Moira’s urgent pace drew her quickly past and out of sight.
What had brought her here? Was this where she had hidden the pages? Was she going to return them to Lord Brathwaite in the morning? If so, Barnaby must give her the opportunity to salvage what remained of her honor.
But what if she now planned to destroy them? He had no idea why she had taken them in the first place. Was she meeting someone else who wanted them? Should he confront her?
Barnaby took a breath. Think, man, think! Moira is a simple servant. Until a month ago, she lived more than fifty miles away, in service to Lord Brathwaite then as she is now. What would she know of smuggling or the value of ancient folios? Is it even likely that she can read?
Realization dawned, cold and icy between his shoulder blades, where his imagined wings stood to attention along with the rest of him.
Determined to see if he was right, he followed the path that Moira had taken between the final resting places of strangers, all the way to the cross-shaped headstone. Here Barnaby knelt as she had done, probing with his fingers for the secret he felt certain was there. A large stone—wide as both hands, nestled deep in the blue-hued night-shadow of the stone crucifix—shifted under his grasp.
Barnaby rolled it to one side. In the hollow beneath, folded small enough to fit, a collection of papery sheets rustled at his touch. He lifted them with a mixture of excitement and reverence. Dusting them off carefully, he unfolded each one, three in all. Even at night, the magical colors of Lyra’s drawings came to life. But Alwin’s faded writing needed more light.
Barnaby could not wait to get back to his room and light a candle to study the pages. The final pieces of the puzzle would slot into place. In the morning, he would find Moira and determine whether his suspicions regarding her motives were right. Lord Brathwaite, he hoped, would be more forgiving if he understood. If he allowed himself to understand.
Barnaby hastened back to Hill House. It was already past midnight. This was not an hour for civilized folk to be about. Moira must have felt the same because her robed shape remained so far ahead of him, her sights set straight ahead on home, that Barnaby did not even need to worry that she would see him.
The Queen’s Barque was quieter now, its drinking customers gone home, its overnight clientele tucked in bed. Barnaby paused once more outside the Tully cottage, longing to share his find with Joy. He would send her news of his discovery, first thing, but Sunday seemed no closer than it had been a few days before.
On he went. Left at the turnoff to Ipswich. Right up the winding drive. Round the house to the kitchen. A noiseless turn of the door handle.
The door did not budge.
Barnaby tried again, this time with more force and less care to be quiet.
The door remained obstinately in its frame.
Barnaby’s shoulders sagged at his own foolishness. Moira had returned and locked the door behind her. Of course she would. The only way to get back inside now would be to wake somebody up. He would have to pound loudly on a door. The household would be disturbed. He would have to explain his reasons for sneaking out. Lord Brathwaite would demand the pages be handed over at once.
These were all undesirable outcomes.
Should he head back to Fenwick and stay the night at the inn? Barnaby shuddered at the very idea. He would rather sleep on a garden bench than set foot in that noisy, moldy place. He was very tempted to beg shelter with the Tullys but thought better of it.
In the end, Barnaby found a warm, dry—if rather scratchy—bed on the straw of the stables. The folded pages tucked safely in his breast pocket, he allowed himself at last to ease into sleep.
As he sank into oblivion, his tired thoughts made way for dreams—of wings that wrapped themselves around him like the warm embrace of his beloved.
In his sleep, Barnaby smiled.
Chapter Eight
Friday, May 26th, 1815
The stable hand was very surprised to find his master’s hired scholar among the horses next morning, his hair indecorously stuck with straw, his clothing rumpled and stale.
“Rough night, Mr. Ash?” asked the lad.
“Took a walk to clear my head and got myself locked out,” mumbled Barnaby before fleeing with very little dignity intact.
He plucked the straw from his hair, using his fingers to comb the twisted strands into place. Having tugged at his cuffs to straighten his coat, Barnaby sauntered as casually as possible through the glass doors of the conservatory where he surprised a maid who was dusting.
“Er, lovely morning for a walk,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she answered briefly, barely interrupting her task to do so.
Back in his room, Barnaby made a swift change into fresh clothes, splashing his face with water. A shave would have to wait. He was eager to know the contents of the papers he had found.
He read them with growing amazement. He must go and see Joy in person. She was more important to the legend than they could ever have guessed.
