Page 37 of Magick in the Night
He crouched before her, folding his hands as though in prayer. “Madness is the disease of those who doubt their purpose. I do not doubt mine. It is to restore order, the rightful order of things.”
“You are of Hawthorne blood,” she whispered. “And as cursed as he is.”
The Reverend smiled in a twisted and macabre fashion. “When there are no Ashcombe women to roam this earth, there will no longer be a curse. You’ll die first. I will deposit your cloak on the river bank so it will appear you have drowned… not the first of your line to die in such a fashion. That is what they used to do to witches isn’t it? Death by drowning or the noose?”
Eliza fought back a shiver, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“And when the Earl finds evidence of your death, in his despair he will take his own life. Then I will take the money my father had the decency to settle upon me and I will purchase Ravenswood outright… Restoration, Eliza. That’s what this is about. Restoration and restitution.”
Her pulse pounded painfully against the ropes. “No one will believe it. No one will believe any of it! Do you truly think you can get away with this?”
“I will do what must be done and damn the consequences,” Mullins said quietly. “The village will grieve him, of course. And you—well, they will grieve you, too, in their way. The tragic Lady Blackburn, who could not bear the burden of her own sin. Such a pity, they will say, that she chose to end it. And when they discover the Earl’s body nearby, they will whisper of curses and madness, of how love turned to despair. The story will write itself, just as it has in every previous generation.”
He rose to his feet, pacing slowly before her as though delivering a sermon. “By the week’s end, Dunrake will return to its senses. The Ashcombe line will be extinguished, and the Hawthornes, as well—what remains of them shall reclaim the land of their forebears. It will be as God intended.”
“You’re the devil’s own fool,” Eliza said bitterly. “You’ll only damn yourself.”
He turned to her, and for a moment the veneer of civility cracked, revealing something dark and vicious beneath. “Better damned for righteousness than rewarded for sin.”
He moved to the table near the hearth. Her cloak lay there, draped neatly over a chair, damp at the hem. He touched it with almost reverent care.
“I must lay the groundwork for your sad ending.”
“Why not just drown me in the river then?” She challenged. If he intended to put her in the river, he would have to untie her and that would at least be a slim chance to escape.
“Because then I would not get to see you die… and I need to see that. I need to be certain. I allowed sentiment to stay my hand once, but not again.”
Her heart pounded. “Gabriel will come for me.”
Mullins smiled. “Of course he will. That is the beauty of it. I shall go to him myself, tell him I found your cloak, that I fear the worst. He’ll follow me to the river, desperate, broken—and there, it will end. A tragedy fit for a sermon.”
He turned toward the door, drawing his cloak tight about him. “I suggest you pray, Lady Blackburn. You have precious little time left to make your peace.”
When the door closed behind him, the wind rushed in through the cracks again, colder now, crueler. Eliza’s breath trembled in the stillness. The sound of his footsteps faded down the path, swallowed by the rising howl of the storm.
For a long moment, she sat motionless, listening to the wind, the creak of the old beams, the faint whistle of air through the chimney. Then she began to twist her wrists again, slowly, methodically, feeling for the smallest give in the rope.
She would not die here. Not in this place. Not tonight.
She thought of Gabriel—his hands, his voice, the way his eyes softened when he looked at her—and used that memory like a blade against the panic that threatened to swallow her.
If she was to survive, she would have to save herself.
But the rope was slick with her own blood now, her strength nearly gone. Her lips were numb, her vision blurring from the cold and exhaustion. And still the storm grew louder, the wind battering the shutters with sudden, violent bursts.
In her mind, Helena’s voice rose again.There may come a day, my darling, when words are all that stand between you and the dark.
Eliza’s throat tightened. She had mocked those lessons, dismissed the whispered incantations as folly. But now—now, when reason had failed and mercy seemed a distant dream—she found herself whispering the words her grandmother had once spoken over her in the firelight.
The first syllables were halting, uncertain. Then, as she repeated them, her voice steadied. The language was old, older than English, the cadence rolling like a tide. Each phrase carried a strange, vibrating weight, the air thickening with it. Her pulse thrummed in rhythm with the chant, the sound building until it filled the little cottage.
She could feel it then—the shift. The air pressed down, heavy and still, the hairs rising along her arms. Somewhere deep within her, something ancient stirred, answering the call.
The latch lifted.
The door opened.
Reverend Mullins stepped back inside, a sneer twisting his mouth. “Pray all you wish,” he began coldly. “It will not?—”
