“We’ve sent another group to watch,” Kenward continued, desirous to assuage his lord’s anger. “Twenty men. They watch closely and await any chance of retrieving the girl.”
The last words were spoken with thinly-veiled bitterness, as if he resented such loss on account of a mere girl.
“You should know, my lord,” Kenward continued darkly, “The men grow... discontent. I fear we may soon face insubordination among the ranks.”
The corner of Blackall’s mouth turned up slightly, but he said nothing. He hadn’t time to consider Kenward’s concerns of mutiny. He didn’t fear mutiny. If he ordered these men, they would obey. But darkness had fallen all around them, swifter than he imagined. He must navigate this tragedy and decide on a correct course of action. He stared deep into the fire, lost in thought.
“Sir?”
“Is that all, Kenward?” he snapped.
Kenward straightened his back, his expression turning sour. He appeared to be struggling, hesitating to speak of something that plagued his thoughts.
“Is there something else?” Blackall asked sardonically, his voice monotone.
Kenward cleared his throat nervously.
“I don’t understand, sir,” Kenward said, “Why we pursue this... girl. There are many young women in London, sir. Scores who would be more than willing to-”
Kenward stopped himself, for Blackall’s eyes had glazed over as he watched him, a fire burning hot beneath.
“Leave it,” He growled.
Kenward looked bewildered. His dark-blonde eyebrows pressed together, forming a crease of confused red skin in between. His lips moved as if he wished to say more, but he held his tongue. His lord was not a man to be challenged. He stood and brushed off the front of his shirt.
“I shall go,” He said, his voice apologetic. “And manage the men at Orenn Manor myself. And see that your will is done, milord.”
Blackall nodded his approval without looking up.
“Thank you.”
Kenward left formally, bowing once more before stomping out of the room. His footsteps faded down the hall until Blackall was enveloped in hollow silence. There was much to consider. Adversaries were closing in on every side, he could feel it. He must gather whatever intelligence he could. There would be no turning back from consequences now, no treading lightly. He feared for his men, but mostly for what might happen to Miss Morton in the crossfire of all this.
He turned and walked through the dark suite of rooms. There were several, all attached, most unused. He travelled through to his bedchamber, where a roaring fire burned. It glowed from a large hearth providing the only light in the room, one carved with many strange, mythical faces, all laughing by the flickering glow of the flames. In the middle of the room stood a tall, four-posted bed that reached up to the ceiling. Ragged black curtains draped all around it. Within, piles of linens were packed awkwardly from many nights of sleep.
In the darkest corner of the chamber, black curtains draped over a large doorway. Blackall crossed the room and parted them with his body, moving into the darkness beyond. The chamber beyond housed many strange artifacts. A black altar stood at the back of the room, near the wall, where a structure that resembled organ pipes reached upwards. Bones and other objects were strewn across the altar, placed specifically. On the floor, a great pentacle was drawn - a five-pointed star with a circle round it. Around this, other symbols were drawn. Some were rune-like and others pictographic.
Blackall crossed the room to where a low dresser stood. A candle on it’s top lit spontaneously as he drew near. An array of items lay there, vials and other curiosities. His fingers hovered over them as the candlelight cast ghoulish shadows over their forms. Finally, his hand rested on a small, dusty vial. It was filled with a thick, reddish, opaque liquid. With it, he walked to the center of the pentacle and kneeled down.
Pouring it out in the shape of a symbol, it hissed and smoked against the ground. The smoke grew until the room was filled with a red, hazy cloud; one so thick it masked the walls of the room. Soon, the chamber was completely filled, and everything within obscured. Blackall spread his hands slowly, parting the smoke. As he did, the smoke curled away in billowing folds to reveal a strange, ethereal landscape before him - gray, barren hills of a moor spotted with sparse, leafless trees and jagged rocks. Several unusual objects were scattered about the landscape. He reached his arm out to one of the trees, feeling at it’s base. Cool, damp air hit his arm; as well as dim sunlight. Pulling it back, he held a small box. It was tiny - less than 3 inches in diameter and carved of white bone. Vines and flowers covered it’s delicate surface.
He waved his hand and the landscape disappeared, red smoke swallowing it. The cloud remained as he lifted the lid of the delicate box. Within, an ornate ring sat upon a bed of worn red velvet; parts of the velvet had been worn down to brownness. The ring housed an amethyst stone upon a silver base.
Blackall’s breathing became shallow and his expression intense as he touched the gem. He caressed it as if seeing an old friend after many years of estrangement. The ring slid softly away from the velvet as he plucked it from its housing. He rolled it over in his fingers several times, studying the detailing in the band and base. It was a truly beautiful thing, with lines on the sides splaying out into intricate designs. He slid it onto his finger. It fit perfectly onto his pinky, hitting the end of the digit with a fleshy thump.
On the altar before him lay a dagger. He retrieved it and moved back into the middle of the pentacle. Without hesitation, he plunged the dagger into his forearm. Blood sprang from the wound, running down his arm, covering his hand and the ring upon it.
“Maryone,” he whispered. “Maryone, come to me.”
The blood on his hand dripped down to the pentacle and he dropped to his knees. The air darkened. The candle’s light, that had before glowed in a blurred orb, disappeared. The fog grew thick, obscuring everything around him, enveloping him entirely. He was no longer in his quarters, but a traveller in the darkness.
“Maryone!” he called out. “Come to me! Breathe into me! Aid me! Send me where I need to go.”
The air around him grew very cold. It crept over his face, like the chill of the morning. Dim pictures came into view. He was floating through a fine house. Furniture and paintings, all shrouded in darkness, passed before his eyes. All was hazy and blurred, as if seen through a clouded window.
When he opened his eyes next, the fog had cleared, somewhat. He was standing in a small, shabby room. It appeared to be a servant’s quarters, or a nun’s. A bed was the solitary piece of furniture within, save for a small vanity desk. The form upon the bed was peaceful, with lips slightly open and reposed in sleep. Long lashes rested upon rosy, porcelain cheeks, reflecting the blue moonlight handsomely. The figure’s chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of slumber. She wore nothing but a thin chemise, revealing pale skin beneath. Her dark hair lay loose all about her on the pillow. It was the girl Annabelle.
He watched her for some time as she twitched and stirred. He couldn’t touch anything here, only observe. The longer he stayed, the more risk he took. Such an act would make him visible to any eyes that watched. But he remained, surveying her in silence. Her room was a model of stillness, except for the wind that howled against the shaking windowpane. He watched as her chest rose, pressing against the hem of her chemise. The image became clearer. He could now feel the wood of the floors hard beneath his boots, and every detail of the room appeared clearly. He remained for sometime longer, too long; studying the moonlight that reflected on her pale, helpless form. But when next he looked up at her face, her blue eyes were open and staring at him.
CHAPTER 19
A Traveller in Darkness
After the stranger left, the loud bangs stopped. She knew she hadn’t been the only one to hear them. Surely the stranger had as well. All the same, she began to question her sanity. She wasn’t able to investigate the place where the small box had been left by the man with viole
t eyes. There were too many servants coming and going, and Ackworth herself had been lingering since the man’s departure. She didn’t wish to attract attention to Ackworth’s interest in the table top, for the woman would certainly be watching her activities from then on. So she decided to let it go for the time being. She would return in the morning. It wasn’t as if anyone else would stumble upon an invisible box.
Despite the sensation that her interlude with the stranger had all been a dream, she felt changed. Her suspicions were heightened. She felt she was back in the open air again, it’s emptiness creeping at her back. Shadows haunted her as she climbed through the dark hallways up toward her bedroom. The stranger who’d come to the foyer and seen her uncle, the man who’d stopped time, was also the figure she’d seen beside the hearth. Why hadn’t he captured her again? He clearly had the opportunity.
She arrived in her room to find it the same as ever - drab and isolated, but slightly brightened by fresh linens. The feeling of gratitude at being home, and of the staff’s interest in her welfare, hadn’t worn off. She still remembered the dark place in which she’d been kept, and her freezing night spent out in the elements. The warmth of their care brightened her spirits a great deal. But her fears lingered.
Rain beat against the window as darkness settled in. Placing her candle on the bed stand, she watched raindrops hit the glass and travel down in thin silver lines. She still felt strange and disoriented, as if she was losing her mind. It seemed the world she’d always depended on was not real. It was disintegrating around her as a new one unfolded, one she didn’t understand, one fraught with peril. She didn’t feel safe anywhere - not behind the walls of her uncle’s great house, behind the door of her room, nor underneath her worn bedcovers. Something was seeping though the cracks, finding passage in the weak places.
It was now, more than ever, that she longed for the presence of her parents - the people she imagined they were. They comforted her, told her not to be afraid. They stroked her hair and assured her all was taken care of, that she mustn’t trouble herself, that she would never be kicked out of her home. She strained to create a picture of them and hold it fast. She tried to feel what it would be like to sit in their presence. The texture of their clothes, the smell of them.
But she knew it was just an illusion. They weren’t strong, present authority figures in her life. They were figures she herself should pity, cold and defeated in the grave. Nothing stood between her and the cold streets - nothing but her insufficient knowledge and paltry experience. She had no friends. No one to turn to. Her uncle’s staff had been kind, but they were ignorant of her struggles, and would be no help if Blackall came for her again. Most of her life, she’d forced herself to be brave in the face of despair. But she felt so overwhelmed by it now, so crushed by it. It was unavoidable. She couldn’t hold tears back any longer. They rolled down her cheeks in warm streaks, blurring the dark room, turning the candle light into a distant, glimmering star.
When she opened her eyes, Blackall’s stern face was looming over her, twisted into a pensive scowl. His striking eyes, topped by a sharp brow, were surreal. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t dreaming. When she did, her every muscle froze. She couldn’t feign sleep, he was looking directly into her opened eyes. She nearly screamed, but was too afraid of what he’d do. It was unlikely anyone would hear her scream from this remote attic anyway. Strangely, he made no move to say anything, touch or detain her. He just stood against the bedside, watching; his expression wistful and detached.
The darkness cut his features into sharp lines. As he stared down at her, she noticed something wasn’t right. His face looked different - beaten and bruised. His hair was longer and more disheveled than before; and caked with something. His face looked rougher, more spare, with a scar reaching across his left cheek up towards his ear. He was dressed strangely. His clothing had metal scales upon it and seemed to cover a strange, old-fashioned tunic. It was then that she noticed the injury - a mortal injury. A large cut reached across his throat, dripping blood all down his front.
A gray pallor marked his face. Deep, from the back of his eyes, a look of sadness and regret shone out. His gaze bore through her, his eyes gleaming with agony. He watched her with a look she didn’t understand, one so intense it seemed to accuse her. His mouth formed words but no sound came out. Or perhaps she was just unable to hear them.
Confused and afraid, her breath came in quick gasps, floating around her in frozen clouds. She thought of saying something, but feared it might provoke him. Any second, he might strike. So she just lay there frozen, feeling her heart would pound out of her chest and bound away. Very slowly, he reached up his hand. It was rough, with cuts and callouses all over. She trembled at it’s movement, but he made no move to touch her. With his index finger, he pointed to the middle of his chest, his cold eyes lingering on her face. Wind blew through the room. She turned to see curtains dancing. Cold, wet air was pouring in through an open window.
Just then, she woke up. A candle was still burning, but it was almost burnt down to nothing. The room was cold. She’d fallen asleep on top of her covers. Her thin chemise wasn’t much good at keeping out the cold. The figure of Blackall was gone from her sight, but the chill remained in her heart. She felt cold through and through. She still felt singed from the intensity of his gaze, tormented by it. His eyes had spoken a desperate message, one she couldn’t translate. She sat up in bed as her mind raced, playing the dream over and over. It’d felt so real.
Looking round the room, she noticed that her door was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. She swallowed back a lump of fear, got up and crept toward it as silently as possible. Pulling it open, she peered into the dark corridor.
“Hello?” she called weakly into the darkness.
Nothing but echoing void answered back. She closed the door with a frightened slam, her shaking fingers turning the lock. Grabbing the only chair in the room, she propped it under the handle to wedge the door closed. Using the small candle, she checked all around the room, finding nothing in the shadows. So, she got back into bed and took shelter beneath the covers. She shivered there in the dark, wishing her restless mind would allow her to sleep away the rest of the night. No one could get in now, she told herself. All is locked and secure. But the memory of the man with violet eyes told her differently.
She tried to stay calm and sensible as the minutes passed, telling herself that dawn would break, and with it all fear would dispel. But she couldn’t stop quaking as she closed her eyes and prayed for the dawn.
~
She was glad when she woke at sunrise, for more than one reason. The morning light brought with it an instant and unquestioning sense of safety. She felt foolish recalling the terror of the night before, as one often does in the bright light of the dawn; thinking herself terribly childish for fearing shadows and specters. Her spirits perked up even higher at the remembrance of the secret box that’d been left for her, even though the man who’d left it filled her with a sense of dread and uncertainty. But the brightness of morning allowed her to thrust that feeling into a dark corner of her mind. She’d spent the night tossing through disquieting dreams, yes. But with the morning, they were mercifully forgotten; leaving nothing but an emotional residue to tug at her heart.
She made her way downstairs and took a biscuit from the kitchens. Once in the foyer, she waited until no one was about, then checked all the tables. But strangely, there was nothing to be found - no box, no note, no trace of the man who’d frightened and shocked her nearly to death the night before. Sighing deeply in frustration, she wondered what this could mean. She hadn’t dreamt the man being there, or what he’d done, had she?
Soon, the cracking steps of Mrs. Ackworth came up the hall. She was accompanied by a maid whom she was berating over a trifling detail of household upkeep. Just in time to avoid detection, Annabelle jumped into the shadows beside a large armoire. She watched them pass, the young maid looking battered as Ackworth issued hars
h rebukes. It was Mary, carrying a bunch of candles in her hands. This sparked the memory of her own black candle. She’d nearly forgotten about it!
A smile spread widely across Annabelle’s face as she considered the possibilities it afforded. She could become Ackworth’s personal poltergeist. There were so many ways she could repay Ackworth for the many unkindnesses over the years. But for now, she would focus on the task at hand. Reaching deep into her dress pocket, she pulled it out. Her fingers caressed its waxy, engraved surface. She still marveled that after so much use, it was completely unaltered - neither diminished nor burned away at all. Looking at it, she felt a tinge of gratitude and affection. It had certainly gotten her out of a few scrapes, and she hoped to have it with her always.
Tip-toeing out of the shadows, she sought a fireplace where she might light it. Luckily, her search was short. She found a fire burning low in one of the sitting rooms off the foyer. Moving cautiously inside, she found it empty of inhabitants; so she crept up to the hearth, knelt down and held the candle's wick to the flames. It was just about to light when a sudden noise made her jump.
"What are you doing?" The angry voice demanded, sending chills up her back. It was Ackworth. She’d been hidden from view by an armchair's high back, and was now rising up out of it, her expression sour.
"N-Nothing. I-"
Ackworth's glare turned instantly to the candle in Annabelle's hand, her eyes glinting with hunger. It was an unspoken rule between them that Annabelle wasn’t allowed to possess anything. Ackworth seemed to dislike the idea of it. As soon as Annabelle appeared to treasure the ownership of something, Ackworth was sure to take it. So she never considered herself the owner of anything other than the few meager items in her attic. Even those weren’t truly her own.
Beyond the Blue Light Page 15