But it did end, and when it was over our hands stayed connected. We wove through the house, past a happily scandalized Cornelia Reese, who would have something dreadful to talk about with her friends and confidants for at least a whole month; past Mrs. Norman in her peacock hat, whose tight, severe lips broke into a faint smile of approval, until we were outside in the frosted gardens of Arkham Hall. Beneath the black and empty sky, behind a hedge dusted with ice, Henry pulled me against his chest and kissed me, passionately, deeply, with nothing like reserve or anxiety, our lips moving in tandem with one another, all fear falling away, unraveling as something new knit itself together, something good and pure and strong, full of promise and hope. I was losing myself in the moment until a stark and frenzied shriek broke through the chilled air.
It was a woman’s scream, and I already knew who it must have been. I pulled away from Henry and ran through the gardens, following the echo of it, bounding off stone statues and empty bird fountains, a shadow of a sound frozen in the ice. I sprinted as fast as I could, the ends of my dress in my hands, the wind ripping against my skin as I darted around a lattice strung with withered vines, and found Susannah sprawled on the cold ground, her hands before her face as something unfurled above her, a shadow untwisting itself from the dark, separating itself, becoming tangible and textured, wet and glistening, the surface of it freezing from the cold and cracking as it slid a tendril around Susannah’s neck and lifted her into the air, her feet scraping at the ground for some purchase but finding none.
The moment the creature touched her, the small, clear disk of amber that hung about her throat began to glow. A dull green light pulsed through the air, folding itself around Susannah, searing the flesh of the creature until it dropped her out of shock and anguish.
Immediately all the people I had ever lost swam before me, and the pain congealed into anger, into hate, and into action as I launched myself at the thing while it was caught off guard, kicking, biting, tearing at it with my fingernails, until it lashed me across the face with a dark, unknowable appendage. I fell to the ground, and the horror hovered over me, blocking out what little light there was from behind the luminous clouds, the smell of it overpowering, equal parts ammonia and brimstone. I did not fear death, for I knew that my loved ones were waiting for me, but as the creature crept toward me, a shot rang out and I felt a damp spray across my face. The thing winced and quivered, seeming to retreat into itself and pausing at the inevitable opening of doors and stirring of voices from the house, contracting into something man-shaped before fleeing ever more deeply into the frozen gardens.
I touched the side of my face, unsure if the wetness I felt was my own blood or the property of the thing that had attacked me. Susannah was sitting up, holding her knees in a fetal position, rocking back and forth. Henry was next to her, a smoking pistol in hand.
He helped me to my feet. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I—I’m fine.” That was not the man in black, I wanted to say, that was something else altogether. There were parts of Whatley’s game that I still did not understand, and that worried me.
I did not let go of Henry’s hand when I was standing again. I went over to my friend. Her eyes were unfocused and she was muttering to herself.
“You must keep them closed. Never open. When they’re open it all comes out, all apart in the darkness . . .”
I knelt down beside her and kissed her on the forehead. “Who was it, Susannah? Who attacked you?”
“Wolf in sheep’s clothing. Monster under the bed.”
Henry shook his head and put his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get Dr. Barberry.”
“Someone will have to find Lionel first.”
“Of course.”
The voices from the house were growing more distinct. I pointed to the pistol still tightly clutched in Henry’s hand. “You had a gun.”
“I still do.”
“Why?”
“There’s a madman on the loose.”
“Do you really think it was a man?”
He looked at me strangely but had no time to dwell on it, for we were quickly surrounded by the other party guests, clasping at the throats of gowns and jackets, gasping at the macabre scene in the garden—the three of us standing over a frozen pool of black blood.
Lionel was summoned to take his wife back to their cottage, but not before the doctor looked her over with a dour expression. He mentioned to the barkeep that there were places for people who suffered extreme trauma, comfortable places where they could be made well again, but Lionel would have none of it.
Henry and I collected the children and rode home in silent reflection. When we arrived at Everton I ushered the children to their rooms, feeling Henry’s gaze on me as we traveled up the stairs, unable to stop myself from looking back to meet his eyes.
The boy with the keyhole eyes was cowering in the corner when I returned to my room, holding his knees against his chest as he pointed with a broken, blackened fingernail in the direction of my bed. Waiting on my pillow was a parchment envelope with a blue wax seal. I slit it open with a penknife and read:
You are cordially invited
To the coming-out ball of
Miss Olivia Whatley
Tomorrow evening, dusk
I reread the invitation a dozen times over and set it on my nightstand while I dressed for bed. Someone had placed the letter in my room, someone from the House of Darkling. This wasn’t a simple admission of guilt; this was an outright declaration of war, though perhaps not enough to prove a connection between Whatley and Everton, effectively ending our game.
I wrestled with the implications of this well into the night, and when I finally found sleep I dreamt that I danced with Mr. Whatley on the brink of an abyss, turning and turning until neither of us could be certain which was about to slip off the edge.
CHAPTER 16
Mrs. Whatley
There was no way I could avoid bringing the children back to Darkling. If I went alone Mr. Whatley might realize that something was amiss. And what if the children came in search of me, alone in The Ending, vulnerable to whatever machinations the master of Darkling had set in motion? I could not allow it, as I believed Whatley to be responsible for everything that had happened in Blackfield in addition to the sad, doll-like imprisonment of Lily Darrow.
When we crossed the threshold from the forest into the House of Darkling, it was immediately apparent that something was different, for the fruit children in the trees had been unraveled from their leathery rinds, each of them holding tiny candles in their pygmy hands, the orchard transformed into a flickering sea of teardrop stars. Even Duncan was different, dressed in black coattails and bowing low in greeting before he escorted us to the great house, which glowed with a preternatural sheen from the inside out. It was actually welcoming.
We could hear the distant sounds of the party—laughter, shouting, the clinking of glasses, an echo of music. Thanks to the arrival of the invitation I’d had enough forethought to dress the children for the evening’s festivities, though neither one was happy to wear formal attire again so soon after the Christmas Ball. For myself, I had chosen a high-collared gown with an opal brooch at the throat.
When we arrived, the ballroom seemed to be in the middle of some sort of decorative metamorphosis, for the skin of the stone pillars that lined the massive room cracked and fell away, revealing tree trunks of nearly the same girth. The jewels set in the brushed metal of the walls dropped off, exploding on the ground with pops of colored light to the delight and annoyance of some of the party guests attempting to converse and enjoy their cocktails. Out of these fresh alcoves grew sinewy vines, creeping up the walls, which themselves became less opaque and more like mirrors, until the ballroom began to resemble a never-ending forest with flowers growing up through the grout between the black and white marble tiles of the floor.
“You shou
ldn’t have come back.” Lily appeared at my side and whispered into my ear, her voice earnest and desperate, but then the boys saw her and she was transformed into the mother they knew and loved, never sad or upset, always pristine and composed. She would have kissed them both if the lights hadn’t gone out. A spotlight appeared at the front of the ballroom as Olivia Whatley entered wearing an ice blue evening gown, holding the arm of her father. There was a polite smattering of applause as they circled the room, and then he left her with Dabney in a wide, empty circle as the guests stepped backward to give her space. The handsome young man wore an expensively tailored plum-colored suit that contrasted strangely with the mysterious way he held himself: his arms out, head tilted skyward, almost in a trancelike state. Olivia stood before him, and he placed his hands around her neck.
It was then that I felt growing warmth in the pit of my stomach, traveling up my chest, into my throat, and I thought I was going to be sick until my lips parted and erupted into a sound that was like a song, or at least a part of one. I thought that I had gone insane, or that Mr. Whatley had done something to me in retaliation for my impertinent threat the last time we spoke, but then I looked around and realized that every other guest sang a different part of the same song, a five-hundred-part harmony blending together in the echoing cavern of the ballroom.
Dabney had disappeared from the room, and Olivia moved as we sang, swaying gently to the Dance of Infinite Sorrow. The five ice sculptures that stood over the tables of food at the back of the room creaked to life and stepped down from their perches to join her on the dance floor. She moved from one to another, slowly at first in a languid, dreamlike fashion, until one of them struck her across the face.
I felt my own cheek in horror, unable to forget the night before, but Olivia immediately fought back, pushing the dance partner who had struck her hard enough to tip him over, and he shattered into a million shards of ice over the ground. This seemed to upset the others, for they surrounded her, tearing at her dress so that it fell away from her body, leaving her naked and vulnerable. The sculptures clung to her, her nudity never completely visible, and as they did our chanting grew faster and the temperature of the room started to rise. The wooden pillars scattered throughout the room burst into flames; the ice dancers melted as Olivia’s skin blistered over. It was an awful, terrible sight, and while I despised her father I wanted to help the poor girl, but Lily kept me firmly in place.
The pillars stopped burning and turned back to stone. Olivia, although severely burned, did not appear to be in any pain. She reached to the back of her head and peeled away large strips of her charred flesh, revealing the beautiful, healthy girl who had entered the room with her father mere moments before. The liquid remains of the ice sculptures collected themselves together of their own accord and slid toward her, up her legs and torso, freezing so that they took the shape of the same ice-colored ball gown that had been torn asunder.
We stopped singing as abruptly as we had started, and Olivia bowed deeply. Dabney appeared out of nowhere behind her, taking her hand. All I could think to do was applaud. I had no idea what had happened, or what it signified, but it had been most extraordinary. The other guests joined in while the chef from the dinner party many nights before pushed through the throngs of people with a wheeled cart and collected the scraps of viscera and skin left over from the finale of Miss Whatley’s performance. He placed them into a crystal bowl, and Dabney performed a quick blessing over the mess while Olivia began to greet her guests. I decided then that I would not be tasting the hors d’oeuvres.
More traditional music began to play and the mingling turned into dancing. Olivia moved from one partner to the next, men and women alike, sometimes dancing with creatures that had no easily identifiable sex. Lily danced with James, free for a moment from any anxiety or fear, and I saw Paul accept an invitation from Dabney to join him in a rather slow waltz.
I was content to be by myself for a moment, and I spent the time observing the other guests. There were the Baxters, flickering in and out of sight as I stared at them; Mrs. Aldrich, at the center of a group of well-dressed women, doubtless bragging about her son; the Puddles, standing beside the large frame of Mr. Samson, already red-faced and laughing too loudly at one of Mr. Puddle’s jokes; Mr. Snit, drifting from one cluster of people to the next, changing color as he did so and covertly absorbing the cocktails of whoever happened to be standing closest to him. Miss Yarborough stood at an opposite corner of the room in the same sheath of netting as the last time we crossed paths, her disdainful expression visible and well honed despite the skinless nature of her face. I spotted Mr. Cornelius standing off to the side of the room with a circle of strange-looking creatures, hunched over things with amphibious faces and spiny backs covered in quills of bone, all of them speaking to one another in strained whispers. He saw me as I approached and excused himself from his friends with some discomfort. The others peered at me with suspicion.
“Mr. Cornelius.”
“Mrs. Markham. I had not expected to find you here this evening.” His onyx eyes shifted from side to side.
“We were invited.”
“I see.”
“I must again thank you for your help. Your token of appreciation was most effective.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
I could see that my presence was making him visibly uncomfortable. His trunk-like appendages folded over one another, as if he were wringing them together.
I pressed on, undeterred. “I do wish that we could continue our arrangement. I fear that the game is not yet over, and I am nearly out of moves.”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Markham. You have more control in this game than you know—” He pulled me close, the pincers behind his beard clicking together. “You should not stay long this evening.” My lips parted to form the start of a question, but then Mr. Cornelius looked behind me and smiled. “Ah, Mr. Whatley.”
The master of Darkling observed us through the crowd with his sideways smirk. Whatley greeted the other gentleman and took my hands into his large ones, leading me into throngs of dancers without asking for my permission.
“You look quite ravishing this evening, Mrs. Markham.”
“And you appear as if you’ve just come in from a storm.” His dark hair was a wild, windswept tangle, and his suit, fine as always, was unkempt and disheveled.
“I try to be consistent.”
“Ah, the success of lowered expectations.”
“The only expectations that matter are my own, and I always seem to meet them.”
“How lucky for you.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. I play to win.”
“And when you fail?”
“I’ll let you know when that happens.”
“It might be quite soon.”
“Do you think so?”
The music reached a crescendo, and Whatley pulled me against his body. I blushed furiously. I tried to break away from him, but he held me firmly in place, refusing to let me go until he was good and ready. Finally he winked at me and retreated into the crowd. I looked around for Lily, but Whatley was already moving toward her. He said something in her ear, and she nodded unhappily while he waved at the musicians to stop playing. Mr. Whatley addressed the party guests.
“My friends, thank you for joining us on this most special occasion, as my daughter, Olivia, reaches maturity and sets off to make her mark upon the worlds. It is often difficult for a parent to let go of his children, but I am happy to say that I have found some solace, for soon I will be remarried. May I introduce you all to the future Mrs. Whatley.” He took Lily’s hand into his own as a smattering of applause moved through the crowd, accompanied by some uncomfortable murmuring, not the least of which was a short, angry squeak from James, who stood beside his brother and me, looking terribly confused. “But what about Father?” he stammered.
Mr. Whatley did his bes
t to look sympathetic, but ended up only appearing to be condescending. “My dear boy, he is living and your mother is dead. There can be no hope for such a pairing.”
But James would hear none of it. He ran out of the ballroom in tears.
“James!” Lily went after him, and suddenly I heard the familiar clicking of Mr. Cornelius’s pincers close to my ear.
“Take them and do not return. Now. Run.”
A chair crashed against the wall. A glass shattered to the tiled floor. Silence filled the room as the partygoers looked around in confusion.
And then someone screamed.
A woman pointed to the body of Dabney Aldrich, slumped on the floor, holding a gash that had appeared in his throat as he pinched the bloodless folds of skin together. The slimy interior of his true body, the one within the angelic human slip he wore, began to spill out down the front of his chest. One of the amphibian-faced creatures stood over him, spat out a hunk of Dabney’s flesh, and roared.
The ballroom erupted into madness. Paul stared agape at his friend, unable to speak in the wake of such shock. He reached out to help pick him up off the floor, but I grabbed Paul’s hand and ran, sprinting away from Whatley’s guests as they ripped each other apart, bodies falling, never dead or dying, simply in pieces, the crowd pushing for the door all at once, blocking it until Mr. Cornelius tore them aside to make room for us.
“Remember what I’ve said.” He nodded to me, and then launched himself into the brawl, his beard parting to reveal a hideous cluster of sharp, dangerous-looking appendages that sank themselves into the corpulent neck of Mr. Samson.
Paul and I spun through the house, from one room to the next, corridor after corridor, until we were in the entryway and outside, down the steps to the orchard, where we found Lily and James. The boy would have nothing to do with his mother, but we had no time to sort out any recent emotional baggage.
“I want to go home,” he said. I grabbed his hand as I ran past.
Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling Page 20