Page 8 of Unbroken
“The Endicotts keep to themselves, I know. Is this about Noct, or the traitor?”
“Noct? Oh no, Rupert favors him.”
“The traitor, then.”
The car in front of them finally made a turn, and Irene stepped on the gas rather more aggressively than Sebastian would have preferred. “Hattie is handling things—quietly, for the moment.”
Sebastian had been seated next to Hattie during the introductory dinner. “She’s a terrifying woman.”
“I suppose. She’s been through a lot, much of it at the hands of family. When Balefire fell…”
Irene’s shoulders hunched, and Sebastian winced. “When your parents died.”
“A part of me wishes I’d been there. I tell myself I could have saved them. Or at least died beside them. But they wouldn’t have wanted that.” Her fingers visibly tightened on the steering wheel. “What if we start spilling each other’s blood again? If we lose this home, too?”
Sebastian wished he had some wisdom to impart. “Well, you won’t lose us. The other librarians, I mean. And Ves. Certainly not Noct. I know that doesn’t help much.”
“It does, a little.”
They drove in silence over the Cranch River and onto High Street. The mansions of the old families loomed over the tree-lined avenue, gradually giving way to progressively newer homes, until they were almost at the ocean. Here, the enormous houses of the nouveau riche lay behind locked gates and long lawns.
“Perry must have married up,” Sebastian observed as they slowed in front of the address Paul Tubbs had given them.
A uniformed footman stood before the gates. “You’re expected. Please drive to the house,” he said when they gave their names.
They passed a manicured lawn and a marble fountain before parking in front of an enormous mansion too new yet to be weathered by sun and salt. A breeze blew off the nearby ocean, carrying with it the familiar smell of fish and seaweed. Another footman scurried to open their doors, seeming confused to find Irene driving a vehicle meant to have a chauffeur. As Sebastian climbed out, he spotted the outline of a formal garden around the side of the mansion, with a huge greenhouse looming up behind it.
Something about the garden and greenhouse seemed off, though it took him a moment to figure out what. Though a low wall enclosed the garden, the plants towered over it, engorged stalks bending beneath roses the size of cheese wheels and snowdrops like lampshades. The greenhouse looked choked with overgrown plant life as well. Whatever the gardeners were doing, it seemed to be working almost too well.
The front door swung open, and Tubbs beckoned to them. “She’s awake,” he said in a low voice, ushering them inside. “Perry is resting in his room—probably best to leave him to it.”
The sumptuous halls and chambers lay silent as they followed him through the house. The hushed air made it feel as though mourning had already begun, instead of waiting for death’s arrival.
Eventually, Tubbs stopped in front of a door painted white with gilded trim. “These are her private rooms,” he said. “Please keep your voices down and be as gentle with her as you can.”
“We will,” Sebastian reassured him. “My own mother passed in similar circumstances, I’m afraid.” Which was close enough to the truth.
Tubbs looked surprised, then thoughtful. Perhaps he hadn’t considered his enemies at the library had such normal things as mothers.
The door opened onto a drawing room filled with delicate furniture and fresh flowers so enormous they overwhelmed their vases. A portrait hung on one wall, and Tubbs nodded to it. “That’s her. As she was just a few months ago.”
The woman in the painting sat in a garden, dressed in an empire-waist gown that recalled previous eras. Her pale hands clasped a small bouquet of flowers, arranged to tumble over her fingers and into her lap. Sebastian wasn’t the best judge of women’s beauty, but she seemed pretty enough, though not someone who would turn heads on the street.
Penelope’s bedroom lay on the other side of the drawing room, the door cracked open and a nurse seated beside it. When they entered, she hastily concealed the book she’d been reading in her skirts and bobbed her head. “Still resting, Mr. Tubbs,” she said.
“Thank you.” Tubbs seemed ill at ease; perhaps he wasn’t used to dealing with servants and nurses. “Uh, you’re excused. I’ll ring the bell when we’re done.”
She bobbed again and hurried out, shutting the door quietly behind her. Tubbs whispered, “Don’t be shocked at Penny’s appearance.”
As they approached the bedroom, Sebastian’s scars tugged unexpectedly. He bit back a gasp, and as Tubbs swung the door fully open, he elbowed Irene and pointed meaningfully at his forearm.
Whatever had happened to Penelope, the Book of Blood had indeed been involved.
Within the bedroom, all the curtains were pulled tightly shut, leaving only an electric lamp on the bedside table for illumination. What details Sebastian could make out in the gloom suggested this had once been an airy room, filled with sunlight and yet more gargantuan flowers. Now the flowers languished, petals falling to the floor unnoticed.
The air stank of infection underlain with burnt hair and a horrible, metallic scent. Amidst great piles of white pillows lay a shriveled figure, its form mainly hidden beneath a white sheet spotted with brown stains. Both arms lay atop the coverlet, wrapped from finger to shoulder in bandages with yellowish fluid seeping through here and there. The head was much the same, concealed beneath wrapping, except for one cheek, a single eye, and the mouth.
Sebastian’s throat tried to close and it was everything he could do to force himself to approach. This was what had happened to his mother, except in her case the fire had snuffed out her life in a matter of minutes. Memories of the blaze rose in his mind, inescapable: the smells of burning wood and flesh and upholstery, the raw sound of her screams, the strong hands of the firefighters holding him back from the inferno.
