Hargreaves was going back to Weavingshaw.
Weavingshaw—where his wife had walked into the ocean. Where he’d met Percy for the last time on that barren field, blade in hand. The same Weavingshaw that had brought them all peace as boys, before taking it back with an unyielding hand.
No, Hargreaves was never to have peace again.
Not after Weavingshaw.
Somewhere far off, he heard a distant scream. It was likely the Warden marking the prisoner with seven brutal letters seared into his forearm:The Wake.
Weavingshaw sat likea wraith upon the moors—an entity that thrived in the dead and decaying season. Leena could not imagine the estate in summertime; likely it would look shell-shocked and glassy-eyed in the growing season. Indeed, from the moment Leena had her first look at the dark house, she had the unsettling feeling that it had fed on its surroundings until it was the last living thing within miles.
Leenafelt,rather than saw, when they finally entered Avon land. The earth smelled different on this side. Richer, more iron-clad, like it had soaked in the blood of its defenders for centuries and would not let them go. Even the wind was coarser across her cheeks, as if still carrying with it the remnants of sunken ships.
But most of all, it was the howling that jarred Leena. It was widely known that the north was the only land that still held wolves, and their terrible howls pierced her like arrows.
Leena closed her eyes and tried to ground herself in the present, focusing on the sound of her even breathing and the feel of her skirt beneath her fingers.
Yet, in spite of her best efforts, her mind wouldn’t be quieted.
Their journey had taken five days.
Thanks to Leena’s pleading, St. Silas had allowed Rami to accompany them, as Golborne was crawling with Black Coats who wanted her brother’s blood. It was clear St. Silas was dubious at best about bringing Rami, but she had told him that she’d beuselesswith worry over her brother while in Weavingshaw, and would likely need to take to her bed with her nerves.
St. Silas had commented drily that Leena’s nerves would likely outlast even him.
It felt like a terrible plan to Leena, knowing they were visiting the estate belonging to the same man who had ordered Rami’s beating. Still, she’d rather he stayed where she could keep an eye on him and try to keep him out of trouble. Leena had additionally forced Rami to promise that he would remain discreet and not further incur Mr. Martin’s wrath. He did so, but the begrudging way he agreed made her uneasy.
The five days of the journey had been uncharacteristically warm, although the sun hid behind a dense sleeve of clouds and mist. Theodore Daye was her companion in the beginning, but the farther north they went, the more he seemed to fade, nearly disappearing entirely by the fourth day, as if the journey had exhausted him. This worried her. She was afraid that he might vanish completely before he had a chance to deliver Lord Avon to them.
Leena spent most of the trip with her nose buried in her books. She distracted herself with linguistics, translating newspaper articles from Morish to Algaraan, using her aged dictionary as a reference. And all the while terribly missing her botany book.
But it was difficult to concentrate on her handwriting when her mind was pulled in a thousand different directions.
Ever since Mrs. Van had revealed her unsettling age, Leena’s nightmares had become disturbed—images of dark creatures with abnormal hands that upset her rest. She’d gone to see St. Silas just after he’d come back from his prolonged trip, but he’d merely laughed at her suspicions.
“Come, Miss Al-Sayer, can anyone be that old?” he’d asked, but the smile had never reached his watchful, half-lidded eyes. “Mrs. Van was jesting at your expense.”
He was lying to her.
Just as he stepped around the truth of his ledgers and his own past, St. Silas carried his secrets close to his chest. He was hiding something rotten, a twisted history—one that Leena was determined to find out.
She watched St. Silas through the window now, riding alongside them on a brown thoroughbred. He was an expert rider, in total control of the temperamental beast, and yet there was no enjoyment on his face as he rode, as if he was beingpropelledforward to Weavingshaw rather than leading the way there.
It had been a fortnight since the courtyard, and the time had passed for Leena in a whirlpool of morning confessions and preparations for their journey north. She had heard reports from Mrs. Van that the boy brought to them on that dark night was now recovering well at the convalescent home, and would likely be out of bed in another week. Leena was heartily glad to hear that; at least some good had come of that evening.
But since then, something foreign had lain between her and St. Silas. It took all her efforts not to dwell on this; to name it would have been to give power to it. She did not want St. Silas to hold any more of her than he already had. Already he employed her abilities on his behalf. Already her body seemed to react to his presence. She didn’t want him to have command over her thoughts or emotions as well.
They stopped for the nights in various posting inns, where Leena stumbled into the clean sheets, her back aching from the journey. Then, in the mornings, she would sit in the carriage, entirely travel-weary, her hair often still wet and curling from her bath the evening prior. The hours stretched with blinding boredom, and she had begun to miss even Golborne’s dirty but familiar streets.
On what Leena desperately hoped was the last morning of travel,she was surprised to see that St. Silas had elected to sit in the carriage with her, no longer in his riding habit but his normal stiff collar and black suit. Mrs. Van and Rami rode atop the box seat; she knew that Rami didn’t like the claustrophobic interior of a carriage, especially after his accident. Still, he popped his head through the window.
“You okay, Leena?” he asked her, eyeing St. Silas suspiciously.
She merely waved him away.
She tried to ignore St. Silas, keeping her own head bent over her language studies, but sitting so close to him, even in silence, still brought a startling awareness of him.
They did not speak, but more than a few times she was sure she felt his gaze burn into her. She refused to meet it, pretending to be engrossed in her book. In the moments he studied her, what did he see? Did he notice that her hair was particularly untidy this morning? Or that her dress was wrinkled? Or that she had excellent posture, a habit acquired from when she was a lady’s maid?
