Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  “Annabelle?” he said in a completely mortified manner, his eyes darting back and forth, checking for observers. “Get in at once!”

  He slammed the side of the carriage with his cane, and shouted at the footman, directing him to hop down and retrieve her. The carriage shook as the footman, John, crashed to the ground in spotless white stockings, black breeches and a freshly powdered wig. The buckles on his shoes shined as he approached, removing his cape and wrapping it kindly around her shoulders. She’d never felt anything so fine in all her life.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Blackall’s men hesitated, retreating back into the fog. She glared them down in triumph, her nose high in the air. John echoed her indignant look, eyeing them as if his sense of chivalry had been offended. Clearly ignorant of their intentions, he likely saw them as inhospitable passersby who ought to have offered aid to his fine master’s niece.

  “Get her in, quickly!” Uncle Morton exclaimed in an annoyed whisper. He was clearly mortified that anyone should see his own niece in such a state. More mortified of appearances, it seemed, than concerned for her well-being. But she couldn’t take it personally. Her relief was so great after being placed inside the carriage, exhausted tears welled up in her eyes and spilled out in salty currents. She tried to suppress them, especially in her uncle’s presence. But it was no use. She shivered wildly beneath John’s overcoat. Her uncle watched her from across the carriage, regal in spotless winter fashion, his face twisted in an expression of scandalized disbelief. He couldn’t hide the annoyed resentment that also rested there. A great man like him felt no need to. But she cared little for his affection now. His protection would suffice.

  “There,” he said in a stony, arrogant manner, as if put out by the whole business. “There, there.”

  From the sound of his voice, his aim was to make her stop blubbering, rather than to comfort her. But the tears kept pouring, dripping onto the collar of John’s coat. She simply couldn’t stop them. Uncle Morton sighed heavily.

  “Well,” he said in a chilly manner. “We must take you home, I suppose.”

  He thumped the carriage’s ceiling with his cane, signaling John to turn around. As they were jolted up to the house, her tears thinned. Wiping away the last remnants, she looked into her uncle’s face. It’d been hard to see him clearly through the fog, tears, and horror she’d felt only moments ago. They’d clouded her vision and her thoughts. But she noticed an acute difference in his features. He looked terribly pallid and drawn. In fact, his face appeared almost emaciated. His skin was gray. His cheeks were sunken as if he’d aged ten years since her disappearance.

  Her initial thought was that he’d lost sleep worrying over her. But she knew him too well to suspect that for long. His indifference was palpable, even now, as she sat before him in tatters. And the alteration in his looks was so great, it seemed almost impossible that it could’ve been caused by a week’s worry. Or even a month’s. He felt her eyes on him, and his own became very severe, their lids lowering.

  “You’ve caused a great deal of trouble,” he said sternly. “Get inside.”

  He waved her off and looked away, gazing out the opposite window as she laboriously exited the carriage. The kind and helpful John jumped down from his perch once more to help her through the door. But before they’d reached it, uncle Morton protested that they must be going.

  “Sorry Miss,” John whispered before dropping her hand and scurrying back to the carriage.

  With another loud knock from Uncle Morton’s cane, they were gone. She turned toward the house and saw Mrs. Ackworth looming before the open door, arms crossed and severe as a stone sculpture. The woman was straight-jacketed in black silk, as usual; collar buttoned up to strangling with a gaunt neck poking out. Delicate lace draped over the backs of her knobbed, veined hands. Her hair was pulled up into a tight, shining knot. She looked like an angry crow. Her expression was sour, as usual. But her face had also changed. It’d taken on the same strange quality as her uncle’s. She looked pale and sunken, her complexion a grayish-white color. And the skin around her eyes looked red and puffy. It surprised her that Ackworth could still chill and frighten her after the things she’d lately endured.

  Ackworth glared at Annabelle as she walked past and through the door. Her expression carried heavy tones of scorn that were all too familiar. But Annabelle detected a tiny, almost indistinguishable note of vulnerability that she’d never felt from the woman before. Thankfully, she passed over the threshold unmolested, without even suffering comment from the woman. Her joy was indescribable at the familiar oaken smells as she entered the hall. But she couldn’t tear her mind away from her Uncle Morton and Mrs. Ackworth’s strange transformation. Perhaps an illness was moving round the house?

  ~

  She didn’t have time to think about it with the flurry of events that took place. As soon as the servants saw her, she was surrounded by cooks, maids and footmen alike as they squawked and fluttered about, showering enthusiastic care on her. Ackworth tried to stop the mania, but there were so many it would’ve been like smothering a revolution. They didn’t embrace her, nor show affection, for surely Ackworth wouldn’t have allowed such foolishness. But, they pulled her into an unused sitting room where a warm fire was burning. Promptly, a bath was drawn, clean clothes brought along with biscuits, tea and every good thing.

  She was left mostly alone after that. After a good, long soak in a steaming basin, she was settled in front of a fire in her old sitting room on the second floor. It wasn’t hers, per se. But someone among the staff had clearly noticed she preferred it and brought provisions there.

  It felt marvelous to be home, even with all of its complications. The question of who had kidnapped her from the abandoned wing of the house still haunted her. Every time she recalled that the culprit was someone unknown, here in the house, it felt like a cold hand creeping over her shoulder. The first possibility that came to mind was Ackworth, but the voice she’d heard sneak up behind her in that strange room had been distinctly male. Who could it have been? It certainly wasn’t her uncle’s voice she’d heard.

  But she was determined to savor her homecoming. She’d enjoyed a lovely meal of stew, fresh bread and sweet meats, and was now nestled beneath a blanket, watching the fire dance in a warm blur. She felt clean, warm and heartily satisfied. This sitting room had always felt drab and drafty to her in the past, but today the dusty curtains and worn furniture were the trappings of a king. She’d never felt more at home in all her life. She wished to savor this moment, knowing that tomorrow may be less secure. Danger still lurked all around. And yet, her eyelids drooped.

  The day passed in a blur of half sleep as the fire crackled. She woke periodically, finding it built back up again - some kindly soul had come in to tend it for her. She’d never received treatment like this before. She beamed with gratitude, as her mind swam on the borders of sleep.

  A part of her spurned repose. A shade was cast over her thoughts each time they turned back to Joe. She felt like a wretch for enjoying such comforts while his fate was unknown. He may even be dead, for all she knew. Though she couldn’t have changed his fate, she reminded herself. He’d seemed determined to give up. But it was still due to his bravery that she’d escaped at all. And she’d just left him.

  She drifted fitfully in and out of sleep until early evening, sometimes forgetting her troubles, sometimes dreaming feverishly of dark streets and terrifying pursuits. She spent the rest of the day and the next like this, watching the light grow through curtains then fade across the threads of the carpet; hiding beneath her blanket, suspended precariously between comfort and dread. For though she felt the luxuries all around her with immense happiness, she realized they were fleeting. She couldn’t forget what hunted her, nor her uncle’s intentions.

  As if to prove her right, on the following day, something appeared next to the fireplace as the light beyond the windows faded. She lay on her side facing the hearth, drifting wistfully through dream
s, and suddenly there it was - a figure in the shadows. The embers of a cigar illuminated it’s features dimly and a dark cloak covered it’s form, one with strange markings emblazoned all about. The figure smoked thoughtfully as it watched her, an image of languorous observance; it’s gloved hand slowly protruding from the shadows to lift and lower it’s cigar. She couldn’t see it’s face, but knew it was studying her. She felt it, like the winter knows chill.

  Paralyzed with fear, she let her eyelids droop back down as subtly as she could, pretending sleep; hoping that as long as she slept, it would merely watch.

  She woke fully with a gasp. How much time had passed? Had it been and hour or only a moment? She couldn’t tell, but the figure was gone. Surely, it must’ve been only a dream. Yet, the vision haunted her. It’d felt so real. Running it over in her mind, she recalled a detail. The figure’s eyes, as the cigar illuminated them, had been a sharp violet color.

  Who could’ve come into her uncle’s house undetected, finding her here only to stand and watch, then disappear? Yes. It must’ve only been a dream. But something in her protested, an unsettled feeling she couldn’t explain.

  It took a few moments to find the courage to move, for the dream was still all about her. Her mind was certainly too disquieted for repose. She dropped the blanket to her feet and walked to the window. The street beyond was dark. They were hard to make out, but as she suspected, there they were - figures lingering, stepping out of the shadows only long enough to be observed by a watchful eye. She knew they were Blackall’s men waiting for an opportunity to kidnap her. Why couldn’t they give up?

  She considered telling her uncle or Mrs. Ackworth of their presence, and of the whole ordeal underground. It would make her feel better, but it would certainly be a wonder if they helped her. They wanted her gone, and would likely see Blackall as a golden opportunity - a quick and easy way to be rid of her for good. Ackworth would likely kick her off the front stoop with a bow on. But she wouldn’t live underground with those ruffians, in that terrible place. No. Resentment burned in her as she watched their silhouetted figures. How dare they prey upon her? Indeed, why should they prey upon her? What did they plan to do, break in to her uncle’s vast, echoing manor and ransack the house looking for her? Was Blackall really so foolish? So proud?

  Despite her attempts to rationalize, she felt chilled and fearful. She’d never have thought the men would be this persistent. It seemed foolhardy to her. Risky. Stupid. But there they were. It made her wonder how much more they were willing to risk. Her uncle’s staff was large, and his power substantial. But the house was a vast, empty place full of dark crevices and hiding places, and she was hardly someone to be missed easily, or mourned if gone. She still wasn’t sure if her uncle knew she’d been gone for days, or if he merely thought she’d been rolling in the gutter outside. The servants had been very kind to her since her return. But likely it had been some time before any of them had even noticed her absence. It may have been days. And with a shudder running up her back, she realized that Blackall was far more powerful than even her uncle. If Blackall wanted something, not a man in this city - no matter how high - would dare stand against him.

  The more she thought it over, the more plausible it seemed for the men to breach Orenn. If done correctly, they could gain entry to the house and take her away in the darkness before anyone heard a peep. They’d find little challenge to their presence in such a large, empty place. She returned to the sofa, sinking down under the blanket. If she couldn’t feel the warm embrace of a diligent guardian, a blanket would have to do. The house was a fearful place to her again, every dark corner a threat. It was as if she were back on the streets dodging shadows. So she nuzzled deeper into the blanket, trying to think her way out of the feeling.

  CHAPTER 17

  A Pale Blue Sun

  Over the next few days, Annabelle made a point to be very visible to the staff. She passed through the kitchens at least once an hour, for which she received several strange looks. The cooks and maids likely thought she’d turned greedy over food. But it didn’t matter to her, as long as she felt a little safer. They hardly acknowledged her at all, carrying on busily with their work.

  But it wasn’t enough to calm her anxieties. The threat of attack scratched at the back of her mind, a constant vigilance. She jumped at the smallest sound and constantly checked around corners. Every shadow seemed to watch her. But as time passed, no threats were made to her person. So slowly, her anxieties dissolved, giving way to reflection.

  With a pit of guilt in her stomach, she wondered what’d happened to Joe, fearing the worst. If he survived, perhaps he’d come here seeking the help she’d promised. Standing at the windows, she’d scan faces on the street, searching for his round, expressive eyes and sunken cheeks. She often inquired of Abby, her uncle’s cook, if anyone had come asking for her through the kitchens. So far, none had. But she requested that Abby not to turn away any boys seeking aid, knowing that word would trickle down through her to the rest of the staff. She described Joe, describing him as a helpful guide. Abby listened without comment, her face betraying no emotion. It made Annabelle nervous, for she couldn’t tell where the woman’s loyalties lay.

  She also thought on poor Mr. Daveye, wondering where he was. The skill and art with which he’d disappeared gave her confidence in his prospects. He was undoubtedly clever, possessing skills she couldn’t even conceive of. But there’d been such a desperate tint to his eyes. Fear had clearly overtaken him, through and through, washing through his body like a wave, taking hold of every cell. And with an enemy like Blackall... Well, she could imagine at least some of the difficulties that would present. For the most part, they stretched beyond the realm of her understanding. She knew so little of Blackall’s world and it’s dangers. But the tiny fraction she’d seen had almost done her in.

  Strangely, and seemingly against her will, her mind wandered back to Blackall. She found it pulled there, as if some outward force were prodding her with the memory of him. His image had turned into a towering specter in her mind, at whose thought her whole body flinched. She shuddered, allowing her memory to run over the lines and features of his face, examining them like a photograph. But she couldn’t hold the image for long, for her chest contracted, overwhelmed. She began to understand the fear that’d taken Mr. Daveye, possessing his faculties.

  What had Joe meant by Blackall being no “mere man?” She turned possibilities over in her mind. And the more she did, the more a fearful answer seemed to hover in her thoughts, one she resisted violently. After what she’d experienced by the light of the black candle, the possibilities were changing, broadening; moving into realms she didn’t understand or even wish to traverse. So she endeavored to banish these thoughts from her mind altogether. For they caused her much disquiet, and she could find no answer to them on her own.

  But what deterred her most of all was a strange, creeping sense that when she thought of Blackall, it invoked his consciousness upon her. That when she beheld him in her mind’s eye, thinking of him from deep within, that he looked back with equal intensity and could observe her innermost thoughts. That his eye was locked directly upon her, and he saw her through space and time, felt her heart. And that by looking back, she gave him deeper reception to her inner self, laying herself bare to him. In those times, she sensed him as well - his wisdom, his cunning, his burning desire to capture her. There were other feelings, ones she couldn’t understand. And there was something even more, something deeper; something endless that stretched back into obscurity; something that seemed to never end. It was an alarming feeling to say the least, sensing this man and the heat of his innermost being. It seared and provoked her consciousness, so she endeavored to block it out.

  But on the long, dark, rainy days since her return, her thoughts turned too often to him. In every haze before a crackling fire, every moment of repose before sleep, he haunted her thoughts. She banished him as well she could in every wakeful moment, keeping busy when she
wasn’t too overwhelmed by everything to hide under a blanket. But in the weakness in between, he found a foothold.

  ~

  Before a week had passed, the man came. She saw him first from her perch at the sitting room window on that dark, blustery evening. She’d been leaning lazily against the sill, listening to rain tap the glass while cold condensation dampened her skin. Lightning illuminated the streets, flashing off of wet cobblestones with every crashing beam.

  One moment there was darkness, and then there he was - a silhouette standing out against a dim streetlamp, still as a statue, as the rain poured down upon him. At first glance, she assumed he was one of Blackall’s men stalking the house. But a strange chill ran through her as she studied him more closely. Something was different about him, but she didn’t know what.

  As the man made his way toward the house, rain poured heavily, obscuring his features. With each flash of lightning, she could nearly see his face. She saw it only for a brief second before the brim of his hat blocked her view, and he dipped beneath the great awning above the front door. It had impressed her with the vague image of a harsh face with a strong brow, dark beard and crow’s feet surrounding his eyes. For all the eccentricity of his dress - dark clothing quite strange and exotic to the streets of London, with furs and jewelry aplenty - she felt she’d seen him before.

  It was unusual for any visitor to come at such a late hour. But the uneasy sensation she felt at his arrival was something more, deep in her gut; a dread beyond reason. In a wave of caution and curiosity she tore downstairs, drawn to the foyer like a magnet, hoping to catch a word, anything that may enlighten her as to the strange man’s identity and purpose here.

  She prepared herself that this may only be another intrigue conceived by Blackall and his conspirators. So, she checked for the black candle in her pocket. She’d been carrying it with her at all times, just in case. Feeling it’s hard lump beneath her skirts, she moved on with greater confidence, rounding corners and scurrying down hallways. Finally, arriving on the landing above the main foyer, she crouched behind one of the thick railings and listened.