“Do you have a name?” Ethel’s soft words lulled her back toward slumber.
“Christianne,” she murmured the childhood play name, fading into unconsciousness.
***
The days passed slowly on her way to recovery, gradually obtaining permission to sit, even more gradually earning Ethel’s trust to stand.
The woman lived a simple life, sewing for a living, holed up through the winter in her two-room shack. She’d found Alexia on a return trip from town, brought her home, tended to her, mended her ragged dress, fed her when she could eat, sang to her when she thrashed, and tenderly nursed her away from death. Alexia could know no kinder fate.
The hours to recovery went contentedly by, spent in pleasant conversation and consistent education. Ethel taught her how to cook, how to clean the house and clothes, how to mend—all the necessities of survival—laughing with her when she utterly failed at a task. She was the mother Alexia never had.
Ethel finally permitted her to venture a few steps beyond the door, and she gloried in the opportunity. Thick woods encompassed the cottage, an ill-used and frozen road cutting through them. A small well crouched next to the thoroughfare, and beyond that she could see no sign of civilization.
Alexia returned to the warmth of the cottage. “Are we all alone out here? How far away is this town where you obtain employment?”
Ethel smiled. “You should lie down.”
Alexia did. “Ethel, do you have any family?”
The woman tucked a blanket up around the girl. “Not for a long time.”
“Is that why you helped me?”
Sadness flitted through the woman’s eyes.
Alexia wondered at that. “How long have you lived here alone?”
She laughed. “I am not alone, child,” patting Alexia’s hand, “and neither are you.”
***
A knock rattled off the door. Alexia quit trying to mimic Ethel’s perfect stitches as a gray-headed man peeked in.
“Mr. Hampton, how good of you to look in on us!” The lady of the cottage set her needlework aside.
“Mister Hampton?” Alexia echoed, struck by something familiar about him. The full head of hair maybe, the gentlemanly posture?
“Edward,” he corrected. “And what have we here?” He stepped into the room and closed out the winter chill. His coat fell away to reveal a thin torso, subtly aged skin and ink-stained fingers. He could not have traveled far, not dressed so finely. Alexia’s heart leapt. Had he come from an estate nearby? Perhaps the estate?
“She is awake at last! Is it not marvelous?” Ethel exclaimed.
“Aye.” He halted next to the caretaker, blue eyes dancing across the woman’s face. His finely spun sweater bore evidence of her loving skill, and Alexia questioned if he wasn’t more than just a customer.
He turned to her. “Welcome, Miss . . . ?”
“Christianne.”
“Christianne?” he quoted, brows squeezing. He had smiling eyes of a watery blue, a strong chin and creases that suggested frequent laughter. He would have been quite sought after in his prime, and was exceptionally handsome for a man of his age. “Where are you from, young lady?”
“Devonshire.” She grabbed the first location that came to mind, remembering the name of a town imprinted on one of Father’s receipts. “Chagford.”
“Devonshire?” His brows shot up. “What are you doing clear out here?”
“Moving on.” She looked away.
“Christianne of Chagford?” He muttered absently, brows furrowed in concentration. “Who is your nearest of kin?”
Ethel’s head shook.
“An orphan?”He exchanged looks with her caretaker, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “Then no one need be informed of your survival? Friends, an employer, uncle or distant cousin perhaps?”
“No.”
“Hm.” He tapped a thinking finger to his lips.
“Edward?” Ethel asked. “The drawer on my bureau has come loose once more. Could you . . . ?”
“Of course.” He stepped past her into the back chamber. Ethel followed and pulled the door closed, startling Alexia. The woman certainly knew how scandalous this appeared.
She hesitated against the inclination and rebuked herself for it, but tiptoed up to the panel.
“. . . not on any list I recall. This is troubling news indeed.”
“Edward, she is just a child.”
“Even so . . .” He cleared his throat, tone deepening. “Can I see you tonight?”
“Mister Hampton!”
“Tomorrow?”
“She will be healthy soon enough.”
Alexia abandoned her post and sat, gazing at the fire. Not on any list? What was he talking about?
***
Frequent visits, daily ones, ensued from her new friend. He proffered tales of feuding families, locals in jealous encounters, and—as she braced for it—the mystery of a missing lady.
“Caught by the wolves, they say.” His head shook. “Gone two months. They planned a funeral, but Charles Dumont—I have had the pleasure of meeting with him on occasion—does not want to go forward without a body.”
Edward had met her father?
The blood drained from her face. She’d recognized his full head of hair and excellent poise from her very own home. He was her mystery suitor.
Alexia wiped the shock from her face. “How tragic.”
“Yes indeed.” He nodded with a raised brow. “Though there is more. She was to marry a rich young man. A handsome match they say, but it seems his business has been suffering since her disappearance.”
Suppressing a grin, she covered her mouth. “That is terrible.”
“She disappeared about the time you came to us.” Edward smiled his indisputably kind grin, eyes flitting to Ethel. “Must have been several travelers lost in the fog that night.”
***
“Here you are, Christy.” Ethel handed her a basket. “Edward’s favorite. Off you go—east down the road, not far.”
Early afternoon warmed her as she stepped out to deliver Mister Hampton’s surprise. Swinging her basket gaily she sucked in the crisp air. Bright leafy sprouts dotted the trees. Baby birds chirped from their nests. Life pulsed about her, being born again by the seasons. She too was coming alive for the first time—hopeful even—after a winter of death in a new world.
She wondered if Arik was out there, if he watched over her now. She stopped. No. He was fighting a war, one that would not end until she obtained the tool to stop it. Not that it mattered. She would still never be able to with him.
She rounded a bend and gasped. Billowing trees full of pink and white blooms enshrouded the building. The structure curled around a circle drive, cobbled with an inactive fountain at the center. A stone angel knelt at the heart of the fountain, face and hands lifted toward the heavens in offering or prayer.
Her heart sped.
Whitewall meshed into glittering silver stone at the second story, accented by a dark angled roof and railed balconies. Grand mahogany doors waited. She stepped into their shadow, awed by the workmanship. Seraphim guarded the frame, one beginning where the last ended.
The entrance fell open and Edward greeted, “Welcome, Christy!”
A beautiful pattern of dark and lighter wood glistened up at her. A staircase of the same exceptional genius drew her eyes to the top where a stained glass window spilled brilliant pastels in a random pattern.
“But do come in and I will give you the full tour.” Edward winked and tickled the basket about her arm. “And what have we here?”
“What? Oh, this! Ethel sends muffins for you, fresh, or they were when I left.”
His mouth pulled up in a contagious smile. “She is always so considerate. Shall we have one while they are warm?”
He guided her down the left hall, past a study, a drawing room, dining room and into the kitchen. With each door she grew more impressed, not only for the furnishings—grand and simple in elegance, but
the brilliant use of windows and light. The house felt cheerier and airier than any she’d entered.
“Meet Nelly. She is our cook, and the best to be sure.”
“Oh, Mister Edward!” The middle-aged woman waved a dismissive hand, dual dimples puncturing her wide cheeks. Red-brown hair plumed in a reserved bun while her small eyes glittered.
Alexia curtsied to the round-faced woman.
A door opened and a scarecrow hunched into the kitchen from outside, pausing in the doorframe. Edward motioned to him. “And this is Miles. He takes care of the barn mostly, but also does the odd jobs.”
His sunken face turned to Alexia’s, eyes widening. She frowned, studying his uneven shoulders, hollow cheeks and stringy hair. Where had she met this lanky adolescent before?
“I’m going to muck out the stalls.” His melodic baritone struck her, so beautiful she expected the heavens to open and sing along.
“Go!” Nelly laughed as the youth tripped out the back door. “Young boys these days, don’t know how to act in front of pretty young women.”
Alexia blushed and Edward offered her a seat. “Let us eat.”
Nelly prattled on about the changes in the garden and scores of supplies that needed to be fetched from town now that the weather had turned. Edward nodded absently with an occasional, “Indeed,” but Alexia thought he must be rather anxious to escape and rest his ears.
He rose the instant she’d finished eating. “Do you wish to see the rest of the house?”
“Truly.”
She kept her eyes wide as he directed her to the other end of the structure where they found the servant’s quarters and a music room. Upstairs the majesty continued. The right wing harbored guest lodgings—three large ones—and an art gallery. The other end of the upper floors housed an office and master suite.
The tour ended. She hadn’t seen any weapons, but John had called it a source of power, so what could it be? She extended many compliments, thanked Edward and exited, promising to express his gratitude to Ethel for the muffins.
She was going to have to search deeper, enter people’s confidences if she wanted to find this weapon. But did she? This was a comfortable living.
Her mind danced over the possibilities as she left, that this could have been her house. Its finery and comforts might have been her daily vistas, and Edward, kind, considerate Edward, might have been her husband. Where there lacked any true possibility of romance, she could not imagine a more ideal circumstance.
She turned into the woods. Rustling called her attention. The trees heavily oppressed late afternoon rays, hiding a shape in the shadows.
70
Relentless
Kiren dodged into a darkened doorframe, gasping for air. A breeze cooled the sweat trickling down his brow. He peeked around the stone corner, squinting against the sun and searching for pale faces in the busy coach yard.
None.
He leaned on his knees and coughed. When he’d taken up this search for Alexia, he’d never considered he might end up a target in every city he crossed. The Soulless were watching for him.
He brushed damp hair back from his face. Three months of searching, and not a whisper of her. She lived, he knew that much, but where? Certainly not in the whole of England, and he’d been through the Celtic lands. What remained but to cross the British Channel to search France and Germany?
Unless . . .
No. It was too terrible a thought to consider. He closed his eyes and breathed, begging silently with God to let it not be so.
The gurgle of a damaged windpipe hissed from around the corner. His eyes snapped open. He leaned back into the shadows, straining to hear the scrape and tread of an uneven stride. There had been three earlier, but he could sense only one.
Good enough.
He reached out and grabbed, fingers encircling a mottled neck. Biting his own lip to keep from crying out against the burning flesh beneath his grip, he shoved his pursuer up against the stone.
Nail-less fingers pulled at his grasp. Crimson pupils glowed in the shade. Fetid putrescence suffused the alcove, and Kiren swallowed his bile.
“Why are you after me?” he demanded.
The creature resembled a man he’d known several years ago, now the husk of what he’d been. It choked and spat.
He shook its rotting frame, and smacked the back of its head into the unforgiving masonry. “Tell me!”
A laugh burbled into hacking. He released the thing’s neck and whirled it around, locking its arms at its back and smashing its face against the gray arch.
“I can make this very painful for you,” he whispered in its ear.
“The others will be here soon.”
He glanced out into the street. It could be true, but it might also be a lie. They couldn’t keep track of one another during daylight hours.
“Can you risk waiting that long?” He cranked its shoulder at an odd angle, yanking the bone out of socket.
It shrieked and wheezed. “Vengeance!”
He loosened his grip. “For what?”
“Lies!” it barked. “Passionate lies.”
He fell back a step. The creature scraped down the stone, landing on its knees. Blazing red pupils turned up at him.
“What lies have we fed your kind?”
The thing braced up on all fours, dragging its useless arm. “Peace. Negotiations for peace.”
He shook his head. Something was not adding up here. “Who made such promises?”
“An emissary.” It sneered. “The child.”
Child? Kiren groaned inwardly. Bellezza. What was she after now?
The hiss and rasp of hole-infested lungs snapped his head around. Two nearly-white vagrants sprinted toward him from down the lane.
He bolted from the doorway.
71
Stranger
A hand landed across the nearest trunk.
Alexia jumped.
Heavy veins stood obtrusively against tanned skin. Hollow cheeks and the dark lines of a face that rarely slept peered out from the brush. Wide teeth surfaced in an awkward grin.
“Hello,” Miles greeted, not meeting her eyes. The lush tone of the single word sent a shiver down her spine.
“I know you.” She squinted.
He nodded.
“How do I know you?”
“Wilhamshire.”
She thought back to her first visit there, when she spent four days in that awful house, when she met Bellezza for the second time, when she nearly died, when she was rescued by a boy on horseback . . .
“You are the lad—the one who saved Sarah and me from the Soul—” She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Gave my horse a good workout.” He smiled. “But as I recall, you went by a different name.”
Her heart sank. The game was up. Now he would march her back in to Edward, force her confession, and the feint would end.
“You ran away?” His head tilted.
“You will not tell them?” She advanced a step. “I cannot go back. Cannot!”
“I won’t tell anyone.” His hands lifted in surrender, gaze swinging back toward the house. “But you should.”
She frowned. If Edward learned her true identity or purpose, would he return her to Father? Would he insist she consent to be his wife? Or would he despise her—and rightly so—for willfully deceiving him?
Miles watched her with a grimace, quickly looking away when she met his gaze. “Welcome, Alexia.”
“Christianne,” she corrected.
“Christianne.” He nodded.
***
Another week came and left. She spent most of it in the company of Ethel, afraid Miles might go back on his word, but nothing changed.
Thinking back on the night he’d saved her from the Soulless, she recalled their conversation about the monsters, and the hate in his eyes. He’d lost loved ones. Given the chance, he may prove an ally in uncovering the coveted weapon. But could she trust him?
Darkness pressed in as
Alexia snuck a candle out back, Ethel deep in slumber. She found a corner of the house shielded from the wind, and lit the taper. Stolen ink and a paper trembled in a breeze as she penned out assurances she’d arrived safely for Sarah. Tears dripped down her face, running some of the ink, but it could still be deciphered. At last she folded the paper, secured it in her undergarments and glided back inside to get warm.
When the sun rose she excused herself for a walk.
Double doors hung quietly on the barn. She stepped through a mess of straw and dirt. Maintenance tools dangled on the left wall, a single window emitting cheerful light. To her right hung a rack of old bottles, jars, supplies and harnessing equipment. Directly ahead a little round table hunched, converted from a barrel, with a candle in the center. A three-legged stool sat by. Straw lumped in the corner, smashed as though someone had lain there. Beyond that, dual stalls obscured her view.
“Miles?” Movement drew her attention, but it came from the horse who’d been startled. She advanced cautiously. “Hello?”
“What are you doing here?”
She turned.
He stood between stalls, arms propped on either side, loose straws poking from his disheveled locks. His brows hung low, but he would not meet her gaze.
She swallowed. “Were you sleeping?”
He ran a hand through his hair, discovering the culprits. “I don’t sleep. Too many . . .” He glanced at the paper in her hand and sucked in a breath. His translucent gray eyes met hers. “What do you want?”
“Nothing, I . . .” She scowled. “Do you have freedom to disappear without alarming the household?”
He nodded.
She held the missive up. “This is a letter for my aunt, Countess Sarah Dumont von Faber, lady of the country estate one day east of Wilhamshire. You have met.” She stepped closer. “She will pay you upon delivery. That much I can promise.”
He stiffened. His nose twitched, gaze turning away.
She hesitated. “My aunt does not know I survived—”
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