Hero and Soldier of Justice
May He Rest in Peace
An eerie sensation brushed over Xenia’s nape. She took a hasty step back, nearly bumping into a glass-fronted box…the village notice board, where announcements were made. The pinned notices were all items for sale, most at steep discounts because the owners were moving in a hurry.
Mr. Bailey appeared to be right. No one stayed in Chuddums unless they had to.
Later that evening, Xenia flopped onto her new bed. She removed her heavy spectacles, rubbing at the indent on the bridge of her nose as she stared up at the ceiling. She was in that peculiar state of being both exhausted and wide awake.
She’d spent the last few hours preparing meals for the morrow. Cooking had proved harder than she expected. Unfortunately, Mr. Bailey had been out of blood sausage, her new master’s favorite breakfast dish, which meant she’d had to make it from scratch. She’d located a volume of recipes at the village’s only purveyor of books, a circulating library which, oddly enough, was called “Hatcherds.” She didn’t know if the name was an intentional misspelling of the famous London bookshop or merely a bit off-kilter, much like the village itself.
Sadly, her assumption that if one could read a recipe, one could cook proved to be untrue. She had no idea how the blood sausage or other dishes she’d sweated over would turn out.
Edible, hopefully.
There was naught she could do about it now. Moreover, she had other worries, triggered by those cutthroats outside Mr. Bailey’s shop. How many criminals operated in the village? Would any of them recognize her from the years she’d spent in her mother’s infamous roving gang? Did the brutes draw the attention of the local constabulary? Would she be safe hiding in Chuddums?
Will I always be a fugitive from my past?
Memories ambushed her. The narrow, soot-filled chimneys her mama had forced her to climb down.Get inside and unlock the door, daughter mine, or you’ll feel my wrath.The abhorrent things she’d been required to do, the constant running and fear of being caught. The only safety had been her papa’s arms…until he’d been ripped from her too. Xenia buried her face in the pillow, trying to shut out the memories, but they came at her like her mother’s punishments, the blows she’d earned each time she’d tried to run away. Like the chains her mama had used to hold her captive, the starvation wielded to break her will.
You cannot escape, you worthless, stupid girl. I will always hunt you down.
Xenia had escaped, but at what cost? The memory of Mr. Trelawney choked her with grief. The owner of the quaint Cornish bookshop had given her shelter and friendship, and how had she repaid him? She felt his blood oozing between her fingers, the shallow rise and fall of his last breaths. She relived the moment when his clear blue eyes went blank.
Guilt punched her in the throat, and she fought the hot push of tears. Crying changed nothing. Remembering changed nothing. Even hiding was futile, for where could she find shelter from the despicable life she’d led?
Yet she had to keep running. Had to escape her destiny.
Had to be someone other than who she was.
Pretend until it’s true.
Scrubbing her eyes, she sat up and exhaled. She performed her ablutions at the washstand, then went looking for her hairbrush. Her one vanity was her hair; although she dulled its color out of necessity, she still brushed it one hundred strokes each evening to maintain its luster. Searching through her things, she was chagrined to realize that she must have left her brush behind at the Nunnery.
Perhaps the previous occupant left a few things?
Without much hope, she went to the dressing table and pulled on the drawer. It took a few tries as the sticky drawer refused to budge. When she succeeded, she squealed with delight at what she found inside: a hairbrush…and it wasexquisite. The beechwood handle was smooth and designed to fit a lady’s hand, and a beautiful rose design was carved on the back. Eagerly, she ran the brush through her hair, sighing at the luxurious prickle of the boar bristles.
She’d reached sixty-nine strokes when she heard a sound in the corridor. She paused mid-stroke, and the noise came again.
Thump thump thump.
Footsteps? Was someone approaching?
Setting down the brush, she hurried to the door and poked her head out.
Thump thump.
The sound was coming from the far end of the corridor. From behind the mysterious locked door. If those were footsteps…was someone locked in there?
You won’t like what is inside,Lord Ethan had said.
Was he hiding something? What kind of skeletons would he have rattling in his closet?
Her eyes widened as the realization struck her.
Maybe he isn’t hiding skeletons but aghost.
