Belmary House Book One (34 page)

“How do I look?” she asked, patting her cheeks.

He swallowed hard before answering. “Erm,” he said nervously. “
I
 think you look beautiful.”

She laughed at his honesty, and the emphasis on himself. Everyone else would think she looked a right mess, which she knew she was. But there was hope now, real hope, not the desperate kind she’d been clinging to in order to not step in front of train. As long as the house wasn’t destroyed, Ashford could get her back.

“I better get in there,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck,” he told her with a smile. “You’re brilliant, and the best person to restore this place. They’re lucky to have you.”

She covered her face with her hands, embarrassed by his heartfelt speech. “You’re so cheesy, Dexter.”

He stepped forward, and took her face in his hands. Before she could register what was happening, his lips touched hers, filling her with a calm sureness. She leaned against him, the first time she’d leaned on anyone in years, maybe ever, and absorbed all the gentle and true feelings he poured into the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said when he pulled away.

She blinked, almost forgetting where she was. “I’m not,” she told him.

***

She borrowed a lipstick from one of the researchers and after another round of fortifying deep breaths, confidently entered the old music room, which had been made over into an office. Henry popped out of his chair and dragged her forward to meet the buyer, who sat in a plush dove grey armchair, his bandy legs sprawled out on the tattered Persian rug.

He stood up and bowed showily and she tried not to gawk at his outfit. He wore running leggings with a reflective stripe under a muted hunting tartan kilt, with black lace up boots, the hint of striped gym socks sticking up over the edge. His top half was clad in a dark purple sequined waistcoat over a threadbare Clash tee shirt, all topped off with what looked like a bespoke wool suit jacket. She’d met some eccentric rich people in her years of fundraising for the various museums she’d worked for, but this man took the cake.

His slightly buggy eyes gleamed with excitement, and she didn’t care if he’d worn nothing but bright red long johns. If this odd man wanted to spend his millions on saving the house, he looked like nothing less than an angel to her.

“This is our head curator, Emma Saito,” Henry said nervously, giving her a pleading look.

Of course she knew she would take her job back, but she filed away his desperation, thinking to get a pay rise or extra vacation out of him when they were alone.

“Delighted to meet you,” the gangly man said in an old fashioned Oxfordshire accent, holding out his hand.

She awkwardly placed hers on his open palm and he raised it to his lips to kiss.

“My name is Solomon Wodge. I’ve heard nothing but good things about your credentials, and of course your love of this great mansion.”

“Yes,” she agreed as they all sat down, wanting to pinch herself to make sure it was all real. “I definitely think it should be restored to its former glory.”

Solomon Wodge nodded his head about twelve times before answering. “We’re quite the same, then. My only interest in life is to restore this lovely house to its former glory.”

Henry made some butt-kissing agreeing sounds and she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Everything was happening so fast, it seemed like a miracle.

“Well, the developers are on board for repairs— the roof’s a mess, and it’s downright dangerous to go above the second floor.” Henry rustled through some papers on his desk, already lost in the same nerdy joy she felt at getting to fix up something old.

For truly, while she was weak with relief to still have the chance to get home, she was glad the beautiful and historically rich house wouldn’t be paved over for a tacky shopping mecca. She exchanged a warm smile with Mr. Wodge, and he looked dotingly at Henry.

“Whatever it takes,” he said, reaching over to pat her arm. “Together, we can certainly make this house shine more brightly than it ever has before.”

Tilly followed Ashford along the gloomy streets, made even gloomier by nightfall threatening to swallow them in darkness. She shuddered to think what these lonely streets would be like lit only by the moon. Ashford’s mood was almost as bad as the weather and while he sometimes seemed to have a destination in mind, walking briskly with his head down for great lengths, after a while he would stop in his tracks and look around, like a hunting dog trying to catch a lost scent.

“The innkeepers are still here,” he said, walking halfway down an alley before returning to her side. “And we saw someone else earlier, where did that chap go?” He shook his head. “I’ve really no idea what to do, Matilda.”

“What happened to the person whose letter you were waiting for?”

“I don’t know. I confess I’m rather worried about her.”

“Oh? Is she an old friend?” Tilly asked, hoping she didn’t sound jealous.

She never gave a thought to Ashford having a past, but of course he must.

“An elderly friend would be a better way to put it. She’s known both Camilla and me since we were wee bairns.”

He stopped and pressed his lips together before taking her hand and leading her to a small square with several trees growing in it. He took her hand and held it to one of the trunks.

“Can you feel anything?” he asked. “It would be like a humming, but you feel it instead of hear it.”

She shrugged, not feeling anything but soggy tree bark. A gust of wind loosened the raindrops from the branches and Ashford smiled humorlessly as he led her out from under it, patting the damp from her cheeks with his coat sleeves.

“What is this place?” she asked. “Why should I feel anything from the trees?”

“This village was a meeting place, kind of a neutral zone, for my Scottish ancestors, the Povests, French covens, really any coven in Europe who had issues amongst themselves to sort out. Supposedly, everyone who’s been here has left something behind, a spell or amulet, blood, or even something stronger, like bones. So, over the centuries it’s become quite magical.”

Tilly shivered, wondering whose blood and whose bones? She couldn’t believe she found herself wishing they were back on the ship, well away from here. The unfriendly rolling sea seemed far more inviting than this village.

Hugging her arms to her body, she stiffened her spine, trying to come up with a suggestion of what to do next. She didn’t want to be out in the streets when full night came, but she didn’t want to go back to the hostile inn, either.

“So, you think one of Kostya’s relatives lured Camilla here because it’s easier to do spells?”

“Clever you,” Ashford said, his tension easing for a moment and his face showing a hint of pride in her deduction. “That’s exactly what I think. The energy here would make it far easier to maintain a difficult spell. And one would imagine something like what we discussed would be quite difficult.”

She was forcefully reminded of what they might be up against and her nerves faltered. Yes, bringing someone back from the dead, or making someone believe you had, definitely seemed to be advanced level magic.

A tinkle of breaking glass made Ashford grab her hand again, hurrying her toward the sound.

“Stay close,” he hissed.

He stopped at the mouth of an alley, and she saw someone scuttling away, clumsily knocking over a pile of crates as he ran. Ashford scowled and followed, motioning for her to stay put. Once alone, the full creepiness of the empty street hit her, and she took off after him. At the end of the alley, Ashford held a terrified teenager by the scruff of his neck. The poor boy put up a violent fight to get free, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks.

“Ashford, let him go, you’re scaring him half to death.” Tilly turned to the boy and held up her hands, using her best calming voice. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“He doesn’t understand you,” Ashford said, speaking sharply to him in French.

“Aye, I do understand her,” the kid said, decidedly not French. “Please don’t take me. There’s still the folks at the inn, and a man. There’s a man who’s hiding in the lane past the coal shed. I saw him just yesterday, so please don’t take me.”

“We’re not going to take you anywhere,” Ashford said, shaking him. “Calm yourself.”

The boy’s panic was contagious and all of Tilly’s instincts wanted her to bolt from the alley, but she knew if he didn’t calm down they’d never get answers.

“Are you English?” she asked gently, giving Ashford a dirty look. “We just arrived and don’t know what happened here, but we promise we aren’t going to hurt you or take you anywhere you don’t want to go.”

He stopped crying and looked at them suspiciously before answering. “I got kicked off a ship last week and been stranded in this Godforsaken hell since. They wouldn’t let me on the last one, I’m surprised they stopped here at all. Let you off, did they? God help you.”

Ashford turned to her and the look on his face sent a chill through her. His eyes were wide and blank like dull coins and he grimaced as if in pain.

“Where are you so afraid to be taken,” he barked. “Tell us now and you can be on your way.”

“Julian, he might know where everyone’s gone.”

The boy started to cry again. “I do know where everyone’s gone. Now the ship’s sailed, I’m—” He dropped his head to his scrawny chest, which rose and fell laboriously with his sobs.

“Where did they go?” Tilly was frozen to the spot, afraid to look left or right, certain something was watching her from behind.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the traumatized boy in front of her. She prayed he wouldn’t answer, but thought she might scream if he didn’t.

He shook his head, sending tears flying in every direction, and groaned. “No, no, I best not.”

Ashford dug in his pockets and brought out some money and a small silver knife.

“Settle down, and look at what I’m offering you. There’s another village not far south of here. Take this and walk until you find someone to sell you a horse. But you must tell me what you know.”

He rocked back and forth, and looked up at the sky. “It’s almost night,” he moaned.

“If you hurry, you can be far from here by that time. Stay to the road and you’ll be quite safe. I’ve traveled here many times, lad. Even if you don’t find a horse, you’ll be to the next town this time tomorrow.”

The boy mulled his options, finally holding out his hands. “The church,” he mumbled, not looking up.

Ashford dropped the coins and knife into his open palms. Tilly quickly unscrewed her small, freshwater pearl earbobs and put them in the pile, overcome with pity for him.

“Be careful,” she said to his back, as he turned and fled.

They slowly made their way back to the street and turned to look up the hill. From where they stood, they could see the church spire poking above the village center buildings. The last bit of daylight struggling to make itself known through the remaining storm clouds made a brooding and eerily beautiful backdrop. They hadn’t thought to look inside the church when they walked around earlier that day, and a troubled look settled on Ashford’s face.

“They must have hexed it somehow to keep us from thinking of it. Did you even give it a glance when we passed it this afternoon?”

She wanted to say she did, wanted to be able to describe what it looked like, but she only knew what she saw from this distance. She felt a little offended that someone was able to affect her thought processes, make her do or not do something. He sensed her distress and stroked her arm.

“I did warn you what sort of people they are,” he said. “Little spells like that are the least of our worries.”

Nothing about what he said comforted her, already dreading what the worst of their worries would end up being. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, but when she opened them, she was still standing in the middle of a deserted street, in a foreign land, hundreds of years from her proper time. She concentrated on Ashford, who looked at her with concern. He closed what little space was between them and wrapped his arms around her.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

His tender tone and sweet, old fashioned endearment restored her and she slid her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest for a moment.

“Let’s go to church,” she sighed, resigned.

***

The church was a sizable stone building with large, sturdy wooden front doors and some small, old stained glass interspersed with regular windows. They walked completely around it, and stood in front of the entrance. Ashford touched the stone, and then the doors, nodding to himself.

“Yes, there’s definitely something here.”

“Something?” Tilly asked.

She touched where Ashford had, but didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary.

“A hex,” he said calmly, but his eyes told another story. He led her a few steps toward the cemetery and they faced away from the church. “Can you describe it?” he asked. “What kind of wood are the doors, or how many windows?”

She tried describing the building they’d just walked completely around, but found she couldn’t picture anything except a very generic, blank space. It might have had dark wood doors, but then again, they might have been oak, or even painted. She wasn’t sure enough to take a guess.