Page 18 of Blackwicket
He was already leaving. As he gripped the door handle, the house made its first move since I’d been upstairs. It shuddered. Inspector Harrow paused, turning his head a fraction, eyes lowered, listening.
My breath stuck in my throat. I could accuse the wind, the shifting of the old frame on an even older foundation, harassed by the weather, but any word from of my mouth about it would only draw further attention. I turned to distraction.
“Don’t expect me to feed or clean up after you, Inspector. You’re here against my wishes, and I’m not an innkeeper.”
“You’re not,” he agreed, opening the door, allowing in a rush of winter air that cooled my hot skin. He yielded the ghost of a smile, smug. “You’re a Curse Eater.”
I watched through the white muslin curtains as Inspector Harrow entered his sleek, long-bodied car, the ivory white of natural pearl. Chrome flashed on the fender as he circled the drive. It was a far cry from the utilitarian unit that picked me up in Devin, and I wondered how an Inspector afforded such a luxury. Cruelty must pay well. I stood there as he drove through the distant gate, despising him every second.
I was trapped here, caught like a fly in the jaws of a languorous sundew. There was nowhere I could go short of swimming across the sea to escape the Authority’s attention now that they’d linked my face to a name that interested them. My life was in shambles and my heart present merely to remind me it hurt. I touched the windowsill but didn’t lower my defenses again.
“You’ve really done it,” I muttered to the house, to myself, to the spirit of my dead sister whose body was waiting in a morgue, a body I’d have to identify. I floated the argument that viewing Fiona’s remains wasn’t necessary—both my father and the Authority had corroborated her passing.
However, a nagging suspicion remained. There was something I wasn’t being told, some vital information being withheld for the benefit of everyone but Fiona. I pressed my knuckles against my eyes until bursts of white light exploded behind my lids, then grabbed my coat. The house didn’t resist my departure, but walking over the threshold wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined. Leaving Blackwicket House always came with the sensation of pressing through a bubble, abandoning the comfort of familiar dangers to confront a world filled with people I couldn’t predict, who often surprised me with their capacity for both spontaneous kindness and animosity.
I glanced back toward the gloomy memories of my childhood, then along the arching drive that gave way to the gardens, once my mother’s point of pride, wishing wishes that were far too late to make.
Chapter Seven
The cold made white veils of my breath as I meandered to the gate, keeping watch for the gleam of a returning car. Although late afternoon, the sun was already setting, winter urging it to an early rest and darkening the snow-filled sky. I made my way along the overgrown sideroad, shivering in my city coat, insufficient against the oppressive wind of the coast. Wooded shoulders gave way to the open tumble of earth leading to the shoreline, and I paused, taking in the vista. White waves crashed around crumbling docks and along the stretch of pebbled beach that would tempt tourists come summer. My fingers tingled with the cold. I’d forgotten my gloves.
I turned toward town, apprehensive. Even from here, I could see the lights, hear the seething streets. What had these people come for in this frozen wasteland of skeletal hills, cold water, and gray sky? Nightglass offered nothing in this desolate season. Even the prospect of a few upscale restaurants and novelty lounges would fade in the face of harsh snows already threatening to roll in. The closest city was an hour’s train ride away, far more palatable, providing pampered warmth and a myriad of better entertainments to make the gnawing of winter bearable.
I followed the path from the outskirts to the cobbled road that led to the center of town. I expected at least a few people coming and going from the houses here, but the doors were shuttight, the curtains drawn in every window, eerily quiet compared to the bustling avenue ahead, where lively people flowed like water bursting from a dam.
I emerged onto the main thoroughfare, no shortage of visitors milling around the sidewalks, wrapped in their expensive overcoats, hands tucked in suede gloves, shoes gleaming with a fresh shine; the women were the prizes on men’s arms in their silk, crepe, and fur. They each walked as though every eye was on them, but in truth, no one was paying attention to anyone but themselves.
Still, I worried my sober brown coat and plain tweed skirt suit made me conspicuous, and though I’d applied red to my cheeks and lips, I wasn’t made up enough to blend in with this society. I raised my chin and focused my eyes ahead as I neared the crossing that would take me through the four-lane street toward the marquee-lit entrance of the Vapors. The road was congested with automobiles, all varying degrees of luxury, and even the taxis gleamed, black as summer beetles.
A small crowd waited for the traffic official to allow them across, and I joined them, feeling claustrophobic. The aura and odor surrounding me was putrid as a spoiled rag drenched in perfumed oil: pungent, botanic, and lingering. This wasn’t the natural scent of human bodies, but the psychic reek of magic gone wrong. I couldn’t pinpoint its exact origin and was too cautious to lower my guard and investigate. I repeated to myself in a slow, grounding rhythm:This town is not mine.
The traffic whistle blew, sharp and long, and I allowed the crowd to surge head, straggling back in search of fresher air.
A slender man in an unfussy black cap and twill work jacket approached from the opposite direction. Despite the ample space, he walked close, either too distracted to notice me in his way or too indifferent to care. I attempted to sidestep, but wasn’t quick enough, and our shoulders collided.
The discomfort of the impact wasn’t what halted me in my tracks or made me turn my head to glare into the eyes of the stranger. It was the tug of invisible, searching hands seeking signs of corruption to pull free.
“Get off,” I commanded, employing the same tone I’d once used with a fellow who’d become overly familiar with the hem of my skirt on a city streetcar.
If the stranger was surprised, it didn’t register beyond the slight narrowing of his eyes.
“Sorry, miss. Didn’t realize.” Grinning, he tipped his hat and continued on his way as if he hadn’t just tried to psychically assault me.
I watched him go, brow furrowed, until a car honked. I was still standing in the road.
“Move on!” the traffic officer shouted, and I completed crossing, regretting what I’d done to the cab driver. Though my intentions hadn’t been nefarious, the invasion was the same.
I proceeded more carefully, wary of brushing too close to anyone, and when I reached the walkway, I exited the persistent flow of people to get my bearings, pretending to pause and admire the display window of a men’s hat shop. As I stood there, stalling, a car pulled up to the nearby curb, splashing slush onto the walkway and feet of those unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. Several cries of dismay rose, quieting again as the door opened and a woman emerged from the passenger side. Apologies were uttered, and foot traffic halted, creating a clear lane to the ornate golden doors of the lounge. They swung wide and welcoming, pouring forth warm light and the sweet scent of jasmine. While working at Galton’s, I’d grown accustomed to the fine costuming of the wealthy but was never immune to the sight of someone truly stunning.
The woman wore a coat as white as a fawn’s underbelly, her short hair styled in finger waves, two curls meticulously placedat her temple near the elegant arch of her brows. Accentuated with powder and rouge, her umber skin sparkled like a diamond under a spotlight, smooth as glass. The pillow of her lips were brushed with a generous coat of carmine, but her eyelids were bare of all makeup save for a dark, bold line along her lashes.
Aside from her elegance, it was the nimbus of hypnotic power she radiated that entranced the hovering crowd. This woman was magic, the way people were before fear and gluttony had driven it away. Displays of this kind of ability got people killed, but she wore it like a fine stole. Onlookers leaned in her direction, shuffling their feet to inch closer without breaching the halo of her light, aware that doing so would invite a swift correction from the man who’d emerged from the driver’s side to stand as a sentry beside her. It was the cab driver who’d brought me to the gate of Blackwicket House only a few short hours ago.
Although the boundary held firm, the crowd of spectators compressed, those at the back nudging others ahead in their eagerness for a better view.
“Ms. James! Ms. James!” they cried, vying for her attention. I moved closer to the display glass, shrinking myself, preparing to slip away. I spared a last glance, obscured as a man stepped in front of me, then moved on swiftly as he found an empty pocket ahead. As he shifted out of my way, I found myself caught in the steady, hard stare of the glamorous creature, her dark eyes locked on mine with clear hostility. The driver had been leaning in, whispering something only she could hear, and at length, turned his attention to me as well.
He’d told this woman who I was.
