Ackworth had honed the craft of attacking then retreating, tricking Annabelle into thinking she could trust her at times, or that it was possible to please her. She realized now that those times of calm, that’d brought with them a false sense of security, were nothing but a way to keep her confused and off balance. To keep her from wisely defending herself. To keep her doubting and blaming herself. For until this moment, she’d always felt the treatment she’d received at Ackworth’s hands was somehow her own fault. She’d felt that perhaps she was unworthy or disagreeable. And that perhaps if she was better, Mrs. Ackworth would accept her and all would be well. But as she sat there across from the monster she’d known all her life, she realized with absolute certainty that there would never, ever be a diplomatic way to deal with Ackworth. That Ackworth didn’t want to be appeased, she wanted dominance. She wanted Annabelle’s destruction. Ackworth enjoyed the sensation of power she got from tormenting her. Plain and simple.
Annabelle looked straight into the the woman’s gray, blank eyes and let her feelings boil over. She let them cut through her body like a curse, embodying fifteen years of hatred and oppression.
“You,” she said, baring her teeth. “Are poison.”
At the sound, something changed in Ackworth’s eyes. A flash of fear ran through them. And as Annabelle finished the last syllable, the housekeeper’s body fell into violent convulsions. She flailed, slumping in her seat, her feet kicking wildly into the middle of the carriage. After a terrifying moment of this, she went still; her eyes rolling back and her mouth laying open. Annabelle watched in horror as the woman’s face bobbed and jostled with the movement of the carriage.
“Mrs... Ackworth?” she asked sheepishly.
No answer came. She reached out and poked the woman, retrieving her hand quickly. Terrified at what furious retribution she might face upon Ackworth’s waking, she waited several moments before daring to move again. She considered pulling out her black candle, but there was nowhere to light it here in the carriage.
Ackworth remained still. She appeared to be breathing, for which Annabelle wasn’t sure she was grateful. After several moments, when it seemed certain Ackworth was out for good, she calmed somewhat, finding the courage to watch out the window, trying not to snigger as Ackworth’s body flailed and jiggled with the movements of the carriage. No one could see the woman’s unconscious form as they rolled and bumped through the streets. So she took a few last moments to look over her subjects, to wave and nod as perhaps not the Queen of England, but a wounded, crowned princess. Her dreamy gaze passed the newspaper where it’d fallen next to her on the seat. One of the headlines caught her eye.
MURDER BENEATH RED ARCHES
The body of Mr. Edward P. Daveye, of London, was found in the Viaduct Pond at Hampstead Heath yesterday.....
Annabelle gasped loudly. A chill went over her from head to toe, cutting through to her heart. Setting the newspaper down, she stared blankly out the window in shock, clasping her mouth as hot, angry tears ran down her cheeks and over her hand. Rain blew in through the open carriage window. People outside balked at each other, oblivious to these events, their sounds a squawking, garish intrusion on her grief. She scanned the article again for any information on Mr. Daveye, but it told little else, for little was definitely known.
Was it her Mr. Daveye? Yes, she realized with a choke; of course it was. A clutter of thoughts filled her mind. Who had done this thing? How? Why? Oh god, had it been Blackall’s doing? Yes, of course, it must’ve been him. And he was after her too. He’d been mere yards from her less than an hour ago. The realization of this resounded in her mind like the blow of an axe, and she sat in horror, scarcely able to breathe. Faint-hearted and with every limb weak, she studied the photograph provided. The man pictured looked young, upstanding and very respectable. There were differences, but the eyes didn’t lie. It was him - a happier, more innocent, less desperate version of the kind man she’d known briefly.
She pitied him. True, he was not the most perfect of characters, being so closely associated with Blackall’s gang of misfits. But he’d done what he could to help her, at the expense of great person risk. The greatest, in fact. For his choice to help her had likely been what led to his demise. Whatever wrong he’d done, he’d done his penance by saving her - and was ultimately destroyed for it. The thought of this inspired a pang of guilt so strong that she clutched her shaking head. Her thoughts flickered, searching for relief and distraction from the notion.
She hated Mr. Blackall with a newly brightened fury. Her cheeks flamed hot as she thought of the barbarous man, standing over poor Mr. Daveye in triumph, or having him murdered by one of his minions. She recollected the look on Blackall’s face only moments before on the street, as rain blew in from the window and cold drops hit her cheeks. He hadn’t the look of a murderer, she thought. In fact, she remembered now (for her fear had blinded her at the time), that he’d looked at her with a strange sort of concern that surprised her. Something in his eyes had seemed desperate and frightened. But she must not let her sensitive proclivities lead her to forgive such a monster.
As the carriage lurched to a halt at Orenn Manor, Ackworth’s flaccid form flopped forward then smacked her head against the back of the seat with a hard thwap. When this failed to wake the woman, Annabelle stepped out tentatively, watching for any sign of consciousness as she escaped into the house. Perhaps all would be forgotten by the time Ackworth woke up? Likely not, but she could hope. She shuffled away, waving to John and planning to somehow pay him back for all he’d done. She hoped, feeling a twinge of guilt, that he wouldn’t be in too much trouble.
Inside, maids bustled in and out of dark hallways. The day had turned stormy since her departure from the museum. She decided to find a fire to sit by and calm her thoughts, and keep a vigilant ear for the approaching steps of Ackworth, of course. Perhaps then she could make sense of Mr. Daveye’s leading her to this strange woman, and of his own sad end, over which she felt greatly troubled. Asking Mary to send tea up to the sitting room (which warranted a surprised look, since Mary was not used to receiving requests of any kind from her), she trod upstairs in her damp boots and cloak.
She spotted a few of Mr. Blackall’s criminal bunch from her prospect at the window, and again felt the desperation of her situation. Her allies were disappearing as soon as they made themselves known, and now that Mr. Daveye had gone, she was filled with a mortal fear, having seen firsthand the face of death. It was as if she was trapped in a surrounded fort, put upon by strange characters who were armed with weapons she didn’t understand.
Soon, a comfortable fire was lit and Annabelle, after enjoying some tea, dozed next to it. She’d mulled over the events of the day until her head ached, and despite the danger, felt she must take some solace in sleep. The small comforts of home were all that she had to make her feel safe now. To believe, at least for a short time, that the danger around her was only a dream. Another pang of guilt cut through her as she sat, enjoying comforts, recalling that Mr. Daveye lay cold, dead and alone.
CHAPTER 24
Blue Death, Corpse Pale
Annabelle woke with her head against the armchair’s back and her neck feeling terribly twisted and strained. The fire had burned down, but was still warm and provided faint light. She rubbed her eyes as the clock chimed seven in the evening. Discarding her blanket, she got up and walked blindly through dark hallways and stair wells, memory guiding where sight failed. The cool air was refreshing as she made her way down to the kitchens. She was still too sleepy to be afraid of the shadows, it’s blissful surrender still dominating her senses.
In the kitchens, she found Abby, the cook, and sat down to watch her chop cabbage. A biscuit lay on the table, and she picked at for a moment before saying anything. She knew that Abby was an encyclopedia of gossip, and always willing to spill it; so it seemed both reasonable and harmless to find out if she knew anything about the Gurza woman before trying anyone else.
“Abby?
” she said in a nonchalant tone.
“Aye, miss,” the cook answered flatly as her hands bustled busily about her duties.
“Do you...”
Annabelle paused.
“What?” Abby asked, sounding annoyed as she looked up from her work.
“Do you know anything about...”
Annabelle sighed deeply and paused again.
“What?” Abby barked at her. “What in hell do you wish to know? Spit it out, girl!”
“Do you know anything about a woman called Gurza? Maryone Gurza?”
Abby flinched, stopped her busy hands and looked up at Annabelle, her face askance. Her complexion turned pale and her eyes wide.
“Where did ye hear that name?” she asked in a scandalized whisper. “Why in the world would ye want to know about such a thing? Has Penny been telling tales again?”
The stout woman turned and spotted Penny, the thin-lipped, brunette scullery maid who shrunk skittishly beneath Abby’s pointed gaze. Annabelle assumed Abby’s outrage was likely due to her tendency to exaggerate. If she had a story to tell, she was the type to draw the affair out and milk it for all the drama it was worth.
“That harpy, that witch from the bowels of hell, burned ‘er whole house down,” Abby said. “Servants an’ all. She e’en took the neighbors. Fine, upstanding folk like your uncle.”
“Yes... I heard there was a fire,” Annabelle answered meekly.
Abby’s eyes bulged and her hands went straight to her hips.
“Yes, there was a fire,” she said, mocking Annabelle’s tone. “That story’s been told to babes for an hundred years or more. My own great granny worked in an ‘ouse just down the street from the old hag. Smelled the smoke of the fire, she did.”
Annabelle smiled embarrassedly, reminded of why she avoided conversation with the woman. Penny stopped just behind Abby on the way to the pantry to put in her own two pence. At the risk, it seemed to Annabelle, of great personal harm.
“They say she kilt the whole block,” Penny said in a bright-eyed, dramatic way. “With a flick of ‘er hand, or some spell, like. And all that, simply for being sore jealous o’er a man!”
“Hush, Penny! Ye’ve no idea,” Abby said, dismissing the maid’s input with a wave of her hand, then proceeding to tell the exact same information in her own words.
“T’was a tragic love story,” she said, beginning in a low, dramatized tone. “If one such as herself, evil witch as she was, may love. They say she were arse-ower-tit for some fancy man, some prince or somethin’. Mind ye, this madame were very, very beautiful, though I ne’er seen a likeness of ‘er. They say she had the kind o‘ beauty to break a man’s heart for lookin‘ at her. But anyway-” she silenced Penny from adding anything with a thrust of her elbow. “Anyway, she were in love quite violent-like wi‘ this man. An‘ he was said to be just as mad for her. But fate wouldn’t have it. There was a question of some other woman, and the Madame...”
Abby hesitated.
“Yes?” Annabelle said, hanging off her seat.
“Er,” Abby said, sighing. “The Madame...died. Quite sudden.”
“Kilt herself!” Penny said, bursting in over Abby’s shoulder.
Annabelle gasped, while two young kitchen hands could be heard sighing in the background. Abby ordered Penny off to fetch a few things from the pantry. And, after a moment of silence to allow the full affect to be absorbed, Abby continued, her eyes severe.
“But they say,” she said, “T’was not until she’d cast a powerful curse on those ‘round her, that they should not live or love while she perished. Some say it were a simple spell as caused the fire. While others said it were the curse itself that caused the blaze, that tore all those souls with her down into the pit.”
Annabelle swallowed gravely, feeling chilled to the bone.
“I-is that so?”
“Aye,” Abby said gravely, a look of deep satisfaction in her eyes. “They say her castle, a fine ancestral mansion, still stands.”
Seeing the terror in Annabelle’s eyes, Abby turned back to her work in an attitude of pure gratification.
“Is this all true?” Annabelle asked skeptically.
“Aye,” Abby said. “Folk ‘ave told of it since long before ye were born. Though you’ve clearly no obligation to believe the likes of me. If you like, look to your uncle’s library. He’s a book as tells all about that old witch.”
Annabelle was frightened, nervous and excited all at once. This book Abby spoke of sounded promising.
“Does he?” she said, feigning disinterest. “What is it called?”
“Hmm,” Abby said, her hands halting in the middle of forming a pie crust. “Can’t say as I know. But I do believe “sorcery” is in the title. Aye, that I know for sure.”
Annabelle sat a bit longer, processing the tale as Abby and the other kitchen hands rushed about. It was taking awhile to find her courage again. She felt weak and dizzy. Perhaps she should eat.
She savored a bowl of Abby’s stew, chewing slowly on the thick, soft pieces of potato and carrot, enjoying how they broke apart in her mouth amidst the rich, salty broth. As the sun disappeared completely, the kitchen slowed to a dim-lit hub of calm activity, the beating heart of Orenn House shutting down for the night; with the scent of hot meals lingering behind. She still didn’t relish the idea of running into Ackworth. So, she reluctantly abandoned the warmth of the kitchen to walk through the cold hallways once more. Now that she was fully awake, the dark corners of the house were frightening again, even more so these days, now that she knew Orenn wasn’t impenetrable, and she’d seen Ackworth’s true face. Passing places she’d never feared in the past sent an icy fear creeping up her back. Even the slightest noise made her jump.
She came upon a lit lantern forgotten in a quiet hallway and carried it up to her room. Setting it on the vanity, she took stock of her situation. It was clear that she hadn’t much time of safety left here at Orenn House, and that she must search her uncle’s library. She’d been lucky, so far, in her dealings with Ackworth. In truth, she couldn’t think why Ackworth’s hand of justice hadn’t fallen today.
She was horribly nervous to use the black candle, feeling she couldn’t handle seeing Ackworth by it’s light again. But she couldn’t penetrate her uncle’s library without it. She didn’t like it, not one bit; but she knew what she had to do.
She lit the black candle, and was at once engulfed in it’s strange blue glow. The eerie, unnatural light had become a source of comfort and alarm to her. Knowing she was hidden gave a sense of invincibility and safety, but the world she saw by its light frightened her, more and more each time she used it. She sensed something at it’s edges that glinted just beyond sight, something she could feel but not quite see. The landscape she saw by it’s light didn’t feel like the same place alternately lit, but a different world entirely.
She knew very well that her uncle would be furious with her if he found her in his private library. More furious than she could imagine, for she’d never dared do anything so forbidden before. She’d never seen inside of his library, not in all her life. It was a dark, private sanctum into which she’d never been permitted. But she had to do this. She had to follow the clues laid out before her by Mr. Daveye, despite the fear in her heart. She didn’t wish to disappear in a similar fashion to the poor Mr. Daveye, in some dark, lonely place, mourned only by questions.
So, she ventured through the house and down to the first floor cloaked in blue light, attempting to still her pounding anxiety and trembling limbs. Approaching the door to her uncle’s study, she gulped back the dread that rose in her throat like bile. The door was located at the end of a short hallway, one that led only to the study door, which was large and bordered by dark, engraved wood, with an intricately engraved arch depicting creatures of exotic kinds. The walls all about were dark. No lamps shed light in this place.
Touching the metal doorknob, she found, to her shock, that it was unlocked. It opened with a crack an
d she peered within. Seeing no one, she slipped inside. The study was grand and very large, encompassing several rooms. The ceilings were high with ornate moulding and shelves that reach all the way up. Everything was made of the finest, though dark and solemn in it’s design. There were ghastly-looking hunting trophies hanging from the walls, taxidermic creatures and strange artifacts all about.
Uncle Morton’s desk looked like a throne, grand and commanding with gold leaf details. It was fit for a prince. She passed by the assuming object, as if walking past a large, exotic animal.
The private library was adjoined to the study by an arched passageway. She crossed beneath it, finding that the library spanned three stories. It was a great, cylindrical room, and from the sight of the stars above her, it boasted large skylights. Luckily for her, it was lit generously by the moon, while the wide skylights provided a grand prospect of the night sky. Small clouds passed over the harvest moon as she watched, transfixed. But she must not allow herself to become distracted, the sooner she found what she needed, the sooner she could leave and find safety.
She sighed deeply as she realized just how many titles were contained in this ornate library. Books by the thousands covered the walls from floor to ceiling, and there were several levels, each reached by iron spiral stairways with railings decorated with thin, golden curlicues.
Running her fingers over nearby titles, she saw one that shocked her. In thick golden text, it read Occultic Rituals of the Ancient Druid. She re-read the title to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken. What a strange and dark book to possess. Why should her uncle own such a thing? She moved on to the next, and with shock and disbelief found more strange titles of the same ilk. Worship of the Orisha was the next that she read, followed by Book of the Dead, which sent a chill through her. Just what was her uncle up to, owning all these strange books?
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