Page 13 of Betrayal from Beyond
Such a short time, but he’d already become used to living without the weight of secrets and dread. Now they felt twice as heavy as he shouldered the burden again. But shoulder them he would. Petra Scot may have made the first move in her game of vengeance, but Niall meant to win.
Chapter Three
For a week,they all lingered easily enough at Bluefield Park.
Between them, Niall and Stayme turned the estate into a fortress. Guards manned the entrances and patrolled the boundaries at variable schedules. The hidden gate was securely padlocked. “No one is getting through here without making a significant racket,” Niall said with satisfaction as he fastened the last chain.
Kara thought it was going a bit far, but her husband—how she enjoyed saying that, even to herself—convinced Turner that they should go together to inspect every inch of Bluefield’s secret tunnels. They were all clear, as Kara had insisted they would be, but it eased Niall’s nerves to be sure.
They kept themselves busy for the week, and even for a few days beyond.
Kara and Harold finished the design for the Green Man automaton. Kara got him started on the initial framing and let him carry on while she drafted a plan for the project for her next client. It was a picnic scene, complete with figures eating tiny sandwiches and strawberries, a thieving squirrel, and a child holding a kite that lifted aloft, as if on the wind.
Gyda kept both herself and Kara’s lady’s maid, Elsie, busy. They were sewing an elaborate traditional Nordic dress to go with her new jewelry.
Stayme kept a couple of trusted couriers running ragged as he conducted his business from Bluefield. When he wasn’tworking, he buzzed around the rest of them and their projects, offering advice, criticism, and praise.
Niall fired up his forge and started on his marshland-themed gates, but he kept pausing to check in with the patrols and read over Wooten’s updates, which arrived every couple of days.
“Still nothing!” he exclaimed. Kara could feel his frustration as he handed her the latest missive. They were approaching the middle of the second week. “How can Petra have disappeared so completely?”
“Perhaps she has left the country once again?” Turner ventured.
“I’ve had no word of it,” Stayme said. “And I’ve had people watching.”
“They cannot watch every ship that leaves every port,” Kara said with a sigh. “Not even your net stretches so fine.”
“Perhaps she’s just lurking around here, waiting for her chance,” Gyda mused.
The thought sent a shiver down Kara’s spine. “If she is, then I hope she is seething in frustration.” She squared her shoulders. “And I am happy for her to continue to do so.”
Gyda’s words stayed with Kara all day. In the evening, she decided to dissipate some of her nervous energy in her gymnasium.
It was a special room fashioned from a walled-off section of the ballroom. The place had been designed by her father and some of the consultants he had hired to train her when she was young. Much of the ballroom décor was hidden behind equipment, and parts of the wooden floor were covered in mats. She had spent many hours in here back then, and kept up a good bit of her training even after her father’s death, but it had been some time since she’d used it.
She roamed idly about a moment, lighting the lamps. The one mirrored wall reflected the light, making the space bright—useful for studying one’s opponent. She swished a fencing foil back and forth a few times, but she had no partner to spar with.
Her thoughts went back to the last time they had matched wits with Petra Scot and her followers. There had been some physical encounters then, as well. The recollection led her to assemble a rough circle of wirework dummies. They were a varied lot, padded out to represent opponents of different heights and sizes. It had been a trick taught to her by an Irish fellow, a master of theshillelagh, a club or walking stick sometimes called a fighting stick. The instrument was very useful for defending oneself, and Kara had been trained to use it to fight off an attacker.
She had several sticks of varying sizes and lengths in a rack on the wall. She took down her favorite, stepped into the circle, crouched into a fighting stance, then began to move. Whirling, striking, and jabbing, she hit one opponent in the throat, the next in the kidney.Spin. Strike. Knee. Groin. Head.She pushed herself hard.Think. Strategize. Hit.
It had been too long, she realized. She tired too quickly, although her aim remained true. She stopped, panting, and resolved to get back to her training more often. Still breathing heavily, she eyed the rope that hung from the high ceiling.
She hated that rope. It had taken her a ridiculously long time to conquer it and consistently reach the top. She winced at the thought of tackling it again, but avoiding the hard things would be of no help. She pulled in a great gulp of air, grabbed the rope, closed her eyes a moment, then jumped high and began to climb.
Her arms grew tired. It took her a moment to remember just how to lock the rope with her feet so that she could use her legs. So slow. But she gritted her teeth and pushed on. When she reached the top, she braced herself with her feet, threw back her head, and sucked in celebratory air. She hung there fora triumphant moment before going carefully back down, hand over hand.
When she reached the bottom, she was startled by the sound of rapid clapping. Harold rushed in, his eyes shining. “Gor! That was somethin’!” In his enthusiasm, a bit of his old street accent crept back. “Kara! I can’t believe you can do that!” He looked around, clearly entranced. “I didn’t even know this was back here!”
“That was rather by design,” she admitted.
“But things change.”
She looked up to see Niall following the lad in, carrying a laden tea tray.
“Come,” he said. “Pull out one of those mats and we will have a picnic.”
Kara moved to arrange the space. Niall set down his burden, then poured water from a tall pitcher. “Water first, then tea.”
