City of Ruin, page 8
I’m not sure how long I stare as my mind drifts, hoping the children might see the moon too. But then I feel it, a hair-raising sensation, and my arms wrap protectively around me of their own accord. A presence. Someone is out there, watching. Every nerve ending tells me so.
Fighting the urge to snap the drapes shut, I scour the shadows edging the pond, squinting into the darkened trees and overgrown bramble. Whether it’s to prove to myself it’s only my overactive imagination, or to prove to myself that it’s not, I have to know if someone is out there.
The reeds along the pond quiver. The water ripples. The willows dance with each gust of wind.
My breath catches when a figure forms between two trees.
The male figure from the woods?
I blink, uncertain it’s not tricky night shadows. But when the breeze stirs once more, the draped creature flutters. My hand flies to my mouth with a gasp, trying and failing to come up with a reason an earthly being would be out there this time of night. It is not the man I thought I saw. It’s something else.
A fringe of leaves, blowing in the wind, seems to sweep the form away as suddenly as it appeared, as if it was never there at all.
I jerk the drapes closed, gripping them tightly as I squeeze my eyes shut. What sort of place is this? None of the tales about this land are happy ones. Whether person or angry spirit, something was out there, peering up at my window, watching and waiting. For me. I don’t know how, but I know it’s true. Remembering the flickering forms stalking the gravestones back at Bedlam, I wonder if I might have summoned this creature up the same.
My stomach rumbles again, reminding me it’s been nearly empty for the past three days. While a part of me doesn’t want to leave my room for fear of what awaits me outside these walls, I know that once the house is awake, any freedom I have in this moment will be gone.
Tightening the sash around my waist, I rally my courage, find a pair of wool-lined slippers, and creep toward the door. Realizing how foolish it would be to wander a foreign, unnatural place like this unarmed, I pause, hair tumbling over my shoulders. I snatch the iron fire poker from the hearth, appreciating the weight of it in my hand. Then, carefully and as quietly as I can, I open the door. I don’t breathe or blink for fear of what awaits me on the other side.
When I’m met with muted, flickering light in the hallway sconces and a quiet house, I walk onto the landing. No one stirs. The rest of the doors up and down the hall are closed. Everything is dark and quiet, and as my stomach rumbles again, I make my way toward the stairs. The kitchen, wherever it might be, will surely have something to eat.
I’m not halfway down the first stretch of stairs when I hear it; muffled voices below. Or is it the howl of the wind again? I pause and strain to listen. Silence, at first, then another whirl of wind, but I hear nothing more. The icy air seeps through every crack and crevice in this place, antagonistic in the way it taunts and urges me back into the safety of my room. But with the poker slick in my clammy hand, I lick my lips and reluctantly continue down the staircase.
The dark wood banisters are cool to the touch, and the stairs, though solid beneath my feet, have been patched up in places, scars left by quakes and storms over the years.
Old paintings of lords and ladies line the walls, some images more tattered and faded than others after centuries of neglect. Some paintings, however, look newer than the rest, and I wonder whose hands painted such remarkable artwork.
Descending another few steps, I eye a row of sleek purple banners with a woman’s profile cross-stitched on each of them. She’s important, a symbol. A sigil. The Blackburn sigil. And realizing the servants wear the purple square on their clothes to mark them as his makes my lip curl.
Then a striking image of a young man with dark hair and piercing blue-gray eyes gives me pause. The wall is lined with portraits. At first, I think it’s Blackburn looking back at me, but as similar as the portrait is to him, the eyes aren’t dark enough, the man’s gaze not grave or menacing. His brow not quite so furrowed. I notice another portrait, one with the same characteristic, but this one far more severe. Blackburn. One a portrait of him in his youth, perhaps, the other as he is now—dark and alarmingly stern. His eyes glare straight through the canvas at me, and I take a step back. Clearing my throat, I hurry to the bottom, worried I’ll lose my nerve if I linger too long.
The vestibule is lit by a dim lantern on a side table, which is welcoming, and I glance to the right, where the doorways to three rooms are dark. To the left, the hallway extends much farther, and light glows from one of the rooms. I leave the darkened doorways to explore when my own shadow won’t spook me, and taking the lantern from the table in one hand, gripping my poker in the other, I head down the hall to where I hope to find the kitchen.
The more I stop to assess and explore the paintings and open doorways, the more my grip on the iron poker loosens. When I find the largest of the rooms, I hold out my lantern and step inside. Despite the flickering shadows, I can see how grand it is, with decadent brocade paper lining the walls and two stone hearths—one on each side. Dark wood furniture and a crystal chandelier that’s missing adornments on some of its tiers gleams, and a piano in the corner catches my attention. I think of my mother at ours when I was younger. I haven’t felt the cool slickness of keys against my fingertips in so long, I barely remember the sensation.
Ignoring the lump in my throat, I wonder if Paige plays as much as she hums, but I leave those ponderings for tomorrow and continue down the hall. Light glows from one of the rooms in an off-shooting corridor, and unable to resist, I move toward it.
I pass a marble bust on a pedestal against the wall, a man with half of his head crumbled away. There are more paintings, older and faded, and passing a mirror, I freeze. Is this what I look like now? It’s not as if I’ve never seen my reflection in glass or the water’s surface—or even a clouded old mirror—but never have I seen myself so clearly.
I’m not sure if I’m more horrified by my blonde, untamed mane that hasn’t been combed in days, or my pale, gaunt face. I set the lantern on a pedestal, and running my fingers through my hair, appreciating how soft and clean it is, I stare at my profile. Is there nothing untouched by so much bleakness and gray? I run my finger lightly over the darkness beneath my steely blue gaze. I look tired and older than my twenty years.
Dropping my hand to my side, I push the thoughts away and continue toward the lit room, lantern in one hand and poker in the other. I’ve heard no voices, so I am not surprised to find no one’s inside when I peek around the doorway. I am, however, surprised to see it looks more lived in than the other rooms, with the same rich brown woods and a grand fireplace. A fire roars in this one, and shelves line the walls on both sides, crammed with books. A desk is situated in front of a heavily draped window, and a high-backed chair with a coat discarded on the back of it is angled in front of the hearth. Its cushion is timeworn, and a pedestal table sits beside it, a single book resting on it.
I don’t know if it’s the warmth of the fire beckoning me inside, or my unruly curiosity, but before I know it, I’ve discarded the lantern on a shelf, and run my fingers over the worn bindings of tomes stretched around the room. I can’t help my grin, even if I’m likely to never read them. So many books. So many stories—easily double that of Master Orson’s collection.
I stop at the fire, eyes fixed on the painting hanging above it. Unlike the ones of the master in the stairwell, this portrait is Blackburn and a red-haired beauty, sitting in the straight-backed chair beside him. She looks as though she holds a secret in her amber eyes, a happy one, and Blackburn looks, dare I say, content.
The hard set of his jaw is akin to real life, and the luster of his glossy dark hair shines combed away from his face. I prefer it windblown and hanging in his eyes as I’ve seen, and such a thought sobers me. But then his eyes draw me in again—the metal gray captured perfectly. And his mouth curves slightly, as if he is trying not to smile.
The Collector smiling? Now there’s a thought.
Despite the gruff Master Blackburn I’ve seen so far, and the reputation that precedes him, he seems more human in this portrait, with his wife beside him. Though which one, I can’t be certain. Still, it’s hard to fathom he would hurt her.
But paintings are merely the artist’s interpretation—commissioned interpretation, I remind myself—and can be easily manipulated. Still, I lean in, staring into the metallic silver mixed with blue that captures Blackburn’s eyes so well, as if I might read his true character.
“Looking for something?”
I spin around, lifting the poker defensively. The master of the house stands in the doorway, the firelight making those same gray eyes glow like liquid steel, and his shadowed features narrow sharper than I remember at the iron poker in my hand. “Am I supposed to be frightened?”
Swallowing, I lower my hand and take a deep breath. “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.”
He frowns, his black eyebrows drawing together. “You’re in my study, going through my things,” he says carefully. I’m not sure if it’s anger or distrust in his voice, but his annoyance is clear enough.
“I was looking for the kitchen,” I explain, but the words sound ridiculous passing my lips, and fully aware he and Orson are men bred of similar cloth, I have the instinct to flee.
Skeptical, Blackburn strides past me to his desk. His movements are confident and almost graceful as he sets an empty glass beside a crystal decanter, more embellished and fine than Master Orson’s had been. Yes, Blackburn is lord of this estate and manor, and he exudes it. But as his smoking jacket billows, the cool night air wafts off of him like he’s been outside, and I stiffen.
Apprehension coils through me. The thought of anyone outside my window is unnerving, but that it might’ve been him seems far more terrifying than any creature. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware I shouldn’t have wandered in here, because now I am alone with the Collector.
“Perhaps,” he starts, as if sensing my readiness to escape, “if you’d come to supper, you would not be so hungry.” His tone is harsh and disapproving.
“I was weary,” I explain, having not given his anger because of my absence any thought until now. “It’s been a very long few days.” I know I should be grateful I’ve been given such lodgings and the role of governess, even if I don’t have the slightest inkling of how to be one. But I can’t help the bitterness in my voice as he seems to disregard all he’s accomplished in just a handful of hours: purchasing slaves, uprooting and separating us all with a few coins and a mere whim.
Blackburn pours himself another glass of amber liquid, as if it’s just another evening for him, comfortable and basking in the warmth of his roaring fire. “I’ve been accommodating, have I not?” he says roughly. “Paige was expecting you, and I—”
“Accommodating?” I quip, unable to ignore the conceit in his voice. “You act as if you haven’t just shattered the lives of five people—that you didn’t send the children to possible death at that foundry, ripping the one person who has ever cared for them away.”
Blackburn’s glass stops halfway to his mouth and his eyes bore into me. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” he says, but it’s not a question.
“No—”
“I have no need for a herd of children in this house, Miss Sinclair. I have need of a governess. And I kept the children together,” he adds. “It seems you’ve overlooked that in all of your blustering. Besides,” he continues, “I find it hard to believe that, after seeing your . . . situation at Bedlam, you would prefer to have stayed with that ogre and his shrew of a wife. That the children be up for the taking—working in the mines, bone crunching and laboring every day until their fingers bleed. The gods only know what else,” he mutters.
I picture the billowing black smoke, thick in the air from the factories the children are now slaves to. “Is that how you see this?” I rasp with disbelief. “That you did all of us a favor, bringing us to your foundry and your land?”
“Of course I did you a favor,” he growls, lifting his glass toward the doorway. “You have a room, a bed—a roof over your head. You, a woman of good breeding—yes, it’s obvious, Miss Sinclair,” he says as my eyes widen. “And you’re more foolish than I thought, if you would lie to yourself and claim you prefer your life, being preyed upon in that asylum, over what I can provide you here.” As he continues, my thoughts linger on one single thought: what he can provide for me?
Good breeding . . . His words roll around in my head, and I have to wonder if his need for a governess is genuine.
“It astounds me how ungrateful you seem,” he continues, and the longer I remain quiet, the more irritated he becomes. I blink myself back to a dark room with an insidious man who has already lost two wives, and might lure me into a false sense of comfort in order to claim another. In a time when heirs and able bodies are more coveted than coin, what do you think that landowner was coming to collect? My brother’s words from a lifetime ago elicit a potent mixture of alarm and . . . fury. He’s come for you, Selene.
“No,” I breathe. Shaking my head, I white-knuckle the iron poker. “You make yourself sound like a liberator.” I try to keep the revulsion from my voice, but it’s impossible. “As if you have done some wondrous deed in bringing me here. But I know your reputation, Master Blackburn, and I’ve seen the dozens, though you probably have hundreds, of slaves working your land and running your factories—people who have no choice but to work their fingers to the bone, for you. Forgive me if I’m not grateful to be one of them.”
He seems wholly unaffected by my words as he peers at me over the brim of his glass. And that he leans so casually against his desk, as if I am more amusement to him than anything, only infuriates me more.
Finally, Blackburn sneers and shakes his head of wild black hair. “My laborers would have to work somewhere for someone,” he says coolly, and he takes a prowling step closer, his lip curling slightly. “You have been here less than a day and understand nothing of this place.”
“I’ve seen and heard enough.”
“You miss Master Orson, then?” he states with a smirk.
I grip the fire poker until the coarse iron cuts into my flesh. “I prefer to know the monsters I’m surrounded by.” I point to the painting of him and his wife above the fire. “I know about your wives, and I would rather be out there with the masses, than in here, with you.”
Blackburn’s face reddens, his gaze shifts to the portrait before snapping back to me, and the sudden fire filling his eyes is terrifying, as if barely contained. “If this new life set before you is so abhorrent that you’d rather work with the laborers instead of this household, I will happily arrange it.” He says it so coldly, a chill rolls down my spine.
“I would,” I tell him, though there is no vehemence behind it, no certainty. “This place is shrouded in death.”
“Fine,” he says in a low growl. “Consider it done.” Slamming his glass down, he stalks closer. “If you think me such a monster and want to be treated like the other slaves, then I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.” Blackburn rips the poker from my grasp and tosses it to the side. It clatters loudly to the floor as he grips my upper arm, tugging me out the door.
I nearly stumble as he pulls me through the corridors and toward the stairs. I’m too stunned to fight back at first, too frightened. But I am tired of men and their games of power.
“Let . . . go!” I shout, and shove at him, trying to tear my arm from his grasp as he pulls me up the staircase. The tighter he grips me, the harder I pull against him. I twist and tug, uncertain what I’ll do once I get away, but I have no time to ponder it.
Wrenching myself from his hold, I stumble down two stairs and fall to my knees. I wince and cry out as pain ricochets through my bones, stirring old injuries as my knee screams.
Only as my panicked breaths subside and I open my eyes do I remember Blackburn. He’s standing on the step above me, peering down with wild eyes and pursed lips. His chest heaves and his hands fist at his sides.
“You will go to your room, if you know what’s good for you,” he says with barely restrained control. It is a threat, a bone-chilling warning, and I heed it willingly.
Climbing to my feet, I hurry as fast as my throbbing knee will allow up the rest of the stairs and into my room, slamming the door shut behind me.
13
SELENE
Ear against the door, I grip the handle and wait with bated breath for Blackburn to burst through and teach me a lesson. But as he stomps closer, all is suddenly quiet. The floorboards creak beneath his feet, and I hold my breath once more.
One heartbeat.
Two.
After the third, his heavy footsteps descend the stairs, the front door slams shut, and I rest my head against the cold wood, exhaling my relief. Perhaps he’s going to lurk around the pond again, but the moment I think that, I push the thought away. It makes no sense that he would peer up at my window, not when he could come in here at will. Not in his own house.
His dead wives, however, a distant voice whispers.
I rake my fingers through my hair. I don’t know what is wrong with me, or why I’m so reckless around him. Even if every rumor I’ve heard about Blackburn is false, he is still the Collector—I’ve seen that for myself, and more terrifying than that, he is the keeper of my fate. And the children’s.
I turn around, stumbling as my knee screams at me for being so careless. Even if I want to attribute my fall to Blackburn’s beastliness, I know I cannot. Not entirely. I taunted and poked at him, and I chide myself for it.
Dread fills me with each passing moment as I stand in front of the dead fire in the hearth. I may be cold now, but what if he makes me a laborer? What will my life be like then?
