The wall with the hallway door was bare of all decoration, save a small cracked mirror. The long snake-covered wall on the opposite side of the room was unbroken by door or window. Diabolical, Evangeline decided, that neither sunlight nor fresh air could find its way in. That wall corresponded with the rear of the house and should face a forgotten garden, perhaps, or even the forest. Instead, she saw nothing but seething shadows. She should beg for a room with windows—unless, of course, whatever lurked behind the mansion was something she’d rather not see.
Much like the bed. She turned to face it.
The four-poster monstrosity stretched from the interior wall to well past the center of the room. The foot of the bed faced the fireplace. She supposed the fat little forms carved into the oak were supposed to be frolicking angels, but the artist had made them tiny naked trolls instead. No matter where she stood, their eyes followed her, their stubby fingers beckoning, their smiles ghastly and overstretched.
Evangeline edged closer. The thick velvet tester hung in heavy crimson folds about the perimeter of the bed. Dark scab-colored material lined the canopy. At least while she slept, the covering would block the ceiling from view, where the same macabre artist had frescoed another army of pale winged trolls, dancing and frolicking and beckoning overhead with their too-small eyes and terrifying grins.
To the right of the bed was a tall wooden door, leading not into another guest room, but rather, a dressing chamber. Between the windowless wall and the length of the bed lurked a short, squat series of waist-high bookshelves, the tops still several inches short of the sculpted molding where serpents met wainscoting.
The only other object in the room was a single wingback chair, its upholstery the mottled hue of an old bruise. Beneath her shift, Evangeline had many that would match.
She dragged the chair as close to the fireplace as she dared and was just about to sink onto the seat cushion when the hallway door swung open.
“Oh! Excuse me, mum,” said a small, frightened maid, her dark gaze darting about the room as if the serpents might leap from the walls to her person.
Evangeline could certainly empathize.
“Come in,” she said, motioning with one hand.
“I mustn’t,” said the maid as she stepped inside. “Gor! He’ll kill me for sure.”
“Who?” Evangeline asked, then blanched at the stupidity of her question. Lioncroft, of course. The only murderer present. She changed her query to, “Why?” and gazed at the maid until the latter sighed.
“I’ve lost summat, that’s why. And I’ll be sacked by morning, I will.”
From long habit, Evangeline was at her side, tugging off a glove as she walked. The maid froze in either sheer terror or utter confusion as the back of Evangeline’s cold hand pressed against her forehead, her cheek, her forearm.
What did you lose? her fingers demanded. Remember. Remember.
With each touch, Evangeline’s surroundings disappeared as visions of the maid’s memories enveloped her. And as usual, each touch brought renewed pressure to Evangeline’s skull until the pain dimmed her eyesight and roared in her aching ears. Sometimes she succeeded in conjuring the right images. Sometimes she failed. But she always, always tried.
Show me what you lost today. Show me.
“A handkerchief?” she asked over the throbbing in her temples. At the maid’s startled expression, Evangeline nodded. “You dropped it next to a dressing bureau when you read the letter.”
“When I read the—” the maid broke off and gaped at her.
“You were crying,” Evangeline said apologetically, knowing the maid hadn’t meant anyone to see her secret pain. “You were holding a pile of soiled linen beneath one arm, and the handkerchief fell behind you as you stuffed the letter back in your pocket.”
Sudden clarity flashed in the maid’s eyes.
She did not thank Evangeline, however, nor hug her or smile at her or heap praise upon her, or anything else Evangeline had come to expect from the grateful servants back home who’d considered both she and her mother to be angels from heaven. Instead, the maid’s nervous gaze darted about the chamber once more before she edged backward from the room. She bolted down the hall without bothering to close the door behind her.
It was then that Evangeline realized not only was she as far as possible from home, but that “home” was something she couldn’t duplicate, even on a small level. Hopefully the maid hadn’t run off to tell her master of their guest’s obvious madness—or worse, of her exploitable talent.
Evangeline touched her trembling hands to her temple as her brain raged against her skull. She could usually avoid the headaches by limiting the number of her visions. Why had she been so determined to help the maid? To recapture a small sense of normalcy? Or to prove to herself she had a higher purpose than merely being Lady Stanton’s puppet?
Never trust Polite Society,Mama had said. Evangeline would be wise not to trust their servants, either. At least not until she’d had a chance to better observe the situation.
She made it to the bruised wingback chair before being interrupted again. The new disruption was blond, thin, and bespectacled, and barreled into the room by way of the connecting door.
“There you are,” Susan said, as if Evangeline might be anywhere else. “I wondered where you disappeared to.”
“I’m here.” Evangeline rubbed the tension from the base of her neck with cramped fingers. “Against my better judgment.”
“Two weeks is all. Nothing to it.” Susan peered at her closely. “Have you got a megrim?”
“Something terrible,” Evangeline admitted, then remembered not to take any new individuals into confidence. Mama had regretted telling Lady Stanton about her own visions when they’d been children. Evangeline wouldn’t make the same mistake with Susan. Not after the Stantons had lied to her, and now expected her to blithely hoodwink a killer. “How is your room?” she asked politely, hoping to change the subject.
