Not only was there no virgin sacrifice abducted from her parents or chained to the bedpost, there was nobed, no wardrobe, no furniture, nothing. Just a large, empty chamber with thick curtains covering the far wall. Nothing more.
Fingers brushed against her ankle. With a scream, Violet leapt backward.
A loud fluttering thundered past her face toward the curtains.
A bird. Abird. Her choking laugh was tinged with almost hysterical relief. Those hadn’t been fingers against her ankle, but the soft weight of robin’s wings. And of course there were robins—hadn’t she just noted the warmth of the sun and the softly blooming flowers and the distinct scent of outdoors? Why, it was a miracle the abbey wasn’toverrunwith robins. God knew, she had never been able to prevent any kind of creature from entering any place she called home. All it took was an open window, and the next thing one knew—
Her breath caught again. This was Waldegrave Abbey. Therewereno open windows. There weren’t evenwindows. Just layers of crisscross boards hidden beneath reams of heavy curtains. There was no way a robin could have squeezed through a gap that even sunshine couldn’t slip through.
Slowly, she crossed step by step to the dark curtains hanging on the other side of the empty chamber. A faint hint of light seeped from beneath. Hands shaking, she shoved the curtains apart.
Colored sunlight blasted her in the face. She stumbled backward in surprise.
Iron-framed stained glass stretched from knee height almost to the ceiling. A semi-opaque view of the abbey grounds spread before her, from a height of perhaps twenty feet. Not all the boards had been removed from the windows, but enough had been cleared to allow the smallest pane to be unlocked and lifted. She did so now. The robin seized its opportunity for flight, leaving her alone once more.
She stood there, gazing out an artisan window that should not be visible, until the sun began to set beyond the edge of the neighboring woods.
With his daughter’s sunsickness—and his own—Mr. Waldegrave would never have condoned the de-boarding of a window. But then, neither would a servant dare be so presumptuous. And yet, the room was free of dust, andsomeonehad clearly begun to expose the stained glass design. Even the missing boards had been cleared from the room. But who? And when? And why?
Violet shoved the curtains closed with trembling fingers. Perhaps she and Lily weren’t the sole captives of Waldegrave Abbey after all.
Chapter 23
By the following noontime, Alistair had lost his appetite.
His eyes were streaked red from studying through the night, his fingers were cramped and swollen from copious note-taking during the day, his throat was sore and his voice raspy from shouting over the din of theories and postulations. It should have been a glorious turning point for the future of the Waldegraves.
Except all he was hearing was “no.”
No, they had never come across such a disease in their lives. No, there was no research on the subject, and therefore, no, there wasn’t the faintest path toward amelioration. No, they couldn’t imagine what might cause nor cure such a queer allergy. No, their busy schedules did not permit a second such gathering anytime this year, much less frequent house calls. No, there would be no way to treat an unknown disease through mere correspondence. No, they could not guarantee that experimentation in their faraway laboratories would not exacerbate, rather than solve, the problem. No, they could not study the symptoms without causing additional pain to the subject, or perhaps accidental death. They were physicians and scientists, not miracle workers and magicians. They were not God.
When the subject turned for the hundredth time to whose laboratory and bright young assistants would be more suited for physical research of this nature—despite Alistair’s repeated pleas that they focus onpreventingthe symptoms, not documenting them—he could bear the frustration no longer.
Rude as it may be, he leapt from his chair and strode from the wall of “Would the reflection of sun on snow deepen or lessen the severity of the burns?” and “Once enough scar tissue had formed, might not a few seconds of sunlight be tolerated?” and into the blessed darkness of his empty office. Silence... but not peace. He collapsed into his chair, crisscrossed his arms over a stack of worthless notes, and lowered his head to his desk.
His prayers had not been answered. He was not on the path to saving Lily. He was destined to disappoint her yet again. And life would trudge on as it always had.
A knock sounded on the office door. “Master Waldegrave?”
His housekeeper. Sighing, Alistair lifted his heavy head. He plodded across the room without registering much of anything and mechanically opened the door. “What is it, Mrs. Tumsen?”
“It’s tea. I thought you could use a pot.” She bustled right past him as if in-office tea service were an everyday occurrence rather than an unheard of presumption.
No one had ever been allowed in Alistair’s office but him. No maid, no housekeeper, no one. His office was the repository of an entire decade of research into his daughter’s sunsickness. Nine long years he’d kept this oasis of knowledge, this haven of hope, sacred. Books, notes, his sweat and blood and essence on every diagram or model or scrap of parchment. And for what? Just to make the bitterness of disappointment all the more severe?
Tea would not erase his woes. Only a cure for Lily could do that.
Rather than return to his desk, he stepped into the passageway and headed back toward the large refectory they’d been using as a meeting room. He did not bother to shoo Mrs. Tumsen from his office or bid her close the door behind him. So what if she spilled tea over nine years of notes or mistook yellowed parchment for forgotten rubbish? He was never going to devise a cure on his own. He needed help. He needed the experts arguing animatedly on the other side of the abbey. While there was still air to breathe, he was not willing to give up.
Nearly to the refectory, he spied Roper heading toward the servants’ quarters. Alistair called out to his manservant, who started as if he’d been caught sneaking biscuits.
“Master! Good afternoon.”
“Not particularly. Is Miss Smythe about? I haven’t seen her, and she promised to lend her mind to the meeting.” He would explain her presence as a visiting relative. “Could you escort her to the refectory for me?”
“She’s... not in her chamber, master.” Roper dropped his gaze suspiciously. “Or speaking to me.”
“What?” Alistair’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? Where is she?”
