Hobgoblin Night: Mask and Dagger 2

by Teresa Edgerton

  Sera shook her hair out of her eyes. Her stomach churned at the very thought, but Skelbrooke's waxen pallor and unsteady attempts to stand convinced her that the task should fall to her.

  "I am well accustomed to such sights, Miss Vorder," he said softly. "I will view the remains."

  "Miss Vorder must occupy herself dressing for the wedding," said Skogsrå, as they left the storeroom and climbed the stairs. At the ground floor, the party divided. Taking one of the pistols from Skogsrå, Tynsdale led Skelbrooke away, while the Jarl and Sera continued on upstairs.

  The troll threw open the door of the same bedchamber that Sera had occupied before. "You see that your wedding gown awaits you. Also, water to wash in, a hair brush, silk patches, and other such feminine trifles. Please make use of them; I wish you to look your best," he said, as he replaced the pistol in his coat pocket and unlocked Sera's fetters. "I regret there is no woman to assist you in dressing. The Duchess, of course, travels with her maid, and poor dear Cecile is rather hopeless, but if you have need—"

  "Thank you," Sera said coldly. "I am accustomed to dressing myself. I daresay I shall manage."

  "Then I will leave you alone, though I caution you against any foolish conduct, the penalty for which must inevitably fall on Lord Skelbrooke." And so saying, the troll bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  Sera felt for the little vial of poison at her breast. I will keep faith with Skogsrå, if he will keep faith with me. I have promised. But if he should betray me, if any ill should befall Lord Skelbrooke, I shall find an occasion to use this poison.

  Wishing to be further armed against treachery on the part of the troll, Sera searched rapidly through the toilet items on the worm-eaten oak dressing table, looking for something—anything—she might use against her captors. But she found nothing. Then she turned her attention to the costume laid out for her on the bed. There was not a pin, not a brooch. And her hairpins were no good at all, they were so blunt and the wire so soft and thin. She might do more with her fingernails, if it came to that.

  She could hear Skogsrå's limping footsteps as he paced the landing outside her door. He would return soon, and she must be dressed . . . She did not like to think what might happen if he opened the door to find her half clad.

  Reluctantly, she washed, brushed her hair, and dressed for her wedding. The gown was cream brocade with a low, square neckline, so heavy and outdated in style it must have been fifty years old. Perhaps it might once have been white. The bodice was long-waisted, embroidered with pearls and clouded rhinestones, and the whole gown trimmed with yards and yards of spider lace. Where it had come from, Sera could not guess, but it had evidently been made for a larger woman. This gown had never graced the tiny form of the Duchess of Zar-Wildungen, that much was certain.

  Her bridegroom had also provided a lace veil and a wreath of dusty silk flowers, a diamond necklace and a matching pair of bracelets. These jewels Sera did recognize. She slipped them on with a shudder, remembering that Lady Ursula had borrowed and worn them at that mockery of a wedding feast back in Thornburg.

  At last, she pinned on the veil and the wreath. The veil was made of lace so fine, it was like a mist before her eyes, transforming her surroundings to the landscape of a dream—or a nightmare. A peculiar mood settled over her, and moving as one in a trance, she walked to the door and threw it open.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Which finds Sera's friends in a state of Deep Distress.

  At Mothgreen Hall, the ladies and Mr. Jonas sat in the parlor (impatiently or tearfully, according to their various temperaments) waiting for Mr. Herring and Jed to arrive with word, any word, of the missing pair. At the sound of a carriage rattling up the drive, Elsie leaped up from the sofa and flew to open the door. Jedidiah and Mr. Herring walked in looking drawn and discouraged. Elsie made a tiny sound in her throat.

  "You did not find them?"

  Jed shook his head ruefully. "No one was able to tell us anything but what we knew already: how they went to Mistress Morgan's and then to the bookshop; how they climbed into the gig, apparently started home, and were never seen afterwards. We did find the carriage about five miles east of Moonstone . . . without a trace of Sera, Lord Skelbrooke, or even the horse."

  "The Duchess has them, of course she does," said Elsie, collapsing on the sofa. "There is no telling what dreadful thing she has done to them. If only there were something that we could do!"

  "If the Duchess has them, they're in no immediate danger, not until the Duchess catches you as well." Jed sat down on the sofa beside her, took one cold little hand tenderly in his. "Lord Skelbrooke knows her mind, and he was convinced, you know, that the Duchess wanted you all together in the same place, meaning to work her revenge in one fell blow. So the only thing you can do is stay here safe, where our friends can look after you, and buy us the time we need to find Sera and his lordship."

  "Yes, I know," said Elsie, wringing her hands. "But it seems such a weak-spirited thing to do. It seems as if all I ever do is mope about, letting the rest of you coddle me. I wish I had Sera's strength of character, her courage."

  Mr. Jonas slid down from his own seat and stumped across the room. "Your present disability," said Mr. Jonas, "if I may venture an opinion, does not result from any natural malady, but comes from malign forces at work against you.

  "And when I first met you, Miss Winter, you did not mope about, as you put it, but worked for your living and supported yourself quite independently. Nor should you reproach yourself because you have a gentle disposition," he added kindly. "Or because you are too wise to relieve your own anxiety by careering around the countryside in search of our absent friends, putting them and yourself in even greater jeopardy."

  Elsie managed a tremulous smile of gratitude. "Indeed," said Miss Barebones, clutching a damp handkerchief in one hand, "I think we may yet entertain some hope of dear Sera's safe return, so long as it appears that she and Dr. Carstares are together. He seems such a capable man."

  Jed also smiled, with an obvious effort. "You could equally say that we may dare to hope for his safe return, because Sera is with him."

  ***

  The sense that she was moving through some horrible dream remained with Sera as she walked down the long, creaking staircase with Jarl Skogsrå and into a large, mournful chamber on the ground floor.

  Lord Skelbrooke forced an encouraging smile as she entered, but he looked so strained and hollow-eyed, her heart sank at the sight of him. Mr. Tynsdale stood behind an improvised altar: a small table draped with a scarlet cloth, on which someone had placed a pair of tarnished gilt candlesticks, a heavy wine goblet of chased silver, a prayerbook, and—a decidedly sinister touch—a pistol carefully set within Mr. Tynsdale's reach, and a long-handled knife.

  At the sight of the knife, Sera repressed a shudder, guessing how Skogsrå meant to employ it. Moses Tynsdale looked very neat and correct in his black coat, immaculate white linen, and clerical gaiters, but Sera remembered what Skelbrooke had said, "No sooner ordained than defrocked." She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. What did it matter, after all? It might be that even a defrocked minister would serve for the sort of wedding Jarl Skogsrå had in mind.

  Skelbrooke's haggard look continued to disturb her, as did the violent trembling of his limbs. "Lord Skogsrå," she said, with only a tiny tremor in her voice, "I wish you would remove Lord Skelbrooke's irons and allow him to assume a more comfortable position. I feel sure the wound in his shoulder must cause him considerable pain, so long as he is forced to keep his hands behind him."

  "His discomfort will soon be over. For now, I prefer to see him as helpless as possible," said the troll. He spoke steadily, but his hands shook and he was nearly as white as Skelbrooke, in the grip of that strange excitement that always preceded a ritual blood-letting.

  He took Sera roughly by the arm and pulled her toward the altar. In a daze of fear and disgust, Sera listened as Tynsdale read the wedding service.
She gave her own responses in a low voice, heard Skogsrå reply, his voice rising high with excitement. At her bridegroom's command, she dutifully extended her arm, watched numbly as he took up the knife and skillfully opened a vein.

  Then he lifted her wrist to his mouth, kissed it, and murmured a few words. "It is a spell to make the blood flow more swiftly. I am not much versed in magic, but this spell I know." Carelessly, he allowed the knife to fall to the floor.

  Still unable to speak or move of her own volition, Sera watched her blood drip into the silver-chased goblet. Mr. Tynsdale moved uneasily in his place behind the altar. Perhaps he had not really known, until now, at what kind of service he had agreed to officiate.

  When the goblet was nearly half full, and the crimson flow of blood from Sera's vein had grown sluggish, the troll dropped her hand. Trembling in his eagerness, he lifted the cup to his lips and swallowed the contents in one deep draught. Sera felt hot tears sting her eyes, her limbs grow weak, so deep was her sense of violation. I shall never be clean again . . . not while Skogsrå lives.

  Unresisting, she allowed the troll to take her into his arms and press his blood-stained mouth against hers. "And now, my Sera," said Skogsrå, producing the pistol from his coat pocket, "I shall make you forever exclusively my own."

  He was turning away from the altar, bringing up the pistol, aiming it at Skelbrooke, when there was a crash of shackles falling to the floor. As Skogsrå’s aim faltered, Skelbrooke scooped up the knife from the floor, aimed, and threw. With a wrenching cry of anguish, Skogsrå dropped to his knees. The blade had missed his heart by inches, but already a red stain was soaking through his coat.

  After a moment of astonished immobility, Tynsdale reached for the gun on the altar. But Sera recovered more swiftly, and snatching up the heavy silver goblet, she struck him a hard blow above the ear. Before he could gather his wits, she already had the pistol pointed at his head.

  Sera allowed herself a brief sideways glance at Skelbrooke, who had just jerked the knife out of Skogsrå's chest, and with ruthless efficiency was now cutting the troll's throat. Jarl Skogsrå toppled to the floor in a welter of dark blood.

  "How . . . how did you manage to free yourself at just the right moment?" Sera whispered, as Skelbrooke stepped up to take the pistol from her hand. There seemed to be no air in her lungs at all.

  "I am sorry," he said. "I would have spared you the ritual blood-letting if I could." He leaned against the table for support. "The cuffs unlocked then, but I dared make no move while Skogsrå had the knife and his hands on you."

  He spoke to the erstwhile clergyman. "You are very fortunate, Euripides, that I do not kill you, too. Yet I have an impression you were not thoroughly acquainted with the motives of your confederates, that you were, in short, swimming in deep waters, well over your head. That is a habit of yours, is it not?"

  "A habit of yours, also," sneered Tynsdale, with the pistol still in his face. "Though I must confess that I lack your good fortune in contriving to avoid the full consequences."

  "I shall leave you here to explain matters to the Duchess," said Skelbrooke. The effort to keep the pistol steady was turning his knuckles white. "We shall see then if your luck has improved. If you will be so kind as to sit down in that chair over there, with your arms behind you. Yes, just so. Sera, you will find that the locks were not damaged by my spell and the cuffs remain in perfect working order. Please pick them up and fasten Mr. Hooke to his seat."

  This Sera did as swiftly as she could, looping the chain around two rungs of the chair before snapping on the second cuff. His lordship took a handkerchief out of Tynsdale's own pocket and stuffed it into the prisoner's mouth.

  "One moment," said Sera, and Skelbrooke waited while she snatched off her veil, pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, and bound up her wrist. Then, hand in hand, they hurried out of the room.

  But out in the corridor, Skelbrooke stumbled, and it was only by leaning up against the wall of the passage that he was able to remain upright. "Your wound is bleeding," said Sera. "Let me check your bandage."

  "There is no time for that," he replied, summoning up a ghastly smile. "We do not know if Hooke's henchmen are still on the premises. One of them may arrive on the scene at any moment. I shall, however, require the support of your arm."

  Once out of doors, they headed for the stable. They found the cabriolet inside, as well as both of the carriage horses. With an effort, Sera lifted a saddle from its stand near the door. "The one with the blaze on his forehead allowed Mr. Tynsdale to ride him yesterday. But I don't see how we can manage without one of these, you half fainting and I in a skirt.

  "You will have to tell me, sir, how this ought to be done, for I have never gone riding in my life before, until Mr. Tynsdale snatched me up and carried me with him," she added breathlessly, heaving the saddle onto the grey's back. "Elsie was always too sickly to learn, so of course Cousin Clothilde would not hear of it that I should have a horse or learn to ride."

  With Lord Skelbrooke's instructions, she managed to saddle the horse, adjust the stirrups, and lead the grey from the stable and out to the yard. With rather more difficulty, she mounted, then reached down a hand to help Skelbrooke up behind her. He put his arms around her, and took the reins into his hands.

  "You must watch how I manage him. Long before we reach Mothgreen Academy . . ." He struggled a moment for breath. ". . . I shall be in no state to guide him."

  By the time they reached the main road, the one that would lead them toward the school, Skelbrooke leaned heavily against Sera's back, shivering and sweating, muttering incoherently, and Sera was forced to take the reins. But the grey—perhaps sensing her inexperience—refused to go where she guided him, ambling off in the direction of Moonstone.

  "Very well, you wretched creature," said Sera, after several futile attempts to turn him around, "take us to Dr. Bell instead. That will serve as well, or better. Though I don't imagine that has occurred to you, or that you mean to be any help at all."

  The ride to Moonstone was endless, for it was impossible to encourage the horse to move faster than a walk. The road remained discouragingly empty, they passed no other riders or carriages along the way. Dusk was gathering in the streets when they finally came into the town, and Skelbrooke had passed from muttering to raving aloud. But Sera enlisted the aid of a stout gentleman in a flowered waistcoat who took charge of the horse, leading him right up to the doctor's door.

  The gentleman rapped a brisk tattoo with his walking stick. A minute or two passed, then the door opened, and Dr. Bell appeared. Between them, the two men carried Skelbrooke into the house.

  Sera slid down from the saddle unassisted, and felt her legs suddenly go weak beneath her. She, who had never swooned from weakness in her life, collapsed in a faint on the doctor's door-step.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Wherein Skelbrooke unburdens his Heart, and Elsie speaks her Mind.

  Francis Skelbrooke suffered horribly in the days that followed, as he lay sweating and hallucinating in a bed at Dr. Bell's. The wound in his shoulder was healing well, but his mind and his nerves were aflame, and every discomfort was magnified a hundred times over.

  "He begged me, during a brief lucid moment, not to allow him the Sleep Dust," Dr. Bell told Sera. "He wishes to overcome his addiction to the drug. It is a vicious habit, I must allow, but what principally seems to trouble him is a guilty idea that he might somehow have spared you the worst of your ordeal, had his need for the Dust not weakened him."

  The doctor studied Sera with shrewd yet sympathetic eyes. "You are welcome to stay here, if you wish, and help me to nurse him through the worst. My old housekeeper will lend the arrangement sufficient respectability. But I must tell you, Miss Thorn, that what you are likely to see and hear in the days to come will be enough to crush the spirits of any gently-bred female. And your friend Mr. Carstares, or Skelbrooke, or whatever his name truly is, will not recognize you most of the time, or take comfort from your prese
nce."

  "Nevertheless, I shall stay on," Sera replied, grimly determined. "My spirits are not so easily crushed, and if he knows me but one hour out of four-and-twenty, then I mean to be there."

  Naturally, she had promptly sent word to her friends at Mothgreen Academy, assuring them that she was safe and that Skelbrooke was in good hands. Her first night at Dr. Bell's, Jedidiah and Elsie drove over as soon as they received her note. They both embraced Sera, and Elsie wept tears of relief. They listened solemnly as she recited the whole story of capture and escape, but though they expressed their sincere sympathy for Lord Skelbrooke, they tried to convince Sera to go back home with them. She steadfastly refused.

  For two days, Skelbrooke remained in a delirium, recognizing no one, tortured not only by his withdrawal from the drug, which caused him to cry out again and again that his internal organs were all on fire, or that worms were feeding on his flesh, but by visions of his tormented past. Sitting by his bedside, listening to him rave and weep, Sera gained a fair idea of what that past had been . . . and of the events which had led him to adopt such a violent way of life. It was a shocking account, and she spent some of the time examining her own feelings toward him.

  On the fifth day, his mind cleared briefly, and he gazed up at Sera with a welcome look of recognition. "Sweet Sera," he said softly. "Can you ever forgive me?"

  "Indeed, Lord Skelbrooke," she said unsteadily, "there is nothing for me to forgive."

  "I think there must be," he said, "or it would not be 'Lord Skelbrooke' . . . having already once admitted that you loved me."

  Hot tears filled her eyes. "Francis, then, if you would have it so."

  He took her hand and kissed it, on the palm, and on the wrist where the scar was not yet healed. "You were entirely wrong, you know. What Skogsrå forced you to do in no way diminishes my affection or respect. Indeed, how could I judge you? And if you were ever truly his bride, you are his widow now, and I want very much to make you my wife. But what you may think of me—"