The hall was empty.
She jogged to the grand entry, but he’d utterly disappeared.
She must be a lunatic! He’d come here to kill her or Father or worse, and she dared bask in the afterglow of his influence? Still, like a forbidden wine, part of her ached to drink in more of his presence, to discover the sound of his voice, to know why he looked on her so sadly, to comprehend the mystery behind his misdeeds and learn the story behind his scar.
“Give him leave of audience. Bah!” The sound of tearing paper ruptured from the study and Father stormed away.
Leave of audience? With her? Was that all the alluring trespasser had desired?
She blushed. No, certainly he sought to speak with someone of influence, someone Father knew within their well-bred society.
She wandered into the study, absorbing the emptiness his wake had left and imagining a hint of his aroma lingered. Her heart thumped at the thought of those astonishing eyes, wide enough to encompass the entire heavens!
She stopped. What was wrong with her? Obsessing over a murderer!
Shreds of off-white parchment lay strewn about the heavy oak table and leather couches. She bent to decipher them. Father’s heavy footfalls rumbled over the floorboards, nearing. She scooped the scraps into her skirts and hurried away. The broken words would be deciphered at a discrete hour—as they were certainly heralds of her demise.
8
Disturbing Dreams
Dinner.
No mention had yet been made of the caller.
Alexia cleared her throat. “I heard we had a visitor.”
Father’s frown hardened. “No.” He wiped his mouth and set the napkin aside. “We had an intruder.”
“The stranger from Baron Galedrew’s banquet?”
Mother set her spoon down.
Father’s face reddened and he speared a carrot. “We do not associate with such filth.”
“Is he? Tell me, Father.”
He set his fork coolly aside. “No more, Alexia.” His lowered brow warned her against the subject, and he watched her a long moment before returning to his meal.
She bit her lip. How much more could she squeeze out of him without sparking his wrath? “Baron Galedrew seemed positively frightened of him.”
“Alexia!”
“But Father—”
“Silence!” He leapt up, chair smashing to the floor. “If you learn nothing else from me, you will learn your place in this world!” He shook wildly.
Mother quietly stood and exited the room. Alexia bowed her head.
What brought on the impassioned episode? Who was this man? Why did Father rage and Mother quake at the mere suggestion of him? More importantly, how did they know him?
At the meal’s conclusion, she stepped into the drawing room and found Mother staring out the window. Her skin was like ivory, drawn of its usual warmth, her hands tucked and still in her lap.
“Mother?” Cold gray eyes fell on Alexia. “I hoped you might tell me—”
“Do not!” the noble woman hissed. “How dare you disobey your father, beastly child. Go. I will not see your proud face more tonight.”
Stung, Alexia withdrew to her chambers.
***
A candle burned as she chewed her lip.
Her parents knew him. She couldn’t help melting into the memory of his magnetic stare, the yearning to abandon all and throw herself at him. Even knowing it was wrong to crave the presence of a murderer, every cell pulsed with the need to find him again and prove he was not the monster her conscience screamed he was.
Alexia piled the shredded parchment onto her bureau and spent an hour under the torture of candlelight, pasting the scraps back together. At length it read:
House of Stark, Northbend, Wilhamshire.
An address.
She blinked.
An address?
He’d come to kill her, or worse, and he’d given Father his home address?
She tucked the card under her nose and inhaled, imagining she found herself on Northbend, perhaps even bumping into him. He’d ask her name, and she’d willingly give it. He’d show her his modest home, invite her to dinner and proceed to dismantle the amassing curiosities—
Then he’d kill her and feed her to the delectable little Bellezza!
An address?
She put the card down. Perhaps the residence belonged to an undertaker, one he had suggested Father use after he found her ladled through the heart.
She climbed into bed, reviewing her exceptionally dull existence—the unpopular extremes of this sheltered life. Why should he come to her?
Her parents never flaunted her about like other children, and although fashion dictated women not be educated, Father had no sons. He gave her every advantage this life publicly allowed, and some not. Tutors—of both genders and multiple disciplines. She’d studied with so many through the years. Of course Father didn’t think she’d marry, even with the prospect of an inheritance. He wanted her prepared for the worst eventualities—becoming an old maid and a governess to her aunt’s future children, or a companion for a wealthy widow.
She groaned. Why couldn’t she stay a child? The summer she had turned ten, that had been a good year. Beautiful blossoms, horseback lessons, picnics in the yard with Aunt Sarah . . .
It was also the year her parents became pious about a church some hour away. She hadn’t understood their zeal, but they had attended and were determined that she should get some wholesome scathing out of the sermons.
She remembered that last Sunday, dozing in the balmy church, and what followed:
The rush of wind tugged at her hair. She sprinted toward the road, heart thundering, needing escape, knowing the futility of her effort. She froze. Terrible red eyes circled her, burrowing into her from the wooded shadows of twilight . . .
She had jolted awake. Occupied pews staggered toward the pulpit, filled to their limit. She glanced up at the preacher—who stared directly at her. The center of his pupils blazed in ravenous crimson.
She screamed and fought to escape. Embarrassed, Father set her free and sent Sarah after. Alexia couldn’t have explained the fear, nor would Father have listened. They never returned to that church—though she certainly had his pride to blame.
Why did incidents like that haunt you until your dying day, resurrecting every so often to inspire the guilt and stupidity of a mistake?
9
Vigil
Kiren unlatched the balcony door with a thin metal hook and slipped inside. He refastened the catch, gut twisting at the moonless sky beyond the glass. How long would his luck hold?
Alexia lay on her back, one arm lost beneath her dark hair, the other tucked across her chest. A foot dangled off the edge of the mattress, tempting him to slip it back beneath her blanket.
He grinned, envying her carefree abandon. Her latest read lay on the bed beside an extinguished candle. He lifted it. Fanciful words danced back at him. They too made him smile. She wanted adventure. He could supply that.
His eyes landed on the card he’d given her father and his smirk died. It had been shredded and reconstructed. His chest tightened. “Oh Alexia . . .”
10
Thrown
A stormy night raged. Wheels rattled as a carriage pulled away from an enormous estate. A whip came down. The horses bolted. The driver reeled drunkenly as the conveyance wobbled. It weaved dangerously across the drive.
Lightning.
The carriage flipped and the driver launched upward . . .
Alexia shot awake, heart racing.
Another dream. They came with growing frequency, and she dreaded every one. Would this one come true, or did her subconscious merely weave another story? Surely her mind had begun fabricating fantasies to keep her away from the terrors she’d experienced.
She reached for her candle, fingers landing atop his card.
A cool breeze swept across her hand. The balcony door hung unlatched, again. Father needed to have that thing f
ixed.
11
More Death
The chime rang.
Rain spattered the windows, wind whistling at the panes as Charles reviewed receipts in the study. The door creaked inward and he looked up as the butler poked his head in to announce a caller.
A lawyer bustled past the servant and handed over his card. “I represent Earl Henry von Faber and his wife, Sarah, your sister.”
Charles scowled. “I know who the Earl is, sir.” Though he hadn’t heard from his sister since her wedding day.
The man pulled back his hand and cleared his throat. “It was the fate of your near-kinsman, on the twenty-seventh of last month, to pass out of this world.”
A gasp rang from the hall. Alexia. Of course.
“Dead?” Charles lifted a brow. “You must be mistaken—”
“No mistake. I have here your invitation for the funeral which will proceed one week hence.”
He rose and took it from the messenger. An undertaker’s seal verified the story. “What was the cause?”
“Carriage accident.”
Charles reached for his desk, tipped, and steadied himself, unwilling to ponder the implications. It could be a coincidence. It must be a coincidence!
That dreadful day seventeen years ago resurfaced in his mind: the letter announcing his parent’s death by carriage accident as it shook in his new bride’s hand. Sarah had survived, an orphan and only four. She needed her brother. Rosalind had agreed to raise the child, and they’d left for his home.
The lawyer tugged at his collar. “At my parting, your sister requested that a young lady by the name of Alexia might be sent to comfort her?”
“My daughter?” Charles asked.
“Yes, that would seem right.”
He closed his eyes. Of course Sarah would call for Alexia—they had been all but sisters, only five years difference in age. The question was whether Sarah would welcome her estranged brother into her home. He was, after all, the one who arranged her match, and she had not so much as written him since.
“The butler will see you out.” He escaped the room and nearly ran into Alexia. “Your uncle is dead.”
She feigned shock.
“Well?”
Her battle to keep the enthusiasm from her twitching lips brought a smile to his. “Yes, Father?”
“Do you wish to see Sarah, or not?”
“I should be delighted to go to her.”
“I thought as much. You depart for Liverpool in the morning.”
12
Liverpool
Liverpool was the opposite direction of Wilhamshire, but the prospect of seeing Sarah filled Alexia with giddy anticipation. She could not wait! What was more, her aunt might know something of the mysterious caller or her unexpected change.
Her parents stayed behind to make further preparations. She and two escorts rode for three days in a carriage hired by her aunt. The summer Alexia turned twelve, Sarah had been unhappily married to a man three times her age. They had corresponded through letters the past five years, but a great deal went unsaid.
Stinging salty air hit Alexia’s nose as the carriage came to a halt. Silhouetted by the sunset, at least fifty lit windows beamed above a vast open yard, sheltered by multiple jutting chimneys and three floors of sprawling, stylish brick. Alexia had had absolutely no idea what kind of wealth Sarah married into—until now—yet something about the panorama bothered her. Had she seen it before?
Impossible. Maybe a similar house, a comparable yard, a likeness in a painting?
Taking one last look about the grounds, she stepped into the house, unable to dismiss the odd twist of her stomach.
A vast chasm of a room met her. Checkerboard crème and tan tile reflected light from a giant chandelier at the chamber’s apex, which illuminated an upper balcony and rail.
“No, I will not have it!” A moan echoed from the upper floor, balkanizing the room. “You will throw it all out or be removed yourself!”
Alexia’s jaw dropped as her raven-haired aunt appeared. The vibrant hue of skin, the olive sparkle in her eyes, the way she’d thinned in the face . . . Had she been so dazzling when they parted?
The clatter of amassing baggage turned Sarah’s head.
“Lexy!” She leapt down the stairs four at a time, sliding to a halt before her near-sister and straightening up formally. She cleared her throat. “Welcome to my home.”
“You are older.” Alexia didn’t mean to be blunt.
“I am older? Look at you!” She scowled, nose crinkling. “You are not my baby sister. I cannot go to court with you for fear of being outshone!”
Some things about Sarah would never change. Alexia stuck out her tongue. Sarah mimicked her. They burst into laughter and embraced.
“Oh, Lexy, you have become a woman and I a widow. Is it not a strange world we live in?”
Alexia let her go. “Father sends his regards. He will arrive shortly.”
Sarah’s face straightened matter-of-factly. “So long as he does not miss his brother-in-law’s funeral, good riddance!”
Where had this sardonic Sarah come from?
“But you must be weary! We shall have so much time for reacquainting that I shan’t keep you from your bed. Come, enjoy all the hospitality my home may offer.” She hugged her near-sister again, shivering with delight. “No, I changed my mind. Come eat, talk to me—tell me everything! We will sleep tomorrow.”
Once seated in the dining room, she quizzed Alexia about the changes in their home and parents. Alexia battered her in return with just as many questions, holding the one back that wanted to escape. She would wait to ask her aunt about the physical changes and intruder until properly settled and rested.
“But what I do not understand,” Sarah’s head shook, “is how you can be so stunning and remain aloof.”
“Stunning?” Alexia blinked. “Next to you I am a scullery maid!”
Sarah laughed. “You have had interest. Why then? No boys that meet your approval? Or is it Charles?”
Alexia flinched at the reference to Father. Sarah had always addressed him as her own parent, having never truly known another.
“You know I was not much older than you when I . . .” Her aunt sat back, brows lowering.
“When you what? What is it, Sarah?”
Her elbows touched the table, fists supporting her chin. “You know your father promised me to Henry when I turned seventeen.”
Alexia nodded. It was not common to marry before twenty-one as the law dictated, but with parental consent it did happen, and it had.
“I have often wondered why, but I believe he saw what the others did—that my husband would soon outlive himself, being so fond of the drink, and leave me an immense fortune.” Her gaze darkened. “Apparently he was right.”
Alexia studied her hands, wishing they would reveal the words to comfort her aunt.
Sarah sighed. “Very soon my cousin will throw me out of this house, I am sure, but I have been guaranteed the Wilhamshire property to live out my days and an annual allowance of ungodly proportions.”
Alexia perked up. Wilhamshire? She tucked the excitement down forced herself pursue regular conversation. “Is it worth it?”
“The money?” She scoffed. “Not in the least, but clearly you have always been Father’s favorite.”
“As you are Mother’s!”
“Ripe lot of good that did me when it came time for marriage!”
Alexia flinched and looked away, hugging herself.
Her aunt exhaled. “He is afraid, Lex. He does not want to face what he’s done. I think he hates me.”
“Sarah, no.” She reached out.
Her aunt turned away. “Or perhaps one scoundrel is as good as the next.”
“Do not say tha—”
“It is true.” Her head snapped back around, eyes ablaze. “They are all villains. Power corrupts, and money corrupts worse. How I wish it were not so—for your sake, for mine.”
Alexia re
turned to the scrutiny of her hands.
Sarah brightened. “But not to worry. You have me watching over you. I will make sure you end up with a decent match, even if I have to throttle Charles into it!”
***
A private breakfast roused Alexia from bed. She studied her aunt as they ate in the sunny chamber, admiring the unnatural luster permeating Sarah’s skin. It reminded her of a terrifying girl in a midnight cellar and the luminescence of her blue-eyed mystery.
. . . another of our kind . . .
She shuddered.
“What is it, dearest?” Sarah’s head tilted.
Her mouth opened before she could stop it, ready to utter a hundred questions, ask what Sarah knew—if anything—about being different, about the changes in her physical appearance before she’d been promised to the Earl, if she’d ever met anyone else as strangely beautiful as them. Mostly she ached to ask about the man who haunted her dreams. Would she react as Father had?
“I have missed you,” Alexia said instead.
“Oh, Lex!” Sarah sided up next to her, and placing an arm around her shoulders. “Not nearly so badly as I have missed you.”
Alexia hugged her aunt back. Some part of her had been torn away when Sarah left, a hole no person or book could fill, although she’d tried.
A knock sounded. Sarah got to her feet. “I have a surprise for you.”
The door furled inward admitting an entourage of servants. They carried gigantic mirrors, carefully wrapped packages and tiers of ribbon.
“What is this?” Alexia braced herself on the bed.
Her aunt crossed her arms. “We are having a funeral, darling, in which I fully expect royalty to appear. You are not attending in country rags.”
All day they inhabited the warm chamber. Servants moved in and out, needles bobbing, new threads surfacing, voices clattering in a deluge of muddling confusion. Night had long since settled and they’d been bid to dinner thrice, but Sarah wouldn’t have it until the costume had been completed. At last Alexia stood before the mirror modeling the newly-fitted white and violet funeral vesture in the candlelight.
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