Page 20 of Blackwicket
“Who paid for it?” I demanded.
A firm baritone replied, “I’m the benefactor.”
“Mr. Nightglass.” The undertaker acknowledged the gentleman with a polite nod, and my stomach clenched in dread.
Grigori Nightglass.I’d earnestly hoped to avoid encountering him during my stay here, but my luck and this day were both awful. I shouldn’t have expected clemency from fate.With no other option, I turned to face the shining light of this town and the eternal tormentor of my family.
But I didn’t find the ancient, hardened Grigori studying me with mild interest; rather, a much younger man, a handful of years my senior. His pale eyes were piercing, though not as cruel as the man he’d inherited them from, and he wore his flaxen hair long, swept back from his sharply featured face, ends brushing the collar of his navy topcoat. Despite being no more than thirty, he leaned heavily on a familiar snakewood cane, its ornate brass handle curving like a scythe. The dip of his shoulder diminished his otherwise tall frame, indicating a man whose body had been grievously abused by either sickness or injury.
I knew which.
“William?” I asked, barely managing audible words.
William Nightglass was the eldest son of Grigori, the city Principe, appointed by the Authority to govern the township by proxy. In our youth, he’d been a gaunt, troubled boy with a devilish smile that had often caused Fiona to fall to pieces. Now he appeared robust, stronger than I’d ever seen him, regardless of the heavy reliance on his cane, similar to the one his father used.
“Yes.” He studied my face. “Are you a friend of Fiona’s, Miss…?”
“Blackwicket,” Mr. Farvem interjected.
William’s expression converted to astonishment.
“Not Eleanora,” he said, taking a smooth step closer, cane tip thumping, the sound refusing to be swallowed by the space, unlike lesser noises. He regarded me with such razor-sharp attention I blushed, turned bare beneath his dissecting gaze. Aware of his intensity, he relaxed with some effort. “Forgive me, this is unexpected.”
“I’ve been away for a long time,” I conceded, still off-balance.
William shook his head, rejecting my acceptance of his reaction.
“Eleanora,” he said, tone grave. “Fiona told us your mother took you into Dark Hall that night. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve returned from the dead.”
Chapter Eight
I stood in the morgue, facing a man my sister had loved, hurt with the knowing she’d considered me good as dead.
“I’m glad to see you well, William,” I said, uncertain of my standing in his graces.
“And I’m glad to see youalive, Eleanora,” he replied, still scrutinizing me, before a slow smile curved his mouth, making him handsome enough I recognized what had drawn Fiona to him. “I never would’ve recognized you. You and your sister never did favor each other.”
I appreciated his deliberate choice to accept my status among the living without question, and it was true what he’d said. Fiona was our father’s doppelgänger, honey-spun hair and skin that browned in the sun, turning the dusting of the freckles across her nose all the more charming. I’d taken after our mother, hair like charred chestnut and a complexion that burned far too easily.
My relief over his lack of prodding was short-lived, his smile settling into something with a bite, a look his father often wore, one that suggested he knew all your secrets and would be pleased to use them against you. The sudden resemblance chilled me.
“Where have you been all this time?” he asked, more to himself than me.
The bell chimed as the door swung open again, sparing me the effort of constructing a response that included nothing Ididn’t want William to know. A young boy in oversized work trousers entered, holding a simple wooden box, the size and form of a miniature casket, tightly against him.
When he noticed me, he stopped dead still, resembling a wild animal caught in bright light. His eyes flicked uncertainly to William.
“Jack. Come, boy. You’re letting the cold in, my bones can’t bear it.” William waved him forward.
Doing as he was told, the boy named Jack let the door close and wiped the fresh snow off his boots on the entry rug, glancing again in my direction, uncomfortable.
“Is he yours?” I asked.
William laughed; a powerful burst of noise that made me jump.
“Eleanora, the boy’s twelve.”
It was all he needed to say. When I’d last seen William, he’d been twenty and childless.
