Alistar leaned forward, his elbows resting just above his knees, his skin prickled with something. Dread? Anticipation? Uneasiness? “She was adopted.”
“Yes.”
“The paper?” Alistar prompted.
Tarron’s gaze was aimed at the ceiling as he contemplated. “That’s right. She handed me a report from a place called the London Investigations Agency. There was a file in the office too. A binder filled with other stuff.”
“You looked at it?” Alistar could hardly get the words out.
“Yeah. There was a wedding notice, a birth certificate, and a newspaper notice of deaths—three of them.”
Alistar’s scalp tingled. “Deaths? Who were they?”
Tarron tapped them out with an index finger, counting off on the other hand. “A Sarah Christine—can’t remember her last name, but she was the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Martindale. A Mr. Django Skerry, and their child, Caitlin Elizabeth. The article in the file said they died at sea—”
A knock sounded at the door. “My lord, the physician.”
Alistar glanced up, catching Tarron’s grimace, and grinned despite the graveness of the moment. He rose from his chair. “Of course. I’ll just wait in the Lilac room.” It was the one place he felt close to Peyton. “Alert me when his examination is complete.” He smirked at Tarron, his words addressing the doctor. “Be sure to leave detailed instructions regarding our patient. I have a feeling he is not one to follow orders that are not specific.”
“Fuck you, my lord,” came Tarron’s sulky reply—another encouraging sign.
“Peyton would expect nothing less.” Alistar took his leave, carrying the journal, and settled himself in front of a cold hearth.
The book in his hand singed his palm. He thumbed toward the back.
2 February 1878
Each day I am more thankful than the next for Vano, my dearest husband. Your insightfulness to my inattention to our precious daughter, Naomi. I know you do not understand and will never do so. Perhaps if you read this, someday you can explain things to her in a way that I cannot.
The weather is cold and icy. I feel it in my soul. The need to see Rube is becoming an obsession. What a fine young man he is becoming. Forrest would be proud. I cannot remain indoors in the event that he might wander by. ’Tis only then that am I able to hear the words the trees whisper. I may be considered touched in the head, but ’tis the only way to sort through things in a methodical manner. To date, this is what I’ve deciphered:
Prin puterea binecuvântata a Sfintei Sara la Kali
Power… Saint Sarah la Kali
I struggle with some of the words, as they remain unclear. Still, I press on.
Din aceasta zi încoace, ?i dincolo de vârste,
Pe luna celui de-al 7-lea fiu
Moon of the seventh son?
Bah. These words, they make no sense.
Elimina?i-va sufletul cu trei ?i treizeci
Your soul by three and thirty
Nebunia vei cadea, restul vie?ii tale lungi ?i naturale.
Madness ’ere you’ll fall, the rest of your long and natural life.
Oh, my darling Forrest, I fear the words are starting to make perfect sense. A terrible foreboding is overtaking my mind.
Asculta-ma pe tine, dupa cum juram,
Numai iubirea ?i sângele amestecate de mine ?i de tine
