortably in his darkened bedchamber, longing for the oblivion of deep sleep. Man, unfortunately, did not seem made to dream while the sun was yet in the sky.
He rolled onto his side, the top sheet sliding smoothly over his naked skin. Little light reached him where he lay; the heavy curtains on the windows were drawn, as were those on the Jacobean tester bed in which he tried to sleep. Despite the darkness, and despite his own weariness, his body somehow knew it was day.
Disturbing images peopled his half sleep: Otto pursued by a shapeless shadow; his sisters standing with quirts in hand, supervising his kitchen staff, who toiled in front of a roaring fire dressed only in loincloths; himself locked in a dungeon room while Underhill stood outside the door, complaining that his feet were cold.
Then he was in his own bed again, lying on his side, and felt the covers being lifted behind him, and then the gentle depression of the mattress as a woman slipped into bed with him. She pressed herself up against his back: he could feel her breasts, her thighs, her arm coming over his side so her hand could stroke his chest. She was tall, able to kiss the back of his neck as her feet entwined with his.
Sighing, he rolled over toward her, his arm wrapping around her to hold her closer, and he opened his eyes. Black hollows stared back at him where her eyes should have been, black, empty wells in a face white as death.
His own shout woke him. He sat up quickly, feeling the sweat that drenched his skin, realizing with relief that he had awoken from lying on his back, not his side. There had been no phantom woman in his bed. It had been only a dream.
The sound of his own breathing was loud in the confines of the curtained bed, his eyes accustomed enough to the darkness to see the dim shapes of the bedposts and disarranged bedcovers. His breath caught. He felt it again, the sense he had known last night of not being alone.
He stared into the deep shadows in the right-hand corner at the foot of the bed. He could see nothing in front of the bedpost, could see nothing but the dark, bulbous shape of the post itself, yet some sense told him there was something—someone—there.
Serena sat frozen. He was looking at her. Right at her: she didn’t dare move. Did he truly see her, or only sense her, as he had seemed to in the king’s hall that first d
ay, and again atop the tower?
She had come to see if he slept, and had sat in the corner of the bed watching him toss and turn, curious, needing to know his secrets. She had wondered what nightmares tortured his sleep.
At last he looked away, flinging wide the curtains on the left of the bed and swinging his legs out so that he sat on the edge of the mattress. He bent over, elbows on knees, head in hands, fingers scratching through his hair, then suddenly looked over his shoulder at her once more, staring hard for a brief moment. He stood and walked naked to his dressing room.
Serena released her breath in a whoosh, still too shaken to move. She wished he would stop doing that— staring at her as if he knew she was there. It was positively unnerving. As had been the sight of his bare buttocks.
Firm, well-sculpted buttocks.
She’d seen plenty of them in her time—her brothers and the men-at-arms had never been shy about bathing, and took some incomprehensible delight in flashing their derrieres at each other and at any female servants—but buttocks had never widened her eyes the way that glimpse of Woding’s smooth flanks had.
Smooth, hollowed at the sides, just the size to be held and squeezed.
Her mouth turned down; she was appalled with herself. Where had that thought come from? Never in all her days had male buttocks made her feel an overwhelming wish to squeeze.
Massage.
Bite.
Marry! She was insane.
She could hear water flowing in the dressing room. He had to be bathing.
She had watched Briggs at the task. Her curiosity over the fittings of the modern bathing room, with its long, deep built-in tub and the attached boiler to heat circulating water, had overwhelmed her reluctance to see Briggs’s huge, hairy belly and the jiggling, peeping pink mouse that was his manhood, poking its puny bald head from a nest of wiry hair.