Miss Miles sat up, her long, dark hair pulling free of a careless knot at the crown of her head. Strands brushed her skin and his hand itched to discover if they were as smooth as the silk they resembled. A foolish notion. He was simply overtired from conducting his enquiries all night and for most of the morning.
“Shall I fetch Papa to carry you in, Mother?”
Lady Miles waved a gloved hand. “No, thank you, dear. You know how much I enjoy it when nature puts on a tempestuous display. I shall stay here awhile longer.”
Miss Miles glanced at him, then away, as she gathered up her hair and pushed pins through loose locks. “Are you so sure it was one of the Afflicted and not some person with a personal motive against the unfortunate footman?”
He bit back his initial retort. Or course he had investigated the personal life of the unremarkable footman, one Roger Dunn—that was what had occupied him for the last several hours. As it transpired, the dead man’s life made a particularly boring book to read. “Personal grudges usually result in a quick knife to the back in a darkened alley. Scooping out Dunn’s brains seems rather unnecessary if he had gambling debts or had dallied with another man’s wife.”
“A starving Afflicted wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to lie in wait in a secluded area of the house.” For a moment, those coffee-coloured eyes rested on him and a flare of rebellion made them come alive.
He stared at her, trying to uncover some fault to dampen his growing fascination, until she looked away and broke his fixed gaze. “I wish to conduct more interviews this afternoon. We are nearly through the list and once we are, we can be done with one another. I particularly want to find Miss Emma Knightley.”
Miss Miles rose and brushed out her skirts. “Of course. I shall fetch my bonnet and shawl.”
Wycliff took a step to the side to allow her to pass and her form was soon swallowed by the forest. That left him alone with the undead mage. Social conversation was never his strong suit, so he watched the ripples of water passing over the rocks instead.
“I think Hannah needs a dog for company. What do you think, Lord Wycliff? I hear dogs offer unswerving loyalty.”
“If you deserve such devotion, then yes, canines are loyal until death.” He didn’t like the topic of conversation and instead kept his attention on the stream. Were there any fish? Then a rock wriggled and jumped, as though it were a fish trying to make its way upstream.
Mage trickery. He snorted.
“There are those who believe I lost my powers when my pulse stopped.”
He had never spared much thought for the ways of mages, apart from wishing they acted faster in the heat of battle. Nor were they ever around when you truly needed them, when your men were being slaughtered in the dark by otherworldly assailants. “England has always had twelve mages. When one dies, their power is transferred to another. On your death, a boy was born, in Norfolk I believe, with your mage powers.”
The rock kept leaping upstream, playing leapfrog with the other rocks until it came to settle in a wide, flat area.
“England now has thirteen mages,” she said pleasantly. “An unprecedented situation.”
He stared at the rock, waiting to see what it would do next. Why were they having this conversation? Events had drawn him into working for the Ministry of Unnaturals. That didn’t mean he wanted to be intimately acquainted with such creatures. “England only has twelve who possess a pulse.”
Birdsong came from above. A single high note trilled and then fell silent.
“Quite. I found on my death that my power had made a similar transition.”
That made him turn and his own pulse raced faster. Did a dead mage wield powers given by death? Was it possible she knew something of Hell and how to escape its clutches? “Do you cast your magic from an evil place?”
The head on the statue tilted briefly to one side and the veil swung with the movement. “A dark place, most certainly, but that does not mean it is evil. As you said, there is a transference of magic upon the death of a mage to a newborn babe. Yet I possess power of a different sort that cannot be wielded by those who live.”
Lady Gabriella’s words from the previous day came back to him. The woman had commented on how the Miles family had fallen with the mage’s death. That woman saw only the removal of society’s privileges. What she did not see was how it also removed its strictures. The mage was no longer bound to work for the benefit of England. He found society’s expectations could wrap a man in gilded chains. What would it be like to shake them off and stand free?
“Do you no longer serve England?” he asked.
“I serve a greater purpose in finding the French mage who created this curse. My Afflicted sisters only want their lives back, and yet you consider one of us capable of this terrible crime.” The voice seemed to ride the undulations of the water and drift past him.
“I do not know what your sort are capable of. I only know what you require to sustain your Unnatural state.” The Afflicted feasted on human brains. Once having overcome that taboo, who knew what other disgusting acts they were capable of committing?
“Hannah is a most able assistant to her father. I’m sure that if you asked, she would tell you what we have learned so far. Not all of it is detailed in reports sent to the Ministry of Unnaturals.” Now she used a bird, flitting from tree to tree, to project her words.
Wycliff was forced to raise his head to find where it perched high above. It was difficult to reconcile the veiled creature speaking through a sparrow with the fierce mage who had once split the ground under a charging French regiment and sent more than a hundred men plunging straight to Hell. He could still hear the shrill cries of their horses, taken down with the riders.
He turned to regard her still form. What could such a creature do? “How can we ascertain what an Afflicted would do in a situation, when you hide behind veils and masks?”
The statue didn’t move, even when she spoke. “The veil only obscures my physical appearance. It does not hide who I am. Shouldn’t a person be judged on their actions, rather than on their name or outward appearance?”
He dug his short nails into his palms behind his back. He knew what they were. Dead. Abominations that should have been forcibly interred in graves and mausoleums. Some had the faint sweet scent of decay about them, or used cloves to mask the rot, but no such aromas wafted from Lady Miles. There was no quiet thud of a heart or inhalation of breath. She was invisible to his senses even though he saw her before him.
Until she turned her attention to him and the prickle raced over his skin.
She picked at the bleached linen of her skirt. It tumbled to the ground, even though her legs stopped above the knee. “I am fascinated that a man such as yourself should fall victim to the trap of perception. I expected more of you.”
He stiffened. Talking to the dead mage was like making your way across a ravine via tightrope. One misstep and he would plunge to his death. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She huffed a gentle laugh that caused the gauzy veil to shiver. “You know exactly what I mean. We all have secrets, but the day approaches when you will have to confront yours.”
He froze. She couldn’t possibly know. No one did. He barely understood it himself, and he would not crawl on his belly to seek the help of those who could make sense of it. To do that, he would have to admit his greatest shame.
Lady Miles clasped white-gloved hands on her lap. From veil to dress and gloves, she was clothed in white. The rose behind her ear was the only touch of colour about her. She could have been a ghost, sent to torment him. “Your secret is yours to hide or reveal. But you are adrift on an unfamiliar ocean. You need to find an anchor before you are lost without hope of salvage.”
“You mock me, Lady Miles.” He let out a long, slow breath through his nose. Was she a mind reader? He fully intended to bury his secrets in the deepest, darkest pit he could find and ensure they never saw the light of day. He refused to use them even to speed his
investigation, for to do that, he would have to unmask himself to all of society.
The bird fluttered down from the trees and rested on her outstretched hand. “On the contrary. I am trying to help another tortured soul through the long night we both must endure.”
“I do not require any help, and I prefer that my secrets lie undisturbed.”
“And does that help you sleep at night?” Both bird and mage seemed to peer through him.
“I shall await Miss Miles in the carriage. Good day, Lady Miles.” He nodded and left, brushing foliage out of the way as he traversed the jungle back to the house.
10
Hannah didn’t have time to change her gown, so her dark green cotton would have to suffice. At least the colour wouldn’t show grass stains from being out in the garden, and her silk shawl would make it look more appropriate for paying calls. She undid her hair, smoothed it all back, and twisted it up again. Several pins secured it in place and then she plonked her bonnet on top to hide the lot. She tied the ribbons under her chin as she descended the stairs.
Mary stood at the bottom, wringing her hands and biting her lip.
“Whatever is the matter, Mary? Is it Mother?” She shouldn’t have left her mother alone with the viscount, but surely a powerful mage was able to wrangle a petulant noble. Or perhaps Mother had turned him into an actual dark cloud and not a metaphorical one.
“Oh no, miss. It’s him. He swept back through here in ever such a black mood and is waiting outside. I don’t envy you, miss.” Mary peered around Hannah at the closed front door as though she expected him to be summoned by her words.
Mother’s storm had arrived after all, and had stuffed itself into a carriage. Would it be rattling with thunder and lightning when she emerged from the house?
Hannah patted Mary’s hands. “Thank you. I shall have a most invigorating afternoon. Perhaps I should take Father’s old sword cane in case I must make a quick defensive parry.”
The maid snorted and then covered her mouth.
Out on the road, there was no sign of bolts exploding through the carriage windows. The viscount, however, did wear a stormy expression when Hannah climbed inside. His dark brows were drawn and his black eyes narrowed. Once again he stared at his timepiece as though it confirmed that Hannah had offended him further by making him wait.
“Where are we going today, my lord?” Hannah was determined to be polite in the face of his rudeness, but it did require monumental effort. The man almost begged to be snapped at, the way he glowered at everyone.
“The Knightley residence first, then the Talbots’.” He rapped on the roof with his cane, then dropped the pocket watch back into its pocket on his waistcoat. He drummed his fingers on the carriage seat for a long minute. “You made the observation that a starving Afflicted would act differently. Are there other characteristics of an Afflicted in such a state?”
Hannah blinked at him. Had he just sought her knowledge on the subject? “A person in such a state is what others would refer to as mad. The hunger consumes them literally and figuratively. Their bodies begin to decay, and rot moves upward from the extremities. They are frenzied, tearing at themselves and often crying uncontrollably. The symptoms only abate when they are fed.”
His hand curled into a fist as his body tensed. “Does it have to be human? Could they not subsist on cow or pig brains instead?”
Hannah remembered the poor women who tested other species’ tissue, with disastrous results. “No. We found that substituting another species’ brain did not halt the natural process of decay, although it did remove the worst of the craving. The disease is species dependent. For example, Afflicted mice require the brains of mice.”
He exhaled through his nose and one by one, released his fingers from a tight grip. His words were measured, as though he sought to control them. “Is such a cannibalistic and murderous rage what lurks behind the veils and masks of all Afflicted?”
“You are disgusted by them,” Hannah whispered. That was why he treated them so rudely and why he appeared to teeter on the verge of a violent outburst.
The hand curled into a fist again and he stared out the window. “They are not just Unnatural, they are inhuman, subsisting on the minds of decent Englishmen. They should be rounded up and burned so no trace of their blight remains on this earth.” He bit the words out as though each syllable tasted bitter in his mouth.
His reaction not only stole Hannah’s words, but also her ability to think. Her entire being froze in disbelief and she simply stared at him while the carriage swayed back and forth. Only when they hit a pothole in the road and she was jolted to one side did her mind recommence its operation. She wanted to yell at him, to accuse him of the most horrid prejudice. She wanted to cry for all the Afflicted like her mother, who had been cruelly taken from their families in the prime of life.
“You would blame the women for their state? They were all, each and every one of them, victims of the foul weapon created by French mages. None sought the fate thrust upon them so cruelly.” She clasped her hands together in her lap to stop the rage that shook them.
“They died. They should have the dignity to stay that way.” His nostrils flared and he enunciated each word slowly, as though he thought her dim-witted.
Oh, let the storm break. How dared he!
Anger flashed through Hannah and if she could have hurled a lightning bolt and skewered him to the seat, she would have. “What a cold life you must lead, that you would wish so many women a horrid end because of the actions of others. We are fortunate that most of the ensorcelled powder was destroyed and only three hundred containers made their way into the dressing rooms of noblewomen. Would you have a different opinion if tens of thousands of men had been infected by their snuff habit?”
His black eyes drilled into Hannah. “There are many challenges facing England. We waste resources keeping these creatures ambulatory. Great scientific minds should find subjects more worthy of their time—such as finding a way to stop more Unnatural creatures breaching the veil between our world and Hell.”
Fury gave her the strength to meet his hellish gaze. She stiffened her spine and squared her jaw. “I am grateful for men like my father, who did not turn his back on the woman he loved simply because her pulse stopped. He works tirelessly to find a way to wrest her free of death’s grip. I would consider myself blessed to ever find a man who loves so deeply. Which is obviously something you cannot comprehend.” Hannah stared out the window and blinked back tears. Her father would fight until his last breath for her mother.
Viscount Wycliff grunted and proceeded to ignore her until the carriage stopped and the driver opened the door. The black cloud swept out and the driver jumped back, out of his way.
“Everything all right, miss?” he asked as he peered inside and held out a hand to assist her.
“Yes, thank you. I suspect his lordship swallowed something that did not agree with him.”
Hannah took her time gathering her shawl about her shoulders, and looped the ends over her arms. Before her stretched a row of modest terrace houses. Each had an identical cast-iron railing along the front and leading up to the front door.
A startled maid, not a butler, held the door open for her. It appeared Wycliff had already stormed the parapets, as there was no sign of him in the hall.
“Hannah Miles to see Miss Emma Knightley, please.” She couldn’t hear raised voices or screams, which meant he hadn’t yet started his interrogation.
“Lord Wycliff and Miss Knightley are this way, miss,” the maid said as she gestured to a door to her left and closest to the front of the house.
The Knightley parlour reminded Hannah of the one in her family home. The decor was at least twenty years behind current fashion. The sofas were worn but comfortable looking and covered in a cheerful floral pattern. Books were piled on the end tables, waiting to be picked up and delved into. The room was tidy and clean, but with the relaxed shabbiness that comes from regular use.
Emma perched on a chaise and twisted her hands in her skirts. Her parents, a handsome couple somewhere in their fifties, held hands on the opposite chaise. Wycliff stood in the middle of the room, staring at Miss Knightley. For a moment it looked as though Hannah had stumbled upon a nervous suitor about to propose, the entire room on tenterhooks waiting for the words to be spoken.
Then she remembered that this was Wycliff and everyone was no doubt braced for the incoming cannonball.
Hannah edged around the viscount and murmured a greeting as she took the seat next to Emma. The poor woman needed some defence against Wycliff’s barbs. The attack was launched just as Hannah sat.
“Did your fiancé call off the engagement because you died?” Wycliff asked.
Emma’s hands stilled in her lap. “Yes. He disengaged himself to find a bride he could legally wed and who could present him with an heir—as he has every right to do. I believe he is most happy with his choice.”
Hannah’s heart broke for the other young woman. To think love was within your grasp, only to have it coldly snatched away. The French curse had revealed the fickleness of men. Women found themselves abandoned by those who had once professed undying love. It seemed men only remained true up until the point such affection was tested. What a sad statement about their society that men like her father, who continued to love a woman with no pulse, were the rare exceptions.
Hannah studied Viscount Wycliff. He seemed such an intense individual, one who should have the capacity to love a woman with constancy. What a shame that he seemed to be incapable of love for another.
The piercing stare remained fixed on Miss Knightley. “I understand that on the night of the ball, you were seen with a stain on your dress. Where is the garment?”
A gasp came from the older Knightleys and Emma’s eyes widened. She turned to Hannah with an expression of complete betrayal, like a shivering puppy that had just been kicked out into the snow. Far from being her defender, Hannah had turned into her persecutor.
Manners and Monsters, #1 Page 9