I close my eyes. “Dear Papa,” I whisper.
Of all the unbelievable revelations, this disturbs me most. Father was a gentle soul, and even though I was only five when he died, I do remember him fondly: his long, somber face, his eyes, so gray they looked almost silver. One memory remains vivid, in contrast to the little I recall from my early years here in London. It is of Father and I walking in the botanical gardens, his hands clasped behind his back, his strides so long I had to gather my skirts to keep up. Just thinking of it now makes me sniffle. As we walked, he would point out flowering shrubs and plants with a nod of his head. “There lies Aspidistra,” he’d say. Or “Behold, the lovely summer snowflake, almost as beautiful as you, my dear child.”
And then he would lift his voice and sing:
“The smile upon her bonnie cheek
Was sweeter than the bee;
Her voice excelled the birdie’s song
Upon the birchen tree.”
The memory brings a feeling of melancholia that cuts deep. I feel a tingle behind my eyes, and before I can stop myself, tears are on my cheeks.
Breakfast is served in the same dining hall as dinner the night before. The day is pleasant, with sunlight streaming through the windows and birds chirping outside. Mother’s eyes are red, as if she didn’t sleep at all.
The table holds a bounty of foods, certainly more than enough for the three of us: black pudding, baked breads, mushrooms, beans, back bacon, scones, omelets, and several jars of jam and marmalade. Balthazar picks at a melon of some sort with ruby-red skin. Small seeds are revealed in the pulpy white membrane. “A pomegranate,” he offers as he catches my stare. “A very ancient food. Would you care to partake?”
I politely decline, although I am curious, as I have never seen such an odd fruit before.
Mother sips her tea. All she has on her plate is buttered toast, so I follow her lead, although I add marmalade to mine.
There is something I want to ask, and after yesterday, I feel that nothing is out of bounds. “The servant—” I start. “Darby. What happened to her?”
Mother gives me a look as if I am being impolite, but I return her stare. Darby’s affairs are none of my concern, but I need to know more about the cold white scars.
“The tale of Darby is a strange one,” Balthazar begins.
I wonder about that. Stranger than meeting a man who says he is a faerie? And that I am a mesmerist?
Balthazar crosses his long legs. “A few years back, my travels took me to the glorious city of Rome, where, every day, I took long, leisurely walks. Upon one of these afternoons, I found myself wandering beyond the city streets to a small village in the mountains.” He pauses and sips his tea. Mother now decides to spread marmalade on her toast, and for some reason, the scrape of the knife sets my nerves on edge.
“I heard a ruckus—?screams and cries in the air. Black clouds of smoke rose from the town square. I made my way there and found, to my horror, a ghastly scene.”
“What was it?” I ask, almost not wanting to know. What could possibly frighten a man who has seen necromancers?
“A young girl, lashed to a cross, with flames roaring around her. I saw the terror on her face. It was barbaric.” His brow furrows. “The priest had condemned her as a lycanthrope.”
I give him a questioning look.
“A werewolf,” he says calmly.
“Werewolf,” I whisper, bringing to mind something out of a penny dreadful, one of those beastly stories told in pulpy newspapers.
“Several children in the town had gone missing, you see, and the villagers claimed it was the work of werewolves.”
I swallow hard.
“I learned that the girl’s parents had suffered the same fate that was about to befall her. I had no choice but to convince the priest to let me take her into my care.”
It can’t be, I tell myself. “Darby?”
“Yes,” Balthazar replies.
I gasp, and look from him to Mother—?for anything that will convince me this isn’t true, but her face is stoic. “But surely they were wrong, weren’t they? She isn’t really a . . .” I can’t bring myself to say the word again.
“Werewolf?” Balthazar suggests.
I nod meekly.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m afraid so.”
I close my eyes and open them again. I stare at the bright white tablecloth.
“She is an orphan,” Balthazar explains. “And I have treated her affliction as well as I am able. The first few years were less than desirable, but now she willingly takes a potion to keep the disease at bay.”
An image of Darby being burned alive rises in front of my vision. It is too much to bear, and I shut it out of my mind.
Will the strangeness of this trip never end?
Balthazar dabs his napkin at the corner of his mouth. “We must depart,” he declares. “There are people you should both meet, and time is of the essence.”
“What?” I ask. “Where?”
“Someplace entirely different from SummerHall,” he slyly hints.