Page 66 of Wickedly Ever After
Both skeletons rattled away.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“My housekeeper and steward,” he said. “Dead long ago.”
“Which is which?”
Hector frowned. “I don’t remember. For several centuries after I raised them, I could tell them apart by their teeth. My steward had a gold tooth in the right maxilla, but teeth fall out over time, and he lost it.”
“Do they answer to their names? Like your horse, Napoleon.”
“Not anymore. Neither does Napoleon. You must forgivemy idiosyncrasies—he doesn’t need a name, nor does he want it, but it’s my foolish desire to hang on to the memory of a nice black horse that wandered into my castle courtyard one day dragging a dead knight with him. He was always something of a pet.” Hector sipped his glass. “Do try this—it’s spiced wine. It will take off some of the sleepiness the roses induce. As soon as you’re rested and we’ve eaten, I’d like to go to the library and work for a few hours. We need to decide how to handle this situation and quickly.”
“No tour?” Ida said.
Hector looked surprised. “My torture chambers aren’t ready for guests. My staff cleaned them recently.”
“I could skip those, but I’d like to see your gardens.”
Hector smiled, his green eyes shone, and Ida shivered. He was horribly beautiful too, and she was finding him far too hard to resist. Perhaps she should forego the gardens.
“I’d be delighted to show you later,” he said.
“Where’s Hari?”
“He said he felt well enough to help with the luggage. I don’t think Tinbit will let him overdo it.”
The coachman carried Cear’s firepot in, past them, and into a doorway on the left.
“Go with him,” Hector said. “He has orders to take Cear to the library and build up the fire. I’m sure they want to stretch their legs after living in that bucket for the last three days and you might want to do the same after the coach ride. I’ll be along presently.” He swept his travelling cloak around him and strode back outside, leaving Ida with the skeleton.
“Lead on,” she said, as it gave a grating sound that set her teeth on edge. How Hector had made a language out of it wasa mystery she’d rather not be privy to. Probably involved magic spells composed of entrails, blood, and the distillate of shadows.
Ida tried to keep up with the number of twists, turns, stairways, and hidden doors, but soon lost count. This was the sort of place requiring a trail of breadcrumbs or lentils, but she had neither, and anyway, Hector wasn’t trying to confuse her on purpose. When she entered the library, she decided Hector might be the most wicked witch in the world, but his inner sanctum was the kind of place she’d be happy to stay in for hours.
It was the brightest, airiest room imaginable, and the fact it existed inside his dark, forbidding castle, seemed as incongruous as a delicate fern on a stand that reached out for her, tangled a frond in her hair, and withdrew it at a soft grating command from the skeleton.
The tall bookcases spoke of a place of study, but most of the room resembled a makeshift conservatory. Along with heavy leather reading chairs and walnut tables, there were multiple plant stands and a wrought iron potting bench next to a sunny window. A tray of small plants sat on it, all of them about to outgrow their pots and reeking like young skunks. Beside a pile of unshelved tomes, a vampire bat lily flapped excitedly at the sight of her, realized it couldn’t take off from its stalk yet, and subsided, closing its sepals around itself.
Ida paced the well-worn stone floors, hands behind her back, looking at everything—the cluttered tables, the leather pillows, open bags of potting soil and plant food, the books, a black wool blanket folded carefully up in a seat, and a pair of well-worn house slippers resting below an ottoman. Another horrible grinding sound came from the skeleton as he set Cear’s firepot on the hearth.
She resisted the urge to cover her ears. “No, I require nothing. Tend the fire for the salamander and you may leave.”
The skeleton shrugged its clavicles and started to pile the kindling in the fireplace. She’d only guessed at the question—probably something like whether she needed refreshment or the card catalog. Any answer would do to make it quit grinding its teeth.
The fire was soon leaping in the grate. The fern, now dropping long tendrils and attempting to walk across the room toward her, saw the salamander crawl out of the pot and retreated, drawing its fronds up fearfully. The skeleton walked out of the library, leaving Ida alone with Hector’s strange plants and Cear, taking a human shape as they stood in the fresh flame, dusting ashes from their legs.
“He asked you if you were Hector’s friend,” the salamander said quietly.
“I don’t know if I’m his friend or not,” Ida said. “He is not what I expected.”
“Nor are you what he expected,” Cear said. “You surprise him and interest him too.”
“I suppose.” Ida picked up a book and prepared to whack the nosy fern with it. “What is this infernal plant doing?” she asked as Hector came through the door.
The fern retracted all its feelers and froze, a rigid plant on a stand. Hector eyed it in surprise. “Why, what did it do?”
Ida set down the book. “It crawled out of its pot and tried to get in my hair.”
