Page 85 of Blackwicket
“But you took Roark from Fiona.” It was a wild guess.
“I didn’t take Roark,” he sighed. “I’ve no idea what happened to him. Here, then gone. Frankly, I thought Fiona had something to do with it. She was already rather bloodthirsty by then.”
“Shut up,” I spat, wishing I could raise my hands to my ears.
“You know what I’d like to see, Eleanora,” he remarked,bringing the cane to the floor in a smooth arc, leaning until it made a gouge in the wood. “You taking a bit of an interest in everything I’ve worked hard to achieve. You’re about to be a very significant part of it. So, I invite you to come to my soiree tonight. It’s a special High Tide at my estate, don’t worry, there’ll be no rutting around. It’s a banquet for all those who’ve believed in my vision, and I want you to be my guest of honor.”
“I’d rather die.”
A laugh, as though I’d said something charming.
“I’m sure you’ll change your mind when I tell you that Jack’s well-being hinges on your presence.”
He didn’t wait for my response, but began his crooked descent from the third-floor landing.
I took a step, aiming to shove, but a jolt of noxious magic seared its way along my spine, entirely different from the raw void of Inspector Harrow’s affliction.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said, casting a brief backward glance before continuing on his way. “Show up. Ramsey will be here to retrieve you at 9pm on the dot. We can’t have you walking through the winter night, you’ll catch your death.”
Time was a slow crawl toward my own grave until the front door finally slammed shut. I rushed to Inspector Harrow’s room, barreling to the window, just as Thea loaded Jack in the car’s backseat, followed by William, who lowered himself in after her. Ramsey stared up at me from the driver’s side window, as if disappointed in everything I’d done, everything I’d become. I whirled from the window, and the room came into full view.
Digs and grooves devastated nearly every surface. Wallpaper had been shredded, beams and floorboards bearing countless indentations carved by a sharp edge. The sheets lay in tatters, the feathers of the pillow scattered in a mimicry of the winter drifts outside. One might have thought a wild bear had been trappedinside—or perhaps a Drudge with knotted limbs like oak branches.
I lifted my gaze to the ceiling, the tower a floor above, long unused and unsafe to tread. But that’s where Auntie and Victor had gone. The time had come for me to go too.
The bottom steps had collapsed during the scuffle. My lower ribs ached at the memory. The trim that had secured them to the wall remained intact, and I tested its narrow ledge. It held. Using the opposite wall for leverage, I hoisted myself onto this small outcropping and worked my way to the next stair.
About halfway through the excruciatingly slow journey, I detected a change in the air, like standing on the shore after years of being choked by the smog of a city, never realizing you were suffocating until that moment. In the crisp purity, there was also silence, complete and undisturbed. This is what Dark Hall felt like.
At last, I reached the door, left ajar, and inched onto the floor, stripped to its plank boards, the small gaps between becoming darkness that eventually became the ceiling of the rooms below. I remained on my knees, astounded.
Plants and flowers flourished in every corner, growing to the rafters of the ceiling high above, sprawling in all directions, vying for more territory. The leaves and vines were a rich green, punctuated by the petals of lilies, poppies, and bellflowers, along with clumps of frenzied wisteria—all scarlet red, resembling the exposed organs of a felled forest beast. The densest of all the flora twined throughout the others, twisting and choking, its sharp thorns serving as a warning, while the supple fruit it produced hung in bunches, ripe and black as death.
Blackberries.
This had been the smell haunting me throughout the house, the intense tartness of summer fruit beginning to rot. Fiona hadcultivated a cursed garden of her own, trying to relieve some of the pressure from her shoulders.
I touched a berry, the drupelets distended, and it burst, staining my fingers with its juice that, in the dim tower light, reminded me of gore, a slim tendril of cursed magic wreathing my fingertips. Fiona had used these berries to make her jam, for a purpose I still hadn’t determined.
I searched for signs of Drudge, Auntie, or Victor. They could have been hiding in the brush, but everything remained so still, and I was muddled by the gravity of the Narthex, which lured my magic closer with tempting caresses. I hoped, for Victor’s sake, they hadn’t gone inside.
Worried about falling through the floor, held together in some places by roots alone, I crawled. As I maneuvered around a cluster of hollyhocks, I spotted a wicker chest that had once rested at the foot of my mother’s bed.
Its brass handle and hinges gleamed, and a vivid memory of my childhood surfaced. I’d emptied the chest to pretend it was a boat, and while playing, a Drudge had ventured too close, knocking the lid shut. It struck the top of my head, and I’d lurched forward, the latch catching, leaving me folded inside. An eternity passed before my mother discovered me, rescuing me from my makeshift casket, drenched in sweat and tears. It had disappeared after, and now I could see where it had gone—this last remaining artifact of a room once filled with the bric-à-brac of our lives. I picked my way towards the hope chest, then sat next to it, lifting the latch.
Inside were neatly folded clothes, men’s and women’s jackets, shirts, a bevy of pins, and ties. I rummaged among them, discovering they were of varying sizes, some still smelling of perfume and cigar smoke.
Also present was a single pair of earrings in the shape of peacock feathers, gold and jewel-toned. None of these items hadbelonged to Darren or Mother. Perhaps they were William’s or my sister’s unwanted items, but there was such an array, I didn’t understand the point of it. Something rustled nearby, and I stood, scanning the plant-choked tower for any indication I wasn’t alone.
“Inspector?”
When there was no answer, I nearly called for Auntie. My tendency to view her as more than a dangerous wretch would be a hard habit to break.
There was an eager tug at my magic, the shimmer of space undulating, turning the wall before me hazy and insubstantial. This was the portal to Dark Hall.
Driven by the need for answers, I didn’t hesitate. I pressed my hands against the soft texture of the wall, and it yielded. The magic I’d used to repel Auntie was still regenerating, yet what remained basked in the proximity of this realm, mingling with the hoary power of the portal. As easily as diving beneath the crest of a wave, I sank in.
I was afloat, suspended in a weightless, liminal realm, before emerging on the other side, still enveloped in darkness. It would take several minutes for the magic to adjust to me, to piece itself together into a picture I could fathom. Threads began to knit themselves together, forming the murky aspect of an interior hallway from the top down. The gypsum corbel molding appeared first, coils of free magic drifting alongside them as though following a road. My magic fluttered, fed by the endless well of power flowing through these corridors.
