The carriage rolled into the drive as dawn broke across the sky. A thin blue ribbon shimmered on the horizon, ravens gathering in the trees on the lawn and the gables. I was not happy to see Coldthistle again, but I knew at least a bed waited for me somewhere. The exhaustion could not be fought any longer, and my eyes drooped with each passing moment. The rocking and warmth of the carriage might have put me to sleep if it weren’t for the tense sadness hanging among us. And I felt pulled down to the ground by the weight of my failure; the night had gone completely awry. We had not escaped. I had been attacked. Lee’s mother was dead, and brutally so. No matter how hard I tried, all roads led once more to the boardinghouse.
Mrs. Haylam was waiting for us outside the door, and Foster jumped down quickly to help our exit. I stood in the looming shadow of the house and watched the housekeeper take us all in, and I saw the moment she realized Dr. Merriman was no longer in our party. She did not look to me for answers, but to Chijioke, who had stopped the supply wagon just behind us. Mary trotted into the yard on her horse, diverting her course at once to the barn.
“Has the good doctor elected to stay in town?” she asked tightly.
“He preferred the comforts of the inn there,” Chijioke smoothly explained. “We will not be seeing him again. I will have his things packed and delivered right away.”
It was a performance for the guests, I knew, and Lee did nothing to amend the story. I wasn’t even certain he heard any of it. He simply drifted into the house, as slow and pale as a ghost.
When the men were inside, I volunteered myself to Mrs. Haylam, walking slowly with her inside and into the vaulted expanse of the foyer. “He went mad after talking about his dead daughter,” I told her without prompting. “I thought he would kill me; he would have, I’m sure of it, if Mary and Chijioke hadn’t helped.”
“How he departs is no concern of ours,” she said. We paused, and I watched Lee drag himself up the stairs. Mary had already come in from the grounds, and appeared from the kitchens with a laden tea tray in hand, following the guests up. “The master told me of his crime, but we did not believe him dangerous to anyone but his own family. He would never have gone alone with you two if we did.”
I nodded once. “I’m not sorry he’s gone.”
“Indeed?” I heard the surprise in her voice, and the not-so-subtle interest. She wore a prim white shawl over a blue dress and apron, her silvery hair braided and looped under a cap. “Indeed.”
She didn’t press me for more, and I wouldn’t have elaborated if she had. “I need sleep. Desperately. In the morning I have something to show Mr. Morningside.”
“That sounded suspiciously like a command,” Mrs. Haylam drawled. Her milky eye sparkled. “But I suppose I can inquire after his schedule. Rest now, child, and fear no men. The Residents will be watchful at your door this night.”
“Cold comfort,” I mumbled. But I had not energy to argue. I pulled myself just as heavily as Lee had up the stairs and to my room at the end of the hall. As soon as I closed the door, I heard the scratching of footsteps on the other side. Peering through the crack, I saw nothing but a hazy black form. Sure enough, a Resident had come to stand guard. The healing bruise under the wrap on my wrist throbbed as if in recognition, as if in greeting.
I had no idea how that made me feel. Perhaps I was simply too tired to think clearly on the subject. But rather than fear, I felt only a cold numbness. A distance. The Residents had tried to keep me from the book in the attic; they had caused me no more harm. But a man of flesh and blood had tried to kill me, and I’d seen the aftermath of true violence; when I closed my eyes I saw a dangling skeleton, the mouth of its skull twisted open in agony.
Maybe I wanted that shadow creature between me and the rest of the world. At least for a little while. At least while I slept. I vented a dry laugh and undressed, pinned up my hair, and carefully hid the scrap of paper I had taken from the cottage fireplace under my pillow. Someone, and I could guess who, had left Mr. Morningside’s book on that same pillow. When I looked closer, I noticed it was not my same water-stained copy I’d left behind in the barn, but a fresh one.
I cracked the cover, finding a new inscription there, too.
Louisa,
You have questions. There are answers. They wait for you in here if only you dare to seek them out.
I crawled into bed, sighing, curling up under the welcome comfort of the blankets with the book tucked against the pillow. Someone had left a candle burning on the table beside the bed, and I decided to let it burn a little longer, scanning the index of the book and leafing through the pages until I landed on the chapter he had suggested on more than one occasion.
“Practical Applications: Techniques for Identifying Changelings.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
In the early morning I dressed and performed my toilette as usual, then found my way to the kitchen. The house felt vast and empty, as it should, with two of its already few occupants gone for good. In the foyer, Chijioke was handing off instructions to Foster, who stood next to a pile of luggage monogrammed R. M.
Rory Merriman. I wondered briefly what any acquaintances of his might hear. The doctor had gone away to the north of England to take the healing waters and never returned. Did he have any unlucky family that would receive his things or learn of where he was buried? I watched Foster heave the bags into his arms and trundle out the door, the door that seemed to me now more like a mouth: guests arrived, knowing nothing, and were promptly swallowed whole.
“There’s breakfast,” Chijioke told me brightly, closing the door after Foster. “Bacon,” he added with a beaming smile, “and some mutton for the morning hash from the neighboring shepherd.”
“Kind of him,” I remarked. Chijioke led the way into the kitchen, where, as promised, a modest spread of food waited. Poppy sat at the tall table, swinging her legs under her skirts, chatting with her hound as she ground some kind of small fruit pit with a mortar and pestle.
“Don’t grind that so close to the food, girl!” Mrs. Haylam cried, sweeping in and pushing the tray to the other side of the table.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said with a laugh. Then she noticed me and waved, flinging everywhere bits of the fruit pit that Mrs. Haylam swiftly tried to sweep up. “Good day, Miss Louisa. Do have some breakfast! I’m making poisons.”
“How nice for you,” I replied, sitting across from her and making sure my plate was free of any mysterious brown flakes before serving up a bit of food.
“Help her put that away and then roast the yams for luncheon, Louisa. Mr. Morningside will see you after.”
And like that, I was a servant of Coldthistle again. It felt disconcertingly normal, like combing one’s hair with an old brush or slipping on a worn pair of shoes. I knew how to put up a bit of ground pit and I knew how to roast a yam, and the knowing and the simplicity made the horror of the day before feel like a distant memory. This was what life was supposed to be like—routine, average, with no dead bodies or rituals or monsters lurking in the shadows.