The Glass Casket (13 page)

He knelt beside her and stroked her hair.

“Shhh,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”

He pressed his lips to her cheek. It was still warm.

“Everything will be just fine,” he said.

He kissed her one last time, and then with fingers light as feathers, he closed her eyelids, and lay back in the snow waiting for it not to be true. Waiting to wake up from the dream.

W
HEN
R
OWAN AWOKE
the next morning, she could tell that something had changed. Somehow the world was different, and the thought of it caused a gnawing pain to grow in her stomach. She nearly doubled over with it as she climbed out of bed.

As she dressed, she noticed that her clothes felt unusually heavy, and when she stepped out of her room, she sensed she wasn’t alone. Turning, she saw a small figure sitting on the wooden bench at the end of the hall, down by Rowan’s mother’s old room—the room where her mother had died.

“Hello,” Rowan said, and the figure sat up straighter but
made no move to stand. Rowan walked down the hall, trying to make out the child’s face. When she came into view, Rowan was surprised by how hard the little thing seemed. Plain, with straight brown hair that curved to her chin like an obedient dog, the girl held her lips pursed tightly, and she stared at Rowan with a decidedly frigid air.

“I’m Rowan,” she said, but the girl didn’t smile. She just stared at Rowan, and after a moment, she raised an eyebrow. Just when Rowan was about to speak again, a man stepped out of her mother’s room and smiled at her.

Emily had been right to describe the duke as beautiful, but she had neglected to mention how extremely young he was. Twenty-five at most, he was a tall, imposing man with dark green eyes and lips like bloodstains. He had a brightness to him that was immediately attractive. His chiseled face was smooth save for an odd scar he wore just below his left eye—three straight lines, almost like claw marks, that led down to one of his two disarming dimples.

Bowing her head and bending at the knee, Rowan curtsied, trying to hide how distracted she was by his beauty.

“My lord,” she said.

“None of that, now,” he said. On his left hand he wore an array of beautiful rings, and as he reached out to her, they glinted in the morning light. “I detest formality. While I am in your house, I am your guest and your friend but not your lord. Understand?”

He looked at her closely, his smile lighting up his dazzling eyes, and for a moment, she thought she might lose
her footing. This man, she thought, was even more handsome than Jude, and much better behaved.

“Yes,” Rowan said, straining to find her voice. “I understand.”

“And this,” the duke said, indicating the girl beside him, “is my ward, Merrilee.”

A strange smile played on the girl’s lips as she stood and offered Rowan her hand. She wore a navy-blue dress that did not suit her, and black boots that appeared to cut in at the ankle.

“Nice to meet you,” she whistled, air passing through the large gap between her top two teeth. “I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends.”

“I’m sure we will,” Rowan said, decidedly disturbed by the girl.

“Rowan,” the duke said, placing his hand on her shoulder and looking at her with kind eyes. “I’m afraid something’s happened. Your father wants to speak with you. You’d best go find him.”

Anxiety flooded Rowan’s veins. She’d known something was wrong. She’d felt it upon waking. She only hoped her father was okay. “Thank you,” she said, excusing herself. “It was lovely to meet you.”

“We’ll have time to talk later, I’m sure.” He smiled.

The house was quiet when Rowan walked downstairs. The lights were off, and her father’s study door was slightly ajar, but she could smell the lingering ghost of his pipe smoke.

“Father?” she called.

“Come in,” he answered.

Slowly she pushed the door open the rest of the way. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of what she might see within. She had a brief vision of horrors, fires and blood, black smoke and silver-white teeth, but when she entered, there was nothing extraordinary about the scene. Her father sat at his desk, his hands fastened together beneath his chin, his brow tight with some indiscernible emotion.

He raised his eyebrows as if she’d awakened him from a particularly unpleasant dream. “I’ve just returned from Dr. Temper’s. It appears there has been another incident.”

Rowan felt her bones begin to chill, and a faint shiver ran along the nape of her neck. “What do you mean by ‘incident’? You don’t mean like what happened to the men on Beggar’s Drift, do you?”

“I’m afraid I do. There’s been another attack. Another death. Rowan, I’m going to tell you this because I don’t want you to hear it elsewhere. This attack was particularly gruesome. This time the victim’s heart … it was ripped from her chest. She appears to have died instantly.”

“She?” Rowan asked, her voice breaking.

“Yes. I’m afraid it was your cousin, Fiona Eira.”

Rowan felt the earth drop out from under her. Her forehead tingled with a shock that crawled over her skull and down her back. Suddenly she thought she might be sick. Gripping the chair, she stared at her father, trying to read his emotions, trying to understand where hers were coming from, and without speaking, she left the room. He didn’t call
out to her, didn’t stop her, and she pushed herself to make it to the stairs, leaning against the railing as she mounted them.

By the time she reached her room, the nausea had passed, but still she felt awful. Only once she reached the foot of the bed and was able to lean into it did she understand what was happening. Grief—terrible, throbbing grief. She grasped at her chest as if to stop the pain, trying to understand why the girl’s death paralyzed her so. She’d only met Fiona Eira once, but the loss tore into her, opened her up. Confused, weak, she climbed atop her covers, and curling up, she wept.

The funeral should have been the next day. It ought to have been. The village ought to have gathered in Fiona Eira’s home, and the elders ought to have performed the rites. She should have been covered in the funerary shroud, hiding the sight of human flesh so as not to offend the Goddess. Her body laid up on Cairn Hill at the Mouth of the Goddess, stones carefully arranged atop her resting spot. These were the things that ought to have been done. But sometimes things don’t go as planned.

Tom hadn’t spoken much since the night before. Nor had he eaten, and Jude, worried, brought a bowl of oatmeal up to him in bed.

“I sprinkled sugar on top,” Jude said as he set it before his brother, who didn’t meet his eyes, who barely moved. Jude laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“The rites,” Tom managed, his voice cracking with pain. “What time are the rites?”

Jude sat opposite him. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? They’re not being said tonight.”

Tom sat up, his eyes suddenly clear. “What? What do you mean they’re not saying them tonight? If twenty-three hours pass, she can’t be laid to rest.”

Jude shrugged. “Goi Flint is refusing to let them in.”

“But the rites must be said.”

“He’s pickled in ale and extremely violent. He says he’ll do what he pleases with her body, and that no one will stop him. No one’s been able to reason with him. He gave Goi Tate a nasty black eye, and when Mama Lune tried to speak with him, he took a swing at her too.”

“This is sacrilege we’re talking about.” Tom rose, his eyes dull as day-old bread. His brother put a hand to his chest to stay him.

“Listen to me, Tom. Goi Flint is a dangerous man. And he’s gone completely mad with drink. He’ll kill you. Someone should stop him. I agree, but it shouldn’t be my only brother.”

“Surely he can be reasoned with.”

“They say you don’t understand unless you’ve seen him. There’s a rabid animal behind his eyes. He’s practically murdered his wife.”

“What?” Tom asked, surprised. “Is she okay?”

“I think so. She’s inside with him now, apparently refusing to come out as well.”

“This is lunacy. Surely the village elders can talk sense into him.”

“They’re shocked. They say there’s nothing we can do—that we just have to hope he sobers up and listens to reason before twenty-three hours have come and gone.”

“He must be stopped. He can’t do such a thing. He can’t.” Tom moved to leave, but Jude held his brother at arm’s length, his black eyes dangerous in their insistence.

“Sit,” Jude said. “Eat your food. Rest some more, and this evening we will go and speak with him together. I cannot let you go alone.”

Tom stared at his brother, uncertain what to say or do. He was frustrated by his own impotence and overwhelmed by his brother’s loyalty. So he sat down and did as Jude asked.

“I’ll be back for you in two hours,” Jude said.

Rowan sat on the edge of her bed, her cold feet dangling as she stared out her casement window at the ceaseless snow. She had spent the afternoon in bed—had not even risen to eat, she who was usually so hungry, she who could never seem to get enough nourishment to sustain her small body. Her father had left her alone up there, and his guests had gone out. Only Emily had knocked, checking on her, a nervous quaver to her voice, but Rowan had been able to persuade her that she was ill and needed to be left alone.

She ran a finger over the battalion of goose bumps that
had risen along her arms. She ought to dress, ought to warm herself, but the cold felt good. She had no explanation for her reaction to her cousin’s death. She hadn’t known her aside from the conversation on the forest path. But now that she was gone, it felt as if someone very important had disappeared, and she had to keep her hands at her side lest they search blindly out in front of her for the warmth of a mother she knew she couldn’t remember.

Bringing her palms to her spent eyes, she leaned into them, willing the grief to stop, willing herself to act in a recognizable manner. With great effort, she would put on her dress and her stockings and her heavy black boots, and she would wade through the snow to the center of the village to Fiona’s cottage. She needed to pay her respects. She needed to see if she could be of service.