Page 26 of House of Furies
The floors and shelves grew neater as a result of my meticulous searching, and after also pocketing a naturalist’s field guide apparently owned and signed by Lord Byron, I moved on to the windows, scrubbing so vigorously at the hardened grime that my teeth clacked. Of course the meager staff here could not keep up the amount of work necessary to maintain a house like this, but I was beginning to suspect that this was by design. It was no doubt easier to keep the dark secret of the place with just a handful of servants. I leaned down and dipped the rag into the water, then squeezed it out. In this position I could see a handful of books scattered under a shelf, and I reached for them, greedily hoping for another good find. Sighing and then freezing, I knew as my fingers closed around the nearest book that I was being watched by a shape in the corner.
Oh Lord. The shadows had returned for me.
“Hello again!”
“Jesus, Mary, and all the hallowed saints,” I swore. The rag flew out of my hand and missed the bucket, and I leaned back against the wall, clasping a hand to my chest with relief. It was only Lee. The books lay lost and forgotten where I had seen them.
Lee. Lee, who had to be tainted by some awful past or predilection or else he would not be at Coldthistle. Lee, who might still escape the clutches of the house and deliver me safely, too, or else send someone back to collect me.
My first instinct, obnoxiously, was to embrace him. Considering I had not so long ago rejected his offer of friendship, embracing was even more impossible. He was middling rich and I didn’t have a single penny to my name, and we could very well be dead in days or even minutes. Those shadow beasts might be watching us. Observing. Catching us in the act of conspiracy.
I straightened, wiping my soiled hands on my apron and gesturing for him to come forward. Urge to embrace quashed, I found my voice but kept it low. There was no telling who listened in. Were there peepholes everywhere in the house? Did those shadows have ears? Did they need them?
“Just the person I wanted to see.”
“Oh!” He brightened an already bright smile and sauntered into the library. “I do like the sound of that. I began to worry when we didn’t see you at tea this morning, so I thought I mightseek you out. Uncle was being a real bore and I was plum certain that Italian woman was going to knock him senseless with her—wait a moment, your wrist. What the devil happened to it? Are you quite all right?”
He rushed toward me, curls bobbing, all worry and care as he made to reach for my wrist, then thought better of it, his hands poised in the air awkwardly like a puppeteer’s.
“Just an accident,” I lied smoothly. “A slip. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”
“I never knew scullery work was so treacherous.”
I guffawed. That, like my clumsy fall down the stairs, was an accident. Generally I was not the guffawing type, and Lee noticed at once the violent way the sound ripped out of my throat.
“Coughing”—and this lie was far more artless than the last—“there’s so much dust in here. It should be a crime to treat books in such a manner.”
And a crime to murder, a crime to have backward feet, to employ shadow monsters, to hoard dark, magical books...
“No,” Lee said softly, pursing his lips. “Something really is the matter. Forgive my saying so, Louisa, but you look... Rather, I am a gentleman, and being a gentleman I do not think I can properly express—”
“I look horrid,” I finished for him. “I am aware of it.”
“Actually I was going to say ‘peaked,’ but all right.” That only tightened his expression. He moved to lean against the librarywall next to me, crossing his arms and ducking his head slightly. “Well, I am here, you know, if you would like to discuss it.”
“My looking horrid?”
“Louisa...”
I had to phrase this perfectly or risk alienating a potential ally. But the weight of what I needed to communicate was abruptly crushing. How did I tell him all that I had seen? Or even some of it? No sane person would believe me.Ihardly believed me. And yet the fact remained that I needed him, his resources, his help, his driver, his carriage, perhaps even the sabers I had glimpsed under the passenger seats. I had not escaped Pitney without help from Jenny, and my chances of getting out of Coldthistle House would increase greatly with some assistance.
And standing there next to him, I confess I felt safer. Here at least was a neutral element. I was marked to stay, he was marked for death, but while we yet lived I would struggle against such destinies.
So. How to tell him....
“I did go through my uncle’s things,” he said. When I did not interrupt—for I welcomed the chance to puzzle out my approach—he drew in a long breath to explain. “He had some very odd items in his luggage. An unusual number of knives, and a pistol! I always knew he was a bit anxious, but still, it seems excessive. There were normal things as well: a comb, some gloves and quills and so on. It’s the damnedest thing. I truly thought he would have more information about my so-calledmother, beyond just a single note—an address, I think. How astonishing to make this long journey based on so little.”
“Perhaps he keeps those other papers on him,” I murmured. “If they are valuable or confidential, he may not wish to keep them just anywhere.”
Lee nodded, regarding me still with his head bowed. “That was what I came to tell you, which means it’s now your turn.”
Wonderful. My hands had grown pruney from the damp washrag, and I wiped them anxiously down the front of my apron, careful not to dislodge the pilfered books hidden there. There was no rubbing away the scars on my fingertips, and I kept the marks out of his sight, pressing my palms flat to my skirt.
“I think we are in danger,” I said in a whisper. “But do not raise your voice or show any signs of alarm. If I am right, we must maintain the utmost secrecy.”
“Danger?” His brows shot up, and he leaned in close. “Your wrist; did someone harm you deliberately?”
“No, no,” I assured him, and technically it was the truth. After all, somethinghad harmed me. “Mr. Morningside said some terrible things about Mrs. Eames—that she’s only a widower because she killed her late husband. He claims that she murdered her son, too. I think he means to... to exact revenge.Severerevenge.”
