“No,” I whispered.
“Since I was a child, they spared me and sent me to the workhouse in Edinburgh. Would have been a greater mercy to kill me. That’s all my father ever gave me.”
I inched toward her, waiting to see if she’d let me near. “I’m so sorry.”
“Do you know why I’ve told you all this?” She pushed her mane of red hair aside and held her chin up, and her eyes, though red, were dry. “Because I believe I can trust you. And I hate to keep secrets. You? You cherish yours.”
Stung, I said, “That’s not true.”
“You tried to hide those bloody things. Quite a botched job you made of it, too. When you wake in the morning, you dress in your lies and keep them close. One day you’ll wake and even you won’t know what the truth is.” She bunched her knees up to her chest. “So. Talk. Tell me.”
Humiliated, I stared at my folded hands. “Rook attacked someone. He—he told me the man deserved it.”
“All right.” Maria shrugged. “Thank you for telling me what I knew to begin with. But I don’t believe you’d do anything so improper as go into a lad’s room in the dead of night without a reason. Something drove you in there. What was it?”
God, she was crafty. The secret boiled up inside me. I wanted her to know about R’hlem, but Maria could hold it over me, torture me with it. No, I couldn’t trust her. I couldn’t trust anyone.
Rook needed to be protected; the truth would hurt him. Magnus was too wild, too free to keep such a secret. And Blackwood’s father was directly involved in my father’s becoming a monster, so how could I burden him? I…
I was alone, living life in a glass box: visible, but impossible to touch. I’d end up like Mickelmas, lying about his identity to his followers, lying to me about my own bloody past. Oh God.
Maria touched my shoulder as I buried my face in my hands. “Tell me,” she whispered. “What is it?”
The path diverged before me. Truth or lie. Safety or risk. I’d lied to Agrippa. Would I lie to his daughter?
I made my choice and told her everything.
Mickelmas and the astral plane. R’hlem’s revelation and Blackwood’s father. As the clocks chimed six, I kept talking. By the time I was done, Maria had gone so pale that her freckles stood out starkly.
“So you see,” I finished, “it was an interesting night.”
The truth sat between us like a living thing that could bite…or not.
“See why you’d be anxious,” she mused. My laughter translated as sort of violent hiccuping.
“No one can know.” I’d given this girl the key to my undoing. But when I looked in her eyes, I trusted her. Not because they were Agrippa’s eyes, but because they were Maria’s. She nodded.
“As someone who’s problems with her own father, I doubt I’ll be telling anyone.” She twisted a piece of hair. “What are you going to do about, well, R’hlem?”
I stared at my hands, knotting my fingers. “What would you do?”
“First instinct says you should keep as far away as you can get. But then again, he didn’t have to burn, or tell you about Mickelmas. If he told you the truth, he probably wants something. Be good to find out what that is.”
God, what was I supposed to do? “I’m caught in an impossible place.”
“You are.” Maria smiled. “But you needn’t be caught there alone. Trust in your strength, and trust in mine.”
We shook hands on it.
That evening I lay in bed, listening as the bells tolled the hour. My feet were blistered from a day of marching along the barrier. It was midnight, and Blackwood and I had only just got home from our patrol, so tired that we lurched upstairs to bed without even a good-night. The entire day had been spent tromping through ankle-deep mud, walking the entire perimeter to seek out any weaknesses. Whitechurch had made every available sorcerer do it, including me, even after my dawn patrol. I’d not been able to sit for hours on end. Painful as it was, I’d been glad for the distraction from my thoughts. I should have fallen instantly asleep, but sleep did not come.
Fear overrode tiredness.
The sachet of herbs remained on my vanity table, beside my ivory comb. Thought of the astral plane made my gut tighten, but Maria had made a point. He probably wants something. Be good to find out what that is.
As the twelfth and final bell echoed in the night, I closed my eyes. After a while, I began to drift until…
—
ONCE AGAIN, THE WORLD AROUND ME went gray, the mist neither cool nor warm. I waited for a full minute, every second shredding my nerves. Blast everything, where was he?
“You’re back.” That easy tone of his still took getting used to.
R’hlem waited patiently, his blood festooning yet another nice shirt. Instinct screamed at me to wake, but I forced myself to remain calm.
This was likely my only chance.
“I wanted to speak with William Howel,” I said.
His skinned face transformed on the instant, the muscles bunching, the tendons stretching. The lack of flesh, of a face, usually made his expressions difficult to read. But when his mouth split into a grin, it could only be joy.
“My child.” His arms opened to embrace me. I dodged away—when a flayed monster approaches, rational thought deserts you. Would my reaction make him angry? No, he only passed a gloved hand over the stripped and raw crown of his head. God, what a human gesture. “Of course, you’re still unsure. I beg pardon.”
I beg pardon. As though any of this were natural.
“I thought we could talk.” Damn, even I thought that sounded stilted. But R’hlem appeared eager.
“You spoke with the magician, then?” His voice sharpened at the mention of Mickelmas. But after what I’d seen, I completely understood why R’hlem didn’t care for the man.
How should I approach this? Yelling at him, telling him he was a bastard both seemed excellent paths to nowhere. I wanted to know his mind, and to do that, I’d have to create trust.
I’d no experience with parents. How had I watched Magnus with his mother? He had looked safe at home, secure in the love around him.
Make him want to protect me. Make him yearn to indulge me. I’d read of girls in novels who could twirl their fathers about their fingers. How did one accomplish such a thing?
First: be kind, but not too sweet. He’ll suspect something if I suddenly become all milk and honey.
“When did you know about me?” There—my voice was soft, uncertain. I forced myself to toy with the sleeve of my nightgown in what I hoped looked like artless fidgeting. Magnus had taught me to act more skillfully than I ever could have dreamed.
“The night you destroyed Korozoth.” There was no anger in his voice. “When you told me your name, I knew straightaway. Your mother honored my wishes.” He placed a hand over the blood-mottled shirt, right by his heart.
My mother, that long-lost picture on my aunt’s mantel of a woman with golden hair.
“You told her to name me Henrietta?” I asked.
“I wanted my child named after my brother, Henry.” Henry. Yes, Mickelmas had thought that name several times in his vision. R’hlem put a finger to his fleshless lips, and that burning eye, the one that haunted my dreams, shone. “Now I can see the resemblance so clearly. You look like him, tall and dark. You even have his way of holding himself.”
“I thought I looked more like you,” I replied. Misstep. He pulled away, receded from me.
“No, I don’t want to think of you as that fool William Howel.” His words were twisted by bitterness.
“But you’re William Howel.” I disguised my fear with a laugh.
“That man is dead.”
The connection between us snapped. Damn. What should I try next? Ask about my uncle? No, there had to be a reason Aunt Agnes had kept him secret. And I shouldn’t bring up my aunt—God knew what R’hlem thought of her. The one person from our past whom he cared for, unequivocally, was…
“What about my mother?”
>
Though this was my first step on the journey to gaining his trust—to twisting him about my finger—I couldn’t help how much I wanted that answer. It burned inside me, and the calculating part of me had to admire how well I’d done. R’hlem’s shoulders relaxed.
“There are flashes of her in you.” He drew nearer, and I let him. Slowly, he put the very tip of his fingers onto my cheek. I could feel the ruined texture of the blood-soaked leather. “Only my Helen’s girl would be so bold as to meet me here.”
“I’m not afraid now.” I forced myself to mean it. There, the trembling in his fingers told me I’d hit right. Victory.
“Good.” The word escaped him, quick and hushed. It was born out of deep feeling.
Mickelmas had told me once that my father had been more impulsive and emotional than I. It seemed as though it could be true, though I wasn’t about to become easy with him. Not yet.
“There.” He removed his hand. “That slight furrowing of your brow—that’s your mother through and through.”
“What was she like?” I’d drawn up my picture of her—demure and smiling, the model of a perfect companion.
“Surprising.” He grinned, the skinned gums a bit disorienting. “No one could tell Helena her mind. We eloped, you know, under cover of night, like Shelley and that girl of his had a few years earlier. We even met in a churchyard—my romantic touch.” He spread out his hands, setting the scene. “There I was, standing in the pitch black because I’d sworn there’d be a moon, and of course there was none. I’d a threadbare coat, no hat because I’d forgot it in my excitement, but…” Here he laughed. “But I did remember to bring a copy of Shelley’s ‘Love’s Philosophy’ to read as we eloped. I couldn’t bloody see it with no moon, so I tried reciting from memory as we banged into headstones looking for the gate.”
I put a hand to my mouth to keep from laughing.
“Helen had no time for grand gestures—she couldn’t carry her bags very far, and her hair was damp with the night mist. She caught cold two days later and wouldn’t let me hear the end of it during the coach ride down to Devon. Naturally, I had to read aloud ‘Love’s Philosophy’ over and over again just to vex her.” He laughed heartily.
My parents had eloped? Aunt Agnes had said Mother’s merchant family didn’t approve of her marrying a poor solicitor, but she hadn’t told me this. And I loved that my mother had been more concerned with dry hair than poetry by moonlight. For the first time in my life, I felt that she was a part of me, that she would have understood me. And for the first time, I knew what it felt like to miss her, not just long for her.
“I didn’t want you to cry,” R’hlem said, his voice gentle.
Yes, I could feel the tears on my cheeks. I shouldn’t have brought up my mother; now I was too emotional to continue. Too easy to trip up and make a mistake.
“I have to go. I—I need to rest,” I stammered.
“You’ve been patrolling for the sorcerers.” He said it with bitterness. Don’t respond. “That’s bound to tire you out. But I will see you again.”
His certainty chilled me.
The sound of bells began through the mist. Dong. Dong. Ding ding. Dong. Ding ding ding. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Just as I’d heard them last night.
“Yes. You will.” Then, without promising more, I left.
—
THE WORLD OUTSIDE MY WINDOW WAS pitch black. A bit groggy, I went to my vanity to take the sachet. Might as well try for a few hours’ sleep if I could. As I tumbled back into bed, the herbs in hand, something bothered me. I couldn’t place it as I lay down…until I listened.
There was only silence outside. No church bells ringing whatsoever. But they’d been tolling when I’d woken….
I sat upright in bed, considering. The bells I’d heard hadn’t been ringing in London, but rather wherever R’hlem was. It shouldn’t have surprised me. After all, we could touch each other on the astral plane. Why couldn’t sound carry as well?
Quickly, I ran to my desk and wrote down what I could recall of the bells’ pattern. Attack. South. Ancient. Molochoron.
Forget knowing his mind; R’hlem had potentially given me something much more vital than that, and he didn’t even know it.
Unlike the lesser Ancients, R’hlem did not choose to display himself much on the battlefield. If he emerged, it was after the fighting was done so that he could creatively flay and dismember the unfortunate survivors. Pinpointing his exact location had been slippery, to say the least.
Knowing where Molochoron was, perhaps we could uncover R’hlem’s location as well. Then, if we moved fast, perhaps we could attack with the weapons and—
Are you truly prepared to kill your own father?
There was no good answer for that thought, save for the knot in my stomach.
—
WHEN THE MORNING CAME, I’D BEEN awake for hours. I needed to speak with Blackwood at once to discuss the bell patterns, though I’d have to be smart in how I went about it. I didn’t want him to know everything that had happened—not just yet.
He wasn’t at breakfast, which was odd. Eliza drank a hasty cup of tea, toying with the half-eaten toast on her plate. Tonight was her debut; she should have been excited. The past few days, there’d barely been a moment’s rest in the house. Bushels of roses and flares of orchids were artfully arranged throughout the halls. Rugs had been taken up, furniture had been moved, floors had been waxed and scrubbed, and through it all Eliza had sat as quiet as the eye of the storm.
Since the shouting match with Blackwood, we hadn’t heard a word about Aubrey Foxglove.
“Are you ready for tonight?” I asked, taking some eggs and keeping an eye on the door for Blackwood.
“I’m nervous,” she said. But she looked rather resigned. I should have done more to argue in her corner against the engagement. Perhaps Blackwood could still be reasoned with.
“I’ll speak to your brother about Foxglove,” I said. Eliza looked up, as if properly noticing me for the first time that day.
“You’re sweet.” She chewed on her bottom lip, the first hint of nerves. “I’ll have something to tell you later.”
Mysterious. “Why not now?”
The clock struck eight, and Eliza pushed her chair back.
“The timing’s not right. Later, I promise.” She left the room. Odd. I would never understand the Blackwood family.
He never came to breakfast, and I skirted around the servants as they continued their whirl of preparation for the ball. Great rows of beeswax candles were being lit in the chandeliers and planted all along the walls and tables. Ivy symbolizing Sorrow-Fell decorated the staircase banisters, and faerie lights softly glowed among the tendrils. The Blackwood mansion would be the best-lit building in the city.
Blackwood wasn’t in his study or the parlor. The thought occurred that he’d be at practice, but it wasn’t like him to miss a meal for it. As I walked toward the obsidian room, I noticed that the air felt…off. Thick, somehow. Strange noises emanated from behind the obsidian room’s door: high, keening whining like a dog’s, followed by a grunting, grinding echo.
Gooseflesh spread over my arms. Pushing in, I discovered Blackwood with one of the swords in his hands.
He’d removed his coat and cravat and undone the top buttons of his shirt, the front of which was damp with sweat. Going into a deep crouch, his legs shook ever so slightly—he was tired. Had he even been to bed? He raised the sword perfectly over his shoulder, arms prepared for a mighty swing, and twisted the blade counterclockwise as he went. The deep, unsettling whine sounded once more.
He finally noticed me in the room’s black reflection. “What are you doing here?” He placed the sword against the wall, and the obsidian warped when the metal made contact.
Whatever these weapons were, they were against the rules of this place. Blackwood’s appearance reflected that: his eyes were glassy. His normally pale skin was red and blotchy at his face and neck.
I nodded at the weapo
ns—the sword by the wall, the coil of the whip on a small table. “What are you doing here?”
“Practicing.” He picked up a cloth from the table and wiped his face.
“Mickelmas warned us.” I noted how he watched the weapons out of the corner of his eye, rather like a dragon guarding its hoard.
“You don’t get stronger without practice.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes closed. Putting down the weapon had drained the bright color from his face; he looked exhausted. Tossing the towel aside, he picked up the whip. Sparks exploded as he cracked it twice.
I noticed a pile of books on the other side of the table. Pulling the stack closer, I recognized them from his father’s private study. As I flipped the pages, I discovered small, fine handwriting in the margins.
“You’ve been making notes.” I turned the book to him. Blackwood glanced quickly.
“My father wrote those. He was obsessed with magician craft.” Crack. He handled the whip with the air of an expert. “He was a bastard, but ahead of his time. He recognized the importance of mastering these forces.” Crack again.
Mastering was a word Charles Blackwood would have used, not his son.
“You should be careful with what you find.”
“When we go up against R’hlem, I want to be ready.” The idea made me ill. Blackwood stopped, the whip coiling limp at his feet. “He killed my father, you know.” He said it quietly, an admission. “Skinned him alive. When they brought the body back, Mother wouldn’t let Eliza or me look.”
Dear God.
“So you want revenge.” I understood.
“No.” That haunted look crept over his face once more. “I want to be the one who wins.” He cracked the whip again, and again, and again. Each time, the magic washed over my body, soaking my skin. Rolling the whip up, he placed it back on the table and traced his fingers over the handle, a loving caress. “I found myself in the parlor yesterday evening, looking up at Father’s portrait.”
Yes, I knew the one. It looked disarmingly like Blackwood himself, only with an easier smile. “He never noticed me when I was a child. I think the first time he truly looked at me was the day he went off to die. He seemed to know it, too; that spurred him to tell me what he’d done. He passed the burden of our family shame onto an eight-year-old boy. Do you know what he said then?” Blackwood closed his eyes. “His final words were ‘Try not to be so disappointing, George.’ ”
A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire, Book Two) Page 21