Only love and… mine and thee
Sa-?i elibereze sufletul înnegrit.
Free your… soul
Dear heaven. I must speak with Papa.
Sabina was not the only one who experienced a telling sense of dread. Smudges of obscured text spoke of honest, desolate tears. Alistar’s heart ached for her. For Forrest. For Sabina’s child. He wondered if Naomi was Forrest’s daughter, then brushed aside the sentiment. Forrest had been in love with Sabina. He would not wish others to label her a whore. Her position would have been tenuous at best.
He grabbed up the pencil and a scrap of paper he’d used the night before. Wrote out the words to see them together.
Power… Saint Sarah la Kali
Moon of the seventh son
Your soul by three and thirty
Madness ’ere you’ll fall, the rest of your long and natural life
Only love and… mine and thee
Free your… soul
Alistar studied the words for a long while, a picture taking shape. The next entry was dated a fortnight later.
16 February 1878
Papa told me the story. Lord Griston ordered his grandfather to hang. He had collapsed on Griston land beneath the old elm, clutching his chest. His heart, Papa believed. He could not remember. Papa was but a young child at the time.
More smudges. More tears?
’Tis incredible. Forrest and I… ed this nonsensical vexation.
He thought of the narrative he and Peyton had discovered in Lady Cecilia’s words: Winslow and his music, Forrest and his poetry, Alistar’s own need to paint. The message in his paintings.
“My lord?”
Alistar started and glanced up. Pelz stood at the door. “Yes?” His voice was a rusty croak. He coughed to clear it.
“The physician has completed his examination.”
“Will our patient live?”
“He is to be watched closely, my lord. Someone must remain with him vigilantly for the next forty-eight hours. Should he sleep, he is to be woken hourly. Mr. Coombs wishes to speak with you.”
“Coombs. Who is Coombs? That name does not sound familiar,” Alistar said.
“Tarron Coombs, my lord.”
“Oh.” Alistar rose, taking the journal with him, and stepped inside the Green bedchamber. The gloomy weather outside made the room darker. Alistar’s own brooding thoughts did not help. He should have placed Mr. Coombs in the Yellow bedchamber. Raindrops plopped against the windows. “You will make certain the doctor’s instructions are followed to the nth degree, Pelz. In the event that I am unable.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“You cannot make me stay here against my will,” Tarron told him.
Alistar would have found the man’s defiance entertaining had it not been for the book he still held. He thought he might have a way to ensure the man’s cooperation, however. “True. But”—he tapped the diary—“I need help.”
“Fine, but I’m hungry.”
