The old woman found her chair again, looking down at the watch vacantly. “From Lord Avon, weeks before his death. He entrusted me with it, for I am his most loyal servant.” The old housekeeper exhaled a harsh breath. “Mrs. Graham,he said,do not be afraid of Weavingshaw and keep its secrets safe.” One wrinkled hand touched her mouth. “Mrs. Graham,he said,I trust you with my life.” She closed her eyes briefly, as if petrified she would lose a memory she held with every heartbeat. “Mrs. Graham,he said,never let Lord Hargreaves come upon this.I have…”
When she opened her eyes, there were tears in them. She blinked as if through a dream.
Leena wanted to reach for her and hold a hand to her scrawny shoulder in comfort, but dared not, for she did not know if the old lady was speaking from a memory, a nightmare, or confusion, and whether she would reject such a gesture.
And yet, Leena knew she had been right to follow her instinct to visit the old housekeeper. There was something here that was vital for her to know. She could not understand why Margery would possess the same timepiece or what her purpose had been in giving it to her for safekeeping. She cursed herself for not carving out time as she had wanted to do to question Margery.
“I understand,” Leena responded slowly. “May I see it?”
The old woman handed her the timepiece freely. Leena stood to inspect it better by the fire. It was identical to hers, down to the elegant letters of the inscription:Fray.
But just below that was another engraving, this time the letters rough and uneven, as if someone had done it in a hurry:
Avons can cross.
When she unlatched the cover, she found to her surprise that the clockface went up to thirty-six rather than twelve, or eighteen, as Margery’s did. She could not account for this strange style of clockwork or for its purpose, for it was clear it did not tell the time. But it was equally clear that the discrepancy was deliberate, and not the mistake she had once assumed from Margery’s timepiece. Here, like Margery’s, a single hand was positioned at zero.
Leena peered intently at the woman, whose attention was now on her own hands. Before the old lady could mark her actions, Leena switched the two timepieces, returning Margery’s to the box while keeping Lord Avon’s.
She knew she would later feel the remorse of her duplicity, but for now she composed her features as best as she could, returning to the old housekeeper’s side.
The old lady’s eyes suddenly seemed very focused as she stared back at Leena. For a moment, Leena thought she looked as if she had full capacity of her senses, so watchful was that look.
“He came to see me.” The old housekeeper gripped Leena’s hand once more. “His Lordship still hasn’t forgotten me. He sat and spoke with me. He filled my shed with chopped logs. The master has always been kind to me.”
Leena swallowed. Was the old lady alluding to seeing Lord Avon’s ghost? Or was this another distant memory?
Careful not to disturb her flow of speech, Leena prodded, “Is it Lord Avon you speak of, madam?”
“Yes, of course—who else would I be referring to?” the old woman scoffed, releasing her hand.
“But, madam, Lord Percival Avon has been dead these past ten years.”
“Well, of course he has; I was at the funeral. I speak of Master Bramwell, the new Lord Avon.”
Leena’s reaction was visceral. The humming in her ears, the pallor of her cheeks, the heaving of her breath were all entirely beyond her control.
She hadn’t anticipated this revelation, and yet she had known it deep in her gut. Maybe she had known it since the moment she’d seen St. Silas enter Weavingshaw, absorbing its energy in hungry gulps.
The sixth sense that led her to see ghosts had already warned her that the master had come home.
Leena stood atthe fold where the ocean met the land, the salty water beneath her boots retreating and advancing—not a dance but a war. The savagery of the waves created ridges and footholds on the black cliffs, battering the stone into submission.
Leena had gone to the rocky beach after she’d returned from the old housekeeper’s. After Theodore Daye had bowed his head when she’d asked him if the blood that ran through Bram St. Silas’s veins was Avon blood. After she’d stood on the pale limestone steps of Weavingshaw, her chest aching, nearly suffocating, as if the estate was bent on stealing the breath from her lungs.
She could not bear to be on Avon land a moment longer.
But no matter how far Leena walked—toward the forest, toward the ocean, toward the cliffs—Weavingshaw’s silent tower still watched her. Even here, as the seawater licked her hem and the wind whipped her hair, she felt its bedevilment.
Leena thought of St. Silas’s expression as they arrived at Weavingshaw for the first time—not hatred as she’d originally assumed, but an intermingling of wrath and a fierce, all-consuming devotion.
She’d likewise noticed the ease with which he walked the marbled halls, his odd familiarity with the house’s secrets. And yet, his passion clearly stretched past the stone halls of Weavingshaw. She could easily remember his simmering anger at the mistreatment of the miners—all tenants on his land.
Even the ghosts in and around the fortress seemed to crave a closeness to St. Silas, their hands outstretched as if he were a life source, welcoming him home.
The wind stole Leena’s gasp as she remembered the empty tomb…St. Silas’sempty tomb…the one she’d forced him to hide in. How it had paralyzed him, and how she’d entirely misunderstood the reason for that disturbance.
Leena knelt down suddenly, splashing freezing water onto her face, inhaling sharply from the glacial temperature.
