“I won’t,” she assured him. “Thank you, John.”
He nodded and smiled before turning back to the horses. She turned to the museum’s great stone steps. Her ears rang with the noise of the streets as she climbed. Inside, the exhibit was quiet, respectable, and terribly dull. It seemed a very sensible, unfashionable type of exhibit; showing items related to local history of the most tedious variety. It seemed the sort of place, due to it’s sparse attendees and stodgy contents, that governesses would drag helpless pupils to for an afternoon of dreary education. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was calming. Studying objects, even ones for which she felt little interest, drew her out of her own thoughts.
She perused the exhibit, sauntering here and there, all the while looking about for someone she could put questions to. She also watched for any who looked like Blackall’s men, though it was unlikely they’d find her here. Seeing an attendant standing idle near an old statue, she advanced on him. He saw her coming and his expression turned slightly sour, a subtle shade of annoyance falling over his features.
“Excuse me,” she said. “What can you tell me of this building?”
“The building... In which we are standing?” The young attendant asked, with no shortage of hauteur.
“Yes.”
“Well...” he said, looking a bit bewildered. “If you’d like to know anything about the current exhibit, I can tell you that...”
The young man launched into a monologue describing the nearest sculpture and it’s significance.
“Thank you,” She said, cutting in courteously. “I truly wish to know of the building. Just the building.”
“Ah,” he answered huffily. “All I can say is that she was built in 1791, atop the rubble of a fire.”
“Oh my.”
At the young man’s mention of the fire, she felt something strange come over her. A sensation that she’d heard the story before. Her heart quickened, and her hand inadvertently went to her chest. Suddenly, the young attendant’s expression changed. Without a word, he turned and walked away. She was so shocked by this rudeness that her mouth dropped open. Her eyes followed his form as it disappeared into a shadowy part of the exhibit. She was even more startled by a small cough behind her. She turned to see a man standing there, middle-aged with white hair and beard. He wore round spectacles and a museum badge on his jacket.
“How do you do,” he said. His eyes were heavily lidded, his expression cynical as he looked her up and down, peering over his spectacles.
“I am Mr. Hawkins,” he said. “Curator of the museum. I couldn’t help but overhear your inquiry, miss. And I must say, your questions follow a very intriguing and unusual tack. Not one in a hundred young ladies would ask such a thing. If you’d care for the answers, miss, please be so kind as to follow me.”
He beckoned her with a rigid hand, leading her deeper into the museum. She followed through dark rooms where tiny spotlights shone on paintings and other artifacts. As they went, the man offered details of the building’s history. He informed her that it’d been built atop a suite of ruined buildings, ones that’d served as town homes to high society types of the time. The fire that ruined them had been of unknown origin, and had wiped out the entire block. It was considered a miracle that it hadn’t burned farther, causing more damage. But even though it was a comparatively small blaze to others that’d inflicted London, it was quite infamous at the time. A coldness passed through Mr. Hawkins’ voice as he mentioned this last bit. And he paused almost indistinctly.
After the fire’s destruction, developers had found it difficult to rebuild on the spot. The fire had claimed the lives of at least a dozen people - rich, prominent people - and its infamy was widespread. The land was eventually donated to the Historical Society of Great Britain, who made plans to construct a museum upon it as a sort of memorial to the dead. Which, as he explained, were the very halls they walked through now.
Listening to the story struck Annabelle, making her feel dizzy and strange. She felt as if some additional sense within her had been ignited, one pulled her back, acting without her conscious consent. For she sensed she was moving toward a precipice. One of knowledge from which there would be no return.
“Do you happen to know,” she asked. “What some of those prior addresses were?”
A part of her was embarrassed to ask, fearing Mr. Hawkins would think her curious and morbid. She could think of no excuse to give for needing such information. The curator’s expression shifted a bit. He obviously thought the question strange. But he responded civilly.
“A few of them are listed,” he said, “In the wing here that is dedicated to the building’s sad history. Come this way.”
He ushered her though several rooms to a quiet, obscure corner of the museum. The room they stopped in was little more than a closet that served as a quiet memorial to the fire of 1785. It held a small, iron statue on a pedestal and a table containing a plaque with some pamphlets.
“Our officers know little of the building’s history,” He said by way of an explanation for the young attendant’s ignorance. “They are instructed to concentrate on the present exhibit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Morton, I must see to my duties.”
He made a brief, courteous bow and was quickly gone. The memorial boasted few visual aids, except for a portrait of the block before the fire. It appeared to have been taken from someone’s home. It was mounted in an oval frame, depicting a street bustling with life amidst the exteriors of fine homes. She felt a warmth looking at the picture, as if it’d been well-loved by its original owner.
The plaque’s text depicted the story Mr. Hawkins had just relayed to her. No one had known how the fire started, and sadly, it’d claimed the lives of dozens of family members and servants alike. After the infamy of the fire and deaths, the block was branded an undesirable place for rebuilding homes. It was expected that none would wish to live here. And as such, the investment to build would be a waste.
This struck Annabelle as extraordinarily strange. What kind of public prejudice could be so strong that it would deter great men from seeking profit? The only clue she could find was a single phrase:
“...due to the superstitious sensibilities of the time...”
After several mishaps in the process of rebuilding, development schemes were finally abandoned. To avoid further loss and to “please public sympathies,” the land was donated, and the museum later built. To her satisfaction, there was also a list of the prior addresses. Most included names of residents. She ran her finger down the list of addresses: 348, 350, 352...354! She’d found it! Running her finger to the right, she saw the name of its inhabitant.
Maryone V. N. Gurza
Annabelle reeled, and nearly fainted. Luckily for her, the walls were close enough in this small room that she could touch any of them by reaching out. She leaned her face against the wooden panels, breathing deeply and trying to stay upright. But she was just so dizzy. Slowly, her balance returned and her head felt clearer. She checked the name again. It was still the same. It was the name on Mr. Daveye’s note. She’d found her! But, she didn’t understand. Why had Mr. Daveye sent her to the address - the non-existent address - of a dead woman? She felt a terrible spell of dizziness again, and steadied herself with a hand against the wall.
None of this made any sense. The name and address were real. Mr. Daveye clearly hadn’t misspelled or miswritten any details. This was no error. But why had he sent her here? How could this help her?
She repeated to herself that there must be an explanation, some reason for him to bring her here. Perhaps, she thought dubiously, Because it’s a trap. A thrill of fear rose up in her. Surely, there was no reason for Mr. Daveye to lead her out of Blackall’s cells only to capture her again. Why risk everything to help her escape, only to lead her back into custody? Perhaps, she thought, because he had connections to this “other side” that Joe had mentioned. Perhaps he meant to lead her into it’s clutches. She shuddered, wondering who or what coul
d be more frightful than Blackall, his people, and his lair beneath the earth. She began to feel the darkness of the museum, noticing it’s wealth of shady hiding places. They seemed to watch her with invisible eyes.
Breathing deeply to summon courage, she turned and made her way back to the front of the museum. She tried to muffle her footsteps, hoping to move unseen through the dark rooms. But, the floor was hard, polished and extremely disobliging. Each step seemed to echo. But she made it back to the main exhibit, carefully scanning each room for suspicious characters.
“Did you find our historical wing informative, miss?”
The voice of the curator startled her, coming from behind once more. The man had a terrible habit of sneaking up on people.
“Uh, why yes,” she said, answering awkwardly. “Thank you for your assistance,” she added, for which she received a magnanimous nod.
“Of course, miss,” he said, his eyes glinting satisfaction.
“Ah, excuse me,” she continued, “But, do you know how I might find information on one of the previous residents of this block? A person who lived in one the buildings ruined by the fire?”
The curator’s expression shifted slightly, betraying his confusion at the request. But he remained obliging.
“Which did you have in mind, miss?”
“Her name was Gurza,” she said. “Maryone Gurza.”
The curator’s complexion paled. A crack rent through his polished exterior, showing his discomfort with the subject.
“Oh, well my dear,” he said. “Madame Gurza, as she was known, was... Rather is, a bit of an infamous character.”
He swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“There are many rumors,” He continued, “One might call them legends, surrounding her life. You see, some actually blamed Madame Gurza for the fire.”
“What?” She asked, shocked.
“I haven’t all the details,” He said hesitantly. “Nor the time to convey them, I confess. They are not things one could consider fact, you see. But, Madame Gurza was said to be-”
He paused.
“Yes, sir,” Annabelle urged him. “Yes?”
His expression was solemn and reluctant. He’s afraid, she thought.
“Well,” he said. “She’s been called many things by different groups. I believe Haegtesse is one of the originals, coined by the group of german immigrants who first accused her.”
“Accused her?” Annabelle asked, confused. “Accused her of what? What is a haegtesse?”
But before he answered, she already knew. And she was growing dizzy again. The curator looked about anxiously to see if anyone was listening.
“It is merely lore,” He said. “Just old rumors, you see. She became known as the Haeg. Many called her this after the fire.”
“Yes,” Annabelle pressed him. “But what does it mean?”
“It translates to witchfury,” He said in a whisper. “A sorceress versed in the blackest arts, under pact with Satan.”
CHAPTER 23
‘Neath the Red Arches
The curator said little else to her. In fact, he seemed anxious to usher her out of the museum right away. He saw her to the door and excused himself brusquely to see to his duties. As he turned, she saw a tiny glimpse of the fear again. What was he afraid of? True, the story of the woman had chilled her blood. But even if Madame Gurza had been a sinister character, and every rumor been true, she was dead now. But it seemed that Mr. Hawkins’ fear was of a real and present threat.
Annabelle stepped out onto the street, the hum and bustle surrounding her again. She waited for John to appear, content to watch the street scene until he arrived. It was a gray autumn day. Leaves blew about, catching on scarves and hair. A few hefty mothers passed by carrying baskets laden with vegetables and other goods, as well as fine gentlemen walking regally in top hats. They were joined by young, bedraggled boys scrambling about in search of food or amusement - she wasn’t sure which. Annabelle stood in the cool autumn air enjoying the scene, as her mind also reeled from what she’d learned. Most of all, she wondered why Mr. Daveye had led her here in the first place.
In the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure still amongst the movement of the streets. It stood distorted in a shady alleyway, but she felt it’s gaze locked on her. She’d learned to recognize the sensation of someone watching her in her recent jaunts, as if she’d developed the intuition of a thief. Her heart quickened. She wasn’t sure quite what to do, other than wait for John to arrive with the carriage. So she pretended not to see the figure that watched her from the alley, looking lightly about the streets. Lifting her chin, she stood as straight as she could manage, trying to appear fearless; though her breath came quick and her heart beat in heavy knocks against her chest. She subtly scanned the area for a blunt object with which to bludgeon any attackers.
The sight of John couldn’t have been more welcome as the carriage rolled up to the base of the museum steps. She scurried down the remaining stairs, ecstatic to see him. But he didn’t greet her, nor did he seem his usual, jovial self.
Glancing back at the alley, she noticed the figure was gone. The man hadn’t disappeared, but stepped into the light. To her shock, his tall frame and rough, stern face materialized, lit by the pale, cloudy sky. It was the face of Mr. Blackall, his head covered with a dark hood. He stood tall, dressed all in black, looking like a panther ready to strike. After being haunted every night by his memory, seeing him stand before her was like seeing a ghost. But no one around him seemed to notice his presence. Her stomach did flip-flops and her knees wobbled as she stood beneath his piercing gaze. She couldn’t breathe from sheer terror. John looked down at her from the driver’s stoop, his expression forlorn.
“I’m sorry miss,” he said. “I couldn’t help it.”
Assuming he was referring to his lateness, she was especially surprised to see the livid face of Ackworth appear. She loomed in the carriage doorway triumphantly. Saying nothing, she beckoned with threatening fingers then leaned back into the darkness of the carriage. Dreading the interaction, but seeing it as the lesser evil, Annabelle stepped up to the carriage. She looked back just long enough to see Blackall moving closer, alarm and anger shifting his features.
She secured the door as quickly as she could. As John pulled away, she caught a glimpse of Blackall standing amidst oblivious pedestrians. They rushed past him while his eyes remained locked on the carriage. Relaxing back into her seat, she breathed a deep sigh of relief and closed her eyes. It was with reluctance that she opened them again, for she knew that when she did, Ackworth would be glaring ominously from across the cab. She tried to stifle the memory of what she’d seen by the black candle’s light. It was far too frightening to remember, especially now. So, she averted her eyes and concentrated on the horses’ hooves clacking against cobblestone. She would imagine Ackworth as exactly what she was - a paid subordinate to her uncle. A servant. A housekeeper. Someone with no great power at all.
“You little slut,” Ackworth growled. “What in the hell were you doing, going out? Employing your uncle’s carriage, easy as you please!”
Mrs. Ackworth raised a gnarled hand and slapped her, hard; and continued to hit Annabelle repeatedly, over and over, beating her head and shoulders. Annabelle shielded herself with her arms, but she was no match for the woman’s tall, manly frame. Ackworth continued the assault as Annabelle cried out, and before long there was blood streaming down her cheek. After a moment, Ackworth stopped and leaned back, her eyes wide with fever. The ring on her right hand dripped blood. Ackworth’s expression shifted to satisfaction when she noticed it. She paraded the ringed hand on her knee, unashamed; the red standing out against her pale gray skin. Then her gaze fixed on Annabelle in a frightening glare.
Annabelle kept her expression as neutral and detached as she could manage, holding her chin high as her eyes leaked. She didn’t wish for the woman to see she’d been discommoded, though the evidence of it ran down her cheeks. She was ne
rvous and uncomfortable, her hands shaking. She hoped the remainder of the carriage ride would be spent without incident. She gently felt the side of her head, assessing the injury, and her hand came back with splotches of blood painting her pale skin. She shuddered and closed her eyes, anticipating their arrival at Orenn with baited breath. She longed, more than anything, to exit the carriage and get away from this embittered creature. But Ackworth interrupted her thoughts, prodding her with a hard finger.
“Well?!” she demanded in an antagonizing growl.
Annabelle opened her eyes resentfully. Ackworth’s were round and crazed-looking. She couldn’t take the sight of Ackworth’s face, recalling what she’d seen by the light of the black candle. So she closed her eyes to fend off the memory.
“Answer me!” Ackworth yelled. “Now!”
The volume of it shook her, but she kept her lips closed tight. She would not react. It was what Ackworth wanted. To control how she felt. Ackworth may control what she ate, where she lived, and just about everything else in her life. But she could not control her behavior or her thoughts. They were hers, and she would hold fast to her integrity. She didn’t care what happened in this carriage, so long as she would be away soon, safe in the silence.
They rolled quietly through the streets, her heart pattering with anxiety. All of a sudden, Ackworth picked up a newspaper from her seat, made a pretense of scanning the headlines, rolled it and threw it hard in Annabelle’s face. She received the blow squarely in the eyes and nose, flinching and clutching her face in pain. The corner had caught her directly in the eye, which was throbbing badly.
And at that moment, Annabelle realized she’d had enough. Her anger had been building, as well as her hatred for this woman - her lifelong tormentor - and had finally boiled to a pitch. It burned like a hot liquid that could destroy anything in it’s path, combining with a sudden realization. She had tried standing up to Ackworth in the past, as well as showing fearful, passive obedience. She’d tried reconciliation and kindness. But nothing ever worked. No action she took, either good or bad, aggressive or passive, ever changed a thing. The woman was never appeased, no matter how much she gave of herself. She realized, now, it was because Ackworth wanted all.
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