City of Ruin, page 10
“Miss Knightly?” A flicker of surprise crosses Paige’s little face. “She didn’t like it here, I guess.”
I straighten, practically salivating for her to go on. “How do you mean?”
“Well, she didn’t stay long. I woke up one day, and she was just . . . gone.” Paige says it with sadness, but not with fear, and I wonder if that means Miss Knightly isn’t dead, like the rumors say. Or perhaps she is and Paige doesn’t know. Either way, I refuse to make her dwell in the hurtful past for my sake, and I don’t press Paige for more.
“I’m certain Miss Knightly would rather have stayed with you, Paige,” I tell her, and when Paige and I meander in a heavy silence for too long, I continue, “What did she look like?” I ask instead, taking in Paige’s red hair and freckled face. “Your mother, I mean.” I’ve seen the portrait in his study, but it’s all I can think in the moment to divert her attention.
“Papa says I have her hair and eyes,” she says proudly.
“Well, that’s wonderful,” I explain. “That means she will always be with you—you will always have a part of her, just like I’ll always have a part of my mother.” I point to my blue eyes and my slightly pointed nose. “And I’m glad not to have my father’s nose,” I confide with a grin. “It was much larger than mine.”
Paige giggles, blushing a little. “I’m glad I don’t look like my papa too. His face is scratchy. And Prudy tells him he should cut his mane of hair, but he never does. She said it will hide some of the gray.”
“Surely he’s not so old,” I say with a laugh. Imagining the fearsome Master Blackburn’s expression if he were to hear his daughter say such things is immensely entertaining. But it’s that glower of his that chases away the amusement, and something dark and curious settles in its place.
I consider how striking Blackburn is. It’s a cruel, callous sort of beauty, but there’s something about how gruff and unrefined he is that I find alluring, and the sudden notion of the smallest, barely perceptible attraction to him makes me shamefaced, surprised, and wholly disappointed with myself for finding any such beauty in a monster.
I peer up at the looming castle across the pond, at the shadows lurking within. The roof is missing in different areas, and the windows that still have glass gleam in the morning light, hiding whatever lurks from within.
“What are you looking at?” Paige asks, startling me as her shoulder brushes my arm.
I nod to the castle. “I was curious what’s in there,” I admit.
“We don’t go in there—well, no one except for Papa.” I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue. “That’s where it happened,” she mumbles. She pulls absently at a reed and hisses in pain.
“What is it?” I ask, crouching to look at her hand. There’s a cut in her finger where crimson trickles through.
“It stings,” she says with a grimace.
“Don’t worry, I know just the thing.” Untying the lace ribbon from my hair, I wrap it around her finger. Loose strands fall in my face as they unfurl from my braid. “The pressure will help,” I promise her.
Paige looks at me with a small smile, then stares at her finger. But I’m not so easily diverted. I glance up at the castle.
“What happened in there, Paige?” my words are soft and careful, willing her eyes to meet mine.
“It’s where the spirits took them.”
I frown and hold my breath. “Took who?”
“My mother and Henry.”
“Who is—” I swallow my words when I notice a looming shadow in one of the castle windows. Just as I realize it’s Blackburn staring down at me, he disappears and I hear a roar and a crash emanate from inside.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I rise to my feet. Did he hear our conversation? It’s not possible, and yet something angered him. Taking Paige’s hand, I pull her against me. Her eyes are wide and glistening.
“Come,” I tell her, pulling her toward the house, though I can’t help but look up at the window once more. “You can show me the rest of the manor,” I prompt, wanting to get out of Blackburn’s sight. Whether it’s his anger seeing me after last night, or seeing me with Paige, I’m not sure, but I can practically feel the repercussions of whatever I’ve done to cause such a reaction creeping in on me. The closer the unknown slithers, however, the more I fear I must find a way to stay.
15
SELENE
By midday, all I can think is that I can’t leave Paige now. I’ve already lost my charges to the foundry, and to be separated from Paige as well, when she clearly needs a companion, feels wrong. She’s already known so much sorrow; I can see it in her eyes and feel it clinging to the house and the servants. She’s in desperate need of a friend, and if I’m honest with myself, I am too. And perhaps, with her help, I might even be able to see the children again.
Though I hate to admit it, it’s to Blackburn’s credit that he’s brought her a companion. The thought feels foreign, but it’s true. No matter what I’ve lived through, I can’t imagine being so young and alone in a place where secrets and death skulk in shadows.
While Paige bathes after getting muddy in the garden, I know I must seek Blackburn out. Having heard his voice in the halls earlier, I know he’s returned from the castle, and though I don’t want to be anywhere near him after his outburst this morning, there is no way around it if I’m going to beg him to stay in the manor with Paige.
Wringing my hands, I make my way down the stairs, stopping when I see Martin, hunched over with age as he shuffles closer. I can imagine he’s served Blackburn for many years, and wonder how, exactly, he got his limp. But more than anything, I bet he knows where I can find the master of the house.
When Martin notices me waiting for him at the last step, he stops to regard me. “What is it, miss? Do you need more wood for your fire?”
I smile warmly and shake my head. The truth is, I don’t know how much longer it will be my fire. “No, thank you, Martin. I was wondering where I might find Master Blackburn.”
Martin nods down the hallway. “In his study with Mr. Collins, miss.”
I nod in gratitude, and as the old man continues past, I reach for his bony arm. “Uh—Martin?”
He looks at me, his eyes clouded with age.
“Is he—um—in a mood?”
Martin blinks at me and though he doesn’t smile, his features soften a little, and he lifts a shoulder. “Isn’t he always, miss?”
With a sigh, I lift the velvet of my dress and head for the study, praying Collins is still in there, and I won’t have to speak with Blackburn alone.
As I hurry toward his study, I consider my plan. Ask for forgiveness for what I said last night? Or for whatever I did to upset him by the pond today? Regardless, I must act humble and do what is needed to remain here with Paige, no matter what it costs my pride. No matter how dangerous it feels to stay.
I lift my head to stave off the sudden shiver threatening to disarm me as two gaunt-faced servants pass me in the hall, punctuating the unsettling pulse of this house. One carries a basket of wood, her left temple and cheek marred with scars. The other clutches an armload of folded garments, and she has a limp far worse than mine or Martin’s. Though they have clearly been marked by events in their pasts, the question is who has marked them. Having seen Blackburn’s easiness in pulling the trigger in the woods and his many outbursts, the answer seems clear.
The servants offer me small smiles and slight dips of their heads in greeting as they pass, but the way their eyes linger on my dress gives me pause. If they think I’m dressing above my station, I wouldn’t blame them for it. I’ve felt uneasy since arriving, and every moment that ticks on brings about new questions and uncertainties, why I’m being treated above my station blaring loudest of all. I can’t help but wonder what I’m missing.
As I approach Blackburn’s study, my stomach a snarled knot of nerves, Rosemary steps out of the room. Our eyes meet as she heads in my direction.
“Hello, Rosemary,” I say, glancing furtively at the study door. “Is Master Blackburn within?”
“Aye, he’s with Mr. Collins, miss.” She bows a slight curtsy. Such formality has me straightening in complete surprise, and she scurries away before I can ask her if I dare bother him now. I prefer to risk his wrath while Collins is present, however, so with a heavy exhale, I continue to the study door. It’s cracked, just barely.
“—in all the years you’ve known me,” Blackburn rumbles, and I lean closer to listen. “What has been my top priority, even when it doesn’t suit me?”
“Your task, of course,” Collins answers easily.
“Exactly, and I will not change course now. We can’t afford to fall behind.” There’s consternation in Blackburn’s voice, and I linger in hesitation, not wanting to interrupt. “With more envoys overseas and trading routes being established, the Council of Four is keeping a close eye on all landowners.”
“Yes,” Collins murmurs. “And Draven would be eager to report any missteps. Especially since I’ve heard Northshire is struggling to meet the Council’s supply request. He would love nothing better than to shift the attention back to you. But once the ship arrives, we’ll have more hands and workers.” Collins’s words fill me with disgust, though I know I shouldn’t be surprised to hear the Collector is waiting for more slaves to add to his menagerie. “Which reminds me—” There’s a shuffle of footsteps. “A letter arrived as I was coming in. I told Prudy I’d bring it to you.”
I hear what sounds like the crack of a wax seal, the crinkle of paper, followed by silence.
“Though production numbers continue to climb,” Collins reads, “not all amendments to the accord have been honored. Expect a proxy . . . within a fortnight to discuss.”
There is more silence and the pounding of what I assume is a fist on Blackburn’s desk. “Draven,” Blackburn grits out, his rage barely contained.
“It would seem so,” Collins agrees.
“Send word to Chauncey,” Blackburn orders. “Tell him to keep an ear to the ground. I want to learn of anything suspicious about the Council. I need to know their plans for me.”
“Yes,” Collins says quietly. “Of course.” As footsteps draw closer, I scurry back, tweaking my knee with a grimace.
“Collins?”
He must hesitate, just shy of opening the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Do it quickly.” Once again, Blackburn’s tone brooks no argument or room for questions. Collins flings the door open and steps into the hall, stopping short when he sees me approaching, both of us wide-eyed with surprise to see one another.
“Selene,” he says, glancing toward the study. “Have you been standing here long?”
“No,” I say with a practiced calm. “I am coming to see if I might have a word with Master Blackburn.” The lie is also the truth and comes out easily, a skill learned after so many years in the inquisition of Master Orson. Though, I’m not sure I can quite quell the fear, knowing Collins is leaving me alone with Blackburn.
Heavy footsteps precede him as he steps out of his study. Formidable and striking all at once. His eyes flash with fury when he sees me, and it’s clear he hasn’t forgotten my offenses last night. He seems to grow a foot as he straightens.
Collins worries the side of his cheek and clears his throat. “Uh—good day,” he mutters, leaving me in the looming presence of our master.
“Good day,” I whisper, but it’s all I can do to keep my head held high standing in front of Blackburn, with a terrifying, volatile look in his narrowed gray eyes. My resolve quickly shreds to pieces, and my mouth is moving to fill the sudden silence. “I—” I clear my throat. “I know you’re angry with me.” His gaze sears through me, and I pick nervously at my fingers gripped behind my back. “But I was hoping you might allow me to stay here, with you—” I shake my head. “With Paige,” I clarify, my fingernails stinging as I pick more feverishly.
I don’t know if I imagine it, but his back seems to straighten minutely, and I rush to continue. “Paige came to me this morning,” I explain. “And I—well, I’ve spent some time with her, and I would like to know her better. I think we could both use a friend.” I’m not sure where that truth comes from, but his menacing glare has my nerves bumbling all over the place.
Blackburn peers down his nose at me, as if I could forget my life is in his hands, and lifting my chin, I hold my breath and meet him stare for stare.
“That dress,” he says, so eerily calm, it’s utterly terrifying. “You will take it off and never wear it again.”
“Wha—what?” Confused, I glance down, my hands smoothing the front of the gown, almost protectively. “I—”
“Now,” he commands. His eyes bore into me, making me squirm, and all I can feel are my cheeks flaring crimson, even if I don’t understand why.
Spinning around, I stalk toward my room, pushing past the pain in my leg. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt smaller—or more exposed. Does he think I am trying to dress above my station? That I am trying to upset him? I felt out of place the moment I put it on, and yet, it was all I had—it was what was left for me to wear.
It’s a cruel sort of joke Prudy is playing, and as I consider I might not have as many new friends here as I’d imagined, I tear at the stays of the dress, unable to loosen them fast enough as I rush up the stairs. My eyes blur, and I’m beyond desperate to rid myself of everything in this horrible place.
16
SELENE
When I arrive at my room, the door is open and Rosemary is tending to the fire. Stays already loosened, I tug the sleeves from my shoulders, grumbling as I struggle, when Rosemary spins around.
Her gray, pinned-back hair falls into her eyes. “Oh, miss—” She abandons her fire poker and wipes her hands on her apron as she rises.
“Why did you make me wear this—” I rasp in a desperate struggle against the heavy fabric. Suddenly, it’s claustrophobic. Too thick, the furs too opulent, the embroidery too fine, and tears prick my eyes. “Why did Prudy—help me!” I tug harder. Rosemary hurries over to assist me. “Why did Prudy put it out for me to wear, if it was only going to anger him?” My voice cracks as it all bubbles up—the cauldron of fear, anger, and resentment erupting over, until I can no longer contain it. “I shouldn’t be here,” I cry, though it’s more of a shriek.
“Shh. It’s okay, miss. Let me help you.” Her hands are cool and calloused, yet somehow comforting. And with nimble fingers, she loosens the stays in the back.
“Why was he so angry?” I whisper, inhaling a steadying breath as the entire dress falls to the floor before Rosemary can catch it. Without its weight, it’s as if I can breathe again.
“Don’t worry, miss.” She drapes the gown over her arm and pulls my shift back onto my shoulder. “I’ll get it sorted right away.”
Hands covering my face, I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing in and out to steady my nerves. None of that went as I’d expected it to. I’d thought he’d yell at me, that perhaps I would need to beg for my place in this house, but it’s as if he wasn’t even listening to me. It’s as if all he could see was red.
“I’ll be back, miss,” Rosemary says softly, and when I drop my hands, she is gone.
Standing in my shift and nothing more, I stare dumbly around the room. I don’t understand any of it. There are too many mysteries here. I can barely keep my wits about me.
A draft zips through the room, and I gather my robe from the foot of my bed and shrug it on. Plopping down on the mattress, I tell myself my circumstances are not worse than what I’d expected. In fact, they’re far better in appearance and luxury. But then why does the foundry seem a kinder fate? My nerves are too raw, perhaps. My mind too heavy from not enough sleep. I have dealt with men like Blackburn before. I should not be surprised, nor allow him to affect me so much.
But as I try to talk myself away from the edge of hysteria, the truth rears its ugly, taunting head. It’s a lie. I have never met anyone like Blackburn—not powerful and shrewd and terrifying. With my father’s colleagues, I could pretend I didn’t understand their advancements, and I had my mother and brother to protect me. With Master Orson, I could beguile and outwit him half of the time. With his wife, I could use kindness, however fake it might’ve been, as a shield that would protect me, even if it was only momentarily. But Blackburn is a tempest, unpredictable, roiling, and on the verge of striking at any moment.
As another draft rakes over my skin, I notice the flames flicker in the hearth, giving me pause. It’s only then I realize the draft isn’t coming from the door or the old window, but from somewhere near the fireplace.
Rising to my feet, I wrap the robe tighter around my waist and study the fireplace as I draw closer. It is plaster and stone, and while there is a crack in the wall beside it, that isn’t where I feel the draft coming from when I place my palm against it. Another cool waft stirs out from the wall and breezes past me. In the absence of hanging tapestries, I spot a crack in the paper—a crack that’s too perfect, too straight. If it’s a seam in the faded burgundy and gold stripes, it’s oddly placed.
Reaching out, I run my fingers along the break in the wallpaper, the surface cold to the touch, and as the draft whistles through this time, swirling around me, my suspicions are confirmed. “A passage.”
Heart pounding with a dangerous concoction of intrigue and unease, I run my finger up the seam again, until it’s too high to reach and disappears into the crown molding. Where does the passage lead and when was it opened last? That someone might have come through it while I slept only amplifies my discomfort after today—no, the discomfort I’ve had since I arrived, and I have to know where it leads.
Placing my ear against the wall, I listen, hearing nothing but a distant whir of more wind. With a bit of force, I press against the wall in different places, trying to feel the slightest movement or shift beneath my palms. When there is none, I lean harder, using my shoulder to brace myself to no avail. I examine the wall for hinges or a hidden handle—something to lift or pull or to give me leverage. But I find nothing.
