Page 2 of The Secrets of Roan Island

There’s a saying I came across once in my graduate work and wrote down in my journal:Silent women lead silent lives. It became the motto of the CWS, Conspirators Women’s Society, of which I’m a founding member. I don’t know who said it, but the sentiment has proven a necessity.

I need it now.

With a deep breath, I grab the hem of my long dress. “Dammit, Ruby. Why did you have to worry about how you look?”

Pants would have been so much easier than the socially acceptable dress I chose to make a good impression. With another fortifying breath, I tuck the fabric of my skirt firmly into my belt, sling my satchel across my chest, and start to climb.

2

Noah

Professor R. Rose isn’t what I expected. She doesn’t look like the middle-age professor I imagined after reading her very in-depth, albeit unconventional, treatise. She’s also not a man, as I had presumed. Though considering the stance she takes in her work advocating for women, I should have known. She’s beautiful, tall, and alluring. And clearly in shape, a fact I note as she hikes her skirt in a very unladylike fashion, revealing long, beautifully curved legs. Her brown hair, a rich color that stands out amid the dull colors around her, is piled on her head with curly tendrils brushing her shoulders and flowing around her neck in a style that indicates she wanted to make an impression.

She’s definitely making an impression. An impression of an entirely different kind than she probably intended.

Obscured from her gaze by the thick growth of forest, I watch her take hold of the iron rungs with her white gloves. She’s a butterfly climbing into a spider's web with no idea how easily she could be devoured.

“You could have opened the gate for her,” I mutter.

“And rob us of this view?” Jafeth chuckles, amused. He’s leaning against the balcony trellis like a rake the gardener left behind, except his grin hints at an entirely different kind of rake. “What would be the fun in that?”

I want to glare at my youngest sibling but I can’t take my eyes off the indelible Professor Rose. She hitches her foot up onto the first rung of the gate, and her skirt slides even higher. That glimpse of ankle has both my hearts slowing like the climb of the two moons in the dead of winter. The rusty metal streaks her white shirtwaist, but strangely she doesn’t seem to mind. The fact that her blouse isn’t covered by a thick coat makes me irrationally angry. A shawl isn’t nearly warm enough for this time of year.

She goes on to find another foothold and climbs higher. I can’t help wondering if a man in her position would be so audacious and struggle to imagine a stodgy professor in tweed climbing the gate. It’s equally difficult to picture her behind a stuffy university desk.

“You’ll greet her,” I command, turning away from the gate and the beautiful woman clinging to it, leaving Jafeth to his fun.

There’s work to do. Winter Solstice is less than four weeks away, and if I fail, yet again, there will be consequences I don’t wish to pay.

With renewed urgency, I leave the balcony and enter the cold recesses of the house. Some say the Roan Estate has the feel of a graveyard, but I don’t mind the dark emptiness. This house is a comfort to me, familiar and known. Gas lamp sconces light the hallway in intervals, offering an ambient glow against the dark green wallpaper and works of art that meet the dark wood wainscot. The lamps, candelabras, and chandeliers throughout the house exist for the few servants, the visitors who come for the monthly new moon parties, and the women broughtover for the biannual goddess celebrations—though calling what happens at the Solstice ceremoniescelebrationsis as morbid as dancing on a grave.

As I make my way down the corridor, I notice the open doorway next to my bedroom and the housekeeper changing the bedding. I mutter a vile curse under my breath at my father for opening Zarah’s room to a guest. Especially since it’s the room next to mine. I don’t need the distraction. Not now, when there’s so much on the line.

I make my way to the dead-end of the hall where a painting of a woman in ceremonial white stares back at me. The hint of her familiar smile taunts me, along with the shadowy suggestion of a dimple in her left cheek. Her dark hair is sleek but for the ringlets that frame her heart-shaped face.

Gritting my teeth, I swing open the gilded frame and step into the dark passageway beyond. The weighted secret door swings closed behind me with a soft thud. The spiral stairs curl down through stacked stone like a black ribbon. Around and around I go, the air growing stranger and heavier until a jolt of energy zips across my skin, the stairway flips upside down, and I’m now winding up the curving steps into an underground mirror image of the mansion above. Since I spend most of my time in The Gate House, the transition barely affects me. This time, however, I won’t be able to linger. I’ll be expected to attend dinner with our guest.

When I reach the library, I walk through the room to the heavy doors of my laboratory. An odd yet familiar aroma assaults and welcomes me. Rot. Waste. Astringent. Chemical compounds. The noxious fumes of bunsen burners.

And blood. A necessary evil.

The room is blindingly bright, and I blink as my eyes adjust. The last person I want to see is sitting on a thin metal stool, surrounded by beakers, medical journals, and the half-dissected corpse of a fox. His legs are crossed casually, as if this is his favorite parlor. Even here, Hammish Roan looks as he always does. Tall and lean, poised and severe, a presence that dominates every space he enters.

Smoke from his cheroot swirls around him like the thick fog clinging to the trees outside. The smell will linger for hours, mixing with the other foul scents.

“Father.” I offer a curt nod and carefully avoid looking at the metal door in the back of the room. “What brings you to the laboratory?”

He takes a slow drag from his cigar before stubbing it out on the exam table. “Keep an eye on the professor while she’s here. Understood?”

“I can’t exactly do my other job”–I lift a hand to indicate the room around us–“while babysitting your little problem.”

“She’s all of our problem.” His fist slams the table, knocking a bottle of formaldehyde on the floor. The pungent liquid pools on the polished concrete.

He stands and straightens his jacket, his expression smoothing, ignoring the mess he’s made at his feet. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Well, then, shall I sleep in her chambers or bring her to mine?”

“Don’t be insolent with me, boy.” His black cane snaps on the concrete like the crack of dueling pistols at dawn. “Stay aware of her movements. Misdirect her. Placate her. Keep her contained. I want her to stay.”

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