I heard a single heavy footstep in the hall and went rigid, convinced that we were about to meet the unholy monster that had ripped this person to pieces. Turning only my head, I watched Mary dash to the archway, hiding away from the door. It was Lee who brought me out of my fright, taking me by the hand and pulling me toward a shadowy corner made by the stony bulk of the fireplace. He pulled me close to his chest, flattening us against the wall. His heart pounded against my back, his panicked breath hot on my neck. His arms folded across my stomach and held me. He gave one squeeze, and it felt paralyzingly like a good-bye.
The footsteps advanced slowly. The wooden boards creaked, then louder. They were close now. I kept my eyes half lidded, waiting, wondering if Mary would stay hidden or strike, wondering if we had any chance at all of making it out of that cursed house alive.
Then the stranger spoke and I felt all the breath rush out of both of us at once.
“Rawleigh?” It was George Bremerton. “Are you there, boy? Are you alive?”
“Uncle!” Lee shot out from behind me, stumbling to the middle of the room. The skeleton stared down at them with eyeless holes, a silent and terrible audience. “We should flee this place; the murderer could be anywhere!”
They embraced, and George Bremerton caught my gaze, his jaw tightening with anger or despair, I couldn’t say. He closed his eyes tightly and held his nephew, turning them until his back shielded Lee from the corpse’s watch.
“I told you not to come,” I heard him whisper fiercely. “I told you not to come. Look away now, Rawleigh. By God, this is not the way for a mother to meet her son.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The ride back to Coldthistle House was long and wordless. George Bremerton did not protest when Lee silently signaled for me to ride in the carriage with them. I knew it was because I had been attacked by the doctor on the initial trip, but I also sensed he wanted me there. He wanted comfort.
And God, did he deserve it.
I was glad that he wanted no conversation at all, for what did one say to a young man who had just seen his mother in the most nightmarish state? It was unthinkable. Devastating. My heart ached for him. It ached in a way that left me deeply confused. Was this what it felt like to really have a friend? To care almost to distraction about another’s welfare and happiness? Of course I hadn’t had the heart to speak of escape after the shock. . . . That dream seemed distant again now, hidden behind a heavy black curtain that I had no tools or energy to move.
Yet something had to be done. Never had so much death descended on my life until I came to Coldthistle House.
The journey was nearly complete when Lee brought his head away from the window. He had laid it there for the entirety of the ride, his forehead pressed hard to the glass. His skin had left a smudge on the foggy window. Slowly, he turned to me with a pained, helpless expression, a smile that wasn’t a smile but a buttressed door for the hurt that might spill out.
He pushed something across the seat toward me, a little shiny thing, slender and engraved with leaves.
A spoon.
“Thought it might be a funny gift,” he said in a small voice. “I nicked it from the Rook and Crook. Then I felt so bad about stealing it that I left a bit of coin behind to pay for it. I thought I would feel bad about it for a while, but it’s just a small thing now. Just a stupid, small thing.”
“It isn’t stupid,” I replied. George Bremerton regarded us openly, but that didn’t matter; his judgment and his opinion were irrelevant. The world outside the carriage was irrelevant, because this person who had become my friend without my wanting him to was suffering. “Thank you, Lee. I think it’s perfect. And I think any establishment called the Rook and Crook should expect the occasional act of petty thievery.”
He almost smiled, ducking his head before looking out the window again. Across from us, George Bremerton stared. Or rather, he glowered at me under a brow heavy with consternation, rarely blinking, hardly moving, just silently communicating his displeasure.
“Why were you at the house?” He was asking me, Lee apparently being beyond reproach in this matter.
This I could do. It was easier to make a mask of my face and respond coolly than to deal with Lee’s sadness. “We followed you.”
“This was your bloody idea, wasn’t it?” He snorted and tossed his hair like an angry horse. “Bad influence. I knew it. Can spot a jumped-up grasper like you from a mile off.”
“Uncle,” Lee said softly, uncertainly, rousing himself as if from a deep sleep.
Bremerton smirked. “You stay away from my nephew or I’ll have you sacked.”
“By all means,” I replied boldly. “Give it your all.”
“Don’t speak to Louisa that way,” Lee grumbled. He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting infinitesimally closer to me on the cushioned bench. The carriage teetered on; we had to be nearing our destination. “It wasn’t her idea at all; it was mine. If you want someone to blame, then blame me, but why you need anyone to blame at all right now I cannot imagine. There’s been a tragedy, I’ve lost my mother, and all you can do is pick a fight with my friend!”
“This is not the time or place for this discussion,” Bremerton began.
“And why not? Say what you will, Uncle, I trust her.”
“Rawleigh . . .” He pinched his forehead between thumb and forefinger, pressing his lips together until they were white. “Very well. I hadn’t gone to the house earlier because my contacts in Derridon sent a note to me at Coldthistle. It was about your mother. About her recent . . . predilections. She got herself wrapped up in unnatural practices. Devil worship. Witchery. I did not want you to think less of her. I wanted to protect you from an ugly truth.”
Silence. It was not my place to speak, and instead I watched the blood drain from Lee’s face. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out.
“I’m sorry—more sorry than you know—that it turned out this way,” Bremerton added. “That woman did not deserve to die.”
Lee did nothing but nod, over and over again, locked in a daze. “Then I suppose we shall be leaving. She can provide no proof of my parentage now.”
“I will have her belongings removed and sort through them. Perhaps she left something behind to back your claim. After the burial is finalized, it will be time for us to leave,” he said. “Unless of course you would rather return to the estate without me, nephew. You are not obligated to stay.”
“No,” Lee replied firmly. “I want to be there. I don’t care what she became in the end; I belong here until she is at rest.”