The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (20 page)

“No, I wasn’t. You were sad and you stared at me and I asked you what was wrong, but you wouldn’t answer. Then you left. What was wrong, Prudence?”

She looked up at him. “Nothing. I was just having some fun.”

Carmilla, now Prudence, turned her gaze to Thomas and gave him a huge smile before running to him, wrapping her arms around his legs, and nestling her face into his breeches. She inhaled the masculine scent of him. “I love you so much, Uncle Thomas!”

***

Johanna Manning put the finishing touches on her charcoal sketch of the hanging witch. Later today, she would begin the actual painting. “Good riddance. I always knew there was something wrong with you,” she muttered as she studied the lines of the drawing, envisioning the colors and textures the oils would create. An unnaturally cold chill enveloped her. She turned and looked up at Ravencrest. Little Prudence, in her sparkling red Christmas dress, stood at a window, gazing down at her from the third floor.

Johanna waved.

Prudence did not wave back.

Ravencrest Manor: Present Day

The lines were flawless, the texture smooth and professional. Grant Phister traced his finger along the painting. His eyes traveled to the artist’s signature in the bottom corner. It read
Johanna Manning, 1788.
 

Amazing,
he thought.
Beautiful.
But for all its beauty, it was grim and depressing. He didn’t blame Belinda a bit for not wanting it in her office. Undoubtedly, Cordelia Heller had hung it there.

Grant placed the painting in its new location in Cordelia’s parlor.
My, won’t she be surprised
. Smiling to himself, he straightened it and stepped back to inspect it. If anyone would enjoy such a grim painting, it would be Cordelia. He chuckled under his breath.

Thinking again of Belinda, Grant checked his watch. Ravencrest was a large place, to be sure, but he hadn’t seen Miss Moorland since this morning. That troubled him. Hopefully, she hadn’t wandered off into any of the manor’s more labyrinthine corridors and gotten lost.
 

Suddenly, inexplicably, the butler had a powerful feeling that something was wrong.
 

The click of heels broke his train of thought.

“Mr. Phister.” Cordelia Heller’s voice was a shard of ice. “What, might I ask, do you think you’re doing in my parlor?”

Grant gave the woman unblinking eye contact. “Belinda doesn’t care for this painting. Mr. Manning asked me to remove it and I thought you would enjoy it.”

She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I see.”

“Speaking of our new governess,” Grant added, “have you seen her? I just now realized-”

Heller scoffed. “I’m not her keeper, Mr. Phister. It’s no concern of mine where she might be.” She turned and stalked out of the black and white room, her heels echoing behind her.

Grant sensed the woman knew more than she was telling; he just didn’t know what. He decided he’d better go look for Belinda himself. Something told him he’d be wise to start in the east wing.
 

BOOK 5: NIGHT MOVES

Trapped

No one is coming!
Belinda pounded on the door with bruised hands.
They can’t even hear me!
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been locked in the east wing; it might have been hours. It felt like days. All she knew was that there was no interior slot for the key.

Someone had removed the chair from the doorway, trapping her.
Why?
Who? Mrs. Heller? One of the kids? Was it just an accident?
She doubted it.

She had pushed the old switch by the door over and over, but it wouldn’t cooperate; the lights stayed dead, making the darkness complete and confining. It had occurred to her that she might find a room with a window so she could call for help, but she was afraid of running into the nuns again if she went looking.
 

What if they follow me here?
Her skin prickled into gooseflesh.
 

But they hadn’t entered the cabbage-rose corridor yet and, so far, she’d heard nothing to indicate they were nearby. But in the darkness, it was impossible to be sure.

She leaned into the entry door, resting her face against the cool carved wood. “Please,” she whispered. “Someone let me out.”

No one came. Hot tears escaped as she sank to the floor.

Belinda …

She turned her head, looked up, saw nothing. Then soft cool fingers caressed her cheek.
 

Belinda …
 

She saw the little girl in the sparkling red dress peering at her as clearly as if the lights were on, but everything else was in darkness. She felt the fingers again and wasn’t afraid. “Who are you?” Belinda whispered.

Just then, there was a noise from deep inside the corridor and the little girl’s eyes widened in alarm.

Hide! They’re coming. Hide!

Belinda felt a small hand on hers, tugging. She could see the tiny fingers pressing her own. Instantly, she rose. The child pulled her down the hall, into the depths of darkness.

“No,” whispered Belinda. “Wait.”

They’re coming! Follow me now!
The girl turned again. Belinda followed.

They headed down the corridor. To the left, one of the doors swung open and the child entered.
Come!

The room was black as pitch.
Over here.

“Where are you?”

Shh!

Belinda followed the sound and as the door clicked closed behind her, she bumped into something large and cold. She put her hand out and felt a smooth surface.
A desk.

Down here.
 

Belinda felt her way around the desk and climbed under it. There was no sign of the child. The only noise she heard now was her own labored breathing.
 

Then the door creaked open. The air turned so frigid that Belinda feared the vapor of her own breath would give her away.
 

Despite the darkness, Belinda could see the hems of the nuns’ black habits. They moved together as if connected by invisible bonds.
 

Belinda stifled a scream when she made out the thick trail of blood left by the central nun. Its coppery smell wafted around her. Her stomach churned.
 

As the three sisters moved through the room, Belinda barely breathed.

Please go away, please go away.

The nuns drifted from one end of the room to the other, searching and whispering, “
Eat, eat, eat…”

In her mind’s eye, Belinda could see the nun pushing the over-ripe fruit toward her. She trembled, her skin aching from the cold. Despite the chill, a drop of sweat ran down her back.

The nuns’ synchronized words filled the darkness like the sounds of night insects. “
Eat, eat, eat…”
 

She imagined mandibles where their faces should be. Suppressing a shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut as they neared the desk again.

They stopped moving. The whispers went silent.

Afraid to open her eyes, Belinda tensed. She held her breath.

After a few seconds, she heard the whispery movement of their habits again. The sisters glided toward the door. After several long moments, she heard it creak open.
“Eat, eat, eat…”
The voices trailed away as the door shut behind them.

Darkness and silence took the room. Then, from somewhere nearby, she heard the little girl’s voice.

Find Uncle Thomas…
 

* * *

Grant Phister hurried to the third floor landing and across the shadowed hall to the closed door. He didn’t know why he was so sure Belinda was in the east wing, but somehow, he was certain of it. Belinda didn’t seem the type to go wandering, but then he knew Cordelia had a penchant for sending employees on fool’s errands into the east wing; she found it amusing. The east wing hadn’t been used by the family for anything but storage since Edward Manning had died and his son, Parnell, moved his own young family into the just-refinished west wing, where the Mannings kept residence to this day. Indeed, the east wing hadn’t been used since around the time of the Civil War.

The English manor had been rebuilt here, on the central California coast, in the 1800s. The east wing was a warren; not that the west wing wasn’t, but the latter was well lit and used logically: everything had a place and was in it. Unused rooms were kept locked, as were unnecessary doors that opened into other rooms. Even a number of minor corridors were locked off.
 

But the east wing was another matter. Almost nothing was locked, hallways intersected at odd places and rooms opened into other rooms without the need of exterior connections. It was a maze worthy of Winchester House and more than a few people, including family, had gone missing for hours behind the heavy carved door.

He tried it and found it locked, which meant Belinda wasn’t inside; it could only be locked from the outside …
Unless someone locked her in.
Extracting the oversized key from his chain, he unlocked the door.
 

It creaked open and he peered into the thick darkness. He heard nothing. “Belinda?’
 

No answer.
 

“Belinda?” He stepped in and pushed the switch. Dusty sconces bloomed with dim dirty light. After disengaging a hidden interior lock, he pulled the door shut behind him; if Cordelia came along and saw it open, she just might lock it for the pure joy of it.
No sense leaving her any clues.
 

He saw the cabbage-rose wallpaper and wondered who had chosen it; Edward Manning had remarried after losing his first wife, Alice, in a tragic accident. It was likely his new wife, Rebecca Dane, had chosen it. If it hadn’t been so old and faded it might have been beautiful.
 

“Belinda?” he called. “Where are you?”
 

He moved to the first door and opened it. “Belinda?” He took his penlight from his pocket and peered inside; only the halls had been wired for electricity. He saw shrouded furniture and shadows, little else. Shutting the door, he moved on.

The next two rooms yielded nothing and Grant was starting to wonder about his hunch when he came to the fourth door. He put his hand on the latch. It was frigid, ice-cold, and he drew back in surprise. “Bloody hell,” he muttered as he made himself reach out to depress the latch.

Swallowing hard, he pushed the door open. “Belinda!” he shouted as icy air slithered around him, enveloping him like cold slime. He thought he caught a glimpse of something black and white.
 

“Get the hell out of here!” he cried.

It was gone in an instant, if it had ever been there at all.

Around him, more shrouded furniture: before him a heavy mahogany desk sat uncovered, its sheet swept to the floor. It gleamed under his small, bright light.

“Belinda?”

He heard something and moved to look under the desk. “Belinda?”

He bent and pointed his light. Belinda, eyes wide with terror, stared back at him. Tears had left tracks in the dust on her face.
 

Darjeeling with Honey

“Darjeeling with honey,” Grant said, pressing a white china cup into Belinda’s hands. “It will make you feel better. Drink up.”

Belinda nodded and wrapped her hands around the steaming cup, trying to warm up. He had guided her to the stairs and down to the kitchen, then surprised her by taking her out of Ravencrest and across to the old carriage house, where he and Riley kept quarters. The carriage house had been converted into a snug two-story cottage, complete with massive gardens, and even in her disheveled state of body and mind, Belinda had admired the greenery and flowers as much as she did the neat little kitchen where she sat now. The floor was terracotta tile, the cabinets and shelves sparkling white. Blue dishes and cups were visible, stacked behind glass door fronts; above one counter, narrow shelves displayed row after row of labeled glass bottles filled with various teas and spices.
 

Grant saw her looking. “I grow herbal teas and remedies and cooking herbs, of course, though I like to use those fresh as much as possible. He poured his own cup then sat down at the small table beside her. ““How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been down the rabbit hole.” Belinda sipped the hot tea. “And mad as a hatter.” She picked up a damp washcloth and blotted her face again, rubbing around her eyes, wiping away tears.
You’re safe, you’re rescued, don’t start blubbering now
! She put the cloth down, trying to control the shaking of her hands. “The lights went out. They stopped working for me, but they worked for you.” She shivered.
 

“Do you have any idea how you got locked in?” Grant studied her over the rim of his cup.

“None,” she said. “When I went in, I dragged an old chair over and placed it in the doorway so that it wouldn’t close.
 

“There was no chair, inside or out,” Grant told her.
 

“I saw that.” She paused. “Somebody must have moved it.”

“It seems so. Any idea who?”

“None. I’m sure it wasn’t Thad and really, I doubt that Cynthia would do it.”

“They’ve been with their father all afternoon. I think we can assume they’re innocent. Thad came home looking for you; he has a picture he wants you to see. He’s the reason I realized you were missing in the first place. Belinda… Do you have any other ideas about who may have done this to you?”

He’s waiting for me to name someone.
“It’s ridiculous,” she said.

“Believe me, nothing is ridiculous. Do you have a suspect?”

“It was probably just a maid, you know, putting things back in place.”

“I would expect a maid would know to put that old chair back in the corridor.”

“Mrs. Heller,” she blurted.
 

He nodded and she knew that was the name he was waiting for. “Mrs. Heller,” he repeated.

“But it makes no sense. Why would she-”

“I don’t put anything past her. And she sent you in there to begin with, isn’t that right?”