Waltz of the Crows

by L Rollins

  The sick and dying, packed in room after room of what used to be an elegant castle. Some had red rashes across their cheeks and hands. Others seemed only able to move one leg or arm, the other hanging at a strange angle. On more than one patient, he’d seen dark traces of dried blood around ears and at the corners of mouths.

  Samuel shuttered and started the motorcar. Even when aboard a submarine pirated by werewolves, he’d never walked through a place with such an air of eerie danger. At least then he’d clearly understood who was threatening his life and what he could do about it. But not here. A disease of unknown origin wasn’t something he knew how to fight.

  It only strengthened his resolve.

  His sister could not stay here any longer.

  Throwing his motorcar into gear, he sped away from the haunting halls of the castle, flew through town, and over the small bridge which led to his family’s lands. The Rowleys had been in Conques nearly as long as Monsieur Claude Martin’s family, who’d ruled the area many generations ago.

  Samuel pushed the pedal down harder, wind whistling by his head. How exactly was he going to convince Amelia to leave? She loved this land. But he wasn’t going to sit back and wait for her to collapse or convulse like the man he’d helped into the hospital.

  The nurse who’d flagged him down was shorter than Amelia and had clearly cared a great deal for the large man she was trying to help. Were they friends? What would that be like to see someone important to you fall into insanity?

  The smells traveling atop the wind changed, bringing closer the sweet smells of home: plum trees and his mother’s particular recipe for soap.

  Was forcing Amelia away from home truly for the best? So far, she’d remained healthy. Supposedly, anyway. She’d reassured him quite forcibly in more than one letter that she was the epitome of health. But, then again, Amelia never was one to quibble about being ill. She very well could be hiding many a symptom behind her pen.

  But no. He’d only spent ten minutes inside the castle and the vast number of ill had shaken him to his very bones. Conques was no longer safe for anyone.

  It was only a half hour drive from the castle to his home, a lone cottage set well back on his family’s land. Pulling up, Samuel caught sight of Amelia, beating rugs hanging on the line.

  Her arm stopped, mid beat, as she caught sight of his motorcar. A grin split her face as she dropped the wicker paddle and ran toward him.

  Samuel had only barely enough time to climb out of his motorcar before her arms were around him. Picking up his sister, he twirled her around and around. Her laughter filled his ears bringing with it a sudden homesickness which crashed against his heart like a rolling ocean wave. She’d grown since last he’d been home. Lud, how long had it been? Three, nearly four years?

  Guilt pricked at his chest and he set Amelia’s feet back on the ground, but he didn’t let her go. “Sorry it has taken me so long to get home.”

  She squeezed him tight and then stepped back. Her hair was darker, too, than when he’d left, and her skin was tan, no doubt from hours in the sun. But her eyes were the same rich chocolate brown as always. “I was beginning to believe you’d stowed away on another submarine somewhere to avoid returning.”

  Gads, he’d even missed her voice. “For one who thought she’d never see her charming older brother again, you don’t appear to have been crying much.” Conversing in French again—well, it was like returning to a beloved hideaway. One part thrill, one part nostalgia.

  She waved a dismissive hand and walked back toward the rugs. Her long skirt swished around her as she moved. Hadn’t Maman once worn that very skirt? Amelia was all grown up now. Was the orchard not producing enough for her to purchase new things?

  “How is the orchard faring?” Samuel asked, his tone even.

  “This will be our biggest crop yet,” Amelia said. “I traveled to Paris last fall, just after the harvest, and did a bit of researching.”

  She picked up the paddle once more, but Samuel wordlessly took it from her hand and began beating the rugs so she could continue her narrative. He’d been away from home long enough. It was time she didn’t have to run the orchard alone anymore.

  “I found myself in the back corner of an old library,” Amelia said. “I learned so many wondrous things. For example, arsenic makes bronze harder.”

  She pulled one rug off the line and slid another one toward him. “Turquoise was a favorite of dead pharaohs. Mercury dyes nearly everything red. And, most importantly”—her voice rose with enthusiasm—“soil high in potassium helps trees to produce more and plumper fruit. Just wait until you see the trees. Already they’re laden down.”

  Samuel hit the rug with one last, powerful whamp. Amelia had always loved the orchard, but that didn’t make staying safe. He stepped back from the rug and faced her fully.

  Amelia’s face glowed with excitement for this year’s harvest. It made his heart hurt to see her so happy, knowing it couldn’t last.

  “Amelia,” he started, placing the tip of the paddle against the ground and resting some of his weight on it. “I didn’t just come to help with the orchard.”

  She eyed him. “What spontaneous plan have you concocted now?”

  It was better said and out, than held back and misunderstood. “I’ve come to bring you back to England.”

  She rolled her eyes, and it brought with it more memories than Samuel could count. “You know I can’t visit England this time of year. With the plums coming on more fat than usual, I’ve had to thin the trees quite aggressively. I’m only two-thirds of the way done.”

  “I’m not talking about a visit.”

  Her smile dropped fully away, her mouth grew tight, and her jaw tensed. Yanking the last couple of rugs down off the line, she marched toward the house.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  Samuel grumbled but followed after her. Though she didn’t hold the door for him, she didn’t slam it behind her either. Samuel nudged the door, swinging it softly on its hinges, and stepped inside.

  Memories swelled up before him. Maman cooking dinner over the fire. Papa whittling during the winter. The sound of Samuel’s first pair of boots as he trudged down the narrow stairs from the loft that had served as his room. Amelia and her close friends huddled around their cross-stitch whispering secrets, which they inevitably refused to share with him.

  This was home.

  Gads, but it had been a long time. He’d almost forgotten about the small stool which occupied one corner, or the way Grand’Mere’s ladle was warped slightly from three generations of use.

  Amelia stomped toward the fireplace, the heart of any home, and rigorously stirred whatever was in the pot. It smelled like beef stew, but not the kind Maman used to make.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. Her tone was soft, but he could still hear the tightness in the way her words clipped at the end. “It’s not exactly the way Maman used to make it, but I think it’s quite good.”

  He nodded, his mind still muddled with memories of his childhood. “It smells different.”

  “Natalie, one of the nurses, taught me all about sweating vegetables. Then I tailored her suggestions, of course.”

  “I’d love some,” Samuel said as he lowered himself down at the table. Amelia never did anything exactly the way others told her to. She tweaked everything she made until it was irrevocably hers—her own creation, her own way of doing things.

  Their father had passed on barely twenty-six months prior and already Amelia had made the orchard her own.

  But the unnamed disease had made Conques its own, too.

  “Amelia,” Samuel tried again, stirring his stew slowly. “You can’t stay here. It isn’t safe.”

  She blew on the chunk of carrot atop her spoon, but then placed it back in the bowl before even touching it to her lips. “I know it’s dangerous to stay. But this is our home.”

  Samuel’s gaze dropped to her skirt. Sitting directly beside his sister, he could see where she’d tried
to patch up seams and worn through spots.

  “Tell me truthfully, then. How are the finances?”

  Amelia pushed her bowl away and folded her arms across the table. “Not good.” She turned suddenly and faced him fully. “But once the waltzing flu clears up, all will be well.”

  “The waltzing flu?”

  She shrugged with one shoulder only. “That’s what everyone’s calling it.”

  Samuel had no idea why the horrid disease would be given such a sweet-sounding name.

  Amelia must have seen his confusion, for she continued. “It makes its victims twitch in a way similar to a dance. Moreover, it spreads from one person to the next like it’s waltzing through town.”

  “Charming.” Samuel wasn’t sure he had much of an appetite anymore, and he joined his sister in pushing his bowl toward the center of the table.

  In the end it didn’t matter what folks called the disease. After all he had seen at the castle today, he could not allow his sister to stay. “I’ll look over the books tonight. We’ll need all you’ve managed to save to start over again in England. Luckily, my last voyage was lucrative.”

  Beside him, Amelia stiffened. He didn’t blame her for feeling overwhelmed at the idea. It was a daunting thought. They were the only family either of them had left. Granted, Nathaniel Hopkins, his closest mate, would be willing to help them get settled. But he was busy with his own family and new wife, and, if Samuel didn’t miss the mark, Nathaniel would soon be welcoming a new addition to the Hopkins family.

  He didn’t want to burden them just now with his own family’s woes. No, it would be tough, but he and Amelia would find a way to make it work.

  Amelia’s hand on his forearm brought him back. She looked him directly in the eye.

  Her voice was low and firm. “I’m not leaving.”

  How could she say as much? Had she no sense of self-preservation? He’d only been back in Conques less than a day and he was already itching to leave. He gave her a good look.

  Oh, that wasn’t uncertainty in her set jaw and narrow brow, that was determination bordering on obstinacy.

  “Have you seen them? The sick and dying?” he asked, not bothering to keep the derision from his tone. “That could be you. It will be you if you stay.”

  Her brow dropped. Out of all the memories he’d been experiencing that day, the ones that rushed at him now reminded him of just how stubborn Amelia could be. When she set her mind to something, not even the very winds of a hurricane could blow her off course.

  “When Papa died, and you were out at sea, I was alone. There was no one to help me figure out the books. No one to show me how to thin the trees or haggle deals with buyers.”

  Samuel’s guilt returned full force. It twisted his stomach and brought a bitter taste to his mouth. “I am so sorry—”

  She cut him off with a hand. “I’m not mad at you. You were halfway around the world. I understand you couldn’t be here. But I need you to understand—this land is what got me through that time. It is as much my family now as you are. I can’t abandon it.”

  She’d always been more attached to this place than he’d been. Growing up, he had counted down the days until he was old enough to enlist aboard a ship and sail far, far away. Amelia had never dreamed past the fence posts surrounding the trees.

  She was happy there. And he knew enough from the letters he’d received from her the past few years to understand how good she was at running the family business, too.

  Could he truly force her away from home?

  She was an adult, after all, and able to weigh the risks she was willing, or unwilling, to take.

  Samuel placed a hand atop hers. “I should have been here.”

  “Samuel, I’m not trying to make you feel—”

  “I mean it. I should have been here. You’ve been doing this on your own for quite some time now. But no more.” He patted her hand underneath his. “Put me to work. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  She watched him, her eyes taking in each movement of his hands and mouth as he pulled his bowl back toward him and began eating.

  “You mean it?” she asked tentatively. “You’re not going to force me to leave?”

  He swallowed a bite of potato. Lud, the stew was good. “I’ve met many people the past few years. One of whom instilled in me the clear understanding that a woman should never be made to go anywhere she doesn’t care to, or with anyone she doesn’t care to be with.”

  The corner of her lips twitched in an almost-smile. “I’m glad someone was there to educate you aboard the submarine, even if I wasn’t.”

  Samuel chuckled softly and shook his head. He missed his friends aboard the Gearhound. The sooner Amelia put him to work, the better. He’d learned as a young boy that busy hands often eased a lonely heart.

  “The orchards are all doing very well. But”—she glanced over at him—“there isn’t any savings. Even if we wanted to start over, we couldn’t.”

  No surprise there. No one was buying from Conques for fear of contaminated fruit. He had money, but that wasn’t the point. Amelia had her heart set on staying, and he was set on being a better older brother.

  What he needed now, was something to do. “Do you suppose there are jobs available for able-bodied men?”

  Amelia’s voice didn’t lighten. “There are more of those to be had than you know, with so many ailing.”

  “Then fear not, dear sister,” Samuel said. “Your noble elder brother shall save the day with glorious gifts of gold and silver, earned through back-breaking labor, made easy by his envious physique.”

  A small smile cracked through her serious concern. “You mean his pale physique.”

  “There’s not much sun to be had on a submarine. But I assure you, what I lack in tanned color, I make up for in sheer power.” He waved his spoon in the air as he spoke.

  Amelia chuckled. “It’s good to have you home again.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her to him.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get through this.”

  It was good, very good, to be home once more, no matter how dangerous of a place it had become.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LEILA HALES SLIPPED back into the old morning room. Patients snoozed all around. Two nurses slowly walked up and down, between the beds, checking temperatures and closely watching the more ill patients. So long as no one took a turn for the worse, she wouldn’t be taking anyone to Crow’s Hall tonight, where the insane patients were kept.

  Victor Winstone was no longer in the same bed he had occupied that afternoon. Of course, not one of the nurses or servants living at the castle knew him as Victor Winstone. They all believed his name to be Randall Crept. Leila had never liked the name Randall, but she supposed cover names weren’t meant to impress anyone.

  With the gas lamps turned low, none of the other nurses seemed to notice her. Careful to stay hidden in the shadows, Leila slipped close to the bed which was her objective.

  The bed was empty, thankfully. Leila kept a close eye on the two nurses as she began running her hand up and down the post Victor had tapped earlier that day.

  Perhaps she ought to think of him as Randall, instead of Victor. If she were to ever slip and let his true identity out, she’d jeopardize far more than her career. Blessedly, her superiors had deemed it best for her to go by her true name, Leila, since she wasn’t trained fully in donning a new identity. However, she couldn’t careen around as a Hales. Her family was quite well known in the upper echelons in London.

  Here in Conques, she was simply Leila Bartel. Yet another unpleasant name, but that was life as a spy.

  The top cap of the post was secured tightly, as was the bottom. She ran her hands all up and down the post, but nothing was tied or in any other way secured to the post.

  Blast. Where had he put the message? She knew he had one for her. Victor had recruited her after she proved helpful in one of his previous assignments. He trusted her. Sh
e couldn’t fail him now.

  His trust was the only reason her superiors had even considered allowing her to be the one to come and check on him when he hadn’t reported in as prearranged.

  That, and her position as the youngest sister in a family of six women. Her name might be well known in French society, but her face was not, making it easy for her to assume an identity as a nurse.

  Where had Victor hid the stupid paper? Leila wanted to hit the post.

  One of the nurses, wax candlestick in hand, strolled down the aisle between the beds, checking each of the patients along her way. Leila dropped to the floor and, lying on her stomach, pushed herself halfway under the bed.

  How in heaven’s name would she ever explain herself if she were caught? This was exactly what training was supposed to teach her—how to make up believable stories on the spot—but she hadn’t gotten that far when she’d overheard the whispered conversation between her superiors that Victor hadn’t checked in and could very well be in trouble.

  Now she was in France and there was no one to help feed her a good solution if she couldn’t think fast enough herself.

  The nurse stopped by the bed directly across from where Leila was hiding. She leaned over the patient, placing a hand on the young child’s forehead.

  Firelight from the candle danced around the room. Directly in front of Leila, along the beam which ran between posts, the light glinted off a thin strip of metal wire. Leila glanced at the beds around her. No other bed had a small metal wire across the foot board beam.

  She waited until the nurse moved further down the aisle, then she reached out with a single hand, not daring to move from her hiding place unless absolutely necessary, and unwound the wire from the beam.

  Really, Victor ought to have tapped the beam, not the post.

  It was not as though the beam and the post were the same thing. Gracious, if the light had not flickered off the thin metal wiring, she might never have found it.

  She wound the wire into a series of loops and slipped it into her dress pocket. Peaking around the corner of the bed, she watched the two nurses for a moment. They were busy discussing something, heads bent together so as not to wake any of the patients.