The room was much the same as it had been before. Mr. Whatley’s chest glowed nearly as luminously as the alabaster statues that lined the walls of the first part of his collection. He continued on, past the glass portraits that led to real places, a room of trees that changed seasons every few seconds, fountains built out of water that flowed with streams of liquid marble, until we reached the end and turned in to a high alcove that resembled a cathedral, with vaulted ceilings and a bed at the far end that was like an altar. It was quite grandiose and ridiculous, but at the same time perfectly appropriate for someone of his character.
“Would you care to see my true collection?”
“That wasn’t it?”
“Of course not. A true collector keeps the rarest items private.” He walked to the wall behind the bed and found a hidden panel that opened a secret door. He slid inside, his features disappearing into shadow. I followed him, for I knew that he would not harm me. He would not end our game without a grander confrontation; of that much I was certain.
The secret room was a miniature version of the library, but instead of books it held a wide variety of people, each of them standing motionless on a labeled pedestal, their eyes closed as if they were sleeping, waiting to be stirred from a long, sad dream. There were men and women, old and young, beautiful and plain, of various colors and sizes, something different for every occasion. It did not take me long to find Lily, positioned at the center of the display like a living doll, her chin resting on her chest. At the sight of her my face grew flushed with anger.
This is where she sleeps. I had imagined her in another wing of the house, perhaps in a room adjacent to Olivia’s or, as I already had a sense of Mr. Whatley’s true character, one that was convenient to his own.
“What do you think?” Mr. Whatley’s eyes, normally black and soulless, shimmered an inhuman silver-green in the dark of the room.
“It’s disgusting.” I spoke between clenched teeth.
“Perhaps a little. But all completely voluntary.”
“That’s even worse.”
“They’re all people of exceptional character. They did what they had to do in order to get what they wanted most.”
“Which was what?”
“That depends. They all had different desires. What is it that you want most, Mrs. Markham?”
“To free her.” I gestured to Lily. “And to beat you.”
Mr. Whatley chuckled, the sound of it reverberating through the room. “You are hardly alone with the latter sentiment. Living humans in The Ending have begun to make Mr. Ashby’s friends uncomfortable.”
“I do not intend to stay after I’ve stopped you.”
He raised an eyebrow, and the perpetual smirk stuck on his face twisted into one of greed. “Are you so certain of yourself?”
“You don’t frighten me.”
“Perhaps I should.” He came closer to me, close enough to brush a strand of hair away from my face, which he did with his large hand. His touch was different from Henry’s—rougher and empty of any emotion, but possessed with a power, like his voice and his eyes, that made me want to fall into him and pull away at the same time. I did not dare to move.
“Everything I’ve ever loved has been taken from me, piece by piece, year by year, to place me where I now stand. I have nothing left to fear.”
“You think yourself very clever, yet I am older than you could imagine and that much more powerful. The only thing you have that I do not is a death, which some might consider a disadvantage. Do you think this will end well?”
“Not for you.”
“I’m not afraid to lose so long as everyone else does. You’d do well to remember that, Mrs. Markham”
“But that’s not how the story goes. Someone has to win.”
“Indeed. But whose story is it? Yours or mine?”
“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.” I turned away from him, confident that he would not do me any physical harm while my back was turned, and moved toward the door.
“Best of luck to you, Mrs. Markham. I can’t wait to see what will happen next.”
I walked the entire length of the long room feeling his gaze at my back, unwilling to turn around to see if he was following me. I reached the door to the library and closed it behind me. The place had lost all the comfort that it once offered. I returned to my room, but not before checking once on the boys to make sure they were still comfortably asleep in their beds, unthinking and unworried about what their mother might have done in order to see them again.
I lifted the smoke-colored phial and the iron key from where I had left them on my bed and stood before my bedroom door. I recalled the words of Mr. Cornelius.
One turn in any lock will send for me.
I inserted the key into the lock and turned. The door opened into a dank, chilly room with walls covered in a hard, emerald film. A shape appeared on the ceiling, and Mr. Cornelius scuttled down the wall to greet me, the feelers behind his beard formed into a smile.
“Mrs. Markham.”
“There is a room in the House of Darkling where those who so desire might taste a human death. Is that the proof you require?” I handed him the phial labeled DISMEMBERED.
“It should do nicely.” He tucked it into his beard and turned, pressing his flat face against the wall, pincers emerging from the graying tendrils of his facial hair to work into the glossy green surface, cutting and slicing at it until a chunk broke away into the stout trunk-like appendages he used as hands. He held it out to me. “A token of protection.”
It was a clear disk of petrified green amber, with a single glyph scratched into it.
“What do I do with it?”
“Keep it close. Do be careful, Mrs. Markham. He won’t like this, not one bit.” He escorted me back to the door.
“Let it never be said that I’m an unworthy opponent.”
We parted company, and when I attempted to retrieve the iron key from the lock of my door, I was not surprised to find it missing. Our bargain had been completed, and I was once again on my own. I crawled into bed clutching the green amber disk to my breast, and for the first time in all our visits to Darkling, I slept peacefully.
CHAPTER 15
The Christmas Guest
Winter finally descended upon Blackfield a few days later. The barren branches of the forest became gloved in white snow, stretched out beneath the pale gray sky and arranged around the glass shores of the lake in a frozen ballet bereft of movement or song, dormant until spring, when the ice would melt and stream off of them, their forms glistening from the extended concentration of holding a single pose all season long.
But the villagers themselves would not be forced into hibernation. Indeed, the winter months were some of the busiest of the year. After the bazaar there were dinner parties and special church services, winter markets and quilting circles, not to mention the grandest event of all: the Blackfield Christmas Ball.
It was not really a ball so much as it was a local dance festival, but since it was held in the home of Cornelia Reese it could not be called anything else, nor discussed without the highest reverence, at least not within the presence of Mrs. Reese. The Reeses lived in the largest house in the village, and although it was only slightly bigger than Everton, that was enough for Mrs. Reese to declare it the only proper place to hold such an event, for it could accommodate the entire population of Blackfield. There was nothing the woman liked more than to take pity upon the poor dregs of society, the common folk who were not so well off as she, so that they might know, for at least one evening, some happiness in their sad and dreary lives. Despite this fact, or perhaps because of it, the people of Blackfield had no problem converging upon the Reese estate, which was called Arkham Hall, and conversing very loudly among themselves about how dreary the interiors had become since the previous year, all the while piling copious amounts of fo
od into their mouths and purses, completely willing to play along with Cornelia so long as they could take advantage of her generosity. After all, a party was a party.
That afternoon I cornered James after our lessons and threw him over my shoulder. He giggled and kicked his legs, always a willing participant in any sort of violence, but he did not pass up the opportunity to make a scene.
“Help! I’m being murdered!”
This was in very bad taste, considering what had happened to Nanny Prum. Fortunately Paul was old enough to be aware of such sensitivities and swatted his brother on the back of the head as we left the schoolroom. James, like many little boys of similar temperament, did not care for the idea of a bath. There were too many mud puddles to splash through, too many frogs to capture, too many trees to climb to bother with such provincial chores as bathing. However, once submerged in water, after the thrashing of arms and legs subsided, he was quite at home being naked and wet, imagining himself to be a fish and slipping through my hands as I struggled to soap him up.
When we finished I carried him back to his room, careful not to let him out of my sight before we left the house. Paul was nearly finished getting dressed, meticulously combing his dark hair. I was glad that Lily could not see him then. It wouldn’t be long before he would be a young man, no longer requiring the services of a governess or a nanny. I placed James into his brother’s care as I began my own preparations for the evening, and threatened him with Indian curses if he did anything to undo my work with his brother’s appearance.
For myself I sat before the mirror and released my hair from the top of my head, smoothing it out with a brush and pinning it back into place with small jeweled pins that were once my mother’s. That evening she did not appear in my reflection. I put aside my governess’s uniform and stepped into an evening gown the color of deep midnight, the corset flecked with silver beads that gave the impression of stars in the night sky.
Just before dusk the children and I met Mr. Darrow in the foyer of Everton. His mood was unreadable, as he did not meet my gaze, but he had done a reasonable job of dressing himself for the occasion. His blond hair had been slicked back so that it did not hide his handsome blue eyes, and he wore a dark suit with a cream-colored vest and a deep blue tie that coincidentally matched the color of my gown. I doubted that he noticed, but I would not be the one to make mention of it. I was merely the governess.
Mrs. Mulbus and Jenny had already departed to prepare for the evening’s festivities, and the other servants left the house in packs, wearing heavy coats over their finest dresses and suits. Even Mrs. Norman looked mildly less dreary than normal, wearing a feathered hat that made her resemble something like a peacock. She was escorted out of the house by old Fredricks, who secreted away a small silver flask in the folds of his jacket with the hand that was not holding Mrs. Norman’s.
Roland brought a covered carriage around to the door and helped us inside. The boys immediately sat on the same side of the vehicle, forcing Mr. Darrow and me to sit uncomfortably beside one another. Fortunately the trip was a short one, and soon we were pulling into the modest driveway of Arkham Hall.
While the house might have been only slightly larger than Everton, it was better kept and much more ornate. Cornelia Reese still traveled to the city with some regularity to maintain her social calendar, and she always returned with a small caravan of antique dealers and artists to fortify the appearance of whatever room had lost her good favor.
Our carriage pulled around a marble fountain meant to emulate the antiquities of ancient Rome. It was a ghastly thing, with streams of water pouring out of eye sockets and battle wounds, but very appropriate for the home of Cornelia Reese. One of the footmen helped me out of the carriage, and with James’s hand secured into my own, I entered the foyer of the house.
The festivities had already begun to pour out of the ballroom, with red-faced guests standing in the hallways, glasses of wine in hand, all of them talking much too loudly over one another. Backs were patted, hands were placed in front of peals of laughter as one party made a wry observation about another, and certain gentlemen made untoward advances that their wives would not soon forget. There were also plenty of children threading through the throngs of adults, and it took James very little time to find a playmate suitable to warrant his escape from my supervision. He ran off into the crowd, but not before turning back to deliver a devilish sort of grin. I knew then that it was going to be a trying evening.
The ballroom was tall and narrow, with a promenade along the second floor that allowed those not inclined to dance to observe and enjoy those who were. I looked out over the crowd, and a feeling of hopelessness descended upon me. The villagers seemed so happy to be together, and I dreaded the thought of something happening to disrupt that. If I could not stop Mr. Whatley, which of them might be next?
I found Mr. Scott; he had done his best to tame his hair for the occasion, but it still floated over his head with wispy abandon.
“I hope you’ve sorted out your problem with spirits?” he said with some difficulty over the volume of the music, for there was a small orchestra playing beneath us.
“I am sad to say that I have not.”
“Ah, so James remains curious?”
“Belligerently so.”
The vicar nodded knowingly.
“The boy reminds me of myself. I too have always been curious about such affairs, which prompted my entrance into the servitude of the Lord.” He smiled, impressed by his own piety, but then faltered at his pride. He went on. “I have continued to think on the matter, and I’ve come to the conclusion that spirits must not have malicious intent.”
“Do you think so?”
“They mustn’t. They may act with some cruelty, but only to bring about some change in the world in the name of God.”
“How can you be sure?”
“My dear, I cannot be sure of anything. I am a man of faith. But then this is all hypothetical, is it not?”
I thanked him for his advice and carefully maneuvered down to the first floor, where I spotted Susannah and Lionel dancing together. They were radiant, staring fixedly into each other’s eyes despite the speed of the song, turning with one another around and around, all the while laughing with abandon until the music stopped and Susannah met my gaze. She appeared much healthier than the last time I had seen her. The wild look in her eyes was gone, and there was a comforting peace about her. Lionel went to fetch his wife a drink, and Susannah kissed my cheek in greeting. She could not seem to stop fingering the clear green disk of amber that hung at her throat.
“It suits your coloring,” I said.
“It does, doesn’t it?” She ran a hand through her wild red hair. “Wherever did you find it?”
“Ancient Indian talisman to ward off evil spirits,” I lied.
“Whatever it is, it’s working. Nothing has happened since you gave it to me.” I began to wonder what was happening back in The Ending between Cornelius and Whatley, but then I shook myself. The evening was supposed to be a celebration, and Darkling would have no part in it. For the first time in weeks I felt a shred of relief and vindication. While I still had not solved the puzzle of Mr. Whatley’s intentions, I had been able to circumvent at least one of them, though with my friend safe the rest of the village remained vulnerable. It was for this reason that I had kept the boy with the keyhole eyes chained to the bedpost in my room. The promise of further snippets of secret conversations was worth the rattling and scraping sounds that persisted throughout the later hours of the evening as he attempted and failed to free himself from my control. Luckily, he seemed disinterested in the boys, preferring instead to collect the secrets of adults.
Roland tapped Susannah on the shoulder and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ma’am, but might I have this dance?” He had exchanged his dusty workman’s clothes for a brown tweed suit, though his hair was still an unkempt tangle
, ironic given his position as groundskeeper of Everton.
Susannah took his hand. “Roland, I would dance with you all night if you asked,” she said to the man who had saved her life. They spun off onto the dance floor as her husband returned with their drinks, watching them with sullen jealousy. I tried to join him to keep him company but was cut off by the sudden appearance of Mr. Darrow.
“Mrs. Markham.”
“Mr. Darrow.”
That seemed to be the end of our conversation until the music began to play again and Mr. Darrow nervously offered me his hand. “Would you care to dance?”
“Are you sure that’s wise? People will begin to talk.”
“Let them.”
“That is quite a change of heart.”
“Life is too brief a thing to dwell on the opinions of others, especially when there is dancing to be done. Shall we?”
I took his hand and we joined the other villagers on the ballroom floor. The song was very fast, and we spent more time being thrown from one partner to the next than actually dancing with one another, and so it was a relief when the music slowed and each dancer was allowed to return to his or her original partner. Henry took my hands into his and looked at me, perhaps really seeing me for the first time since that evening in the kitchen, looking into me as we swirled and spun to the music, the hem of my dress floating as we turned, grazing his legs. We were not so very close together, but the interlacing of our hands channeled a friction through the empty space between us that dimmed the rest of the room, changing the music into something that could only be for us. I did not want it to end, and for a long while it seemed that it never would. We danced and danced until I could no longer feel my legs, just his touch against my own and the deep, primal thumping in my chest.
Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling Page 19