Rose studied the wax lumps uneasily. Both contained embedded objects—hair, fingernails, and other unidentifiable things—and a rusty substance streaked them. Blood. Hair protruded from the tops of the wax. One was a wad of black hair, as if gathered from a comb, and the other, a dark auburn tuft streaked with gray, clearly cut with shears. Both effigies were anatomically correct—one with a phallus, and the other, the black-haired one, with breasts. Rose noted on closer inspection that on the auburn one, nail parings had been placed along the base, as toenails.
She stared down at them in horrified revulsion, understanding what she held in her hands. Dark magic. Effigies her uncle used in his spells. The auburn one must be her father. Who was the black-haired one? She fingered the strands. Too long to be William or Drake; both wore their hair short. Both effigies had long pins piercing them. Rose was frozen with indecision, uncertain what to do with them. Instinct urged her to destroy them, but she feared that anything she did to them would harm the persons they represented in some manner she couldn’t begin to imagine.
She peered under the floorboards again and saw something else—a dark rectangle. She drew out a black leather book. The pages were sewn in, and the scrawl was Gaelic. Roderick’s grimoire. Rose paged through the dark spells with growing horror, stopping at one for summoning demon incubus to set on a victim—to suck the life from them. A loose page fluttered to the floor. The paper was different—not parchment but smooth vellum, the corner torn. She unfolded it with trembling hands andimmediately recognized her mother’s handwriting. The first line read,I think Roderick is not all he seems…
Rose heard movement in the next room. Quickly she replaced the objects in the recess, slid the floorboard in place, and covered it with the carpet. She kicked the cane away and hid the stiletto behind her back just as the door to the bedchamber opened.
It was her uncle, stunned into immobility at finding her in his bedchamber. His gaze immediately went to the floor, then darted back up to her eyes. He held his son swaddled in his arms. Liam cried weakly, a strange, warbling cry that raised the hair on Rose’s neck and arms. What was it? Was it a child? Or some product of black magic?
“What are you doing in here?” her uncle asked, scanning the room, eyes narrowed, looking for anything out of place.Murderer. Rose saw him with new eyes.Greedy, scheming, evil, out to ruin her life.
“I was looking for Hilda.”
“Why?”
“Because she was there when I delivered Liam. I thought she might be able to tell more about what happened after I healed Tira.”
“She left after Tira died.”
Rose’s heart stuttered. “Left?”
His eyes were flat, his face expressionless. “Aye. I didna need her any longer and sent her away.”
“Who is taking care of Liam?”
Roderick gazed down at his son. A small, pale fist waved from the swaddling. “He has a wet nurse. She’s in the kitchens right now. Not that it matters…he’s dying.”
The urge to cross the room and pull back theswaddling to examine the child herself was strong, but Rose did not trust her uncle anymore, and besides, she hid a knife behind her back.
“What is wrong with him?” she asked.
“I know not…I thought Strathwick healed him.” When he looked up at her, his face was hard, full of accusation and betrayal. “This is proof he’s a charlatan.”
“No. What he saved the baby from was strangulation. Liam was suffocated by the cord. Whatever ails him now developed later and can probably still be healed.”
Roderick regarded her for a long moment. “You’re no charlatan. I saw how you…resurrected Alan.”
“I didn’t resurrect him. He wasn’t dead.”
Her uncle’s eyes glinted, but he made no reply to that. His gaze swept the room again, then he looked her up and down. “What are you hiding behind your back?”
Rose’s fingers clenched around the stiletto’s hilt. “Nothing.”
“If you were looking for Hilda, why were you in my bedchamber with the door closed?”
Rose could think of no good answer to that. “Th-the door was closed?”
He gave her a reproachful look, then gazed back down at his son. “Will you heal him, Rose?”
She looked from her uncle to the bundle in his arms. “Perhaps…though I cannot now.”
“Why?”
“Because I take on the illness, you saw that. And I cannot do that now. I must remain strong.”
“Why?”
“Someone is trying to kill my father.”
