The Glass Casket (32 page)

She moved close to him, and taking his head in her hands, she peered into his eyes. “I will help you. I will teach you how to control your urges as I am learning to control mine. When that girl, my cousin, came into the woods earlier today, do you think I did not want to tear her throat from her wispy frame? Do you think I did not want to consume her? But I fought the urge because I promised you I would not kill again.”

Tom bowed his head. “Then we have to leave.”

“What?” she asked, shocked. “Where would we go?”

“Up north,” he said, a plan formulating in his mind. “Away from people. If I am to turn into a monster, then I want to be where I can do no harm to innocents.”

“But we’re happy here,” she said, sad-eyed. “I can control it. I can help you control it as well.”

And that was when they heard it—the crack, the scream, and Fiona’s eyes grew wide.

“What … what’s happening?” Tom drew near her, terrified she was injured, but then she sighed, and as she arched her back, a delicious smile spread over her face.

“Are you okay?” he asked, gripping her tightly.

Eyes wild and sparkling, she licked her lips. “I feel wonderful,” she said. And then fear spread over her face. “Oh, Tom. Oh, Tom, no.”

“What is it?”

“It has fed. Oh, Tom, I am so sorry.”

“No,” Tom said, understanding immediately. “You said it did what you bid.”

“It does,” she said, bewildered. “It
did
. But it was so hungry, Tom, and something strayed into the woods tonight.”

“Oh Goddess, my Goddess,” Tom moaned, pacing. “Is it my brother? Is it Jude?”

Fiona tilted her head, feeling what the beast felt. “No … I don’t think so.”

“We have to leave,” he said, and this time when he spoke, he saw on her face that she understood he was right. “We are a sickness—a plague. We have to sequester ourselves, take that beast with us where we can hurt no man.”

Fiona started to shake her head, but it was not worth fighting.

“I need to say goodbye to my family,” Tom said, speaking quickly, as if trying to piece everything together. “Then we’ll go away from here. We’ll leave tonight. We’ll start anew somewhere else. We won’t hurt anyone.”

Fiona closed her eyes, and then she nodded. “I need to say goodbye to Lareina. She is buried where you pointed out to me—on the cliff above the lake?”

“Yes,” he said, relief consuming him. “That’s right. Up Cairn Hill at the Mouth of the Goddess. I will meet you there, and then we will go.”

Taking her hands in his, he stared into her eyes, and then, without another word, each went their own way into the night.

By the time Rowan and Jude reached her house, they were out of breath, their lungs bursting, and Rowan was on the verge of tears. Flinging open the door, she screamed for her father. She ran to his study but found it empty. Footsteps on the stairs sent relief flooding through her, but a moment later, when the duke emerged into the hall, she was overtaken by a sudden sense of uneasiness.

“What is it?” he asked, concerned.

“There’s been another attack,” Jude said, breathless. “In the woods. Goi Tate. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

The duke ran a hand through his hair, thinking for a moment before he spoke. “Jude, you come with me. We’ll go to your father’s tavern and gather what men we can. Perhaps we can catch the beast while it’s still afoot. Rowan, you lock the door behind us. Don’t let anyone in.”

“Okay,” Rowan said, confused and terrified. “Where is my father?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I don’t know. Merrilee is asleep upstairs. Will you keep an eye on her for me?”

Nervously, he wrung his hands, the silver rings catching the moonlight and casting a glittering veil over Rowan’s eyes. She turned away, a tightening in her chest, and suddenly, though she couldn’t say why, she was newly afraid.

“Of course,” she said, though the words came out as no more than a whisper.

“Thank you,” the duke said, and then, turning to Jude,
he added, “Come along. I suspect we have a full night ahead of us.”

She watched them leave, the heavy oak door shaking the house when the duke pulled it closed behind him. Once they had gone, Rowan stood alone in the hallway, feeling very much as if icy hands were gripping her shoulders. Shivering, she tried to understand the source of her fear. She stood very still, listening to the old house creak and breathe, settling into its foundations, as Emily used to say. Her teeth began to chatter, and her thoughts fell to the rings the duke wore on his left hand. That was what had frightened her, what continued to frighten her, though the reason she could not place.

A creak from the floorboards above startled her, and she did her best not to cry out. Merrilee. She needed to check on Merrilee.

Slowly she took the stairs one at a time, her knuckles growing white from gripping the banister as she went. Above her, the second-floor landing was lit only by the radiance of the moon cascading through the picture window, and the house was so quiet that she could hear her own breathing echoed back to her by the walls above.

She took the last step and pulled herself up onto the landing. The moonlight illuminated about a quarter of the hallway, but gradually the darkness took over until it seemed to consume the length of it. Nearly frozen, Rowan peered down into the shadows to the far end of the house where her mother’s old room lay. She moved slowly, running her fingers along the walls, careful to keep her feet silent as
she went. She watched her fingers disappear as she moved out of the moonlight and into the darkness, and from then on she was guided only by memory, and by the lines of light beneath each wooden door. When she reached Antonia’s old room, where Merrilee slept, she caught her breath and opened the door as silently as she could. Light streamed in through the window and kissed the sleeping child, who was curled up on the bed like a tiny animal. Rowan breathed a sigh of relief.

Turning, she pulled the door closed behind her, and then let her attention fall to her mother’s old room, where the duke was staying, and again she felt uneasy.

She crept across the hall to his door, and quietly she opened it and stepped into the bedchamber. Unsure what exactly it was she sought, she looked around for anything that might stand out. Reaching for the matches over the fireplace, she lit a mounted sconce, and a warm, quivering light flooded the room and danced upon the walls. The chamber was neatly kept, the bed expertly made. Oddly, though, his personal belongings were nowhere to be seen. It was as if no one was occupying the space at all. She tried the closet door but found it locked. Remembering that Emily kept keys in the top drawer of the dresser in each room, she gently pulled the drawer open, but inside she found nothing.

Rowan leaned against the wall and swept her eyes over the room once more. If the duke had the key on him, then she was out of luck, but perhaps he’d hidden it. If she were going to hide a key somewhere, she wondered, where would
she hide it? She scanned the space again, and then they alighted on the wooden bedposts. Rowan grew very still as she stared at the round wooden finials. They looked like … eggs—like wooden eggs. In her dream, her mother held one of those wooden eggs in her hand. But if the witches were right, then those dreams weren’t really dreams; they were memories. And if it was a memory, then that meant that those finials could be removed. Could there be space inside them large enough to fit a key?

Hesitant, her heart beating wildly within her chest, she took a step toward the bed. With shaking hands, she reached out and began twisting the round finial nearest the window, near where the light had streamed in in her dream. It gave way easily, and she turned it until it came loose from the post.

Her heart gave a start as she realized what this must mean. The witches were right. It was true—she
had
known her mother. Her mother had held her and loved her, and Rowan remembered it all. The dream wasn’t just a dream; it was a memory. She fought back tears of joy as she thought of it. Carefully removing the wooden egg, she reached inside the post. It was a space definitely large enough to hide a key. She let out a joyful gasp, overwhelmed by what this meant, and then her fingers brushed against something metal. The key.

Smiling, she pulled it out and headed to the closet. She slipped the key into the lock and turned it, and the door eased open to reveal a most unexpected sight. Three trunks lined the base of the closet, their lids shut and padlocked,
but the shelves, instead of being filled with clothing, were hidden by lengths of thick black velvet cloth. With a shaking hand, she reached up and pulled off one cloth, and then another, and another, and behind each gleamed mass of sparkling silver after mass of sparkling silver. Strewn along every surface—forks, knives, spoons, serving implements, dashed together carelessly, and at the center of the mess was a large silver bowl. Rowan found herself stepping away, clutching at her chest as the meaning hit her.

It was him. All along it was him. Although she’d had moments when he’d made her feel odd, she’d never suspected he could be the Greywitch. She’d assumed that all witches were female, but apparently she’d been wrong.

The light from the dancing candle seemed to animate the glittering mass of silver, sending it into a rapturous dance, and even as her gut cinched in upon itself, she found herself reaching out for the riches. But just before her fingers grazed a gleaming chalice, she came to her senses and jerked her hand away.

She needed to get out of there. If the duke found out what she’d discovered, they’d all be in terrible and immediate danger. She tossed the cloths back over the silver and locked the door.

She stole back to the bedpost, but when she shoved the key down inside, she felt it hit something. She pinched whatever it was with her fingers, pulled it out, and replaced the key.

At first when she pulled it out and stared at it, she didn’t understand what she saw. It was twine—yellow twine—
twisted and frayed. And then it was upon her, and her knees nearly gave way.

The golden snake. It had been her mother’s marriage twine, but why was it in the bedpost? Why had her mother removed it? She thought about the golden snake, the way it had cut into her mother’s flesh, and then suddenly she remembered her mother’s belly, swollen, about to burst, the skin of her wrist swelling along with it. As her second pregnancy had progressed, the twine must have cut into her wrist, so she had removed it. Rowan had heard that that happened sometimes, and in such cases, arrangements could be made, the elders could be consulted, and the twine could be replaced. But her mother hadn’t consulted anyone—hadn’t sought anyone’s approval. She had simply slipped a knife blade between her skin and the bracelet, and severed it, freeing her flesh, freeing herself.

Just then, she heard the front door open, and she was jerked back to the present. Quickly, she replaced the twine in the bedpost and secured the finial atop it. And after extinguishing the candle, she closed the door silently behind her and hurried downstairs.

Rowan found her father in the hallway, brushing the snow off his boots. Her first instinct was to run to him, to press her face to his chest and cry, for standing there, he seemed the very image of safety, and yet she knew that was all it was—an illusion of safety. He was mixed up in this somehow; she was certain.

“Goi Tate is dead,” she said to him, and he nodded, grief carving its way along his lined face.

“I’ve heard. I met Jude and the duke on the path just now. Tragic.”

Walking past her, he continued down the hall and into his study, but Rowan followed, anger rising in her chest. He took a seat behind his desk, and Rowan approached him.

“I’ve been to see Mama Tetri. She … she told me things. Things I couldn’t believe. Things about my mother. Things about my sister.”

Henry Rose opened his mouth to speak, and for a moment, time seemed to be suspended, and in his eyes, Rowan could see him trying to decide what to do. He furrowed his brows, angry, but then he shook his head, and his cheeks flushed.

“You know,” he sighed, and grasping his hands in his lap, he shut his eyes tight as if to block out the truth.