“One day sister, I’ll escape from here and then you’ll pay for stealing my life and my love.”
“You didn’t love him.” I practically bark back.
“Maybe I did. In my own way. But I promise you this, you won’t get away with what you did to me. What you did to father.”
Shuddering at her threat, I snap my fingers and close the connection between us, returning her to the prison and the glass shimmers back into my reflection. I tuck my unruly hair back into place and fix my nightgown. My fingers trail over the red angry welts that line my neck. I sway on my legs, snapping my fingers together and watch as the marks slowly disappeared from my skin. Going over to the window, I unclasp the hook and let in poor Alfred whose terrified squawks must have wakened the house by now. He flutters inside, making a circle around the room looking for the source of my attacker.
“They’re gone now. I’m alright.” He careens down, landing onto my shoulder, talons digging against my bone. I pay it no mind. I stroke his back and watch his feathers puff up with the attention. “You can stay in here tonight.” He takes off, settling on the nightstand, watching over me like a guard dog.
I settle into bed, shaken by the day’s events. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow, I could begin searching for the curse breaker. I drag my fingers over my neck, reassuring myself that my skin is good as new. I just hope that Marybeth got rid of that poltergeist for good.
BARRETT
Fever overwhelms my body. It tremors and sweats, leaving me weak and delirious. My mind plays the dream of Marigold repeatedly. Her sweet scent and delicious moans fill the space between waking. This soon mixes between the nightmares of Harriet, blending together in horror filled hallucination. I drift in and out barely aware of doctors coming to poke and prod at me. They bleed my arm which only manages to make my already woozy head, swim even more. Whomever invented it as a cure should be run over by his own horse.
A week goes by before I’m able to regain enough strength to hobble around without feeling as if I’m about to pass out.
Ellen, thankfully, has been a godsend as usual, making sure I and the children are well cared for. Though she grumbles about it under her breath, often, and louder than she might realize, I know deep down she’s an old softie who cares deeply for my family. She assures me that Marigold and the children are getting along just fine.
I find myself limping down to the breakfast nook this morning, energy waning but determined to feel a slight sense of normalcy. Scones, toast, and fresh fruit have been set out and my stomach grumbles for something other than soupy porridge. I select a flakey crusted scone and lightly butter the top. Picking up the kettle, I pour myself some tea. It amazes me that with just those small movements, I’m finding myself already tuckered out.
My hand shakes as I bring the teacup to my lips, my muscles clearly still weak from disuse.
As I go to place it down, the cup slips from my grip. Bracing for the inevitable crash of breaking china, I close my eyes only to never hear the expected sound. I peel my eyes open and find the cup dangling from Ms. Peppins’s pinkie. I swallow hard as I look up at the object of my desire. Just as breathtakingly beautiful and intoxicating as the day I hired her. “Nice catch.”
Her mouth forms the most alluring smirk as she sets down the cup. “No harm done.”
Devil take me. That voice of hers ensnares my heart, coiling deep into my stomach and steals my very soul. My eyes take in every dip and curve in her figure, lingering on the swell of her chest. I shift in my seat, willing away the hardness that’s taken up residence in my trousers. “H-How have you been getting on with the children? I trust Ellen has been showing you the ropes.”
“Yes, indeed. She’s been most helpful.” She takes the seat opposite me, tucking her black dress gracefully beneath her oblivious to my current torment. I watch as she grabs a scone with her delicate fingers and slathers it in a large heaping of strawberry jam and clotted cream. She has a fondness for sweets, the complete opposite of my taste, I note, glaring down at my plainly buttered scone and wonder what she must think of me. This rigid noble Englishman, grouchy and unapproachable. Short tempered and painfully awkward. Why would someone as magical and vivacious as she, choose someone like me?
I pick up the scone and place it in my mouth, biting off a piece and watching as chunks fall onto the plate below, lost in my wallowing thoughts. It’s best if I keep my eyes glued to the table, away from her alluring figure.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you before, and you’ve been ill since I was hired, but I was wondering if I could be allowed to take every Tuesday off?”
“Tuesdays?” The word comes out of my mouth as garbled, seeing as the scone has made a sort of paste in my mouth. I take a sip of my tea, careful to set it down right this time, though my muscles still protest the movement. I manage to swallow the thick lump of pastry, wondering what on earth she would want to do on a Tuesday. “Seems an awfully peculiar day to request off. Most ask for Sundays.”
“Yes, well. I’m not unfamiliar with being called peculiar for just being myself.”
Her bright blue eyes cut into me, and we hold each other’s stare for what feels like eons. It’s as if she can see into my head and see exactly how I’ve imagined her these past few days. The energy that’s pulsating between us has the color on my neck deepening to a faint crimson. “I don’t mean to imply-“
“It’s quite alright. I’m used to it.” And just like that the moment between us is gone. Popped like a balloon upon a needle. My words and off-putting manners have dug myself into a grave, declaring any hope of something between us as dead. Not that I want something to happen between us. Harriet and I agreed. Frowning, I blink away the image of Harriet’s bloody body laid beneath me, her haunting last words echoing in my ears.
“Of course, if you’d like your day off to be on Tuesdays then that’s perfectly acceptable. I’ll clear it with Ellen first though, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
I watch as she takes a bite of her scone, somehow without spilling a single crumb. If I knew her better, I’d ask her just how on Earth she manages that. Her perfection confounds and intrigues me.
“Tell me, do you have family nearby, Ms. Peppins?”
Her teacup pauses mid-way to her mouth, “A sister. My twin. Though, we don’t speak frequently.” The strain in her shoulders and neck caution me not to press the question further.
“And you? Any family nearby?”
“My mother. She lives in Bath with a hoard of servants and an irritable parrot that only knows curse words.”
Giggling, she takes a sip of her cup as her eyes sparkle with delight. I decide in that moment, her laugh is my favorite sound I’ve ever heard.
