Bertram finally left. Gareth stood alone on the battlements, the parchment heavy in his hand, the weight of his responsibilities heavier still.
Below, in the courtyard, he listened to the sounds of his household settling in for the evening. Horses being led to their stalls. The clang of the smith’s hammer. A child’s laughter, quickly shushed.
Life went on at Greywatch, even if its lord had forgotten how to live it.
Gareth tucked the parchment into his belt and headed for the stairs. The tax records wouldn’t review themselves, and sleep was a luxury he rarely indulged anyway. He had hours yet before exhaustion would drag him under—hours to work, to plan, to prepare for whatever blow would strike next.
The cold wind followed him down from the battlements, and somewhere in the darkness beyond the walls, a wolf began to howl.
CHAPTER 4
The English Countryside, Present Day?—
The trainfrom London deposited Elodie in a village so small it didn’t appear to have a name, just a single platform, a ticket office that looked like it had been closed since the Thatcher era, and a hand-painted sign pointing toward “Baldridge Manor - 2 Miles.”
Two miles. In sensible shoes, that would have been fine. In the ballet flats she’d worn because they were the only decent shoes she owned that weren’t trainers, it was a form of torture.
By the time the grounds came into view, her feet were screaming and she’d developed a blister the size of a small country on her left heel. But she forgot all about it when she saw the house.
Baldridge Manor sprawled across the landscape like it couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be. Tudor bones showed beneath Georgian additions, which abutted a Victorian conservatory, which connected to something that looked suspiciously like a 1970s sunroom. It should have beenhideous. Instead, it was wonderful—eccentric and rambling and absolutely stuffed with character.
“You must be Dr. Hart.”
The woman who emerged from the front door was tiny, silver-haired, and dressed in what appeared to be a fabulous velvet caftan embroidered with peacocks. Her eyes were bright with intelligence and mischief in equal measure.
“Lady Baldridge?”
“Please call me Constance. Lady Baldridge was my mother-in-law, and she was a dreadful old bat.” She seized Elodie’s hand with surprising strength. “Come in, come in. You look like you could use some tea. And possibly a plaster for that blister—I saw you limping up the drive.”
Inside, the manor was exactly what Elodie had hoped for, cluttered with antiques, hung with faded tapestries, and absolutely crammed with all sorts of interesting things. Books overflowed from shelves. Paintings covered every inch of wall space. An authentic-looking suit of armor stood sentinel in the corner of the entrance hall, and three cats of varying sizes watched her from various positions on the furniture.
“I do hope you don’t mind the chaos,” Lady Baldridge said, leading her through a maze of corridors. “My late husband was a collector, and I’m afraid I’ve only made it worse. Can’t resist a good auction.”
“It’s wonderful,” Elodie said honestly. “Like a museum that actually feels lived in.”
Constance beamed at her. “I knew I was going to like you. The last assessor they sent kept making noises about ‘proper cataloging systems’ and ‘climate control.’ Perfectly valid concerns, of course, but he had no soul.”
They arrived in a sunny sitting room where tea had already been laid out. Lady Baldridge gestured for her to sit, then poured with practiced grace.
“Now then. David tells me you’re very clever.”
“Did he?” Elodie couldn’t hide her surprise. Dr. Morrow had never given any indication that he thought she was anything other than a professional embarrassment.
“He also mentioned the paper you wrote. The one about the fairies.”
Elodie’s stomach dropped. Of course. Of course, he had. “That was a long time ago. I’ve moved on to more... conventional research.”
Constance fixed her with a knowing look. “Have you? How disappointing.”
Before Elodie could formulate a response to that, Lady Baldridge was already moving on. “There are castle ruins to the north, you know. Greywatch Castle. Most of it crumbled centuries ago, but the locals say there are odd doings around it.”
“My friend mentioned something about that,” Elodie admitted. “Battle sounds when the moon is full?”
“Oh, that’s just the beginning.” Constance leaned forward, eyes bright with the pleasure of a born storyteller. “They say the lord of Greywatch never left. That he’s still there, waiting. Some claim they’ve seen him walking the ruins at twilight—a tall figure in armor, never making a sound.”
She paused for effect. “They called him the Silent Reaper, you know. Supposedly, he hadn’t spoken a word in years. Some said it was a curse. Others said he’d made a vow. The romantic stories say his voice was stolen by grief.”
The fine hairs on Elodie’s arms stood up. She told herself very firmly that it was just the draft from the old windows. “That’s... rather evocative.”
