City of Ruin, page 7
Collins looks amused by this, and he clears his throat. “Miss Sinclair is to be Paige’s companion and governess,” he explains, only this time, Prudy and I both gape at him.
“What?” we say in unison.
The door flies open as Blackburn strides through, divesting his cape immediately, and handing it to Prudy. He glances between the three of us, his eyes lingering a heartbeat longer on me, before he removes his gloves. “Is there a problem? I want her cleaned and fed before supper.”
“A governess?” Prudy asks, which provokes a scowl from Blackburn.
“She can read and write, and she is good with children. Not another word about it.” He levels an accusatory glare on Collins, as if they’ve had this conversation before.
I lick my lips, uncertain what to think—I’m not even certain I remember how to breathe until I swallow reflexively.
“Come then, child,” Prudy says, resigned, and she leads me up the staircase. Metal posts support the balustrade, glinting in the candle and torch light lining the walls and tables of the low-lit room.
I follow silently, filled with a numb sort of confusion. Or is it astonishment? A warm house where they want me cleaned and fed? Taking care of another child? Nowhere in my wildest dreams or farfetched imagination did I consider that possibility.
I run my hands up the dark wood banister, noticing the cracks and worn grooves. It’s only then I register the steel reinforcements keeping this place standing.
“You are to stay at this house,” Blackburn’s voice rumbles up the staircase. “And the garden grounds.” I’m not certain he even knows my name, but his brusqueness is undoubtedly aimed at me.
Pausing mid-step, I look down the staircase at him. His eyes are fixed on me in warning.
“Don’t wander away from the house,” he reiterates, and I can tell he’s thinking of the mishap on the road. “And never go into the castle.” Do you understand? goes unsaid as Blackburn stares at me unblinking.
“Hurry now,” Prudy calls behind her. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Though I’m desperate to know why I’m not allowed in the castle on the other side of the pond, the severity of Master Blackburn’s gaze is palpable. So, I follow Prudy, too tired and confused by this situation I find myself in to question what any of it means.
11
SELENE
The stairway creaks in protest as we climb the bend. Despite the size of the manor, the interior is draped in tapestries and bolstered in cold metals, making it feel far less spacious.
Tree sap, sweet and crisp all at once, is thick in the air, almost enough to cover the underlying dampness that seeps through the paneled walls and tapestries, and as I stare dumbly down at each step I take, all I can think is, the governess?
I hadn’t anticipated that. So, he hasn’t brought me here for breeding, but for teaching—teaching what, I can’t fathom. And companionship, of whom I assume is a young girl . . . The way he purchases and moves children around like sacks of grain, I would never have assumed he had a young ward of his own. Or is it his daughter? That the infamous Collector could be a father makes me wary, and suddenly, I’m eager to meet her. She can’t possibly be pleasant. Or perhaps she’s lived in fear of her father her whole life.
Collins and Master Blackburn converse below, their voices muffled until a door slams shut.
“Make haste,” the housekeeper says as I find my mind wandering behind her. “We weren’t expecting you, and there is much to do.”
A soft hum meets my ears as we reach the landing, and I peer around the horseshoe of doors on the second floor. Only two of the rooms are open. The humming slips through one that is slightly cracked.
“In here,” Prudy clips out. An elderly woman steps out of the only open door at the end of the hall, halting when she notices us.
“Rosemary, this is the new governess,” Prudy says, but I can’t tell if it is amusement lacing her voice, or displeasure. She doesn’t sound unkind as much as she sounds skeptical, which gives me pause. Both women, I notice, have a purple square stitched on the breast of their dresses, just barely peeking out of their aprons.
Rosemary’s deeply creased brow furrows as she takes the sight of me in.
“Pray tell, Miss Sinclair.” Prudy turns to face me fully. “What is your name, child?”
I glance between the two women as they eye me closely. Their surprise by my arrival stokes a plume of new questions I’m yearning to ask. “Selene,” I answer, clearing my throat. I never thought I would feel more scrutinized by the servants than I would by the master of the house himself, but I feel inadequate beside them, and something tells me I need to be in their good graces if I’m to find any semblance of comfort here. “My name is Selene.”
Prudy looks at Rosemary and nods toward a room two doors down from where the humming emanates. “I’m putting Miss Sinclair in the tapestry room for now. See that warm water is brought up for a bath, would you? And—” Prudy looks at me again, taking in my attire and disheveled state. “Clothes.” She meets Rosemary’s gaze. “From the trunks.”
“Right away,” Rosemary says with the dip of her head, but I don’t miss the slight pop of her brow before she can hide her surprise. Rosemary hurries past us, leaving me alone once more with the scrutinizing housekeeper.
Keys jangle as Prudy unclips one from the ring at her waist and unlocks the door. “This will be your room,” she says, pushing the door open as she enters. It’s dark, and the air is stuffy, as if the door hasn’t been opened in months. I step inside, dust instantly tickling my nostrils.
Prudy watches me from the corner of her eye. “I would’ve prepared the room, had I known to expect you,” she qualifies, and walks over to the heavily draped windows.
“This is far more luxurious than what I’m used to, I assure you.”
Prudy tugs the drapes open to let in the muted daylight. Dust motes fill the air, and the room seems to come to life a little. “It’s been years since I’ve had my own room,” I muse, peering around. I take in the tapestries stacked on the bed and hanging on the walls—ships in tumultuous seas, woodlands, and many of a woman with wind-blown red hair amidst the white-topped mountain. Some of the wall hangings look newer, while others are moth-eaten and moldy.
I can feel Prudy’s eyes on me as I take the sight of it all in, only this time when I look at her, her face softens slightly.
“I thought Master Blackburn purchased me for another reason,” I confide. “So . . . all of this is so much more than I expected.”
Her head tilts slightly as she studies me for a drawn-out moment, then she moves on. “I’ll see that the room is cleared out as soon as possible.” Prudy nods to the soot-stained hearth. “And that Martin gets your fire started to chase the chill out of the air.” She bustles around the room as if she’s already ticking things off her mental list of things to do.
“Thank you,” I breathe, looking at the giant four-poster bed and burgundy-fringed canopy. I can barely see a ruby-colored comforter peeking out from beneath the tapestries as Prudy comes over to remove some of them. “We use them to insulate the house,” she explains. “The weather is always cool, and the steel that bolsters the house keeps it constantly chilly inside.” She sifts through the tapestries, organizing them by quality.
“It’s a good house,” she continues. “Safer than most, so don’t worry yourself about that. The master has seen to it.” Her eyes meet mine. “Do you know the history of the Blackburns?”
“I have heard stories,” I admit vaguely.
“Yes, well, the short of it is that the Blackburns have lived on this estate since they sailed here nearly a century ago. The estate was in disarray when they arrived, and had long been abandoned, of course.”
I eye the black and white portraits from another lifetime, images of a young girl and her betrothed, or perhaps her brother, lining the hearth. Her clothes are layers upon layers of fabric, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. And for all of her frills and fancy hair ribbons, she does not seem happy. None of them do.
“This land was close enough to the coast,” Prudy continues, “and yet far enough away with hills, woods, and meadows aplenty—ripe for expansion, which is what the Blackburns came here for. So, as part of their negotiations with the Council when they began to reemerge from underground, this land was bestowed upon the family, never to be given to anyone else.” Prudy stares at me, pausing with a stack of tapestries slung over her arm. “There were stipulations, of course.” Her eyes narrow thoughtfully before she continues with a lift of her shoulder. “None of that matters right now. The family has always lived in the castle, but there is little left of it now, as you have probably seen. None of us go in there, not after . . .” She trails off.
“After what?” I whisper, holding my breath.
“After what happened.” Prudy won’t meet my eyes, and she clears her throat.
“Something horrible?” I step closer, beyond curious as I pretend to examine the tapestries.
Prudy nods reluctantly.
“That’s why Blackburn forbade me from going there?”
“Aye, it’s for your own good,” she says, more coolly this time. “Master Greyson has done what he can to keep what’s left of this house safe for us—but take care, Selene,” she warns, her eyes fixing on mine. “Nothing is certain. Nothing is safe.”
A gust of wind whips through the room then, sending chills over my skin. “Greyson?”
Prudy blinks. “Greyson Blackburn,” she clarifies.
“Oh.” Hearing his first name feels like I’ve learned a secret, though I’m not sure why. Greyson Blackburn. Slave collector. Father.
“I prefer the manor house anyway,” Prudy continues, and she seems to have warmed up to me slightly as she prattles on. “It’s far less to fuss over.” She mutters the last part, folding and resituating the unused tapestries, exposing the grand bed beneath. “I’ll have your comforter dusted and fresh pillows brought for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, and smile to myself as I brush my fingers down the heavy, brocade drapes. I’m in a manor house, not a tunnel or an asylum or an orphanage. I can barely comprehend what I thought I was coming here for and where I stand now, in a grand room of my own. Dusty as it is, it’s . . . mine.
“I forget what it was like.” Prudy sighs beside me. I hadn’t realized she’d come to stand there.
My brow crumples with confusion.
“Life before this place,” she explains.
“Are you from the ruined city?” I say with a lilt of surprise. Perhaps it is one of many things we might have in common.
Prudy nods. “But it’s been many years since I’ve stepped foot in New London.”
“You like it here?” I ask her, and walk to the window. She has much power if she runs the household, which means Blackburn must trust her greatly.
Prudy is thoughtful for a moment. “It has its hardships, I won’t lie to you about that,” she says cryptically. “But life before this place was far worse, and I count myself lucky to be here. As should you.” Her tone is somber and not entirely comforting. I’m not sure how horrible her life was before coming here, but I don’t believe working for the Collector is easy.
I gaze out at the exquisite view of the pond. When the children’s faces flash to mind, however, covered in soot and sweat like the other ironworkers, the weight of the entire day, melded with the guilt of living in such luxury, settles over me.
“Will they be okay?” I croak. Tears burn the backs of my eyes.
I can feel Prudy’s gaze on me.
“The children,” I whisper. “Will they be okay at the factory? Is he cruel to them?”
When I finally look at her, understanding lights her eyes, and Prudy reaches for my arm, squeezing me gently. A waft of bergamot meets my nose as she steps closer. “Don’t worry about the children, miss,” she tells me, but there’s a look of something in her eyes that makes me feel uneasy. I don’t know if it’s sympathy or some sort of regret.
“But they will be okay, won’t they?”
“There are many dangers in the foundry. I won’t lie to you. But if it’s Bartholomew and Victoria, Master Greyson has left them with, they will do what they can to ensure the children are cared for,” she promises. With a final squeeze, she lets my arm go. “You must worry about your life here now,” she adds, smoothing down her apron. “You will bathe and rest, and then you will meet Paige.”
I’d almost forgotten about the girl. “Is that who was humming down the hall?”
Prudy nods absently as she gathers a small stack of the tapestries to take with her.
“What’s she like?” Another pang of sadness tightens my chest as I wonder if Blackburn separated me from the children so that I could care for his child without competition or distraction.
“She’s a pale, freckled little thing,” Prudy says affectionately. “But a bright child. She sings and loves to play. Though . . . ” She pauses. “That child has known much loneliness,” she admits, almost to herself. Prudy traces the flower petals of the tapestry in her hand, studying the bright colors embroidered on it as sadness shadows her face.
“Did you make that?” I step closer to admire the craftsmanship. “It’s the most beautiful piece in here.”
Prudy stirs from distant memories. “Heavens no.” She pats it and holds the stack in her arms tighter to her. “Mistress Blackburn did.” She walks out to drape them on the balustrade, and all I can think is which one? Though I know Blackburn is ruthless in many ways, knowing he has a daughter makes it harder to believe he would kill his wives.
Prudy comes back into the room to bustle about some more.
“There are rumors,” I tell her, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. One I am hoping she will shed light upon.
“There always are,” she mutters, pushing a copper tub in front of the unlit fire as a man, I assume Martin, and two women come in with buckets of steaming water.
Prudy mutters something to them under her breath, and running her hands down her apron again with an air of contentment, she heads for the door.
“Did he really kill them?” I blurt, just before Prudy disappears from sight. All the servants freeze, their eyes darting to me. Eventually, they look to Prudy for guidance.
Slowly, she turns to me, the air in the room thickening. “We don’t speak of Mistress Blackburn, or Constance, Selene,” she says, her words carefully measured. “Ever. And you would do well to remember that around Master Greyson.”
12
SELENE
I absently seek the warmth of a small pair of legs, or a bony shoulder to nestle into. But my fingers only brush cool linen as I stir awake.
My nose is cold, and when I open my eyes, my breath is visible in the darkness. Only the coals of a fire glow in a hearth, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am, and why the air nipping at my skin isn’t tinged with the leathery-sweet scent of charred remains.
I snuggle deeper into the plush blanket tucked around me, the enormous bed beckoning me back to sleep. But as my foot absently searches for another, I remember the children. When my eyes open this time, a sense of dread teases my mind.
Sleep evades me, chased away by shame. While I sleep in this overstuffed bed of painstakingly plucked goose feathers, or some such thing, the children are living in unknown conditions. In the care of kind strangers, but in what environment? Are they cold? Afraid? I think of Jon and his nightmares. And little Evie, who could never fall asleep without me on the nights I was summoned by Master Orson.
I shiver as a draft howls through the room, making the embers in the hearth hiss and stir. Sitting up, I tuck my hair behind my ear, only to realize it’s knotted and unkempt, and that I don’t remember falling asleep.
Fingering my white chemise, the softness foreign against my skin, I recall Rosemary leaving me after my bath to dress for supper. Only . . . I eye the lavender dress she’d draped over the end of the bed, still waiting to be worn.
The room shifts and settles, and something creaks outside my door, stealing my breath. I glance around the room. These are not the noises I am used to, but exhaling my nerves, I tell myself it’s only night shadows and wind sounds. When I notice my water tub is empty, it dawns on me that someone came to collect me at some point, only to see I was asleep. People in the room while I sleep is nothing new, but that they are strangers has me nestling deeper into the blankets. Having people tend to me like this—pouring me baths and lighting fires—cannot come without a cost, and it unnerves me to think what that cost may be.
Another eerie howl sends a chilly draft whipping through the room again. And as my heartbeat quickens, and the rumors of hauntings and horrible misdeeds resurface, I convince myself my imagination is getting the better of me, and I force myself to sit up and take a deep breath.
As I contemplate building a fire to stave off the cold, my stomach rumbles. Save for stale hunks of bread during the carriage ride, I’ve eaten nothing, and my hunger consumes me tenfold. After another rumble and another hunger pain, I eye an emerald robe hanging on the wall by the door. Deciding food is all that will sate the cavernous void in my stomach, I climb out from under the comforter.
The sharp claws of night leach from the floor beneath my bare feet, and I shiver as they rake up and over my skin. I curse, stubbing my toe on the trunk at the end of my bed in my haste, but as the cool air swallows me, as if it’s feeding off my warmth, I can’t don the robe quickly enough.
With a final shiver, I cinch the sash tightly around my waist, wondering what the hour is. I need stockings or slippers if I’m to manage another step, and to let in a little light, I pull the drapes aside. Though the wind howls and the trees outside bend as if they might break, the pond sparkles in the moonlight. It’s rare that the clouds part in the city, giving way to a world above the gray, and even more rare that I’ve seen a full moon. The way the world glows in its presence is ethereal and mesmerizing.
