Rather than take the risk that the lady would start asking more questions about the housekeeper, Marlene attempted to divert her attention back to the key that was secretly in her possession. “I’m sure I misheard. It’s just that the way she described it, like some sort of three-pronged skeleton key, caught my interest.”
She attempted to brush off the subject by turning her focus outside the window, but she held her breath in anticipation.
“I have never heard of such a key before.”
Marlene’s heart sank. “Then you don’t know what it might open?”
Lady Erica smiled, and Marlene could tell by her actions that she was doing her best to make light of the situation, but something told her that her charge knew exactly what she was talking about. “I’m afraid I haven’t a clue. But I do hope that it doesn’t cause Mrs. Bates too much disruption. If it opens the larder, I fear we all might be in trouble.”
Marlene laughed, as was expected, but the tension starting to swirl about the interior of the carriage was undeniable. She jerked with the key in her grasp, abruptly struck by the feeling of a light pinch.
She must have made some sort of noise, because Lady Erica asked if all was well. “Yes. Just a brief shudder,” Marlene muttered in return.
However, when she withdrew her hand and saw the imprint of the key glowing upon her skin, she quickly made a fist. When she dared to look again, the image had vanished.
While his aunt and Miss St. Clair were in the village, Alaric took the perfect opportunity to do a bit of searching in her room. He wanted answers, but when he had upended everything in the room, from the bed to the wardrobe and her dressing table, without any luck, Alaric found himself in a particularly foul mood.
With the room in disarray, he glanced at the housekeeper, who was standing in the doorframe and snapped, “Clean this up. I shall accomplish this another way.”
Mrs. Bates inclined her head and summoned the maid, Amy. Together they set about putting the room back to rights while Alaric stalked off to the north wing and his private quarters. He stood at the mantel in his sitting room and grasped the marble until his knuckles turned white from the strain.
He glanced out the window to the sky above and realized that time was quickly passing. Although he had managed to remain in harmony for the past few years, since Hector had been exiled, that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware that his luck was running out. He could feel the storm brewing as surely as he could see the clouds of dread upon the horizon.
Ten years ago, likely before Miss St. Clair had been out of pinafores, Hector had sought Alaric out one evening in London. He’d invited him to a Cyprian’s ball like no other. It was an exclusive event held for those that possessed the power of wicca.
Like a fool, Alaric had allowed his naivety to lead him there because the lure of the forbidden had always been particularly appealing to him. For years he had fought against his abilities—until it was too late. Alaric had been duped into believing that their chance meeting at a pub one fateful night had nothing to do with the rumor that Alaric had been in possession of a rare tome known only as the Book of Magical Charms. It held all the incantations of the Old World, ever since time began. It was highly sought after by anyone in the inner circle, but only one copy was in existence. The author, Robert Ashley, had been a barrister in London during the reign of King James I and translated several popular volumes during his lifetime. The Book of Magical Charms was the perfect counterpart to the Malleus Maleficarum, the treatise written by a German clergyman in order to try to blame his lust on women, rather than his own self-depravity. The Book also explained how to possess the true power of all witchcraft.
And that was the single thing that interested Hector.
When he realized Alaric was of no use to him, he went into a fit of rage, severing the heads of several guests at the ball in the process. His anger was his downfall, because he was sent into exile, removed from his coven. He’d had no choice but to flee the continent after that, or else face the noose, because no one would be coming to his aid.
Fearing retaliation, Alaric had fled back to the family estate to sequester himself in seclusion. He had worked tirelessly since then, ensuring that his spells were powerful enough to keep out those who wished him or his family, harm. But if he were to invite someone in, the magic would be inconclusive. It would be easy for a witch who continually practiced his craft to find a way to breech those protective walls.
That was why Alaric had to keep a sharp eye on Miss St. Clair. If she had been sent here as a vessel to report back to Hector, then he had made a grave error by allowing her to come to Rosedale Heights. He owed much to his aunt, who had taken care of him after his parents had died within months of each other. With no children of her own, his aunt had ensured that he had all the love and caring that she was able to offer, and for that alone he would be forever indebted to her.
He'd approached her with the idea of a companion and her gaze had filled with interest. But they had also made an agreement when it came to admitting an outsider. The ad he placed in the paper would have to be coded with special wicca magic, so that whoever answered would be able to decipher the message and have special abilities of their own. Alaric’s hope was that they might be another aid in protecting his aunt against Hector and whatever power he’d amassed over the years. If rumors were to be believed, then he had been using his time to his advantage. His trails of destruction were starting to become legendary over the past decade.
When he’d received the reply from Miss St. Clair, he’d been intrigued, thinking that she was aware of her inner power, but when she’d arrived, although he'd been able to see an aura around her, she’d acted blissfully unaware of her heritage. Never in his experience with a fellow wiccan, had he ever encountered someone who had never felt the calling of magic. He decided that something had caused her to suppress her power—or else she had never been told who she truly was.
Alaric decided that it was up to him to inform her. To walk around without the proper knowledge was dangerous. Witches had been hanged for less than being able to read a coded message. If enough suspicion was cast, she could be condemned with very little evidence in a trial. Although things had eased for witches over the years, the threat was still very real.
Until now, Alaric had been living his life in perfect oblivion, thinking that because he lived among the moors that he was protecting himself from the evil that was prevalent in the world, but he’d been lying to himself. He couldn’t run from his destiny.
And neither could Miss St. Clair.
Chapter 5
Lady Erica mentioned that she had to stop at the local apothecary, and that her visits were generally lengthy. Rather than attend to her, where she claimed Marlene would be bored, the lady mentioned that Marlene would make better use of her time should she wish to visit the milliner or the bookshop. Marlene decided on the latter and they agreed to meet for a light luncheon in a couple of hours. She could easily lose herself in that single shop for any length of time.
A bell tinkled above the door as she entered and the man behind the counter greeted her with a polite nod of his head. “Let me know if I can be of any service,” he noted. With that, she was dismissed, as he straightened his spectacles and returned to the book in his grasp.
He looked quite familiar, and after a fashion, Marlene realized that he had been the unassuming gentleman with whom she had shared the mail coach.
She considered asking him about his journey, but since he still didn’t appear to be encouraging of conversation, she went over to the shelves of books sitting in wait for their pages to be opened and read. She stood in front of one of the leather-bound aisles and ran her fingers lightly along their carefully bound spines. She inhaled the scent of ink and sighed.
Marlene carefully read through the tomes, looking for those that mentioned anything to do with botany. She inspected several, but either they had been in her father’s personal collection, which now belonged to her cousin, or they were simply ones that she had read countless times through the years.
But there was one she came across that was unknown to her. Excitement shot through her veins as she reverently withdrew it from the shelf and opened the cover. Immediately, an odd sensation washed over her, as if she was paralyzed. Her eyes were unaffected, and she glanced around at the store to find that nothing had changed. Various patrons were coming and going through the door while the man wearing the spectacles offered the barest acknowledgements before he resumed his book.
