The Rose Master (11 page)

No one, not even I, spoke of what had happened to me. There was a forced lightness to our supper, the conversation ringing with laughter that petered out as soon as it left our tight mouths. Dora kept eyeing me as if I were about to disintegrate before her very eyes, while Ms. Simple served me slice after slice of tasteless beef roast. My hands continued to shake with the shock, but I gripped my utensils tighter and did my best to pretend the last couple of hours hadn’t occurred.

As soon as I could manage it, I excused myself and left their company.

It was still too early to retire for the day, but I needed a bit of solitude to examine what had happened at the black fountain’s foot.

I went from room to room, my eyes checking for traces of dust or dirt as my thoughts churned through my head. I was sure of what I’d experienced. I could still feel the weight that had forced itself on my body, the imprint of hands burned into my scalp and neck. I rubbed the sore spots as I entered the dining room.

I caught sight of the mirror. Perhaps there were actual marks on my skin, evidence I could turn to when belief sagged. The room was dressed in shadows, since no one had bothered to light lamps or even candles. The curtains were not drawn, however, so thin hairs of moonlight dangled in the air. I felt them brush me with softness as I reached the strange mirror. I gazed in and gasped.

The moonlight had revealed what the sun had not, a layer of symbols swimming under the glass’s surface. The same type of writing I’d seen on the stone tiles in the main hall. But how was it possible? They were etched under the glass, or maybe into the thin skin of mirror itself. I lifted a hand, all thoughts of the marks on my body forgotten, and almost brushed the smooth surface.

“It appears we have not learnt our lesson today.”

Through the mirror, I could see Lord Grey’s figure half melted in shadow. I turned around and clasped my hands behind me.

“I’m sorry, sir.” I looked down at the floor, thankful the moon could not reveal my burning cheeks. There was a long moment of silence.

“Is the floor very interesting, Anne?”

I flinched. “No, sir.” I lifted my gaze, heavy and hot.

Lord Grey walked to the table, where his plate was lying, covered and waiting.

“If you don’t mind, Anne, I’m going to have dinner. Or is it lunch? I can’t remember when I last ate.” His voice was like the sea at night, the waves coming in and out of darkness. Some words were brushed by light, some cool with black.

“Of course, sir. I’ll go.” I curtsied before remembering how he’d taken my last clumsy attempt. He did not laugh this time.

“That’s not what I meant. If you don’t have pressing engagements, I’d like a few words with you.”

Hmm. Only a few days and I’d already earned a reprimand. “Of course, sir.”

“Will you please take a seat?” He motioned to the table. I blinked.

“Sir, do you mean, in a chair?”

“No, I mean in mid-air. In a chair, Anne.”

Lord Grey pulled back his seat at the head of the grotesque table and sat without a sound.

“Would you like me to light a candle or lamp, sir?”

“No, that’s quite all right.”

My hands shook as I grasped the chair I’d scrubbed that morning and every morning for the past three weeks, sitting down on the tip of the seat, allowing only the minimum of my body contact with the grand furniture.

“Would you like some wine?” he asked as he uncovered the decanter before him.

“No, sir, thank you.”

“I suppose it’s just as well. I don’t know where Dora keeps the bloody glasses.”

My head jerked up at the tone, but he was already sipping at the thick liquid. He began cutting his meat. His hands were steady now, no trace of the twitching I’d seen earlier, but they had cuts on them, puckered edges of skin drying with blood. I winced as he brought a piece of meat up to his lips, knowing the horror of Dora’s cooking, but he made no sign. He ate with an air of distraction, as if his mind were pacing far away while his body nourished itself.

After a few bites, he set his instruments down on the plate and lowered his hands to his lap.

“You must take care not to go about touching things in this house,” he said. “Certain things do not take kindly to being disturbed.” His forehead creased and his eyes shifted to look past me, toward the mirror.

“Yes, sir. I understand.” But I did not understand. Objects that complained of being touched?

“Not that mirror, though. You could have touched that without consequence. Or, at least, nothing more than a smudge, as I’m sure you know, being the expert in all that.”

He blinked and pulled his eyes back to me. “It is a strange glass, isn’t it?

“Yes, sir. Very beautiful.”

“Beautiful? I’d never thought of it that way.” He laughed, allowing the moonlight to brush his voice. A second later, the sound twisted as his voice hitched into a cough. He took a deep breath. “It is of my own design.”

That gave me pause. If he’d designed it, how could he not have thought it beautiful?

With a suddenness that surprised me, he rose from his chair and crossed the room, his thin frame all angles in the gloom. He stepped right before the mirror.

“Hmm. You’re right, Anne. It is quite pretty.” He passed a hand over its surface. “Look.”

What did he want now? I cursed myself for walking into the dining room in the first place. I inched close to Lord Grey, who still had his hand on the glass.

“Put your hand here.”

Oh, for the love of everything good and holy. I walked over and joined him in front of the mirror. My left hand hovered over its surface for an instant, until I finally pressed it into place with a sigh. As soon as my skin brushed the cold surface, a jolt slithered through my fingers, pushing my hand back, off the mirror. I gasped and yanked my hand as far away from the glass as I could get. What in God’s name?

“Sir, what—”

Lord Grey’s expression stopped my voice. His eyes narrowed as he stepped away from me. He looked at my palm, his face as cold as the stones beneath us.

“Interesting,” he said. He looked at the mirror once more, then walked out of the room without another word.

I glanced down at my palm. The symbols I’d touched were on the surface, their strange angles stitched into my skin.

Twelve

That night, when the scratches began again, I felt more anger than fear as I ripped the covers off and stood. Sleep dragged at me, making me feel heavy and thick. All I wanted was to get some rest. Whatever blasted animal was amusing itself by waking decent people at indecent hours had better hope it could run, because if I caught it . . .

But when I opened the door, the entire corridor was empty. A low laugh brushed by me—a wind of cold tagging me, then moving down the hallway. I covered my eyes with my hands and shook my head. What was going on? The paralyzing cold had returned, making me quiver with spasms of protesting muscles.

As I lowered my hands, a glow appeared, hovering on my right, where our corridor fused with the extra, empty hallway. I did not even stop to grab a shawl before I set my bare feet to trace after it. I ran.

The light, a candle from the look of it, moved forward, toward the main hall. I chased it, inhaling the dark smell of wax, but I could not see who was holding the flame. At last, it seemed to pause by the foot of the stairs.

I wished I hadn’t drawn the curtains, since the moonlight would have unveiled the person in front of me, but the shadows seemed to feed off the candle, crowding around it in hunger. With a sweep, the light rose up the stairs, one step at a time. Why I began to follow is a mystery, but I was powerless to do otherwise. The hand I’d placed on the mirror began to itch with a force I’d never experienced before, making me want to peel back my skin and scratch it from the inside.

I grasped the banister (it was too dark, and I was too tired to worry about my fingerprints) and placed a foot on the smooth surface of the stairs. The glow bobbed like a cork, seeming to grow brighter the more steps I climbed. My eyes felt huge, full of warm light, and all I wanted was to rest them, just for a second.

I must have closed them, because the stab of pain that shot up from my newly tattooed palm forced my eyes open. And just in time to see a shadow rush at me, striking me with its full force. It felt as if a sack of ice had been thrown against me. If I hadn’t been fully conscious and gripping the banister, I would have been thrown down those massive stairs. Probably killed.

As it was, it took all my strength to defy gravity. A shriek tore through the air, rushing past my ears and down the long corridor. My heart would not quiet down; I held my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

I began to hear sounds from the servant’s quarters. Doors opening, voices muffled by the walls. I could pick out Dora’s voice. My legs threatened to give out under me, but I ignored them as I sidestepped down the staircase.

Once I reached the steady floor, I launched into a sprint through the main hall, down the deserted corridor and into our space.

Dora and Ms. Simple turned at my steps. They were both blue with cold, their hands clasped inside their sleeves to keep them from shaking. Ms. Simple was standing before my door, which was ripped off its hinges, the wood looking limp and bruised. The housekeeper extended one hand and pointed inside.

On the floor, torn to countless shreds, was my Bible.

I must admit, the assault shook me. That Bible had been the only item I had from my father, my only tie to my real family, and now, it lay scattered throughout the room, some pieces looking as if they’d actually been chewed and spat out. Anger replaced fear and took a firm hold of me. I would find out who’d done something so unforgivable. The secrets had gone on long enough.

I never did get back to bed, not that I could have slept even if I had. Mr. Keery managed to put my door back in place, but it looked rather damaged. I considered switching rooms.

As I peeled piece after piece of the sacred words off my floor (some so translucent that the words seemed written on the wooden boards themselves), Ms. Simple stepped into my room.

She appeared to have gathered herself together, smoothing out her bewilderment.

“The master would like to see you,” she said from the doorway.

I stood. “Of course. Where is he waiting?”

“In his private chambers.”

“Should I go alone, Ms. Simple?” I had never been in such a position before, having to report to my male employer without at least having his manservant in the same room. My stomach knotted.

“He has asked that you come alone. He won’t harm you.” She smiled gently and looked me over. “But make yourself decent first, child.”

I realized I was still in my stiff nightdress, the cold now a permanent part of the fabric, and barefoot. Ms. Simple closed the door and I dressed with speed, not bothering to do much more to my hair than submit it to a rough brushing. If Lord Grey could not bother to care about my reputation, I would not bother to pin my hair up.

Of course, once I made it up the stairs, with no small effort on my body’s part (it bucked at putting itself in danger again), I realized I had no clue which were the master’s chambers. There were at least ten different doors near me, and I could see many corners that could each have revealed ten more, for all I knew.

I was about to knock on the first door, ready to try them all, when I heard that soft voice, flooded with light, coming from a room at the end of the passage.