Page 68 of Blackwicket
“Mr. Farvem was the unfortunate victim of the car bomb,” he said. “While he was on his way to the house, he got caught in the blast that I barely escaped. The story was corroborated by a few witnesses who’d seen him walking this direction earlier. His assistant from the funeral home has already collected his body.”
“Who were all the people at the gate?”
“They heard the explosion. Came to help.”
“I’m shocked.”
Inspector Harrow, by now, was well aware of how the citizens of Nightglass viewed my family and our house on the cliffs.
“You shouldn’t be. People always discover a great deal of goodwill in themselves when violence is no longer politely ignorable,” he said, starting toward the stairs, an unspoken signal he was planning to stay. I couldn’t admit out loud that this was a comfort.
“Do you need anything?” I asked, unsure how to repay the unexpected kindness he’d shown me by saving my life and tending to my injuries.
He paused, foot on the first step, holding my gaze for so long, an unknown feeling twisted in my chest. At length, he continued his ascent, saying low as he went,“Yes, Ms. Blackwicket. I need the hand of god to drown this whole goddamn town in the sea.”
Late in the evening, when I’d finally corrected the kitchen and there was no more cleaning to occupy my mind, I went to bed.But as I passed the Inspector’s room, there came a muffled grunt, a sound of pain. I’d intended to leave him be, but then there was another rumble of agony.
Worried, I knocked.
“Inspector?”
“I’m well, Ms. Blackwicket.” His reply was curt.
“I noticed…” I shouldn’t be hesitant. The man was hurt, and the location of the wound made parts of it inaccessible to treatment if he were mending it alone. “I noticed you were injured. I’m not a nurse, but I’m probably a better option than whatever you’re trying to do in there.”
“Your concern is noted. Goodnight.”
Dismissed, I retired to my room, but couldn’t sleep. I tossed in the dark, formulating nonsensical plans and half-formed ideas regarding the secret politics of Nightglass before finally throwing off the blankets. Dropping to my knees, I reached beneath the bed to pull forth the carpet bags I still hadn’t unpacked. I maintained no further illusions about the possibility of escaping from this house, so I might as well settle in.
In the dull glow of the nightstand lamp, I emptied the bags and tidied things away. At last, I came to the wooden box with its cursed treasures. It was time to let go of my former lives.
I opened the box, the curses vibrating with anticipation, and noticed right away that something very important was missing. The bracelet.
I rummaged through, moving aside the vessels I’d collected: coins, hair ribbons, a small hand mirror, a figurine of a ballerina with her feet missing. It wasn’t there. The only people who’d handled my bags had been Thea’s driver Ramsey, briefly upon delivering me to Blackwicket House, and Darren. The most likely candidate was obvious.
Sitting in silence, I waited for the tears to come, but there weren’t any left for Darren Rose. I’d cried them all while he wasalive. I came to terms with the fact that my father would never take anything from me again, then, one by one, I unraveled the curses.
The grounding work encouraged my newly invigorated power to confirm itself, and I forged on, returning each empty vessel to the box as the gossamer strands of healed magic gathered above me. It remained unsure, unprepared to dissipate into the ether. It was a shame there wasn’t a Narthex.
I reached into the cool, ephemeral clouds of energy as an idea took hold. A highly illegal one, dangerous with the Inspector so near, but I had little left to lose, and the untangled magic would find peace in returning home. Unlike myself.
It seemed a fair way to balance things.
It had been a decade since my last attempt to open a portal, and it would be challenging work, like bailing water from a sinking boat. A doorway not etched by years and constant use tended to snap shut and was difficult to open any wider than a porthole.
The truth was, this world didn’t want to touch Dark Hall anymore. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
I crawled across the floor to the space of wall between my bed and Fiona’s. I pressed my fingers to the wallpaper, scraped and peeling by the baseboard, letting my magic do the searching, brushing the contours, seeking weak spots between the borderline of here and there. The wall was solid, nothing more than plaster and lath. But then a point gave way and my fingers sank in. Elated, I parted space and substance, the effort making my chest burn, and cycled magic to and fro, shoveling bits of reality away to create an opening large enough for my hand.
The air chilled, and my grip slipped as the portal breathed, uncomfortable with its own existence. I yearned to look inside, to glimpse a place I once cherished, but I was already losing my hold. Knowing home was close, the lingering magic brushed pastme, retreating to a realm that would never harm it. Even after it faded, and despite the strenuous effort, I tried to hold the portal open, to feel Dark Hall. But I wasn’t strong enough, and the portal snapped shut with the sound of a bulb filament popping. My magic quivered, mournful, conscious of the loss of connection.
More restless than ever, and with sleep too distant to even attempt, I donned my sister’s only remaining wool coat over my nightdress, shoes hanging from my fingers. My momentary connection with Dark Hall had encouraged nostalgia, and I wanted to be near the sea.
My stockinged feet produced no noise on the stairs. The winter moonlight was pleasant, and the house uncharacteristically idle, satiated by its earlier banquet of magic.
By mid-stair, I could see the parlor lights were on, and had no doubt about who was responsible. My plans to walk along the cliffside and watch the winter sky change as the sun rose were derailed by my curiosity. As expected, I found Inspector Harrow. He’d opened the parlor windows to invite in the scent of salt and snow and stood awash in the night and the calming lullaby of waves. His shirt and trousers were rumpled, collar unbuttoned, and for the first time since I’d known him, his gun was absent.
“My mother used to say the song of the sea soothed the curses,” I said, letting him know I was there, maintaining a respectful distance, “because it sounds like the place magic was born.”
