Page 12 of Blackwicket
“Wouldn’thelp,” I corrected. “You never wanted to and made sure you weren’t ever around to be asked.”
He crumpled the paper around his uneaten sandwich and tossed it onto the bench seat beside him, rubbing a hand across his face, angry.
“I can’t change the past, Eleanora,” he said.
“No,” I replied, bitterly. “You can’t.”
An uncomfortable silence followed, and I focused on the world passing outside, the gentle rocking of the train, wondering how I could manage everything I needed to do and leave before the house sank its claws into me again. Another glimpse of the coast encouraged a memory of the cliffs overlooking a glorious sea.
There were many dangers in returning to Blackwicket House, but it was the tug in my heart, the unwelcome, undeniable yearning for home that disquieted me most.
We arrived at Nightglass Station at noon. The platform, long ago decorated with only a sagging bench and an empty planter, now featured an array of seating and bright lampposts, modest comforts for the hordes of tourists disembarking.
The scent of travel clung to the throng of bodies that jostled us, mingling with stale perfumes layered thickly over furs and expensive wool. I watched for a familiar face among the congregation, the piercing eyes that saw through my lies.
Emerging from the station proper, we followed the lively exodus to the main street. There had never been so many visitors during the bleakest season of the year. The bareness and cold were as inviting to most sensible people as an invitation to lie in a grave. I hugged my bag close. After living in bustling cities, the crowd shouldn’t have bothered me, but my skin crawled, stomach knotted. The people felt unnatural here in this wintery port town.
Tired of showing patience for my hesitation, Darren took hold of my upper arm and began hauling me toward the road, raising his hand and whistling at a black cab that had pulled to the curb, eager for a fare. The man who emerged was stocky and grim, his driver’s cap positioned low over a heavy brow. This line of work fit him strangely, his shape and demeanor better suited for the docks that had once groaned under the weight of imported textiles and goods imbued with magic from all corners of the globe.
“Where to?” he grouched, turning to me to retrieve my bags, which I handed to him with reluctance. I’d have preferred to keep them in my lap, but drawing attention to my attachment to them wasn’t worth the risk.
I prepared to give him directions to a street at the edge of town, where the road forked and led travelers to either the rocky coastline or up the tree-lined hills to the crag where an old estate towered, haunting the town. If I told him where we were going, he’d refuse.
“Blackwicket House,” Darren declared, extending a fold of bills, more than needed for a trip to the opposite end of town.
The driver’s ruddy features contorted with distrust as he pushed the monetary offering away with two fingers, as if it were contaminated.
“Ain’t a soul going to take you up there. Enjoy your walk.”
“Please,” I said, taking a small step forward to waylay his departure.
He fixed his stormy grey gaze on me, ready to snarl, but instead, he released a gruff breath, lifted his chin, and studied me. His attention idled on the metropolitan hairstyle popular in Devin, brunette locks pinned from my temple, brushed into a series of well-tamed waves at the nape of my neck. I wasn’t dressed in finery, but I was a woman from the city, that must have been acceptable.
“I’ll take you to the corner block,” he conceded. Darren offered him the money again. He eyed it with disdain. “No charge.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said, receiving a grunt in response.
I spared a frustrated glance at my father, and he returned his own.
“You’re always willing to take the least you can get,” he grumbled, opening the car door for me.
“And you’re always after the most,” I replied, climbing inside.
“Someday, I hope you’ll put your hatred of me aside. We’re all we have left.”
I set my attention straight ahead.
“Then neither of us has very much.”
My father remained quiet as we crept along the first few blocks, pedestrians slowing our progress. I felt him next to me like a hope you’re too afraid to embrace, one that’s slipped from your fingers so many times you become wise and stop grasping for it. But I was myself, forever trying once more, damn me.
“Nightglass seems to be doing well,” I said.
“Better than well,” Darren replied readily. “Grigori did a number on this place the past few years. Made it a real appealing spot for people with plenty of free time and too much money. New hotels.”
He pointed through my window at theOrville, formerly a well-kept, but modest block of apartments for dock workers. It had been joined in a marriage of extravagance, exhibiting both a large glass entryway and a doorman.
“There’s a top-notch lounge here, too, great entertainment and food isn’t bad either. Honestly, it’s a little too hoity-toity for me.”
