Page 31 of All My Broken Dreams

“Because Harry is dead. We don’t know how–I swear on my life. His body was discovered at the base of the tower at Arran Castle. We believe he jumped.”

The older man let his hand drop to the table and he hunched forward, shoulders rounded, suddenly looking his age. His eyes were red as though he had been crying. If not for his uncle’s grief, Deacon would have marched to the nearest police station, Fuel Bratach be damned.

He held his place, his fist clenched, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. “How long ago?” His jaw was stiff.

“A month or more.”

He choked. “Was there an inquest? What has been done to notify his family?”

“Slow down, cousin,” Casey drawled. “We were all in shock when we found him. No one knew what to do. We’d never had a suicide before. Not with one of our own. The ramifications could have been tremendous if we reported it to the police. Frankly, Harry’s timing couldn’t have been worse.”

“His timing to take his life?” Deacon snarled. “How was his timing bad for you, Casey?”

Reginald’s voice cut through the air. “There are internal forces working against us within Locksley Hall. A faction of intellectuals and independents, believing themselves to be our equals, are challenging our authority. There have been murmurings of rebellion. Some faculty members disagree with our appointments and the direction we are taking the university. They wish to decouple the Hall from Fuil Bratach, no longer answering to us and operating at our direction.”

Alastair spoke calmly as he always did to his nephew, seeming to understand him better than anybody.

“The unfortunate incident, if it became known, would end our Order. A thousand year tradition would be snuffed out in one hour. It is unthinkable. You see now how Rowena Listowel is a problem.”

The Wake family banner hung high in the rafters of the great room. He came from an original family too. Dugald Croft was in his blood the same as any of the others. Probably more so, seeing as it was his people, the master stonemasons who built Locksley Hall and the Croft.

He felt the pull of blood from the moment he set foot on the cobbles. Too many years of being alone had made him too weak to resist. He was one with these blackened stones now.

For good or evil, the Black and Bannerman were the only family he had left. He’d not turn his back on them.

It was by pure dumb luck that she tracked him down. After he vanished in the alley, she didn’t know what to do. Panic was ever present, but she remembered Mrs. Cameron’s description of mucky-mucks in their walled tower. If one side of the alley was a wall, then Dugald Croft had to be behind it.

She peered up into the lightly falling snow. A sickly yellow light streamed from high above. The wall on her left was not part of a building, but an actual wall. She could see the cap. It was high but not too high to climb. Robbie traced her fingertips over the brickwork until she came to a black iron door that was heavy with ancient iron fittings.

Carved in the head stone above was the inscriptionDugald Croft.The door was locked. “It’s a goddamned fortress,” she breathed in frustration.

The challenge of a wall was better than being stuck in a wide open space. Robbie looked around for something to climb up on and found a garbage bin a few yards away. She rolled it to the entrance and got up on top of it.

It wasn’t high enough to throw her leg over the side without effort. Her left shoulder was no good to her. She’d have to use her right. It took a couple of tries to hoist herself up and swing over the top of the wall.

The drop below knocked the wind out of her and shot pain through her shoulder, but at least it was a soft landing. No broken bones. No fresh dislocation.

She was in a garden of some kind that had been put to bed for winter. The trees were leafless and the planters were covered in a blanket of straw.

The door to the main house was shrouded in dark but she tried it and found it unlocked. This must be the tradesman’sentrance, she thought as she stepped into a large, well-appointed kitchen.

It was quiet in the house, that is until she climbed the stairs to the main floor and listened. In the distance, voices floated to her, the words indistinguishable. She followed the sound echoing through the great hall to heavily carved double doors of oak.

One of the voices she recognized as Deacon’s.

The tension broke. Anger wired her veins for action. She pushed the doors open with more force than she intended and one of them banged against the wall.

A host of strange faces snapped in her direction. She was blinded for a minute by panic, wondering what she had walked into, and then she saw Deacon and his startled eyes found hers.

He was not given a chance to speak. A man at the far end of the table stood up and stared at her like he’d seen a ghost.

“Sarah.”

“No,” Deacon said quickly. “This is Robbie–Rowena Listowel. Harry’s sister from America.”

The man, whoever he was, seemed to recollect where he was and greeted her with a stiff smile that was closer to a snarl. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Robbie. You are the image of a girl I knew years ago: Sarah Stewart. Come in, come in. Our friend, Mr. Wake, has been telling us about you. He said you’re here to find your brother. How can we help?”

He didn’t have a thick Scottish accent like the others she had met in her journey. There was a lilt on some of his words. The man was older than everyone at the table; tall, distinguished with the blackest, thickest eyebrows she had ever seen. His hair was dark red and flecked with gray.

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