Descent Into Dust (18 page)

His eyes closed, and I saw his jaw tremble. “Oh, yes, my dear, dear Emma. You were the shining light to her, I promise you.” His lids raised and he looked at me with pity, causing the lump in my throat to rise again. “You were her child. Stephen’s child, whom she loved more than life itself. And she did recover, for a while. They were happy once again. They had you and a few years before the madness returned.” His face twitched and he gave a quick, final shake of his head. “But this is overwhelming for one sitting, you will agree.”

There was more here, I knew, but I’d lost my nerve. It was too much for Uncle Peter, and too much for me. This intimate view of my mother’s suffering, the unimaginable robbery of her reason, of her happy life, was surprisingly unbearable. It was not fair, I thought, and though it was a childish protest, it filled me, nearly crushing me with emotion.

“What do you remember of your father?” Uncle Peter prodded me gently.

“He was quiet. His eyes would light up when he’d look at Alyssa.”

“Ah. Yes, your sister was a great comfort to him. It was like he could make himself a different man with his new family.”

“He wanted to forget Laura,” I said, surprised at the bitterness in my tone.

Uncle Peter’s gaze was level and serious. “He never forgot Laura. And you, dear Emma, were her gift to him, and he treasured you.”

“He feared me,” I stated flatly. “He watched for the madness.”

Peter bowed his head, his shoulders slumping under the undeniable fact. “It would have destroyed him had you been afflicted as well.” He paused, then said slowly, “And now, may I ask you a question. I pray you will be as honest with me as I have been with you.”

I blinked, a bit taken aback. “Of course.”

“I do not know that you have been completely forthcoming with me as to why you wish to know of this now.”

“I have always wished to know more of my mother,” I answered truthfully.

“Yes,” he said, waiting for me to go on.

I gave my answer several moments’ consideration. “I feel something changing in me, Uncle Peter. I have been married and widowed, but I do not think I’ve ever really known myself. Now…I am learning things I never before suspected I was capable of, and I cannot help but wonder if any of it is connected to my mother, to what might have happened to her or to me as a child as a result of what she endured.”

I do not know why this upset him, but I saw his face twitch with tension. His fingers idly scratched the point of his chin. “A strange idea to have—that you were affected by Laura’s condition. You were just a child. What could it have had to do with you?”

Was he being coy? I evaded by answering a question with my own. “Do you think it could have? Affected me, that is?”

He lowered his gaze, ignoring my query. “May I ask you
about that dreadful affair in the barn? Is it upsetting to speak of it?”

“I…” What could I tell him? Not the truth, nor could I bear to lie to him. And yet there was something very guarded in his manner, as if he already knew what I would say. But how could he? My paranoia was getting the better of me. “It was a strange affair. I barely know what to make of it.” I shook my head in confusion. “So many things have been happening around me, and to me. I…I feel
different
, somehow. There are changes…I am struggling to understand all of it.”

He leaned in slightly. “And these changes…”

I saw he was thinking of the way my mother’s mind had betrayed her. “I am fine, I promise you. If there is one thing of which I am certain, it is that I am not insane.”

He looked at me so strangely that for a moment I thought perhaps he would not believe me. He had seen the horror of my mother’s raving firsthand. Like my father, would he not live in fear that I would develop the same affliction? But his eyes were true, dark pools of unfathomable emotion as he slowly nodded his head, murmuring, “I know, my darling. I know.”

“I am sorry to trouble you with these things,” I said, now noticing how haggard he looked. “I realize now how difficult it is for you.”

He waved off my apology. “It is I who should beg your pardon. I know you are anxious to have the entire tale, but your patience with me is very kind. Come here, child, and give me a kiss and I shall know you forgive an old man.”

Being a properly bred Englishwoman, I had always been slightly uncomfortable with this European custom, but there
was a part of me that secretly liked the ceremonial show of affection. I had gotten so little of it elsewhere.

As I leaned to offer first one cheek and then the other, I saw his eyes dart to my neck, unmistakably sharp with concern and undeniably focused on the spot under my ear where the pulse beat with the pressure of my blood. Like a firebrand struck to my heart, I knew exactly what it was he was looking for.

Chapter Sixteen

S
ebastian was feeling poorly again. His complexion was pasty and there were shadows encircling his eyes, which were heavy-lidded from exhaustion. I drew him away from the others when the men were making for the billiard room and the ladies to a sewing clutch, dragging him with me into the library.

When he saw my expression of concern, he held up a hand. “I will not have any wailing and gnashing of teeth, thank you very much, I have had my fill of it from Roger. Rest assured I am not stricken with this wasting thing he’s always going on about. I am drinking too much, I admit it, and staying up late as well.”

I arched my eyebrow at him. “I wished your help in something.”

“Oh, bother,” he said, deflated. He’d been spoiling for a fight and I’d disappointed him.

“What can you tell me about this house?”

“Well, ’tis drafty for one,” he replied, pulling the edges of his velvet frock coat more tightly around himself. “And the roof leaks.”

Really, he was in a foul mood. But I was dogged. “Do you know anything of its history? Mary mentioned it was built by a Catholic bishop who had the Latin inscriptions carved into the place. Do you know why?”

Sebastian found a comfortable position on a leather divan, with his feet, sporting a pair of gleaming boots, propped up and his arm cushioning the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes, then cracked the left one open to give me a droll look. “Why don’t we have a spiritualist in and we can have a séance, conjure up the old boy and you can ask him yourself. He’s around here, you know. I’ve seen him.”

“Sebastian, be serious. Could you at least tell me where all the inscriptions are located?”

“Now? I’ve just gotten comfortable.” His eye shut again.

“I think they are clues,” I mused aloud.

He scoffed. “Now you sound like my tutor when I was a boy here. The old fellow was convinced the house contained a secret treasure, and that was why the Latin was all around the place. He was going on and on about how Cromwell’s men, in their fervor to erase all traces of the Catholic faith, had seized this house from the bishop who built it. He reasoned the cleric had hidden away his fortune—for the clergy in those days were some of the wealthiest men in the land. It was all bunk, of course.
Oh, not the Cromwell thing, that was sure enough. But the treasure, that was just wishful thinking. Cromwell and his men took every gold chalice, every painting, every silver candlestick, and my ancestor, whoever he was, became the happy recipient of this fine country home. Rather like a vulture.”

“Is it not strange Cromwell did not seize the church?” Talk of treasure reminded me of the wealth of art under the roof of Saint Michael in the Fields, and I again wondered how or why the greedy legions of Roundheads had neglected to strip the small parish. “And if they are not clues to treasure—which I agree is preposterous—then what could the inscriptions mean? They must have been very important, for they are not so much decoration as…”

I flashed on a memory of the Germanic tradition of painting symbols on their houses to ward off evil. Yes, this reminded me of that—but different. These sayings were warnings. “Do you think it could be a sort of protection?” I asked. “Such as an amulet or talisman might be?”

“Against what?” He tilted his head up to peer at me. “You are not referring to ghosts? Are you afraid of ghosts, Emma?” He hooted, enjoying this. “Oh, my, what is it you’ve seen? The Gray Lady? The Wailing Child? Oh, Emma, this is delicious!”

“Oh, I do not know why I bother,” I said, irritated with him.

He fell back, laughing and hugging himself. “Now, as you have managed to trap me here and I am unwell, I beg you find me something entertaining and read to me.”

I dropped the subject of the Latin inscriptions, stung by his mockery. To amuse him, I chose Byron, of course. That scoundrel, with his rapier wit and flouting of all convention, would be exactly what Sebastian would love.

“‘Dear Doctor,’” I read, “‘I have read your play, which is a
good one in its way, purges the eyes, and moves the bowels, and drenches handkerchiefs like towels…’”

I paused. Sebastian’s head cocked to one side and his mouth twitched.

“‘…I like your moral and machinery; your plot, too, has such scope for scenery!…’”

He barked out loud and I had difficulty pronouncing the next over my own giggles. “‘…Your hero raves, your heroine cries, all stab, and everybody dies…’”

His laughter rose to gales so loud I could not go on. But then suddenly—and abruptly—Sebastian fell silent. I glanced at him sharply and saw he was looking past me at the door. Twisting around to follow the direction of his stare, I found a very serious-faced Mr. Fox.

It was as if a thundercloud had invaded the room. The happiness of a moment ago melted, for Fox’s angular face was closed, forbidding, devoid of humor.

Something was wrong.

Slowly, Sebastian shifted to a sitting position. “Why hello, Mr. Fox, have you come to join our poetry reading?”

Fox’s smile was tight. “I was searching for Mrs. Andrews,” he said.

“Ah. Well, there you are, she is here with me.” Sebastian came to his feet. “But I sense three is a crowd. Emma, dear, thank you so much for the lesson in literature. I am not converted yet, but that was good enough that I have decided you may keep trying in the future. Now, I really must be going. No, please do not press upon me to stay, Mr. Fox, I cannot spare the time at the moment.
Au revoir, mes amis.
” He disappeared through the library door.

In his absence, the air in the room grew viscous.

Fox said, “George Hess is dead.”

I came slowly to my feet. “Is it…?”

He nodded. “He was found this morning by his housekeeper. Indeed, our friend has become another apparent victim of the mysterious wasting disease, albeit an acute case. He was only taken ill yesterday, I have learned. And this morning, he was dead.” He waited a beat, his eyes boring into mine. “He was found bloodless. As the others.”

I struggled to drag air into my lungs. The loss of the man I had liked and admired was one thing, a sharp grief. But if he had fallen prey to Marius…

“Pernicious anemia, the doctors say,” Fox went on, seeming more rational now, his voice losing some of its leaden quality. “It is what they always say. The absence of blood cannot be given any other rational explanation.”

“And what of the marks? Was anything found on his neck?”

“Of course not. The same as the others.”

“I don’t understand,” I stated irritably. I knew I was succumbing to the irrational anger at losing someone dear. I was familiar with it, the tumult that arose from the unfairness of death. “Why did he target Mr. Hess? Why him?”

“Can you not guess? Think of his great imagination combined with his intellect and scholarly mind. A vampire absorbs the qualities of those upon whom he feeds. This is important, for one can learn much from whom a vampire chooses to feed from.”

“What about those who have died in the village from the wasting disease?”

“They were not drained at once, which lessens the impact on the feeding revenant. Nonetheless, we can assume they were carefully chosen. Marius would not have killed Hess unless his
intellect was an enhancement, for to feed indiscriminately on a dull mind would lessen him, at least temporarily. But more than this, I believe Hess had to have become some sort of threat. Marius has, up until now, been careful to keep his feeding far away from this family.”

“Poor Mr. Hess. He was just an old man.” My voice wavered. “A very kindly old man.”

Fox grew somber, and my sadness penetrated his cool exterior. His tone softened to comfort me. “He knew much about the lands hereabouts. He was researching the old legends, you know that yourself. Perhaps Marius feared he would uncover something.” He straightened. “A vampire will feed off prey for several bleedings, until the body is drained. Mr. Hess was taken in a day. This indicates Marius did not wish him on this earth any longer. He acted quickly—perhaps even rashly. He took the time to seal the punctures as he did with all the others and even this small spell to heal the wounds with his blood taxes him. It is an extraordinary measure, one I have not seen often—and I have been thinking a great deal about why he would take the trouble to hide the evidence of his bite.”

His unease was deep, and frightening.

“I keep coming back to one simple conclusion,” he continued, deep in thought. “He desperately does not want anyone to know of his presence. He has come here for something—something quite vital—and he does not wish to be interfered with.”

“What do you think it is he wants?” I whispered.

“I know one thing he does not want, and that is to alert anyone that a vampire is at work.”

“Surely, that cannot be a great concern. We live in a very
modern age. Who would believe it? I scarce trust my own perceptions.”

“Modern? Yes, desperately so. We grasp toward reason, but we have not yet wholly succeeded, Emma. Modernity is a thin veneer, and for all the inventions and intellectual developments, the old ways have not been banished. You would be surprised how quickly the old folklore catches fire again, especially here in the country, in a village as old as Avebury. I have seen it. When people are dying—loved ones—the barrier between rational and irrational dissolves. It is ironic, but what is seen as a kind of group madness is in fact quite effective. And such a thing would put Marius in danger, even as powerful as he is.”