Page 3 of This Haunted Heart

I wanted to do a lot of things.

To hold her. Press my lips to hers again.

Wanted to shake her awake and scream at her. I wanted to imprison her in my manor where she belonged, so the ghosts there could haunt her the way she haunted me. If she was a spirit, I’d let her under my skin right then, let her possess me. Why not? In so many ways, she did already.

She’d tricked me, then abandoned me to an abyss without her. She’d let me believe she’d been dead all this time, left me crippled by grief at the loss of her, and that was most unforgivable of all.

But God above, how I’d missed her. Now that I finally had her back, it was almost a shame I had to punish her at all.

Chapter 2

Rynn Mavis

The following evening…

The Night Lark was throwing one of its pleasure parties. I was so close to completing the sale on my room and leaving my eventful life behind that I let myself out to enjoy the city without the usual pang of guilt that accompanied not pitching in what I thought I ought to.

Financially, my dues were paid up through the month, but I’d be out before then. Last week, I’d gifted each of the girls an item of worth from my collection: a silk cushion, a fine chair, velvet curtains . . . The gifts made me feel a little less distressed about my pending departure, and it would help to ensure they kept their lips convincingly shut aboutwhere I was going.

Even if Utrecht was the one doing the asking.

The hotel across the way had the most decadent dining service. Nearly year-round, they made hot mincemeat pies worth battling over. An impromptu bare-knuckle match had famously erupted in the street over those pies when they’d had a fruit shortage last year. The manager, Adelbert, loved the business the Lark brought their way almost as much as he loved dramatically retelling the story of that fight.

I couldn’t manage a fork and knife with my arm in the sling I hid beneath my shawl. Adelbert cut my food up for me and kept me company, gossiping with me in his native German.

I overindulged until long after the sun had set. Regulars who recognized me bought me drinks and visited my table at intervals.

“You’ll mention us to all of your friends, won’t you, Vieve?” Adelbert asked after I announced my departure. His mustache was thin and subtly curled. He smelled like the mint sauce the kitchen served with the lamb special.

“You know I will. Don’t I always?” I reassured him. Then I kissed both of his cheeks before leaving.

On my return stroll to the Lark, I could still taste the hint of raisins and orange rind on the back of my tongue. The weather was fine. There was only one thing currently hampering my good mood.

One very small thing.

I opened my reticule with some difficulty one-handed and plucked out the strange cigarette I’d found near my windowsill that morning. It seemed innocent enough in my gloved palm, gently illuminated under the bright streetlamps. The scent of the tobacco was hauntingly familiar, and it was the main reason I’d had too much hard cider with dinner. I brushedit under my nose and inhaled the sweet grassy mixture that didn’t belong in Salt Rock.

Snuff was very popular here in the city. The pipe too. I almost never spotted a cigarette on a patron, let alone one with some homegrown broadleaf blend.

This was something I hadn’t smelled since I was eighteen, and it stirred up thoughts I’d pushed down so hard and for so long that the moment they tried to claw back out of me I had no choice but to stop. To do nothing. To stand still and hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut.

I froze again like I had when I’d found it, right there near the street, halting so suddenly another passerby bumped into me, knocking my shawl from my shoulder. The jolt put an ache in my injured elbow. The gentleman removed his top hat politely and made a rushed apology, taking the blame for the accident I’d caused.

I declined his offer of assistance, and he continued on his way. When I was alone again, I sucked in a slow breath. Then another, trying to will my pulse to calm.

“Where did you come from?” I demanded of the cigarette in a mousy whisper. Trying to convince myself it was real, I squeezed it between my fingers until it crunched lightly.

The sheer will it took to slam that dark door back down on the bottomless pit that was my memories left me feeling like a wrung-out rag discarded in the dirt. Finally, my feet were working again.

I lumbered around to the back of the Lark. Matthew, an attendant who watched the staff door, lifted his hat to me. I waved in greeting, then carried myself wearily up a set of narrow stairs, still fingering the smoke that had spooked me.

Utrecht favored the pipe and occasionally cigars. I’d neverseen him with rolling papers. He’d been traveling these past few weeks and couldn’t have left it at my window. Surely, I’d have noticed it well before now, especially with how much I’d been going through my things to prepare for relocation.

The party was a successful one, based on the dull roar of conversation and assorted debauchery coming from downstairs. At my door, I struggled to wrangle the key into place, dangling my reticule around the wrist of my injured arm.

I jostled the knob, and the door opened a crack. My heart lurched.

I could have sworn I’d locked my room before I vacated it. A woman only needed to find a lost drunk in her quarters the once to remember that necessity. But I’d been so distracted by the mystery cigarette, I’d probably forgotten.

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