The Glass Casket (28 page)

When Jude was alone with his father, the older man looked at him with pained eyes. “You mustn’t mind her.”

“I don’t,” he said, not wanting to discuss his mother. “But, Father, I wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“Henry Rose’s wife, what was her name?”

His father thought for a moment. “Brigid. A lovely woman. Tall and beautiful, with a kind face she was. A sad thing, her death.”

“Did you know her?” Jude asked, taking a seat opposite him.

“No. Not more than to say hello. They weren’t here long before she died.”

“Do you know where she came from—what province?”

“I don’t.” His father looked at him with curious eyes. “Why all the questions?”

“Mama Tetri, the Bluewitch staying with Mama Lune, have you ever seen her in Nag’s End before?”

His father nodded. “I have. Water witches tend to roam. I’m sure she’s been through here a couple of times at least.”

“Do you remember when?” His father shook his head, so Jude went on. “Do you think it’s possible that she might have come through when Rowan’s mother was pregnant?”

Wilhelm seemed to think for a moment, then squinted. “Aye. I think so. Yes. Well, Brigid wasn’t pregnant anymore; she’d already gone to the Goddess during childbirth. Your
mother and I missed the rites because Tom was quite ill.” He held a hand to his heart. “I still remember that like it was yesterday. Here he was just walking, just starting to get his sea legs, when all of a sudden he can’t lift himself up. Couldn’t even crawl or move his head. Came on like a summer storm it did. We had to call Mama Lune. She said he’d caught an ill wind, and she fixed him up. We thought he was going to die, but she had him right in a few days’ time. But yes,” he said, confusion lining his face. “I remember the Bluewitch was with her. She played with you while the rest of us tended to Tom. Goddess, am I glad you boys are grown, and those days are gone—those days when you were small enough to die from a hint of wind.”

Jude’s father stopped, his face suddenly overtaken by sadness, and Jude knew that his father was thinking of how Tom was once again in danger. Both of them knew it, whether they wanted to admit it to themselves or not. And then something occurred to Jude.

“Father,” he said, trying to piece it together. “You say that Tom was walking when Rowan’s mother died in childbirth?”

“He was.”

“So he must have been around a year?”

“Just about.”

“But Rowan is three months older than Tom,” he said, and the words seemed to stretch out in the air, distancing the space between father and son, and then the man winced and looked away.

“I … I must be remembering things wrong. My mind, you know, it isn’t what it once was,” he said, moving to stand. Jude reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

“Father, please. I need to know.”

“It was so long ago,” he said, looking away. “I’ve probably said too much already. Just let it go.”

“Please. It might help me help Tom.”

Wilhelm bowed his head and sighed, defeated. “There was another child after Rowan. A stillbirth. Went when the mother went.”

Jude sat stunned. “But why lie about something like that?”

His father’s eyes widened. “I don’t know. I just did what I was asked.”

“Asked of you by whom?”

“Henry Rose, of course.”

Jude frowned, trying to understand what it could mean. “But what purpose could such a lie serve?”

“I don’t know, Jude. Your mother was the one to speak with him,” his father said, sadness in his eyes. “I’m just telling you what she told me. I’m an honest man. You know that. But a grieving father—a widower at that—shows up with a request, you do as he asks. So what if he doesn’t want his little Rowan to know she had a dead brother or sister? So what?”

“You didn’t think it odd?”

“I don’t know that I thought much about it,” he said, his voice straining. “That’s women’s business, for the most.” He paused and looked down at his hands. “He also made a donation to the tavern.”

“A donation?”

“Out of gratitude for our silence.”

Jude leaned back in his chair and shook his head. He wasn’t sure what Henry Rose was up to, but he was sure now that he didn’t trust the man. He was about to question his father more, but the tavern doors burst open, and Goi Tate bounded in. His face was mottled, his eyes wide.

“It’s Seamus,” Goi Tate said, his voice shaking. “Something … something’s got to him.”

Jude had been shocked by the gruesomeness of the previous deaths, but they were nothing compared to what had been done to Goi Flint. While the creature had drained most of the blood from the two women, it had not seen to treat Goi Flint with such kindness. Beside him, Jude could hear his father gasp, feel his mother swoon. To say that the scene in the gaol was carnage would be to miss its true horror, because carnage brings to mind images of a quick death such as a fall from a great height or a swift blow to the back of the head. What had happened to Goi Flint had been slow and exact, and it was inaccurate to say that there was much bloodshed because it seemed that there had been nothing but bloodshed.

The duke, who had been called as soon as the remains were found, shook with disbelieving horror as he stared at the scene.

“It looks like he’s been turned inside out,” Tak was able to say before he vomited onto the toes of his boots.

Dr. Temper looked pained. “I daresay he was skinned alive.”

“Oh Goddess,” Jude said, stepping away and out into the cold, trying to fill his lungs with fresh mountain air.

“Doctor,” the duke said, turning to the older man. “What … what happened here?”

“Like I said, I think he
might
have been skinned,” Dr. Temper said, unable to take his eyes from the scene. “Before he was … taken apart.”

The men made their way out of the cell and processed outside into the snow. The duke stared off into the forest as if searching for an answer. “I don’t understand it,” he nearly whispered.

“My lord,” said Dr. Temper. “Under the circumstances … given the state of the body … I want to formally request that we be allowed to burn the remains. We cannot offer him to the Goddess in such a state, and given the nature of—”

But the duke cut him off with a raised glove. “Please, Doctor, I am in no mood to argue, and neither, I suspect, is your village. Do what you will with the body. I shall sequester myself from the vapors.”

The villagers thought it best to burn the body immediately. There was nothing else to do, and they had taken enough chances with their dead in recent times so as soon as men could be roused and supplies gathered, a bonfire was started in the middle of the square, and the body was brought piecemeal over by wheelbarrow.

The day was already strong when Tom awoke. He propped himself up on his elbows. Fiona was gone. The blood was gone. Had he dreamed it? Rubbing his eyes, he pulled himself up to stand and quickly made his way out of the hollow.

When he saw her, his heart stopped for a moment. She stood in the snow, her eyes closed, dark spidery lashes kissing her cheeks, as she held her tongue out to catch the falling flakes.

“Hello, Tom,” she said, her eyes still shut.

He walked toward her. “What are you doing?”

“Enjoying the beauty of it all,” she said, and then slowly she opened her eyes, and when she focused them on him, it felt like coming home after a long journey. She ran to him and kissed him, but immediately she seemed to sense his hesitation.

“What is it?” she asked, looking him over as if trying to understand a riddle. “You look upset.”

“Something is wrong with me,” he said, his voice shaking.

She considered him a moment, and then dancing away from him, she kicked her pointed toes through the snow. “But, Tom,” she crooned. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re perfection.”

He held his hands to his face, fighting back the tears. “I think I’ve gone mad. I think … I think I killed someone.”

She laughed, a strange, cutting sound. “You couldn’t kill a rabbit.”

“I had blood on my hands yesterday. I’m sure of it.”

She shook her head. “That was the blood of a deer. Don’t you remember? You were trying to save it. Trust me, Tom. You’d not hurt a person if your life depended on it.”

“A deer?” he said, longing to believe her. “I was trying to save a deer?”

Images flashed through his head, Fiona’s eyes—no, a deer’s—and bleeding. It was injured. Something was injuring it—a wolf, blood on its incisors, feeding. Only it wasn’t a wolf.

With a single raised eyebrow, she managed to assuage his earlier fear while raising yet a greater one.

“You were trying to save it. You mustn’t do that again, Tom. You could get hurt.”

And he knew. Just like that, he knew. Shaking his head, he backed away from her.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he said, his heart in his throat.

“Surely you must be joking,” she said, spinning around with her arms held out to the sky. “We can do whatever we like.”

“Last night,” he said, stumbling over the words. “Last night I found you covered in blood. It wasn’t your blood, and it wasn’t a deer’s, was it, Fiona?”

She stopped, held a hand to her milky-white hip, and observed him. “I hope you realize you’re being no fun at all right now, Tom.”

“Whose blood was it, Fiona?” he demanded, his voice straining with anger.

She stared at him, her face pinched as if she was caught
between two worlds, and then she smiled, fairly drenching him in her beauty. “You’ve had a bad dream, Tom. You must forget about it at once and come enjoy yourself with me.”

The anger gradually drained from his eyes, and he looked at her with utter heartbreak. “I know,” he said.

“What?” she laughed. “What do you know?”

Slowly he walked to her, and gazing at her with the love of a broken man, he said, “You can enchant me all you want. You can confuse me, and exhaust me, and drive me half mad, but I’m still a man, and I know what you are.”

She stared at him, silent, her face devoid of emotion, and then it was as if something within her switched off, and her face seemed to crumble. Tears filling her eyes, she backed away from him. “Tom,” she said, shaking her head.

“I know what you’ve done. I love you. I’ve never loved anyone or anything like I love you. Without my love for you, I don’t even know that I’m a person anymore, but I have to let you go.”

“No!” she shrieked, her face contorted, panicked. “You can’t leave me! I’ll stop it.”

“You can’t stop it.”

“I can,” she said, and flinging herself at his feet, she wrapped herself around his knees. “I promise you that I can.”

Reaching down, he gently pulled her up to stand. He looked into her dazzling eyes. “Fiona.”

“I can,” she said. “I promise you. I promise you with everything that I am, that we are. I won’t do it again.”

“Please,” he said, nearly crying, taking her hands and pressing them to his heart. “Promise me it will stop.”

“I promise,” she said. “No more. I promise.”

He pulled her close to his chest and kissed her head, knowing that no matter what he might say, he could never leave her.

When Rowan awoke, she smelled an awful stench coming from the center of the village. A fire. A funeral pyre, she thought. Only, whose could it be?