“Your tea,” I bit out through a clenched jaw, deliberately turning away from her to face her companion. “Of course, sir. Right away. Remind me of your room number again?”
“Third floor, room six, tea for Colonel Mayweather, for heaven’s sake! Shall I instruct you on how to set a kettle to boil, too? Does Dr. Merriman suffer this same neglect? How about Bremerton?”
Bow your head. Curtsy. Do not under any circumstances dump the bucket of foul water on his head and watch that bushy monstrosity on his face wilt like a wet dog.
I scuttled away from them, toward the stairs, and, as far as the odious Colonel Mayweather and Mrs. Eames knew, in the direction of the kitchens. They might get their tea eventually, but not from me. I had no intention of bringing that man anything. What was the point? As I had no desire to stay at Coldthistle, it now seemed ridiculous to continue doing any of the work expected of me. My time was better spent looking into this book Mr. Morningside had written and finding a way to break the barrier so I might hawk these rare books and leave. What could they do if I failed in my duties? Throw me out?
More’s the pity. I would have relished the opportunity to make their drinks bitter with spittle.
When I reached the landing, I paused, considering where I might read Mr. Morningside’s book in peace. It was burning a hole in my skirts, begging to be studied, if only to shed some small insight into his personality and motives, and how the book in the attic could be overthrown. But now I was certain the shadow monsters didn’t want me to have it—that made it more valuable, of course, but also more dangerous. Reading the book inside the house was out of the question.
I headed back outside for the second time that day, finding that the weather had remained chilly but not intolerable, with a heavy bank of clouds rolling in to sit like a dark thought over the manse. The rag and bucket I left in the small overhang near the door to the kitchens. Other tools and supplies were kept there on ladders leaned against the wall to form makeshift shelves. I poured out the bucket and squeezed the rag, leaving them both for some far more devoted worker to find.
Inside, I could hear Mrs. Haylam cooking supper, pots and pans clanging away. The yard between the door and the barns was empty, and I bundled my skirts and the book into my hands and picked my way quickly toward the low, dark building. The wind rose as I did, and the familiar heaviness of the atmosphere shifting before a storm made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Those clouds above me were no longer just a thought but a genuine threat.
The smell of hay and horses wafted toward me as I gained the barn. It was a sturdy, handsome building made of thick timbers. All of it had been painted a rich black-brown, and it looked newer and in better repair than Coldthistle itself. I peered inside one of the open doors, anxious for any sign of Chijioke or the others. But I was alone. Well, alone but for the five horses in their stalls. A few ears turned toward me with interest, but the beasts didn’t seem to mind the intrusion.
I had always loved the coziness of barns, and used more than one as shelter when I ran away from Pitney. This one, too, felt almost homey, and I raced between the horse stalls to a rope dangling from the ceiling near the far wall. An open archway there led to the coach storage and Chijioke’s workshop. I grabbed the rope and pulled, grunting from the effort of it, then scampered up the makeshift stairs that appeared from the ceiling.
The hayloft was exactly as I’d hoped—empty, warm, and quiet. I pulled up the stairs behind me and settled onto a mounded lump of hay. There were only two windows in the loft, one that looked toward the house, another with a view of the fields next door. I chose the one with more light to read by, watching more rain-bloated clouds roll in over the pasture.
Mr. Morningside’s book had not found gentle treatment in that library. Water-damaged and yellowed, the pages felt brittle enough to crumble in my fingers. Gently, I cracked the weathered cover, finding an inscription written in an elegant hand, one I assumed belonged to Morningside.
Spicer,
This had better make us even, you miserable bastard. I know I owe you for that cock-up in Hungary, but this is getting out of hand. Szilvássy wasn’t even my man, he was yours, but I admit mistakes were made on both sides. It should be in the past, as all things inevitably are. Even you cannot hold a grudge this long.
At any rate, read this or don’t, but don’t say I never did anything for you. Sparrow can find her own copy; she despises me anyway.
Yours in perpetuity (ha!),
Henry
I read the inscription three times. The second time because it was hard to imagine the Mr. Morningside I had met admitting he was wrong about anything. The third time because I at last noticed the little date dashed off under his signature.
December, 1799
Either the date was wrong, or Morningside was far older than my estimations. A six-year-old boy could not have written a complete book and made out an inscription in it. Even a seven-, eight-, or nine-year-old was silly to consider. By generous calculations, a person would need to be at least fifteen to manage a book of this length and apparent complexity, which would put him currently around six and twenty. That couldn’t be. He hardly looked a day older than Lee or myself!
But his backward feet couldn’t be, either. Nor could little girls who murder or books that lure and trap or walking, talking shadow creatures. None of it was possible, and yet . . .
And yet . . .
Reasonable, earthly thinking must be set aside, I decided. Mr. Morningside could be a youth, or an elder, or anything in between. Poppy had called him a grumpy old man. Either he had somehow located the Fountain of Youth, or there was more here that I did not yet understand. The book, naturally, might lend a few ideas. And so I began to read. The introduction spoke of world travels, of schooners and wagon rides, horseback adventures spanning months, dangerous climbs up previously unconquered mountains, and dozens of references to explorers and chroniclers I did not recognize.
It told me little. He had traveled far and wide, though I could not venture a guess at how, considering his unusual feet. That was not so surprising—he was a young (or not) man of surprising fortune and a collection of exotic birds. World explorer did not run counter to that particular persona.
Chapter 1: In Which I Meet a Child of the Dark Fae and Make an Impassioned Plea
Now we were getting somewhere.
Chapter Eighteen
In Which I Meet a Child of the Dark Fae
and Make an Impassioned Plea