City of Ruin, page 11
Sighing in frustration, I take a step back. Then another, staring at the wall for something I’ve missed. It’s then I realize this is the only wall in the room without metal bracings, which means Blackburn knows it’s here, and he left it accessible when he retrofitted the manor.
Imagining the person outside my window, and the possibility that they might know this door exists, has my heart stuttering in my chest and my pulse pounding again. I must know where this leads.
Only two paintings adorn the wall—an elegant portrait of a little baby in a faceless mother’s arms, and the other of a horse in a field, the style a bit more rudimentary. There are no tapestries, only the mantle, so it must be a fitting or latch on the fireplace.
Running my hand over and under the mantle, I find nothing. No loose pieces or uneven surfaces, only a dusty candlestick. I scratch my head, trying to think. No latch or obvious key. There is no handle. There must be some way to open it from in here. Then I notice it—a short, wrought iron poker hanging on the stand with the others. But it’s tapered and flat at the end, and far too short to stoke or prod a burning fire.
Without thought, I grab it, hoping I’m right as I stare at the seam in the wall. The thin metal fits the slit snuggly, but it fits all the same, and with a little extra gusto, I push it up carefully, then down a bit, the poker scraping through the seam as I wait for it to hit some sort of latch.
The moment I feel the tension is the instant I hear the click, and the door snaps ajar, ever so slightly. It opens toward me without protest, and using the poker, I pry it wider to peer inside. I’m not sure if I should be more unsettled to know the door opens and closes so silently, or by the narrow, foreboding stone tunnel engulfed in darkness stretching out before me. It smells dank and forgotten, and I shiver. It’s a gamble to go inside, but I must know where it leads, and who, if anyone, might use it to enter my room.
I light the dusty candlestick on the mantle, questioning if that is its intended purpose to begin with, and with a heavy exhale, I spare a final glance at my bedroom door and step inside. I don’t have the guts to shut the door behind me, so I leave it open. If Rosemary returns before I do, at least she’ll know where to find me.
Using the flickering light of the candle, I inch my way through the passageway. My shoulders touch the walls if I step off kilter, but other than how creepy it is and how fusty it smells inside, it’s not overly frightening.
My steps are swallowed by the shadows as I make my way down the twisting path. I do not know which part of the house I am walking through, nor for how long I’ve followed the path, before I find a stone staircase and follow it down to the first level of the manor.
It seems to twist and wind forever, but when I arrive at the bottom, I discover the corridor to my quarters is only one of many offshoots from the first floor. I pass a few of the diverging stairways, which I assume lead to other rooms, and continue along the main passage. It’s the same size, but it feels warmer somehow, and intermittent light filters in ahead. Slits in the wood, I realize as I draw closer.
Lingering at the first one, I peer into what I can see of the instrument room with the piano and harp. It’s dark and empty, as usual, and anxiously, I continue onward.
I pass another closed room, shrouded in darkness, before I come to a glowing chamber that filters brightly into the passage. With bated breath, I gaze through the hole and immediately stiffen.
A fire blazes in the hearth and papers are strewn across a desk, but it’s the portrait above the fireplace that makes me gulp down a breath. Master Blackburn’s study. I’ve never felt like a voyeur before, and in this house, even if learning I have such access to Blackburn’s private room gives me a surge of relief, it terrifies me as well. He’s not in his study and all I can think is he’s in here, walking the passageways, where he will catch me spying.
As the thought plagues me, I spin on my heels and hurry back in the direction I came. I pass the instrument room and another staircase, but as I come upon two more, I can’t recall which one is mine. I was so consumed with where I was going, I didn’t think to mark the path back.
Glancing between the two routes, I consider how long I had to walk and decide to take the farthest stairway. I hurry up the stairs, the flickering candlelight illuminating the same rafter and rogue spiderweb I’d come across before. It isn’t until I get to the door to find it’s closed that I worry I’ve chosen the wrong path. Or that I’ve been shut out.
Shaking my head, I exhale the increasing panic, telling myself I can easily push the door open. Uncertain who I might find inside, waiting for my return, I ever so carefully lean against the door and nudge it open. It’s heavy but moves silently, and the moment light filters through from the wrong side of the room, I freeze.
There’s no noise at first, and I hope that whoever’s room this is won’t even know I’ve intruded, but as I turn away, a growl rumbles from inside, a thud immediately following.
I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a shriek as a blur of a shadow whirs by the cracked doorway, stopping at the oversized hearth. It’s Blackburn. He braces his arms against the wall, peering down into the fire. I can only see part of him, but his hair is wild, his tunic untucked and hanging off of him, as if it’s come loose in his fit of rage. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and . . . they are stained with crimson.
The moment I realize it is blood, I turn away from the secret door, not bothering to pull it shut as I dash down the corridor. My knee aches, and I stumble a few times in my haste, unable to ignore the possible horrors Blackburn might’ve committed.
I backtrack when I get to the main floor again, and choose the passageway before Blackburn’s. Seconds bleed into minutes and time stretches fearfully long before I see light ahead and my four-poster bed comes into view.
I nearly sob with relief when I step foot inside, and heave my body into the door to latch it shut. I discard the candle on the mantle, almost dropping it as I search the room for something to wedge against the door, should Blackburn follow. Eyeing the trunk at the foot of the bed, I tug it with all of my might, grimacing as I heave, until it’s close enough to prevent him from entering.
Heart pounding, I peer around my room with a hysterical laugh. A trunk will not stop him, but I’m uncertain what else to do. I begin to pace, determined to get a hold of myself before I make another rash decision.
Above my own mutterings, I hear voices in the hallway. Rosemary. Rushing for the door, I open it to usher her in, but as she reaches the top of the stairs, Blackburn’s door down the hall flies open.
“Prudy!” he bellows. His eyes meet mine across the landing as Rosemary steps into my room. I scuttle back, allowing her to shut the door behind her, closing us both inside.
“Apologies, miss—”
“There’s a passageway,” I tell her, as if I’m confessing a secret.
Rosemary stops short, blinking at me, and then peers at the wall. “Yes, miss,” she says. “There is.”
Her features crumple as she takes in the moved trunk, clearly confused. “It’s rarely used these days. How did you find it?” Her tone is curious, but she doesn’t seem angry or concerned. Watching me, she drapes my old frock on the end of my bed.
“There was a draft, and I—I was cold.”
“It’s no wonder, miss. Your fire’s died out. Here,” she says, and nods to my dress. “Change. I’ll tend to the fire. Master Blackburn wants you downstairs—”
“Why?” I blurt, my breath catching in my throat. He could have heard me scurry away—might know I was in his corridor.
Rosemary frowns at me over her shoulder.
“I mean—” I swallow. “I just spoke with him an hour or so ago. I’m not sure what he could need to see me about.” I tug the roughly hewn, threadbare sleeves over my arms and onto my shoulders, their weight and familiar fit comforting.
“Supper, of course,” Rosemary says, and she adds two logs to the fire. “You’re to collect Paige and be down there at seven sharp.”
“Supper?” I hadn’t expected that, especially after his reaction to my wearing the violet dress.
“Yes. You missed it last night, so you better not be late,” she warns, and motions for me to turn around so she can fix my appalling hair that’s come loose in my running through darkened tunnels. She pulls a cobweb from the crown of my head with a lifted brow. “Master Blackburn is very particular about dinner time.” I meet her gaze in the vanity mirror as she tends to me. As we both know goes unsaid.
Wiping the cobweb on her apron, Rosemary fusses with my hair, tucking the loose bits back into the braid, oblivious to what I’ve just encountered. I want to tell her—to clarify what I’ve seen—but uncertainty stills my tongue. I have a feeling the less information about me that gets back to Blackburn, the safer I will be.
With a whispered thank you, I watch Rosemary exit my room, and wonder how slowly the time will pass while I wait and stew for whatever comes next.
17
SELENE
After Paige shows me the schoolroom and her favorite hiding spot in a nook under the stairs, and teaches me an elementary tune on the piano I’m not likely to remember, we make our way across the manor to the dining hall so we are not late for supper.
As more time passes since my adventure this afternoon, my frayed nerves seem to settle. I tell myself I have no idea what I’d really seen in his quarters. It could easily have been wine or wax from the letters I saw strewn about his desk when I’d peeked inside his study. It could have been a number of things, but blood, even if Master Blackburn is threatening, seems like a stretch.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Paige asks as she steps onto a bench lining the hall. Standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, she walks beside me, her hand on my shoulder as she glances down at my leg. “You’re limping.”
“Oh, I—” I decide to keep this afternoon’s clumsy labyrinth adventures to myself. “It’s an old wound that acts up sometimes. Nothing serious,” I promise.
“What happened to you?” Paige jumps off the end of the bench, very unladylike, and I smile, because I would undoubtably do the same if I could.
“I was in an accident,” I confide. “A terrible one. My leg was caught in some rubble. I’m lucky to still have it.”
“Was it an earthquake?”
“Yes.” I nod, sighing a little. “It was.”
Paige heaves out a sigh of her own. “They scare me,” she says. “My friend Rupert died in one last year.”
“Oh, Paige.” I turn to her. “I’m sorry you lost your friend. I hope you have wonderful memories of him, at least.”
Paige’s mouth quirks into a sad smile as we wander through the foyer. “We used to race from the church to the stable, and I always won. But . . . I think he let me.”
I smile at the lovely memory. “How gentlemanly of him.”
Paige shrugs. “Prudy always said his father brought him up right.”
“I see. And what happened to his mother?”
“She died, like mine—” The clock strikes, startling us as it resounds through the entry, and I realize Paige and I have stopped outside the room of books.
Glancing at the time, I note we have a quarter of an hour until supper. “Paige,” I say, eyeing the candelabra on the closest table. “I want to see the library.”
The gray afternoon turns inky with night, so I take the candelabra, careful not to drip wax everywhere, and step inside.
“Haven’t you been in here?” Paige asks as she follows.
“No, I haven’t had a moment yet.” I inhale the scent of musty books, wax from the tallow candles, and lingering woodsmoke. Setting the candelabra on a table in the reading nook, I bypass the furniture draped in cloth, and peruse the bindings illuminated on the shelves, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, save for the large, drape-drawn window. “I didn’t realize there were so many.” The old bindings beckon me closer, and I imagine I could read one a night for the rest of my time here and I might only get through a single shelf. My fingers itch to touch each of them as I stroll past, slowly making my way around the room.
For a moment, I lose myself in the possible escape that lies within each one of these pages. Some of the bindings are so old and discolored, I can’t tell what they are. Some are publications of plants and other natural findings. Histories and theology. But names like Aristotle and Jane Austen give me pause. “This is remarkable,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen so many books in one place. It’s even more than what I saw in your father’s study.”
“Father says the people who once lived here were wealthy and well-traveled,” Paige explains, pulling one book from a lower shelf. When some of the pages fall out, I cringe inwardly but continue my perusal around the room.
“We should have our lessons in here, instead of that gloomy chamber in the east wing.”
“But it’s all dusty.” Paige’s face sours as she touches one shelf, immediately wiping the residue off on her green dress.
“Then we should clean it up,” I tell her. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with a little dust.”
When I reach the corner of the room, I strain to see what the glow of the candles doesn’t reach. “These look newer than the rest,” I muse, and hurry back for the candelabra. Curious to see what new books have been added to the forgotten collection, I bring the candles closer. The row of leather bindings brightens as the shadows dance away, and I lean in to study them. The edges are rough against my fingers, the spines well worn, though the tomes themselves are thin, like journals, perhaps. Setting the candelabra on a nearby table, I pull the last book crammed in the row.
As I flip through the pages, I realize it’s not a journal or a book, but pages and pages of lists. My intrigue wanes until the names and numbers I see begin to make sense.
My throat burns. “People,” I rasp. The blood in my veins turns cold, leaving me trembling, and I trace my finger down the entries, one page and then another, name after name, age after age, until finally . . .
Evie Black—9yo, 5 bills
Jon Black—9yo, 5 bills
Beatrice Commings—12yo, 5 bills
Nell Elliot—14yo, 5 bills
I hold my breath.
Selene Sinclair—20yo, 67 bills
Bile rises in my throat and I take an unsteady step backward. Sixty-seven bills? Blackburn paid sixty-seven bills for me? That I am surprised I’m worth so much makes me sick, and that it’s as much as a townhome in the most renovated area in New London only worsens it. It’s one thing to know we were all purchased, but to see it written down as if we’re nothing more than livestock sears away all the fear and the apprehension I’ve felt in being in this place, replacing it with loathing—loathing for Blackburn. Loathing for the Orsons. Even for my mother and brother for not being able to save me, and my father for reducing me to such a life.
You should be used to this, a voice tells me. I know the ways of the world. I’ve lived this life for nine years. Nothing should surprise me anymore. But it does. Still.
“We’re going to be late,” Paige says, stirring me from desperate thoughts. “Papa doesn’t like it when we’re late.”
With a shaking hand, I shove the journal back onto the shelf, telling myself I have to compose whatever it is I’m feeling until I can get through dinner. I must. As it says right there, my name among hundreds, I am a slave here, easily bought and sold, just like everyone else.
“Selene,” Paige hedges, her voice quiet as she stops beside me. Her face is as stricken as mine. “What’s wrong?” I can hear the fear in her voice.
Shaking the horror from my mind as much as I can, I force a smile, watery as it is, because I don’t have time to process this now. Not when Blackburn is waiting for us at the table.
When the clock on the wall ominously chimes again, marking the seventh hour, I force my nerves down and straighten my shoulders. It’s time to dine with the Collector.
18
SELENE
When Paige and I enter the dining hall, there are three place settings, but no Blackburn.
“You sit here,” Paige chirps, nodding to the chair across the table from hers. Blackburn’s head-of-the-table seat looms between ours, but I do as I know I’m expected and take the seat to his left.
“I wonder what we’re having for dinner,” Paige ponders aloud, unfolding her napkin onto her lap. I do the same as I take in the finely woven table skirt, the hammered copper plates, and the crystal goblets that match the water jug in the center. I’ve never seen anything more ostentatious than the finery adorning the table, but as my stomach growls loudly in the quiet dining hall, Paige and I giggle, and momentarily, my unease is forgotten.
Our laughter stifles immediately, however, as the door on the other side of the room opens and Blackburn strides in. A flash of a memory surfaces at the sight of him—Blackburn in his quarters in front of the fireplace, covered in what looked disturbingly close to blood. Though my heart skips a few beats, it’s almost too easy to assume I’d imagined it as I study his fresh clothes and the way his black hair is raked back in damp, thick waves, away from his face.
He glances between Paige and me. “Don’t stop laughing on my account,” he grumbles, and stops at the bar to pour himself something to drink. The crystal decanter clinks against his glass, a sound that sends unwanted memories and a familiar discomfort over me as I’m transported back to Orson’s stale, smoky study.
Having wasted enough years and sleepless nights on that man, I clear my throat, refusing to sit so restlessly in Blackburn’s brooding silence. “So,” I say, looking at Paige. “Which of the books that we discussed today would you like to read?” I ask, though I realize Blackburn hasn’t told me I can stay in the house. Since I’m joining him and Paige for dinner, I wager he’s accepted my request, despite being angry at me at nearly every turn, and I focus on my pupil. “Well?” I prompt, lifting my eyebrow. “Which will it be—a seafaring adventure, or a fairy tale?”
