It was only as I went to return her items that I looked again at the paper lining the bottom of the trunk. They were pages of foolscap, marked by the same neat cursive that had adorned my envelope that fateful morning. A lifetime ago, now. I lifted the first page out, squinting in the dim candlelight. Names and lines; it took me a moment to recognize a tree of ancestry.
A tree that ended with myself.
Quickly I brought the candle close. My parents’ names, my grandparents, my great-grandparents... it was accurate, as far as I could tell. I drew out the rest of the papers: each was an ancestral tree, ending in a woman’s name. One, I saw, was the lady whose family I had written to, the ill-fated bride of Theodore Masters.
He wants their blood, he wants their bodies.
I could not see that we had any relations in common, though. Was it simply some kind of proof of Englishness? Certainly, the names seemed English enough, no hints of foreign tongues on any of the branches...
Unnerved, I quickly returned them to their original places. With luck, it would be some time before she noticed any disruption.
And then, taking a deep breath, I headed for the stairs, the pistol tucked in my breeches and the poker in my hand.
As I descended, a sudden rush of noise filled the stairwell. A chorus of male voices was singing lustily, a howling singalong of a kind I had never heard before. My skin rose into gooseflesh. When I laid my hand upon the doorknob, they abruptly dissolved into raucous laughter. I stood there, my hand on the knob, trembling. So many, so close! And I, a mere slip of a woman in a worn suit, with a poker and a single shot. It was so far from the life I had known until now, so full of risk and danger... my heart was pounding with fear, but also with a kind of wild excitement I had not felt since childhood. For the first time, I understood that this was the same excitement that drove men to race horses and fight pointless battles, to go to sea or into the army... or even turn to piracy. Looking down at myself, I realized I was the spit of that long ago etching of Mary Read, and the realization brought with it a wave of emotion. I felt as if I might fly apart; I felt alive in a way I had never felt before.
I opened the door. Slowly, silently, just a crack at first, just enough to peek out into the hall. There were lights under several of the bedroom doors, but the hall itself was empty. The trick, I told myself, would be to behave as if I belonged there. As if I was, in fact, Miss Chase.
With that in mind I took a deep breath... and then stepped into the hallway. I took the time to shut the door, the poker dangling from my hand, then turned and walked briskly down the hall, swinging the poker like a walking stick. The stairs before me were like a beacon in the darkness. If I could just make it...
A door opened behind me. I heard a step on the floor, then a gruff, “It’s just Chase.”
My heart was racing. I thought I might be sick. Would she usually turn and acknowledge them? Say something back? I turned my head slightly and nodded. I was at the stairs, I was nearly descending—
—and the door closed gently behind me.
I let out a long, low exhalation as I descended, only to pause near the bottom. For the ground floor was all noise and light, seemingly from everywhere: singing and shouting, the sound of furniture scraping and glass clinking and a kind of slapping and raucous laughter. The hall leading back to the kitchen suddenly seemed a terrifying gauntlet. Instead I peeked carefully over the banister, then darted to the open front door. I could go around the Hall and reach the kitchen from the side.
I will confess that the moment I stepped outside all my euphoria vanished, and I nearly turned and ran. The house with its blazing windows seemed a monster I could rightfully flee now; the thought of crossing the fields at night seemed a small concern compared to returning to the Hall. I could reach home before dawn and return with constables, neighbors, help—
—in which time Sir Edward and his men might have vanished, or at least removed all traces of their crimes. And what of poor Emily?
I slipped off the porch and began making my way to the side of the house, where I knew a door to the kitchen lay, only to see ahead of me on the path two large men coming straight at me.
I could not think, and then, by some unconscious instinct, I clutched at my groin and ducked into the bushes.
“Oi,” one said. “What’re you doing in there?”
I kept my back turned to the path. Their steps on the gravel were like some dread army approaching. Carefully, I moved the poker before me and gripped it tight with both hands, readying myself to swing.
“Not all of us can go with you watching, Tom,” the other one said, then laughed loudly at his own joke.
“Is that Chase in there?” The footsteps had slowed. “Need a hand, girl? I’m happy to help.”
I took a breath. “Bugger off,” I snapped, in what I hoped was a decent imitation of her voice.
The second one laughed harder; I heard a hand slap a shoulder. “Go on, you creepy bastard,” he said lightly. “You know she’s not to be touched. Evening, Chase.”
Again, I nodded. She’s not to be touched. Images of her embracing Sir Edward, helping him, filled my mind, making my stomach churn. Yet, was that not preferable to her talk of monsters and blood? Unless the meaning was something even more sinister...
She’s not to be touched.
What did Miss Chase’s family tree look like?
I peeked out of the bushes. The path was empty. Quickly, I darted down and made for the kitchen door. It was farther than I remembered, around the corner and near the far end. Somewhere in the distance, I heard another man moving through the overgrown vegetation, but thankfully, he did not come near. A guard? I had not thought Sir Edward might post such. Perhaps my dash across the hills would have been short-lived.
At the door I touched my pistol, making sure its handle was at the ready, then gripped my poker firmly. The gun, I knew, was a last resort, for the noise would bring the whole of the Hall down upon me.
I put my hand on the old round knob and tried to ease the door open, but the wood had swollen. Taking a deep breath, I put my shoulder to the wood and gave it a hard push, only to nearly fall inside as it swung open with a pop. I caught myself and quickly brought the poker forward, ready to keep any attacking man at bay.
The kitchen was thankfully empty, though not in the same state as I had found it earlier. One of the overhead lamps had been lit, its several candles burning brightly, casting a yellow glow over the large space. Now, there were sacks of foodstuffs dumped on the tables, making smears in the dust; now someone had flung a bucket of water over the large stain, thinning the rust into brown and grey smears and pushing the hair into a corner like a small dead animal.
I shut the outside door and tiptoed towards the stain. The door was still locked. Carefully, I set the poker between the hasp and the lock itself and rocked the point back and forth, back and forth, trying to break it open. The sounds were excruciatingly loud in the silent kitchen. I could only pray that the revelry elsewhere would muffle my efforts.
So intent did I become on breaking the lock that I did not notice any approach until suddenly the inner door swung open, letting in a rush of sound from the Hall. A drunken man stumbled into the room, catching at one of the tables to steady himself as the door slowly swung closed behind him. I pressed myself as far into the shadows as I could manage, but there was nowhere to hide.
With a snigger he shook his head, then began pawing through the food, shoving a roll in his mouth as he tried to break apart a wedge of cheese.
Well-born sons fallen from grace. I could see it in this one: his threadbare coat had once been richly embroidered, some gold still glinting amidst the grime; his wig had been fashionable once; the sword that hung from his hip had lost every ornament, studded only with tarnish. His face should have been a handsome middle age, but his features were sunken and reddened by drink.
And then he looked directly at me, and in a heartbeat went from pitiful to terrifying.
“Who�
��re you?” He squinted at me, a leer spreading over his features that distorted them horribly. “Who let you in?”
I tightened my grip on the poker. My mind would not work. It was like trying to turn a key in the wrong lock.
“A naughty little lad,” he breathed. Slowly he came around the table, a hand on his sword. “A naughty little lad trying to get behind the door and see. O, what is Masterson up to?” His voice took on a high-pitched, mocking tone. “O, what is Masterson doing with those girls?”
I was about to say—something, but at his words I shut my mouth and instead willed him to keep talking.
“Oh, it cannot be true, can it?” He grinned then, baring yellow, broken teeth. “Deals with the devil, a hellbeast, sacrifices—cor blimey, guv’nor, it just can’t be true.” The last made him snort with laughter. “’Tis a pity it only likes the ladies, boy, or I would show you just what truth looks like.”
He lunged for me. I swatted him aside with the poker and ran blindly across the kitchen, not knowing which way to go, thinking only to keep him at bay. He twisted faster than I expected, skidding and righting himself as he turned. A hand grazed my leg, then seized my ankle, bringing me down face-first onto the stone floor. The poker flew from my hand.
A fist landed on my lower back, so hard I could not breathe for the sudden pain. I cried out shamefully and kicked backwards. My foot connected with something and I heard a grunt as he fell against the table. Quickly, I dragged myself away, but he was upon me in an instant, grabbing at my arms and twisting me about as he tried to press me to the ground. All was chaos then, his hands wrenching me and I clawing and shoving at him while trying to get a purchase on the pistol—
—and then Miss Chase loomed behind him, and in one great arc swung the poker into his head.
He fell across me a dead weight. Warm wetness splattered on my face and upraised hands. I turned them over and saw the redness, I saw his cracked pate and the glistening flesh beneath. I heaved, my guts twisting so violently I thought I might faint. With an animal grunt, my assailant crawled away, fumbling for something under his coat. She raised the poker again and swung it a second time. There was a terrible sound, of something cracking wetly, and this time he fell and did not move.
I could not stop looking, looking at the blood everywhere, blood and brains. I could not breathe for it, I could see nothing else. Hands caught at me though I tried to push them away. Someone roughly turned me and I saw her, I saw Miss Chase and saw her mouth move, but I couldn’t make out her words for the roaring in my ears. Her stricken face was before me, her eyes wide with concern, and then I was vomiting, vomiting, until there was nothing in my belly but sourness.
My hands kept wiping against my breeches, as if of their own accord.
“Are you all right?” Miss Chase’s voice echoed, as if she was calling across a great distance. “Miss Daniels. Did he hurt you? Are you all right?”
“You—you killed—” I could barely speak for the way my whole body kept contracting. “You killed him,” I finally said.
At once, her touch left me. She stood abruptly, her legs blocking my view of the body. I took deep breaths, steadying my nerves, steadying the world around me.
“He would have killed us both.” Without further explanation, she bent over and seized him by the feet. I thought I saw her eyes gleaming, but she turned away and with a grunt, dragged him into a far corner. With some effort, she propped him into a sitting position, then took the hat that had fallen from my own head and placed it over his face. “That should buy us a little time,” she said, striding past me and heading to the locked door.
“You killed him,” I repeated.
She stopped then and looked at me. “He was wanted in London for murder,” she said, “and if you had read what he did to that whore, you would have done exactly the same.” She took a step towards me, her hand outstretched, and I instinctively recoiled. The hand fell away. “Go home, Miss Daniels,” she said more gently. “Get help. I will do what I can for Emily, if there is anything to be done. But this is no place for you.”
Her speech concluded, she went to the locked door and produced from her coat pocket a ring of keys which she began fitting into the lock, one after another. There were footsteps in the hall outside the kitchen. We both went perfectly still, but then they turned and retreated with a curse.
“Run,” Miss Chase said over her shoulder. “It’s only a matter of time before another one comes in.”
I staggered to my feet and gave a last look at the door to the gardens, and safety. Back home, back to my father, back to everything small and familiar—and if something happened to Miss Chase, if I could have saved her or Emily or both and instead I ran away? To live with that, for all my days?
Oh, I would have made a poor pirate. I had known as much all my life. But perhaps, I could still be a brave woman.
I grabbed the poker from the floor, wincing at the glistening tip, and placed myself between Miss Chase and the hall door, listening intently for any approach. She looked at me, but continued trying keys.
“Are they all like him, then?” I nodded at the corpse.
“Not all,” she muttered. “Some are common-or-garden cutthroats.” She cursed under her breath. “How many bloody keys does he have?”
I said nothing, just focused on keeping my breath steady, on keeping a grip around the poker handle. Already, I saw it in my mind: if someone should come, I would swing as soon as the door opened, much as she had done. With luck, I would wind them before they knew I was there—
There was a sound of metal scraping and the lock dropped open with a clang.
Miss Chase eased the door open slightly, then, with a sigh, swung it wide. I took a breath before turning to look, but there was nothing: only a narrow spiral staircase going down into utter darkness, much like the one I had ascended upon my arrival. Indeed, I found myself glancing at the far wall to confirm that, yes, there was the door I had emerged from.
There was one difference: these stairs were marked by a brown smear that dappled each riser as far down as we could see.
“We need a lantern.” Miss Chase looked around, then hurried to the hearth where one hung from a hook in the wall. She hunted around some more and produced a tinder-box.
From the hallway came distant footsteps drawing closer. They paused as someone shouted.
Swiftly, Miss Chase lit the lamp, then returned to me with a wary look at the hallway door. She kicked the lock into a corner, then handed me the lamp and pulled the pistol from my breeches, sliding it into her own.
“I am a competent shot,” I said in a low voice.
“The last thing I need right now,” she retorted, “is a country girl making free with my pistol.” But her mouth was crooked up in the corner. “Last chance to run, Miss Daniels.”
In response, I strode into the stairwell, descended a few steps, then held the lamp up while she drew the door to. And not a moment too soon; just as it shut completely, we heard the hall door open and heavy footsteps enter, followed by a low whistle. Miss Chase pulled the pistol free, waiting, her ear pressed to the door. After a moment, however, she grinned. She mimed stuffing her mouth full of food, then pointed the pistol at the stairs.
We began our descent.
CHAPTER XIV
Leviathan
IT SEEMED MUCH farther going down than it had coming up. Around and around we went, following the small, shallow steps. The farther we went, the fainter the stain became, until at last it disappeared entirely, but the light picked up a scrap of linen clinging to a nail—a stained, stiff little thing, and somehow that was worse, much worse. I showed it to Miss Chase, who only nodded grimly.
We continued on.
The steps were dizzying, maddening. I tried to focus on maintaining my balance, readying myself for whatever might be waiting for us. For some time, there was only the sound of our shoes tapping against the stone and the regular sighs of our breathing—until, suddenly, came a roar of noise from above us.
Miss Chase froze, looking up. “They found the body,” she said. “Get to the bottom, quick.”
I hurried then, moving down the slippery stairs as fast as I dared. The endless turning, turning. There were no more sounds from above—were they searching, were they arming themselves and readying to charge down upon us? Upon Miss Chase? For they had no way of knowing I was here. If I had run when I had the opportunity... but my cowardly train of thought was interrupted as I suddenly came to a floor, stumbling from momentum. The lamp swung wildly in my hand as I righted myself and raised it high overhead.
We were in another cellar, similar to the one I had entered through, only this one was lined with racks and the racks were filled with assorted crates and small, squat barrels. Some were wrapped in oilskins, and plump sacks were piled atop the largest crates.
Before us, gaping and dripping, was the entrance to another tunnel, only this time it had clearly been created after the Hall was built. The stone was chiseled raggedly around its mouth, with rough beams reinforcing the opening. Cracks ran up through the mortar to the ceiling and beyond.
Right at its edge, where damp clods of earth spilled into the cellar, was a filthy wad of fabric. I picked it up and shook it out. A shawl, bloodied and mud-caked, its ends knotted tightly to make a kind of sling. The few delicate tassels remaining on its edges made my eyes well.
Emily.
“Do you think they took Emily down the tunnel?” I looked around. “Miss Chase?”
She was bent over one of the crates, feeling at the edges, then wiggled her fingers at me. “Let me see that poker.”
It took but a moment for her to work the lid off and fling it aside, making a terrible clatter. Without a word, she began pawing through the wood shavings.
“Miss Chase?” I caught at her arm. “For God’s sake, you’ll bring them down upon us—” I broke off as she held a heavy sphere up to the lamplight, a long thick string dangling from it. “What is that?”
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