“Not a gods-be-damned thing!” Nick snarled. He tried the next window, but the accumulation of grime and neglect very effectively blocked his view of the mansion's interior.
“There's got to be a stable,” Gilly suggested. She did not wait for her brother to answer.
Dragging the sodden hem of her skirt out of the snow, she plowed through a knee-deep drift and started around the side of the mansion.
“Gilly, wait!” Nick growled, squeezing between two bushes to follow in her wake.
The stable was locked and barred with a heavy padlock that had not been opened in a long while. Rust caked the metal hasp and bolt. A peek through a gap in some boards gave mute evidence that the place had long since been deserted by man and animal alike.
“We could pull out some of the boards; at least get in out of the snow,” Nick advised. He put his foot up to the stable planking and was about to wedge his thick fingers through the gap in the boards to lever them apart, when Gilly touched his arm, drawing his attention.
“There's smoke coming out of the chimney, Nicky,” she told him. “Maybe whoever we heard calling for help is unable to come to the door.”
She shuddered as she peered through the gloom at the mansion, then tried to put aside her fear. “Shouldn't we try to get inside and see?"
Nick glanced at the mansion, looked up at the billows of white, wafting smoke coming out of a far chimney and shrugged. “It's worth a try, I suppose."
Every ground floor window was either too small to accommodate entry or else was enclosed with iron bars. The servant's entrance was locked, as was the kitchen. A complete circuit of the mansion proved the place to be inaccessible to anyone without key or ax.
“There's got to be a way in,” Nick fumed as he looked about the long-neglected flower and vegetable gardens. Nothing with which to batter their entrance in could be found among the discarded implements scattered about.
“What about those?” Gilly asked, pointing.
Nick followed her direction and looked up to the second story and saw a set of double doors, their mullion panes opaque in the gloom. There was a small wrought iron balcony which looked out over the ramshackle flower garden. It would be a hazardous climb, what with the fieldstone walls being slick with the driving snow, but it was at least worth a try.
“Can you get up there?” Gilly asked as her brother waded his way through the snow to the kitchen door where an overhang blocked the weather.
Nick did not answer, but reached up to take hold of the overhang's support where it met the wall. He knew if he could get up on the overhang, and if it would hold his weight long enough for him to get a toe-hold in the fieldstone, he might be able to crab-walk his way to the balcony. He had no doubt his boot could make quick work of the fragile-looking mullions.
Gilly held her breath as her brother pulled himself up to the overhang, the strain of scrambling over the contraption's edge making his face dark. His feet skidded on the roof tiles, sending small chunks of the material rolling down the incline until he could lever himself up onto the roof. He crouched there, no doubt testing the safety and stability of the overhang then inched forward, his fingers digging into the fieldstone to keep the wind from dragging him out into space.
“Be careful!” Gilly called up uselessly and was instantly contrite as her brother looked down, frowning at her. The light had almost gone, but she could not help but see the irritation on Nick's stubborn face. “Sorry,” she mumbled, knowing he could not hear her.
The going was tougher than Nick could have imagined. The fieldstone was slippery, slick and ice-cold to the touch. It was all he could do to wedge the toes of his boots into the joints and find any purchase at all along the thick stone. After what seemed to Nick to be an eternity, he could finally reach out and grasp the flooring of the balcony.
“God!” he drew in a harsh breath as the wrought iron grating stuck instantly to his hand. He had not thought about that, he reminded himself as he jerked his burnt flesh back from the contact.
“What is it?” Gilly called. “What happened?"
Nick clenched his jaw and mentally cursed his forgetfulness at leaving his gloves back at Tempest Keep. He drew his right hand into the sleeve of his coat, scrunched up the material in his fist, then reached once more for the grating. With a mighty heave, he managed to get close enough to hook his entire arm through the grating.
Gilly slapped her arms around her body, trying to find some warmth. The wind had died down to a low mournful dirge and the snow was tapering off, but with the night's coming, the temperature would drop drastically and she knew if they did not find shelter soon, they would freeze to death.
Praying the balcony would not come crashing down with his weight, Nick dug his toes into the fieldstone and pushed himself up, straining to get his left hand up to the top rail of the balcony. Swinging his arm up, he was able to hitch his crooked arm over the rail. Dangling precariously for a moment, his feet scrambled for purchase on the stone.
“NICK!” Gilly gasped. Her hands were up as though she could catch him should he fall. “DON'T FALL!"
“I'M NOT TRYING TO!” he shouted back, at last finding a toe-hold in the stone.
With one heavy intake of breath, he unhooked his right arm from the grating, simultaneously pushing away from the wall with his feet and swung out. With the momentum of his swing, he was able to drape his free arm over the rail. It was then only a matter of hoisting himself over the railing and onto the balcony. As soon as he did, he headed for the door and took hold of the handle through the cloth of his coat.
“Thank you,” Gilly muttered, looking to the heavens.
“The gods-be-damned door ain't locked!” Nicky called down, his voice rife with pleasure.
Gilly looked back to the balcony in time to see her brother disappear into the mansion.
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Chapter Five
It had taken the nearly-drowned man over thirty minutes to make his way back to Holy Dale. His wet clothing had frozen to his flesh as he stumbled through the blowing, blinding snow. He had begun to pray, not really believing any god would ever hear him again or even want to; but he had to try. His upbringing had demanded it.
When at last he had reached his home, he had staggered gratefully through the servant's entrance, managed to lock the door behind him, and had then collapsed on the stairs, unable to go any further, not sure he really wanted to, although the only warmth in Holy Dale was in his bed chamber on the third floor, and he was chilled to the very marrow of his bones. After a few attempts to haul himself up the stairs, he'd given up. Not even Brownie's excited barking or lapping tongue could rouse him from the stupor into which he allowed himself to drift.
“Go away, girl,” he mumbled to the dog, feeling the slick, wet tongue slathering over his chaffed face.
The bone-jarring chills had yet to come; but he knew they would soon arrive. His lungs felt heavy, laden with water, full of pond scum, and he could hear the wheeze that was already beginning as he drew in harsh gasps of breath through his opened mouth. First would come the chills; then the raging fever, the wracking cough that produced blood-flecked sputum, the violent convulsions, vomiting, the gasping for breath, and finally....
He'd watched his little brother, Anson, die in just that way. The illness had claimed the young boy in only two days.
His dog barked, backed up and spun around in a circle. When he didn't respond, the animal snared the sleeve of his wet coat and, digging in her hindquarters, pulled.
“No,” he said, too weary to put up a hand to fend off his only companion for these last five years.
Brownie barked once more, then suddenly lifted her massive golden-brown head and swung cinnamon eyes to the doorway which led to the interior of the house. A low growl erupted from her throat and she spun around, padding heavily through the doorway and out of sight.
He tried once more to move, to push himself up, but the effort was too great and already his teeth wer
e beginning to chatter. He had never been so cold in his life, and not even the thought of the warmth of that fire blazing in his bed chamber hearth could give him the strength to get up. The bare floorboards, the built-up dust of many months of neglect now streaked with melting snow, were cold to his cheek, but the sensation felt good. His face felt as though it were close to a fire, although his body still shivered with the sodden clothes clinging to it.
For one fleeting moment he thought he heard pounding on the door, someone calling out, but he dismissed it. There was no one who cared whether he lived or died. A tiny smile stretched his cracked lips. No, that wasn't exactly true. The entire village wanted him dead, but he doubted seriously if any of them would come to see if his swim in the pond had produced that most devoutly wished state. And he knew damned well Kullen wouldn't mention witnessing his plunge into the pond until the spring thaw.
The pounding came again and when, with supreme effort, he lifted his head to listen, he heard the unmistakable command to: “Let us in!".
Who would dare to come to Holy Dale to see if, by some strange quirk of fate, the Lord and Master still lived? No one he knew, that was for sure. A stranger, perhaps, lost in the blizzard, in need of help? There could be no other explanation. Some passing fool who had heard his own cries for help as Kullen watched him drowning, and whose conscience bid him come to a stranger's aide?
He struggled to get up, realizing his life might well depend on his finding out who was seeking entrance to his home on such an afternoon. But no matter how hard he tried to raise himself up, his flagging energy would not permit it and he slumped down once more, his fevered cheek pressed against the cold, wet floor.
Brownie came lopping back into the servant's hall, her tail held low; her massive sharp teeth bared. A menacing growl throbbed and the hackles on the golden back lifted.
“Easy, milady,” he calmed the animal as the mutt came to him and sat with its back to its master, its keen eyes intent on the servant's entrance.
He saw the shadow peering in at the windows, tried to call out, but found his voice had deserted him. All that came out was a wet, rattling croak, and murky, foul-tasting pond water bubbled out of his lungs, out of his mouth, and spewed onto the dusty floored. Even as the door to the servant's quarters rattled, the blackness was reaching up to claim him.
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Chapter Six
What struck Nick as odd, other than the total silence and the intense cold, was the loneliness of the room through which he stumbled. He knew the room was a library for he could smell the familiar odor of bookbindings: an aroma Nicholas Cree had enjoyed since childhood.
But he could tell the place had not been used for many months, even years, for the stench of mold and mildew and neglect wafted just under the pleasant smell of parchment and glue. As he bumped into what appeared to be a desk, he could feel layers of dust come away on his palms and he hissed with disgust, running his hands down the front of his coat.
It didn't take him long to find the right door out into the second floor hallway, despite opening two closet doors and a third door into a small room that must have been a privy from the smell of it.
The hallway was equally silent, cold, and so dark Nick was almost afraid to step away from the wall to which his hands were plastered for fear he'd go plummeting down an unseen staircase. He carefully put one foot beside the other as he slid sideways down the hall, reaching out to feel with his toe for empty space.
“Hello?” he called out. “Is there anybody here?"
What greeted him was the howling wind which screamed through the rafters and shook the loose panes in the windows of the rooms he passed. When at last he came to the stairs, he felt the blasting chill of the wind whirling up the staircase and grimaced, thinking if someone were living here, why hadn't they boarded up the broken windows to keep out the draft?
He found it lighter below stairs and had no difficulty making his way to the kitchen. Light reflecting off the snow outside cast the spacious room in paler shadows and he didn't once stumble into cabinet, table, or counter on his way to the door. There was no furniture to stumble into: the place was devoid of furnishings.
Gilly heard the bolt sliding back and was relieved to see her brother's face in the opening as the door was pulled back. She hurried inside.
“If there's anyone here,” Nick told her as he reached out to take her arm, “I haven't found him, yet, and he must have burned his furniture ‘cause there ain't none."
“The fire?” she asked, aching to warm her chilled body before the roaring flames.
Nick shrugged. “I haven't even seen the first glimmer of light. Maybe upstairs."
“Can we look for a lantern?” Gilly inquired. “A candle? Anything?"
Nick knew well his sister's fear of the dark and he nodded. “Let's look.” And when he had found Lucifers and an oil lamp, he made quick work of lighting it.
The lamp cast eerie shadows on the bare walls, devoid of any kind of adornment, even curtains, and filled the air with the scent of whale oil. Nick's face was cratered with dark hollows, his blue eyes glowing with unearthly brightness.
“Which way?” Gilly asked, shivering badly now that she was out of the blasting chill of the wind.
He led her back the way he had come. Holding the lamp high as they ascended the stairs, he was surprised to see paler shades of rectangles, ovals, and squares on the wall beside them.
“Looks as though all the fripperies and family portraits have been taken down or sold,” Nick commented.
“Or stolen,” Gilly answered.
Nick nodded. If the mansion had been deserted for as long as he suspected, that was a logical explanation as to why the place was bare of the usual accouterments. He looked at the long hallway down which he had entered the mansion from the library and shuddered. Part of the balcony overlooking the main hall had fallen away, a portion cocked at a dangerous angle as though someone had crashed through the railing and plunged to the stone floor below. If he had not been so careful traversing that hall, he might well have ended up doing the same thing.
The stairs leading to the third floor were at the far end of the hallway and he took hold of Gilly's arm and pulled her close to the wall, not trusting the gaping hole in the balcony they passed.
“What could have happened?” his sister asked as she stared at the broken wood railings.
“Accident, maybe?” Nick surmised. “But long ago."
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“If it had just happened, the wood would be paler in color where the breaks are.” Nick took one last look at the balcony and resolutely turned his head away.
As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, they could smell the tell-tale aroma of burning wood. Even though there was no light at the top of the stairs, or along the balcony above their heads, the scent wafted down to them on an errant draft.
“You stay here,” Nick said as they gained the third floor landing. He pushed her gently against the wall and opened his coat, reaching his hand inside for the dagger that he always wore strapped to his thigh.
“Nick?” she questioned, suddenly afraid for his safety.
“Stay here,” he repeated. Easing carefully toward the first closed door on the landing, he opened it slowly, to darkness. Shutting it again, he went to the next door, then the next, until finally he found the right one.
Swinging the door to the bed chamber open slowly, Nick was greeted first with enough sufficient warmth to make him draw in a deep, longing breath, inhaling the delicious aroma of coffee brewing. Cautiously he entered the room, somewhat relieved to find it empty, and looked about him.
“Gilly?” he called.
The bed chamber was large, though sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a straight chair, small writing table flanking the bed, a large built-in armoire, and one trunk taking up space. There was no settee, no tub. There was no rug upon the floor nor draperies at the windows. No pictures hung on the walls,
although the same pale shadows gave silent proof that once there had hung adornments of some sort. In one corner was a large wooden barrel filled with water.
“Gilly?” Nick called again turning to look toward the door. “It's all right. Come on in."
He walked to the bed and frowned, somewhat surprised to see only a sheet and thin blanket covering the mattress, the blanket folded neatly back over the worn sheet. There was a single pillow, without covering, feathers poking through the fabric. A small lamp sitting at the corner of the writing desk vied with the blazing fire to light the room.
Logs were piled up beside the hearth in a neat pyramid; enough logs to last only a few hours in this kind of weather. Inside the firepit, a coffee pot hung, its blue enamel surface glowing a dull red.
“Gilly?” Nick called, his eyes falling on a thick book, the only one in the room, lying on the writing desk. He was about to open the book, when he realized his sister had yet to answer him or join him. He turned, frowning heavily, and trod heavily to the door. “Gilly?"
She was right where he had left her. Her eyes were on the stairs, her body pressed so tightly to the wall she might well have been one of the missing portraits.
“Didn't you hear me?” Nick challenged her as he stood in the bed chamber doorway, holding up the lamp so he could see her. When his sister didn't answer, he took a step out of the room.
“No,” Gilly said in an urgent whisper.
Nick stopped, noticing for the first time the rigid way she was standing and the strained look on her face. “What is it?” he asked. He took another careful step toward her.
“Nick, no!” she said. “Stay where you are!"
Then he heard it: the low, menacing growl coming from the direction of the stairs.
Nick began moving slowly down the hallway toward his sister. “Nice boy."
“It's a girl,” Gilly breathed. “A BIG girl, Nicky."
“Just don't move,” he told her. His hand went to the dagger at his belt and he carefully withdrew it. Getting a good grip on the handle, he nearly dropped the weapon when a demanding bark shattered the silence.
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