Winter's Shadow (19 page)

The screeching below the window heightened in pitch as some new feline drama unfurled. Winter squeezed the
pillow over her ears in an attempt to block out the piercing sound, but it made little difference. She exhaled in frustration and decided that she might as well get out of bed, as sleep didn’t look like it would be happening in the near future.

She sat down at her desk and turned on the computer. The screen flickered into life, bathing her bedroom in a dull blue glow. Winter checked her email and was amused to see one from Jasmine waiting at the top of her inbox. The message simply read, ‘TELL ME EVERYTHING!’

Winter quickly typed a reply, summarising the events of the afternoon and evening: Blake fixing Jessie, the excruciating dinner with Lucy, his acceptance of the concert ticket and the possibility that he might be joining them on Thursday night. After she sent the email to Jasmine, Winter began to idly surf the internet. On a whim she searched for ‘GRIMALDI EFFECT’, curious to read up on Blake’s explanation for the graveyard photograph. There were no results listed under that specific term. Puzzled, Winter tried typing variations of the spelling into the search engine and still couldn’t find any evidence supporting Blake’s claim.

This was weird. Maybe the spelling was nothing at all like it sounded? Winter tried to convince herself that this had to be the case, but couldn’t completely banish the small worm of doubt that had begun to gnaw away at her. Could Blake have made up the term?

Winter switched off the computer and decided to make another attempt at sleep. Despite the distracting
caterwauling, her eyes eventually closed and she fell into a deep slumber. She began to dream – not of cats, as she might have expected. Instead, Winter dreamed she was flying through a sky stained emerald green.

She wasn’t flying alone.

Someone held her hand tightly, pulling her through the air.

Someone . . .

In the eastern corner of Velasco’s attic, Blake crouched over one of the old chests containing his belongings. After another minute of fruitless searching, he slammed the lid down in frustration.
Where was it?
The lodestone should have been here with the rest of the artefacts he’d shipped from Morocco. Trying a different method, he closed his eyes, conjuring the image of the green crystal shard in his mind. Once he had a clear picture, he stretched out with his senses, attuning himself to the unique vibration of the lodestone.

Still with his eyes closed, Blake stood and moved to the opposite end of the attic where he’d piled some cardboard boxes of his clothes. Guided by instinct, he reached into one of the boxes and felt around the folded coats packed there, until his hand closed over something
jagged and hard. Opening his eyes, he saw the lodestone lying in his palm, the thin gold chain coiled beneath it like a snake.

Light glinted off the facets as Blake held the green crystal up to the attic’s naked bulb. He imagined draping it around Winter’s pale neck. He could already envision her surprised reaction, the way her cheeks would blush that adorable pink. Now it was just a matter of picking the right time to present it to her.

Learning of her parents’ death had deeply affected him tonight. During the drive home he’d brooded on the suffering she must have gone through, the sadness he saw deep within those lovely hazel eyes. Blake knew the cold loneliness of the orphan and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Especially Winter. He only wanted happiness for her. She deserved nothing less. He hoped the gift of the lodestone might offer her some small pleasure. She needn’t know his ulterior motive: that the lodestone was more than a piece of jewellery. Much more. He wanted to keep her as ignorant as possible about the darkness in the world, the darkness he knew all too well. The idea of frightening her, particularly if he was the source of that fear, made his heart ache.

In the garage this evening the hunger had nearly undone him. Gazing upon her, Blake had been gripped by such lust that for a moment he’d almost lost control. However, something had given him the strength to resist that unique golden light he saw shining in Winter’s eyes. Even without her sister’s abrupt arrival, Blake believed
he wouldn’t have given in to his urges. This show of restraint was as encouraging as it was surprising. What was it about this girl that overpowered his dangerous desires?

Still dwelling on this question, Blake placed the lodestone in his pocket and returned downstairs. The cats were waiting for him. It appeared they’d chosen a sacrifice – a small Russian Blue. Probably the runt of the litter. Blake picked up the smoke-coloured cat and stared sadly into its eyes. He saw resignation there. Acceptance. Reluctantly, he turned and carried the Russian Blue down the hallway. The poor cat’s fate lurked behind the last door on the left. Behind him trailed a funeral procession of its brothers and sisters. The cats stared at Blake in reproach, though they understood there was no other way.

It was feeding time.

Madeleine closed her eyes as another contraction racked her body. At the last moment she clenched her teeth, sealing in the scream that came hurtling from her throat. It would be unwise to draw too much attention to herself. Let the Romani outside believe she was just another paying customer, come to Madame Provost’s small covered wagon to have her fortune told. It was unlikely that Victor had enlisted them as his informers – he’d always expressed scorn for the Romani – yet Madeleine remained wary. Over the past year Victor’s reach had grown long; he had eyes everywhere. Even here, amid this band of wandering gypsies, word might have spread of the madman who was willing to pay gold for information concerning his lost wife.

When the wave of pain passed, Madeleine opened her eyes to see the wizened face of Madame Provost peering down at her in concern. The decorative bronze medallions ringing the old woman’s brow caught the lamplight, winking on and off.

‘Soon, it comes,’ she said, her grasp of Madeleine’s language poor at best. Her breath smelled strongly of the exotic herbs and spices that hung in tied bunches from the wagon’s roof. She pressed gently on Madeleine’s swollen belly. As Madeleine tensed in preparation for another contraction, she silently questioned again whether she’d made the right choice in coming here.

Madeleine had declined the offer of a kindly midwife in Bologna, concocting a story about a husband she would be meeting shortly in the next town – a husband who had already made arrangements with the midwife there. Her paranoia had become so acute that she didn’t dare risk telling the truth to this kindly stranger. Even a well-meaning midwife couldn’t be trusted not to gossip to her husband or sister or priest about the strange foreign lady of apparent wealth and breeding who arrived on her doorstep heavy with child, alone, with no sign of the father. Madeleine knew the risk of such idle chatter, knew how it had a way of finding unfriendly ears. No, she’d made the right choice in choosing the fortuneteller’s shadowy wagon.

While the Romani were generally regarded with suspicion, it was this precise quality that made them
Madeleine’s unlikely saviours. Others would be less inclined to believe them, should they report her visit. As social outcasts, they were far removed from the gossip circles she desperately sought to avoid.

Ironically, it had been gossip that had led Madeleine here – an overheard conversation in the tavern about the Romani caravan resting in the surrounding woods. It had taken only a few subtle enquiries before she’d learned Madame Provost’s name, though it had still been with enormous trepidation that she’d ventured here alone. Desperation had given her courage. At least with the gypsies she and her unborn child stood a chance of survival. It was more than she could expect if Victor caught her.

Even now, Madeleine found it difficult to accept how he’d enlisted this group of men, these maniacs he called the Bane, in his private vendetta against herself and Ariman. What propaganda had he used to convince them that their cause was just?

Her lower abdomen contracted again, and this time Madeleine was unable to stop an agonised groan from escaping her lips. Her hands clawed at the wet sheets Madame Provost had spread across the hard oak table, twisting them into ropes.

‘Push!’ the old woman urged, and Madeleine tried to obey, but the pain rose above everything, draining her strength. Her vision swam, the roof of the wagon rippled as though reflected in a pool of water, and red-tinged darkness crept in from the corners.

With Antoine it had been so much easier. He had emerged from her with barely a whimper, and the toll on her body had been minimal. It had been a quiet, gentle birth, much like the infant himself. Now it felt as though she was giving birth to a lion, ripping and tearing at her insides as though furious at being displaced from its home.

As another contraction tore through her abdomen, forcing her to cry out, Madeleine found herself making a desperate wish.
If only Ariman were here . . .

‘Push!’ Madame repeated, her voice ringing with authority. ‘Push!’

Madeleine tried to obey, but the effort was too great. She had no strength left in her body. Like wood being fed into a blazing furnace, her pain had greedily consumed it.

‘I can’t!’ she wept, tears of agony and frustration staining her cheeks.

‘You can,’ came a voice from the deeper shadows at the corner of her blurred vision. A voice from a dream. At the foot of the table she heard Madame Provost’s startled cry. The old woman took a stumbling step backwards as a warm hand encircled Madeleine’s, the touch unmistakeably real. Ariman smiled down at her, his free hand gently brushing the hair from her eyes.

‘You’ve returned,’ Madeleine gasped weakly. Madame Provost cursed in Romani, forking the sign of the evil eye at Ariman. One baleful glance silenced her.

‘Please continue,’ Ariman said graciously, though there was a note of warning in his voice. Muttering a prayer, the old woman gulped fearfully and returned to the foot of the table.

‘You must push,’ she said, her voice quivering slightly. Madeleine, looking up at her love, suddenly found the strength she needed. There was no more pain now; there was just Ariman’s eyes and the shining emerald light emanating from them. How she’d missed those eyes, and the way they looked at her with that mix of gentle affection and wonder – as if Madeleine was the magical one!