As Martin led Rami away, he felt abruptly like a sheep being led to slaughter.
Leena was aboutto encircle her bed with salt when a knock came at her door at a quarter past one in the morning. She’d stayed awake later than usual in the despairing hope that Lord Avon would come forth, but he remained bitterly elusive.
She looked inquiringly at Theodore Daye, who had taken his usual position beside her bed.
She opened her door to find St. Silas darkening the threshold.
She hadn’t seen him save for briefly this morning, and a part of her had wondered if he’d been avoiding her since the cave.
She moved to let him in, grateful that she was still dressed in her yellow cotton skirt and that her hair was not a complete mess, still in the pins that Mrs. Van had painstakingly woven through her curls before dinner.
St. Silas had never visited her in her chamber; for him to be here must mean that there was something urgent to be said. His gaze dropped to the salt pouch in her hands, but he did not comment.
There was a grimness in his eyes tonight. Wordlessly, he stepped inside and withdrew a palm-sized book from inside his coat.
“The red diary,” Leena gasped. “How did you—?”
“The Hall of the Lake.Avons can cross.Call your ghost,” St. Silas responded succinctly.
Leena stared at him. She imagined St. Silas rowing across those dark waters, entirely unaffected by the coiling energy—so potent, so corrosive, enough to drive a man to drown himself. Leena herself had felt the demon’s powers, felt its attempt to force her into submission, and she knew she would have succumbed to it had she been on the lake.
That St. Silas had survived simply because he was an Avon was nearly unfathomable—especially when she’d felt the demon’s craving for Avon blood.
Although Rami was her brother and there was very little she kept from him, she had not told him what she’d discovered about St. Silas in the cave. But after the Tar incident, her faith in Rami’s ability to keep a calm head was shaken. She could not trust he would not accidentally or purposely release such knowledge.
Before Leena could question him further, Theodore Daye had already stepped forward and motioned for Leena to place the book on the floor. The ghost knelt beside it, one hand grazing the scarlet leather exterior. He stayed in that position for a long time; Leena had never seen him so still. His movements were often jerky, his skin itching, as if on fire.
“He’s here,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off Theodore.
The temperature in the room dropped. Goosebumps trailed her spine. Thin sheets of ice crept across the windowpane.
Finally, Theodore Daye stood up. He turned to the clock that hung on the wall, pointing toward the twelve o’clock position.
“Will Lord Avon’s ghost appear tomorrow at noon?” Leena asked.
Theodore Daye nodded.
Of course, it would be either noon or midnight—those witching hours when the separation between the dead and the living was thinner, and ghosts seemed able to take a step into their world more easily.
Leena’s eyes swerved to the clock again; it was now half past one in the morning. It could’ve been tonight. They had been so close.
“Where will Lord Avon appear?”
Theo pointed to this room.
“Here? In this chamber?” Leena clarified.
Another shaky nod.
She explained all this to St. Silas, who nodded briefly but did not say more for a few moments.
Leena sensed that the stillness around St. Silas was merely a prelude, as if he was trying to speak in a foreign language but didn’t know how.
She stayed quiet, folding her hands in front of her, patiently waiting.
“Is Theo still here?” St. Silas finally murmured, staring hard at the nothingness she’d been speakingto.
“Beside me,” Leena responded softly.
