The Rose Master (10 page)

Ms. Simple cleared her throat. “What type of scratching did you hear, Anne?”

“It sounded like an animal asking to be let in. Are there any dogs or cats in the manor?”

Dora shook her head. Her hair was so resplendent, it seemed to have the sun nestling in its folds.

“There are no pets in the house,” she said.

“It could have been rats,” I said.

“Could be.” Ms. Simple paused. “Just in case, Anne, make certain you bolt your door before you sleep.”

My mouth went dry, an aftertaste of burnt coffee on my tongue. “Ms. Simple, why should I lock the door? If it was a rat, it couldn’t possibly reach the doorknob, let alone turn it.”

I looked over at Mr. Keery, who had remained silent throughout the entire meal. His eyes were not on me, but I could see an intricate system of red threads tangling around his eyeballs.

“Mr. Keery, what do you think? Could it have been rats?” I asked.

He flicked his gaze over me. “I don’t know, miss. It’s possible.” His voice cracked.

I didn’t believe any of them. They knew something. What was happening at Rosewood Manor?

I noticed the cold wasn’t as sharp as the previous days as I scrubbed the main hall later that morning. For the first time, I found I was sweating in thick drops that dove to stain the floors I’d just cleaned.

The hall, when I got down to polishing it, was much larger than it appeared and much more intricate in its designs than I’d noticed. It was ornate in a veiled manner, the carvings and detailing unlike Caldwell House’s chilling bad taste. The stone floors themselves were a work of careful art, with tight symbols on the edges of each separate tile. When I’d seen them that first day, I had assumed the markings were just a vain frame on the stones, but as I scrubbed, the shapes became distinct. No two were the same in a single tile. I ran a finger over the shallow designs, and I could have sworn some of them shifted under my touch.

I was still kneeling on the floor when I heard footsteps behind me on the stairs. A gust of scented air followed the sound—the black smell of snuffed candles and the ever-present rose perfume. I felt a pause, both in myself and in the person behind me. I removed my hands from the stones with a tug (they did not want to part with the etchings), and brushed them against my dress as I stood to greet the person I was sure was Rosewood’s master.

I turned and lifted my eyes to the stairs. There was no one there. Just the smoky scent tumbling through the air.

I didn’t bring that encounter up with any of them during our midday meal. There seemed little point in sharing when they kept their own thoughts tight between the three of them. Although, I was beginning to doubt Mr. Keery’s involvement. Each time I saw him, he was reduced, like a photograph left in the sun, growing lighter and lighter until it sank into the white background. I feared one morning he would disappear before my eyes, leaving a half-empty plate abandoned on the table.

The cold returned in the afternoon, fighting with the sun for dominance over the floor and walls. My sweat dried in sections on my body, so that, at any one moment, chills ran up and down different patches of my skin.

I finished my scant duties with less care than was my usual, but I had to get out of the manor. One more second in that grey prison and I’d collapse in a heap, waiting for my blood to congeal.

The sun was a relief. I moved in the opposite direction I’d taken the day before and toward where I’d seen the figure, but I soon had to stop. The trees were woven with such tightness, I feared to attempt an entrance. Besides, there was no sun in that direction and gust after gust of pine breath pushed me back.

Fine. I walked back around to the stables and soon reached the large, black fountain. I didn’t want to be there. It seemed sinister amid all the whiteness. I tried to step back and yet realized I was moving forward, toward the curved rim. The afternoon’s silence hardened against me, choking off my crunching footsteps.

Hesitating, I placed a hand on the surface. It was cold enough to burn fingers off. How was it possible the water still flowed? It should have turned into a disk of ice long ago.

I peered over the edge, gripping the stone with two claw-like hands. My face floated amid the blackness, my eyes almonds of water staring straight at me. As I drew back, there was a ripple and the flash of a face. It was vague, but before my eyes blurred with water and salty fear, I saw two circles, deep and red, looking down at me from around my shoulder.

A cascade of bird screams soaked the air.

I didn’t have time to do anything but gasp. A hand, as burning as the stone fountain, clutched my neck and pushed me down into the black water. The liquid forced itself into my ears, pried open my lips in a scream that hovered, unheard. My hands pushed against the floor, but I could not budge. I clawed at the grip that held me, but it evaded me. There was nothing pushing me down, and yet, I could not rise. My vision rippled and fogged over, an edge of dark lace tightening around me.

Then I felt two very real hands suck me back up out of the water, into the loud air bristling with shrieking birds. There was an uncomfortable heat where the hands had been, and my hair was limp and soggy against my eyes. As I took a gasping breath, the air came into my lungs with the sting of alcohol. I collapsed to the ground, coughing, while a set of voices—one high and resonant like sun glinting off a key, the other low and throaty—spoke above me. I could not understand the words, and in any case, I would not have cared to hear what they were saying.

With one last low chuckle, the dark voice stopped, and with it, the angry bird calls.

I coughed until my sides knotted up, ignoring everything around me except the wheezing that ripped in and out of my chest. Footsteps padded on the snow, stepping close to my kneeling form. A breeze brushed me as the figure lowered itself down to a crouch. I took some deep breaths, slow and steady, trying to keep the coughing down, and when the spasms released me, I lifted my ashen face.

There, kneeling before me was the master of Rosewood Manor.

ELEVEN

“It was foolish of you to touch the fountain.” His voice was a shadow of what I’d just heard, its light muted. I tried to focus on him to stop the horror I’d felt in the last few moments from overwhelming me. As I began to shiver uncontrollably, my panicked eyes landed on the ones in front of me.

He was not what I’d expected, although, I wasn’t even sure what I had thought he’d look like. Not so thin, for one thing. He looked like a collection of bones that had agreed to join in locomotion. His cheekbones seemed to rub against his skin. A shiny wave of brown hair wrapped around his head, the lanky locks beaded in dew drops of sweat despite the cold.

And then his eyes—I’d never seen anything like them. A speckled marble of golds and greens, a mantle of shifting colors. His face looked like something out of a painting, crafted with skill and strange, cold beauty. There was an intelligence to it that belied his youth. He could almost have looked kind, but his eyes gave him away. Too sharp.

“Make sure you do not come this way again.” He threw me another look and shifted his meager weight to stand.

“Sir, thank you. I don’t know what happened, but I’d surely be dead if it weren’t for your presence.” Speaking was an effort, every consonant threatening to send me coughing.

“Yes, you would be dead. Let that be a lesson.”

I stood, my hands almost grasping the fountain once again, but a look from Lord Grey and I flung them back. He made no attempt to help me stand.

“But sir, what happened? Who—”

He didn’t allow me to finish. “You are the new maid,” he said.

I took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Anne Tinning, from Caldwell House.”

I could see his hands, emaciated and bruised, trembling against his sides. In an instant, one of them flew up to his face to cover a cough—a racking, dry sound that hurt me just from listening to it. He shouldn’t have been outside in the cold. Not that the manor’s interior was much better.

“Sir, are you quite all right?”

“Of course I am.” His voice was no louder than a murmur, yet lined with knife blades. His whole body seemed to sway, and I feared he would crumple to the snow before me.

“Anne, is it?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Now, go inside.” He moved his head in the manor’s direction. “I’m sure there are things to be dusted or scrubbed or whatever it is you maids do.”

I tried not to rear back at his words. “Yes, sir.” I curtsied.

His eyes widened, and he began to gasp in quiet laughter. I could do nothing but stand there until he finished.

“Very amusing. Now, go inside.”

Wrapping my cloak around my still shivering body, I passed by Lord Grey. I could feel his eyes inhaling my every move, and I shivered.

“Tell Ms. Simple to give you something strong. Otherwise, I’ll have one less maid, and as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I can ill afford it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave a dry chuckle.

I did not turn around, but kept my feet on the path to the front door. I could hear no steps behind me. I looked, just once, before I opened the door, but did not see Lord Grey.

Ms. Simple was crossing the main hall as I entered, and her eyes stretched as she took in my seaweed hair, my paleness, my shaking.

“Whatever happened to you, Anne?” she asked.

What could I say? No one would tell me the truth, anyway. When I spoke, my voice was quivering more than I’d have preferred. “I had an accident. Lord Grey assisted me.”

Ms. Simple’s lips tightened. “Yes, well, come on, child. Let’s get something to warm you up.”