“A very pretty apology,” Madam Porter said with an approving nod.
Marcus fled to the barn without waiting for Anna’s response, swallowing down his fears about what awaited him at home and his tears at his mother’s rebuke.
“You all right, Master Marcus?” Zeb Pruitt was propped up on his pitchfork in one of the stalls. Standing beside him, long of limb and broad of shoulder, was Joshua Boston.
“Something happen at the house?” Joshua spit out a long, thin stream of brown liquid. Unlike Zeb, who was in stained work clothes, Joshua was wearing a wool coat with polished buttons.
Marcus hiccupped and shook his head.
“Hmm. Something tells me Miss Anna has been up to mischief,” Zeb said.
“She said my pa is a drunkard,” Marcus said. “It’s not true. He goes to church every Sunday. God answers your prayers. Pa says so. And now I have to tell Pa what happened with Anna and he’s going to be angry with me. Again.”
Zeb and Joshua exchanged long looks.
“Just because a man takes himself to Smith’s tavern on a rainy night to dry off by the fire doesn’t make him a drunkard.” Zeb stuck his pitchfork into a nearby pile of hay and crouched down so he was eye level with Marcus. “What’s this about Mr. MacNeil being angry?”
“He was out all night, and when he came back I was kneeling on the chair. He told me not to do it, hundreds of times.” Marcus quivered just thinking about it. “Pa told me not to disobey him again, or I’d get another beating.”
Joshua said something under his breath that Marcus didn’t catch. Zeb nodded.
“You be sure you stay away from your pa if he’s in a dark mood,” Zeb told him. “Hide in the henhouse, or under the willow by the river until you think it’s safe.”
“How will I know when that is?” Marcus asked, worried he might miss dinner.
“You’ll learn,” Zeb said.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT, MARCUS TOOK HIS pillow and arranged it at the top of the stairs. The pain in his backside and legs had gone from a fierce burn to a dull ache. His father had given him the promised beating, and had used a leather strap from the barn this time rather than his hand so that Marcus wouldn’t forget the lesson.
His ma and pa were arguing in the kitchen. Marcus couldn’t make out what the fight was about, but he suspected it had to do with him. His stomach growled with hunger—there hadn’t been enough food at dinner, and his ma had let the bread they were supposed to have with it burn.
“Mind your place, Catherine,” his pa said, storming out of the kitchen and grabbing his hat off the newel post. The woolen felt was dry now, but the brim had wilted and it no longer had a familiar, triangular shape.
Marcus opened his mouth, ready to call out another apology in an attempt to end the shouting. But he wasn’t supposed to interrupt his father and mother when they were talking, so he waited, hoping that his father would turn around and see him sitting there and ask what he was doing out of bed.
“It’s my place to keep this family from ruin,” his mother retorted. “We barely have enough to eat. How are we going to manage if you keep drinking away what’s left of our money?”
His father whirled around, one hand lifted in the air.
Catherine cowered against the wall, shielding her face.
“Don’t you make me give you a beating, too,” Obadiah said softly as he walked out the door.
He never did look back.
7
Two
14 MAY
Phoebe’s second day as a vampire did not include the dreamy, rapturous experiences she’d had on the first. While her body was learning how to be still, her mind could not—would not—be quiet. Memories, images from her years studying the history of art, lyrics from her favorite songs—all these and more flitted across her brain in an unsettling film where she played the starring role and also comprised the entire audience. Since she had become a vampire, her memories were weirdly addled and unusually sharp.
Her first bicycle was navy blue with white stripes on the fenders.
Where was it now? Phoebe wondered. She thought she had last ridden it at the house in Hampstead.
There was a pub in Hampstead, perfect for stopping in and having lunch when you took a Sunday walk.
Not that she would ever have a Sunday lunch again, Phoebe realized. What would she do on Sundays in the years to come? How would she entertain friends? Neither she nor Marcus went to church. They would have to create a different Sunday routine after they got married, one that didn’t revolve around a big meal.
The church in Devon where her best friend got married had a beautiful window with bits of blue and rose glass in it. Phoebe had stared at its colors and intricate patterns all through the service, marveling at its beauty.
How old was that window? Phoebe was not a glass expert but she suspected it was Victorian—not very old at all.
The celadon glass pitcher downstairs was far more ancient.
Could it be Roman, maybe third century? Its value would be enormous if that were so. Freyja shouldn’t keep it where it could be smashed.
Phoebe had spent a summer in Rome, digging in the ruins and learning about tesserae. It had been so hot and dry that the air singed the tiny hairs in her nose and every inhalation scoured her lungs.
Had her nose changed? Phoebe got up and looked in the time-clouded mirror. Reflected there was the room behind her: the elegant curves of the Second Empire bed, the small canopy suspended from the ceiling that turned the bed into a cozy enclosure, the elegant armoire, and a deep armchair expansive enough that you could curl your feet up underneath you when you were reading.
A crease had reappeared in the bedspread.
Phoebe frowned. She had smoothed out that wrinkle. She remembered doing it.
Before she could complete her next thought, she was kneeling on the mattress. Her hands pressed the fabric, over and over. Every fiber of the sheets was palpable, and rough to her touch.
“No wonder I can’t sleep. They’re too coarse.” Phoebe tore at the linens, intending to drag them from the mattress so they could be replaced with something proper, something that wouldn’t scratch her skin and keep her awake.
Instead, she reduced them to ribbons, shredding them with nails that had the sharp ferocity of an eagle’s talons.
“We’ve reached the terrible twos, I see.” Freyja entered the room, her blue eyes frosty over high cheekbones as she surveyed the damage Phoebe had inflicted on the room.
Phoebe had been warned about her second day, and how it seemed to mimic the trials and tribulations of the second year of human age, but she’d had no context for the warning, having never been a mother. She could not remember her own time as a toddler, and not a single one of her friends had children yet.
“Are you nesting?” Fran?oise, whose once-miraculous omnipresence had become just another source of irritation, studied the mess Phoebe had made.
“The sheets are scratchy. I can’t sleep,” Phoebe said, unable to keep the petulance from her tone.
“We have spoken about this, Phoebe dearest.” Freyja’s voice was reasonable, compassionate. The endearment grated on Phoebe’s raw nerves nonetheless. “It will be months before you take your first nap. A deep sleep is still years away.”
“But I’m tired,” Phoebe complained, sounding like a troublesome child.
“No, you’re bored and hungry. A draugr must be very precise about her emotions and state of mind, so as not to be caught up in fantasies of feeling. Your blood is far too strong and restless to need sleep.” Freyja noticed something in the window, a tiny imperfection. One of the panes was cracked. Her attention zeroed in on the crazed glass. “How did that happen?”
“A bird.” Phoebe lowered her gaze. There was a split in the floor—or was that the grain in the wood? She could follow the line forever. . . .