Autumn (29 page)

             
The haunting began as Arabel drifted into an uneasy slumber. She’d forgotten to take Mireille’s anti-nightmare herbs and so the ghosts readily found their way to her, unencumbered as they were by such trivialities as magical charms and keep-safe potions.

             
Arabel twisted in her bed sheets, her body writhing uncomfortably as she saw the ghosts surround her, their faces filled with unrelenting misery and their see-through hands reaching out to fill her with the cold, frigid energy of the dead. One ghostly spectre broke off from the others and swayed in front of Arabel. It was Alice-May Marpole.

             
Alice-May wore the new, black gown and she looked so very, very pretty. She continued to look pretty until she came closer and Arabel could see the bruised flesh of her ghostly neck and the bulging eyes of her last fearful repose.

             
“Release me,” Alice-May whispered brokenly. “Release me from this evil.”

             
“Tell me what to do!” Arabel cried. “Tell me how to help you, and I promise I shall! You have my word.”

             
“He who loved me now lies dead, drowned in St. Martin’s Bog.”

             
“Indra? Indra Northrup?”

             
The spectre shimmered, fading quickly, no answer forthcoming.

             
Arabel watched as Alice-May rejoined the other ghosts in their solidly entrenched desolation. She watched as they began floating upward into a mist of dark, dense, impenetrable particles. The spectres slowly disappeared completely and Arabel stared into the hole of blackness left behind, her thoughts heavy and her energy mirroring their weight.

             
Arabel sent a mental goodnight to Ira and saw that the bird was flying through the forest, she knew not where, but the bird had his secrets too, she realized. Arabel contemplated mentally contacting Eli but she was still too horrified by the actions of her grandmother to do so even whilst knowing Eli would never hold her accountable for any actions other than her own.

             
Arabel knew her grandmother’s reliance on rum and negativity was not her doing and that she was also not responsible for the ugly scene which had ensued this evening. Amelia Bodean had been bitter as long as Arabel had been alive, Arabel realized now, with a sudden clarity, but what she didn’t know, was why. What had soured her grandmother so thoroughly that she had turned away from her own daughter and now seemed determined to do the same with her only other living kin?

             
Arabel resolved to herself that she would find out more about her grandmother’s history and delve into the secrets she carried within the bitterness she harboured. A lone tear slid down Arabel’s cheek and she brushed it away impatiently. Sorrow would not help at this time, it would incapacitate her. Arabel felt like attributing the grief she felt to the grey energy’s hypnotic spell but she knew this particular darkness sprang from within the depths of her own heart. She was well aware that whilst the grey energy could potentially magnify the darkness, it could not create further negativity without an impetus from Arabel herself.

             
Arabel often welcomed the cleansing, emotional release of tears but tonight she felt she would receive no relief from the aching pain in her heart, no matter how many tears were shed. T
he well of sorrow seemed
endless.

             
Arabel wished suddenly for the company and the closeness of her parents; she longed to experience the joy of knowing acceptance and familial loyalty. She’d always felt like a duty to her grandmother, a chore, or a responsibility to be endured grimly until death came at last to call. She’d never felt valued, loved, understood. Arabel shut her eyes.

             
Enough of the pity party, Arabel thought to herself viciously. You’re alive, you can still change the pattern of what is; you have everything within yourself to do so. Just do not give your heart to the darkness.

             
But the darkness was hungry and it wanted to swallow Arabel whole and consume her for its own pleasure. The tears fell unchecked in the quiet of the black night and it was a long time before Arabel’s weary body and troubled mind slipped into uneasy slumber.

             
Arabel awakened shortly before the dawn. She had slept poorly and her weariness was reflected in the black shadows under her blue eyes but she knew that now she was cognizant, no further slumber would find her. She washed and dressed quickly then crept downstairs and into the kitchen. Cook nodded to Arabel in greeting and continued on with her morning baking, paying no heed as Arabel packed food items into her haversack and just as quietly left the house in the light of the breaking dawn.

             
The snow was melting. The temperature had warmed slightly and now pools of slush joined with the mud to create a messy path along the winding track Arabel followed. Her boots sloshed through the puddles unchecked and Arabel tried to clear her mind. She was headed toward the jailhouse to see if Jonty was still there and if she could have a moment with him before she met up later in the afternoon with Eli and Zander to dispose of the Dorojenja shield of darkness.

             
The hostile energy of the previous night attached itself to Arabel like a burr trapped under the saddle of an unfortunate mare. Like a weight she would drown underneath. Arabel loved Eli so she would disobey her grandmother entirely in this matter; she saw no other choice at this time. Arabel could not bury her feelings and pretend she was the same girl she’d been before love and desire had found her.

             
Arabel knew the innocence of her childhood was over; it had ended the day her parents had died, but she’d never fully understood until now just how irrevocably the shadows of the past could exert influence over the living.

             
Arabel trudged along, pleased to see Ira as he flew toward her with a loud croaking hello. He landed upon her shoulder and immediately nipped at her neck with his beak. Arabel smiled and ran her gloved fingers lightly across his black and blue feathers and the corvid’s companionship eased the burn of her heart, providing a small respite from the persistent ache.

             
To pass the time as she walked, Arabel tried to recall all that she knew of her grandmother’s past. Arabel had never known her grandfather, Markus Leon, as he’d died shortly before her mother’s birth. How he had passed, Arabel realized incredulously, she actually did not know - but she had heard that their marriage had already been a shattered union due to his unfaithfulness and deceit.

             
Arabel had never heard the full telling, and certainly not from Amelia Bodean herself. The gossip and shards of truth that had found their way to Arabel were mainly sourced from Shelaine, who had herself been privy to a version of the tale first-hand, as one of the Murphy maids had served for a time in the Johnston household during the time of her grandparents’ marriage.

             
Apparently Markus Leon had been unable to content himself solely with the companionship of Amelia Bodean and had stepped out about town with many other women. Amelia Bodean had been young when she married, barely more than a child, and her youthful heart and love-struck ideals had been broken forever by her husband’s casual cruelty. By all accounts, Amelia Bodean’s drinking had begun in earnest just after her daughter Violetta was born and Markus Leon had died. Amelia Bodean had nursed her babe and her bitterness along with her blurred edges.

             
But why Amelia Bodean had turned against her own daughter, her only child; that was the mystery Arabel most wanted to comprehend. She’d never known her grandmother at all until the fever had claimed her parents, and Arabel knew only that her mother and Amelia Bodean had been distanced by argument. Had it been due to her mother’s marriage to her father?

             
Arabel wondered who might be able to supply her with further details and she resolved to visit Shelaine at the very next available opportunity. Arabel needed to see if more information could be uncovered from the maid, who, as far as Arabel knew, still maintained her position at Murphy Estates.

             
The town buildings now came into view and Arabel made her way slowly, picking her way carefully through the gutted and rutted path to the jailhouse. Ira flew up and ahead and perched on a side roof of the building, basking himself in the pale, watery sunlight. Arabel stamped the clinging snow from her boots and entered the building to seek out Chief Constable Bartlin.

             
Arabel was taken directly to the Chief, and upon seeing her, the corners of his mouth turned up in an almost amused sort of manner. His green eyes pierced hers with their direct gaze and he answered her before she could ask.

             
“He’s gone. The Gypsies left with him about half an hour ago.”

             
“D’you know where they will take him?”

             
“Back to the Copse, I suppose. Did you think of anything else you might want to share with me?”

             
Arabel shook her head. “No sir, I have acquired no additional information.”

             
The Chief’s eyes bored in Arabel’s. She wondered if he could tell she was lying and surmised that he probably could. The Chief stood up from his seated position at the desk, towering over Arabel, an imposing figure.

             
“I am quite certain you believe you are doing the right thing, Miss Spade, but I can assure you that withholding information helps no one.”

             
“Sir-”

             
The Chief held up a hand, stopping Arabel’s rebuttal before it could begin.

             
“Do not think I am unable to find a way to make you talk, because I could.” The threat was easily delivered in a conversational tone but Arabel felt the lurking danger underneath.

             
“I’m sorry, Chief, but I have nothing further to share with you.”

             
Chief Constable Bartlin snorted and seated himself again.

             
“Come back when you’re ready to talk,” he said brusquely, dismissing her.

             
Arabel backed out of his office, the desire to flee overtaking her so that she wanted to run as far away and as furiously as she could. Arabel desired desperately to be away from the sidelong glances and suspicious questions. Between her grandmother’s scene the night before and the silky arrogance of the Chief today, Arabel felt that she was just about done for, and yet the long hours of the day
had barely
begun.

             
When Arabel stepped back onto the street, Ira was waiting for her. And so was Xavier Cross.

             
Xavier said nothing, but took Arabel’s arm gently and led her toward the Muilse Tearoom. No one paid any attention to them as they made their way down the street and even Ira was silent. Arabel could feel Xavier probing her mind, easing back her defences and shattering her illusion of conscious separation. Arabel didn’t bother to fight him; she knew he would wear her down anyhow, and she also knew Xavier hadn’t come to see her to harass, intimidate, or accuse her of anything. It was a welcome change of pace.

             
The little bells jingled cheerfully as Xavier held the door of the tearoom open for Arabel. She moved inside the doorway, greeted immediately by the tantalizing aromas of the freshly baked goods and the fragrant scent
s of the delicious herbal teas.
Xavier led Arabel to
a
small table off to the side of the other patrons and he eased back from her mind, smiling at her, his sky blue eyes both discerning and open.

             
“It’s not been an easy journey for you, has it, young Arabel?” he asked kindly.

             
Arabel felt Xavier’s ingrained courtesy would weaken any defences she held, never mind the fact that the man could enter her mind and memories completely without her permission anytime he chose.

             
“No,” she agreed, “it has been most intense.”

             
“I know of the shield, and of the involvement of the Dorojenja. I think it best if you leave the destruction of the talisman to us.”

             
“You mean stay out of the
Gypsy’s
business?” Arabel asked wryly.

             
Xavier gave a small laugh and Arabel was surprised at the shift in his features as he did so. The lingering sadness the Gypsy leader carried seemed to lessen momentarily and Arabel caught a glimpse of Xavier which reminded her of his younger brother Zander’s mannerisms and lightness of being.

             
Xavier quickly shuttered himself, however, behind the cloak of leadership he had been borne to wear, and while he did not shut Arabel out completely, he resumed his air of unobtrusive authority.