by Sarah Sokol
"I'm afraid that would be me."
Ben's head jerked up and he scowled when he saw the compact figure of Hastings, clad in a dove-grey evening suit, leaning against the doorway behind the counter. He had a long, dark quill clasped between his fingers and his dark red brows winged up in a quizzical air.
"What the hell is he doing here?" Ben gritted out between his teeth.
"The burglar, dear fellow." Hastings pushed himself up from his leaning position and sauntered forward, twirling the quill back and forth between his fingertips. "Made things quite personal, don't you know."
"Just what we need, more people on the case who have made it personal." Ben shoved his fingers through his hair again, glaring at Oliver. "And how did he find out?"
"He was already here when I arrived," Oliver said with another shrug. "Along with a couple of constables, in there already. Seems Scotland Yard has caught wind there's some sort of serial murderer, and they're taking more of an interest."
"I'll spare you the indignity of asking me," Hastings said with an indulgent chuckle. "I have a few contacts among the constables. You should try it yourself sometime, old boy. You'll find it comes in handy with cases like this."
Ben wanted to bite back that he did have contacts, as did Oliver, but it would only drag out the argument longer. "There are more important things to discuss," he said aloud, half to himself and half to the others.
"Agreed," Hastings mused, flicking the tip of Ben's nose with the stiff quill feather. "Like this object. It seems to be arcane in nature. Do you suppose it's connected to all this?"
Oliver and Ben exchanged a significant glance.
"Don't even bother with a lie, I can already see by your faces that it is," Hastings said with a glint in his green eyes. "In the interest of full disclosure, I suppose I ought to tell you that I know our latest victim. The poor sod who owned this place, Timothy Fletcher. And yes, before you ask, his name is also on my list."
Ben levelled a glance at Oliver again, then turned to Hastings and snatched the quill from his fingers. "All right. I've had enough. First, Oliver and I are going in that room and investigating a murder. And you, Hastings, will stay out here. Then all three of us are going to Windy Oaks."
"As much as I'm flattered, I'm afraid my days of such debauchery are behind me," Hastings murmured with a demure flick of his eyelashes.
"What? No, not... Debauchery? Not for that, you idiot." Ben felt the beginnings of a grin pulling at his lips. "If this investigation is going to be successful, the three of us must learn who we can trust. We're going to Windy Oaks to use the ritual room, and we're all going to take a turn in the Truthspeaking circle."
Chapter Twenty
The Early Morning Surprise
Charlotte was going to cry.
She could feel it building like a bubbling volcano of emotion under the surface as she paused in the doorway of the kitchen, rain dripping from her drenched skirts to the floor.
It had only been a week since her departure, but it felt like forever now that she was home again. She found herself surprised that Agatha looked just the same, her plump form wrapped in a flowered apron, ratty slippers on her feet, and silver-brown hair tucked up under a white lace cap. She was making scones, sprinkling flour onto the countertop, folding raisins into the dough and slapping it down onto the counter with a poof of white powder. Stephen was there too, leaning against the counter, his bald spot shining in the lamplight that glowed from the lantern placed on the wooden kitchen table. He watched Agatha work with his lips quirked in a mischievous smile, and now and then his hand darted out to snatch up a raisin.
The third time he managed to nab one, Agatha's eagle eye pinned him with a glance. "Don't you come complaining to me when there aren't any raisins left in the scones. Honestly, you're worse than the children."
Stephen just chuckled and straightened up, seizing Agatha around the waist and twirling her in a gentle circle. "I'll steal 'em now and complain later, and still be your favourite chap in Christendom, love."
Charlotte's lips trembled into a smile before the sob welled up into her throat and burst free, and she began to wail. Rushing to the table that had soaked in so many of her tears over the years, she cast herself down into the matching wooden chair and buried her head in her arms. It seemed as if she would drown in the hoarse, guttural cries escaping her. It had all been too much.
A hand stroked over her hair, and she heard the squeak of two more chairs pulling out and dragging over to either side of her. With a deep, shuddering breath she turned into the welcoming arms of Agatha, who cooed and petted and soothed like a mother hen.
"Now, now. Nothing’s so bad that a good cuppa can't make it better," Stephen mumbled. "I'll put the kettle on."
"Perfect, thank you, dear," Agatha said as her hand continued caressing Charlotte's hair. "What is all this, Lady Lottie? What are you doing here? You can't have been that homesick for a pair of old servants." She paused. "You're not ruined, are you dear?"
Charlotte lifted her head, sure her face was red, blotchy and smeared with tears. She took a few more deep, gulping breaths, trying to find the words. "Henry wrote to me saying Margaret was ill, so I went to see her, and it turned out she was not ill, well, not more than normal, and then Henry started talking so oddly, and he got so angry and shouted at me, and then tried to kiss me and I just ran home."
There was a long pause, then Stephen turned toward her, his arms crossed and brows drawn low over his eyes. His words were low and sputtering with anger. "You need me to have words with him, Lottie? It'd be no trouble at all, breakin' a few limbs so he can have time to think about his actions. If he tried to force you, I'll-"
"No, no. Nothing like that. He's always a gentleman. He was just passionate with his words," Charlotte said, sniffing and rubbing her nose on her sleeve. Her dress was soaked with rain and filthy anyway. "There's no need for that. I just feel so awful. He's so worried for his daughter he panics over the smallest things, and he thinks he loves me, but I know he does not. He doesn't even know me, how can he? I hardly even know myself. I feel as if I'm just so consumed by guilt, by Avery's murder, by my magic, I don't know. Maybe I do love Henry, maybe he does love me, and I am just too blind to see it. How can I know?"
Stephen grunted and brought over the copper kettle, now steaming. Agatha sighed and sat back, pouring the tea for each of them and pulling forward the basket of fresh biscuits she always kept on hand.
"Oh, my poor dear, love is always confusing," Agatha said with a shake of her head as she nudged a biscuit into Charlotte's hand and pushed her tea closer. "But putting tonight aside, how does the thought of going to see Henry make you feel? What does it make you think of?"
Charlotte took another shuddery breath and a bite of her biscuit, feeling the warming heat of the tea curling into her stomach and soothing her from the inside out. "I suppose I think of consumption."
Agatha made a surprised noise, her hand resuming its petting up and down Charlotte's back. "What? Why consumption, dear?"
"It's what killed mother and father. Avery and I were sent away to keep us from getting sick too."
"I remember," Stephen said with a sad smile, shaking her head. "You had to be dragged away kickin' and screamin'."
"I just think... What if I had fought harder? Tried harder to explain what I could do? I could've helped them. And then when Henry's wife was taken with consumption, I wasn't called for because no one knew I could help. I'm not a doctor, I'm the neighbour girl, why would they summon me? If I were more open with my magic, if Avery hadn't hidden me away for so long, Henry, his daughter... they wouldn't be so alone."
"Oh, Lottie." Agatha's petting came to a halt and she took Charlotte's hands in her own. "You were just a child, then. You probably weren't strong enough to help your parents even if you'd stayed."
"Aye. And you can't take on the death of everyone on the damned continent," Stephen pointed out gruffly.
"You have a soft heart," Agatha continue
d, "but Stephen is right. You're just a person. A human, who grows tired, who can't be everywhere at once."
Charlotte's lower lip trembled and she drew in another ragged breath. Their responses didn't help the ache in her heart subside, but saying the words out loud, expressing her guilt to others; that somehow lightened the burden at least a little. "I know. I know you're right."
"And if I may say," Agatha continued. "If that's where your mind goes when you think of Henry, then it's pretty clear you're not in love with him. And if you don't love him, well. I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but you did the right thing to refuse him."
"Aye, when we were in our courtin' days and I came to see Agatha, I'd be feelin' nervous, queasy, all kinds of awful. But it felt like a good thing in my heart, Lottie. When you know, you know."
Charlotte took another long swallow of tea, nodding at Stephen. "Thank you. Thank you both. I am so sorry to spring up out of nowhere like this."
"Nonsense, dearie." Agatha gave her back another pat and rose to her feet. "This is your home, never be sorry to come back to it. I want to hear more about London. Have you been to a ball yet? Are you hungry? I think I have some ham from yesterday's supper. And we've got to get you out of those wet things and into a nice cosy nightgown."
"Yes, I'm starving," Charlotte admitted. She was still impatient to return to London, but it felt good to come home.
Once all three of them were full of ham and biscuits and Agatha had run out of questions, Charlotte finally dragged herself upstairs. She peered at the old cuckoo clock on the wall at the end of the hallway, ticking away as it had done her whole life. Half past three already. Somehow the nights seemed much shorter when they were spent dancing at a ball, instead of riding in a carriage through a storm to a sick child.
Or not a sick child. Charlotte shook her head as she lit a candle and carried it to her room.
It was just as she had left it, of course. Neat and small, decorated in white and green, equipped with only the essentials, aside from the stacks of novels piled haphazardly on the bookshelf. She set her candle on the bedside table and slid into the cool sheets, shivering until her body created a cocoon of warmth.
She could already feel the exhaustion pulling at her eyelids, so she blew out her candle and laid her head against her pillow. Just before she drifted off to sleep, she found herself wondering if it made her a terrible person to remember the strange fish-mouthed expression on Henry's face when she pushed him away, and giggle quietly at how stupid it had looked.
◆◆◆
Charlotte frowned, her nose twitching. Something was wrong. Her instincts urged her to wake up, to leap out of bed. Her body was still too exhausted and struggled to swim to the surface of awareness.
People were shouting. That smell was smoke. It was...
"Fire?" Charlotte gasped, and lurched upright. She pried her eyes open, rubbing at them, and whipped around the room to gather her bearings.
It was quiet, dark and still.
There it was again. The faint shout from outside her window. "Fire! Help, fire!"
Surging to her feet, Charlotte ran to the window and pushed it open, clamping her hand over her mouth at the sight that greeted her. The storm had blown past in the night, the skies were clear, but the north-eastern corner of the stables was crackling with flames that lit up the pale pre-dawn light in an eerie glow.
Duncan was the one shouting, his small form running towards the main house, before he stopped, turned on his heel and ran straight back to the stables. Charlotte spotted Stephen in half-done-up trousers hobbling across the field after the boy.
I hope the horses are all right, was all she had time to think before she picked up the hem of her nightgown and ran for her bedroom door. Bolting down the stairs two at a time, she skidded to a halt, reversed directions and charged for the back door. Through the kitchen, down the back steps, squishing through the garden, she hurried towards where Duncan and a few other of the servants were gathering near the well, beginning to form a chain, passing buckets from hand to hand to toss over the flames. Such a small amount of water, it seemed so futile, but at least the flames were not spreading yet.
Charlotte stopped once she reached the line, panting. "What happened? Where are the horses? Is anyone injured?"
Duncan wiped his forehead. "Horses are inside, milady, Stephen said to work on puttin' out the fire and he'd go get 'em. Pardon milady but we have to keep workin'."
"What? Inside?" Charlotte felt a surge of terror through her stomach. She pushed forward through the line towards the stables. The doors were open but inside the air was thick with smoke and the occasional flicker of flame. She wrapped her elbow over her mouth and nose as she stumbled forward, too sick with worry to think straight.
She had just reached the door when she heard a loud crack, a whinny, and the thundering of hooves; Arkle and his compatriots came storming out through the smoke, wheezing, prancing, spooked, but unharmed.
Charlotte exhaled in relief, watching the open doorway for Stephen's return. Worry built as with each passing second; the fire crackled higher and there was no sign of him. She was just about to throw caution to the wind when finally, she saw his slumped figure staggering back out wheezing and coughing.
"Oh, thank God. Stephen," Charlotte had to stop speaking as tears sprang to her eyes, and she ran to his side. Placing her fingers on his bare back, she pushed her power underneath his skin, invading him with the vines of energy and seeking out the source - smoke in his lungs, abrasions in his throat, small burns to the arms and hands. Swiftly she soothed away the aches and pains, cleared his lungs as well as she could before withdrawing her magic from him and evaluating him with a keen glance.
"I'm fine," he said with a little fatherly pat on her head. "I'm fine, Lottie. Let me help with the buckets, now."
"No."
A firm voice sounded from behind them and it was so unexpected, Charlotte didn't even recognize it until she turned to see who accompanied it.
"Henry?" she blurted.
He was looking dishevelled, breathing hard and holding the reins of a bare-backed horse which he had clearly just dismounted. He was swaying, too, and when he spoke again, she got a whiff of the liquor on his breath. "Saw the fire. Stay back, both of you. I'll handle it."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode to the front of the line. He fell in with the other workers, heaving and tossing water over the flames, directing the servants to areas where the fire burned brightest.
Stephen tried to help again, but Charlotte held him back with her hands on his shoulders, making him stay hunched in the grass and catching his breath. His heart was fairly healthy, but he was getting old and she didn't want to risk him.
"How could you run in there? You scared me half to death," she scolded him, watching the flames die down one bucket of water at a time.
"I was in no danger," he assured her, watching the crew work. "Mostly smoke in there, only a little fire. See? It's nearly gone already. Damage don't look too bad. We'll rebuild good as new in no time."
"Do you know what happened?" Charlotte asked, rubbing the hollows under her eyes.
"Barely caught what Duncan said, he was so panicked and almost cryin'. He said it was his fault. Said he fell asleep in the hay with the lantern lit next to him, and it must have knocked over while he was asleep. Took the liberty of tellin' him he's not lost his position here, and we ain't callin' the constables on him, poor sod." Stephen shook his head with a frown. "We'll be havin' a serious talk, but I think he learned his lesson."
Charlotte just nodded, too weary to add any more. She didn't wish for Duncan to be let go either. It was partly her fault, after all, keeping such a young lad driving her carriage all night. And he'd had to be out in the storm, too. She would have to make sure he had not caught a cold before she went back to London.
She had almost fallen back asleep against Stephen's shoulder when the sound of footsteps approaching had her blinking back awake. Henry sto
od before them, his face and hands blackened and sooty, his eyes red and bleary.
"It's out," he said, his eyes fixed upon Charlotte. "If there's any more I can do to help, I will. No matter what is between us."
Charlotte forced her eyes up to his face, feeling the blush taking up permanent residence on her cheeks, but she nodded. "Thank you so much for coming. I do not think the fire would've done so little damage without your help."
Henry shrugged, the ghost of a smile coming to his own lips. "It is the least I could do, as your neighbour. And I hope, still your friend."
Charlotte pushed herself to her feet, holding out her hand to help Stephen stagger upright as well. "Of course. Always, as long as you wish it. I'm..." The words seemed like too little and too much at the same time, so she just finished lamely, "Sorry."
"Aye. Thanks, lad," Stephen said and clasped him on the shoulder. "You're not a bad sort."
"No need for that." Henry rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Like I said, least I could do."
There was a long, awkward pause, and Henry looked at Stephen as if he were trying to will the old coachman away, while Stephen just stared back at him, pretending to be oblivious.
Finally, Charlotte broke the silence. "I trust you will write to me again if Margaret takes ill, or has a true health crisis?"
Henry looked taken aback, then his brows drew together. "What? Even after the fire, the stables, your servants; you're not going to stay for a while?"
Charlotte shook her head with another glance up at Stephen. "Stephen can oversee the repairs, and I am confident Agatha will take care of the servants."
"She'll be glad to have the boys to fuss over," Stephen assured her with a grin.
"So yes, as soon as I get a proper rest," Charlotte continued, looking back at Henry.
"That's it, then." His expression crumpled into one so emotional she couldn't read it. His voice was a husky whisper. "Back to London. To your... season."