You deserve to be happy. Clara’s voice filters through my mind.
And maybe that is all Mother wants for me. Happiness. Maybe it is the thing keeping her trapped between life and death. Mortality and eternity. Holding her back from making her final choice.
I reach for the bell where it sits on my desk, my teeth grinding. The handle is worn, the wood smooth, like it was made to fit my palm. I push to my feet, holding it aloft.
Two faces beneath one hood.
Two souls stolen.
I will make this devil deal if it will bring Mother back. If it will rescue her from a fate worse than rotting bones. One flick of my wrist—that is all it will take. Such a simple movement for so great a thing. I pull in lungfuls of air, swallowing until my belly is bursting.
Once, a fool. Twice, a thief.
I push the thought away and—
Hooves clatter on the lane outside the vicarage. I drop the bell into my pocket, hurrying to the window just in time to notice a streak of black rush over the bridge. Wheels screech in front of the vicarage, sending my heart pounding in my ears. There is only one carriage like that in town, only one that comes from the north.
It is, no doubt, from Blackbourne Castle.
Gently, I reach for my sweater and slip my feet into sturdy boots. The pages of Mother’s journal rustle in my waistband. I pull it out and lay it on the bed. While I do not understand the scribblings, I doubt anyone can. It doesn’t serve me to keep it.
I am careful not to allow the door to swing shut behind me as I slip out into the hall, easing it closed. Each step sends a flutter against my ribs, my heart nothing more than a starling caught inside a chimney. Downstairs, my father moves along the hall. His footsteps are heavy, each one a noose around my throat. Why has the carriage come?
The news of Lord Black’s death swept the village the day after Bram appeared in my bedroom. Father is writing the eulogy, locked up in his study, pacing before the leaden glass windows. The bodies to bury, it seems, never run dry.
My guts swim, turning inside out on themselves while I tiptoe to the edgeof the stairs. Father is in the foyer now, cane scratching the slate tile. There is a rap on the door. Three sharp knocks. My breath stills when the door opens. I catch the scent of woodsmoke and frost.
Low voices, words I cannot make out, shimmer in the air, and I wind down the stairs until I am standing in the kitchen.
“You cannot possibly mean that. I demand I accompany her.”
It is Father’s voice, cold and sharp as mint leaves.
“Apologies, Vicar, but it is what he requested.”
I do not know the other voice. Then again, the servants at the castle rarely make their way into town, their every need already met within the great gray stones.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow it.” Hinges creak while Father tries to close the door, but a palm slaps against the wood, stopping him.
“The young lord was very specific, Vicar Thorn. She is to come alone, and she is to come now.” The voice clears its throat. “Otherwise, he will be forced to take unfortunate actions. You know where the power in this town lies, Vicar, and as much as you’d like to believe otherwise, it isn’t the church, Ithrandril save me.”
Bile churns at the hollow of my throat. My fingers worry at my sides, nails piercing flesh. I swallow as much air as I possibly can. It is no use. My heart is already slipping out of tune.
A-live, a-live, a-a—
Father’s cane makes an arc on the floor. “Very well.”
My breath shudders when he comes around the corner. I have not seen my father in days, not up close. Shadow dusts his jaw in unkempt tangles, his shirt is wrinkled and stained by what I can only presume are tea and ink. His eyes are ringed in violet, and his shoulders slump while he makes his way into the kitchen. There is a cruel smile on his lips when he sees me.
“You’ve been summoned,” he says.
She. Whoever waits on the other side of the door saidshe. But surely, they did not…They must not meanme. What could anyone at Blackbourne Castle want with me? And then the ghost ofhishands brush my skin, Ransom’s hands while they cleaned the cut, wrapped the silk around my heel, and told me…told me what? I push the memory away, squaring my jaw.
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to ignore the anxiety tying knots in my stomach.
He comes closer, each scratch of his cane a shovel of dirt on my coffin. Father comes so close I can smell the stench of him—burnt black tea, iron, and sweat. I almost gag when he leans in. A candle gutters on the table.
“It appears our new patron would like to have words with you. And yet”—his breath is hot and moist on my cheek—“if anyone finds out, you are surely ruined.”
