The Rose Master (24 page)

When, hours later, Lord Grey stood and declared he wanted a quick walk around the grounds, I didn’t stop him. I needed to get away from him, to clear my head and bail out my suddenly flooded emotions.

I returned to the kitchen without paying attention, the corridors already second nature to me, and looked about for something to do. That was the best way to get myself reined in—to keep busy. I’d scrubbed the house until it shone, so that was out. With a flash, I realized we would need bread. Yes, that was it; I would bake bread.

The depleted pantry still contained half a sack-full of flour to work with, and I tipped the covered jars with one finger until I found what I was looking for: the bubbling sourdough. Surprised it was still alive in the manor’s murderous temperatures, I separated a small piece and smelled it. Rich, like dirt after rain.

My thoughts stilled as I kneaded, my sleeves folded almost to my elbows and my hands covered in flour. As I had not remembered to pin my hair back up, its waves surged in and out—a chocolate tide—with every pound of my fists.

I covered the dough with a towel and began the impossible task of finding a warm spot in which to let it rise. The few places I found that weren’t freezing were still not nearly close to warm enough.

I traveled through the manor, limp dough tucked into a large cloth, and decided, since I’d run out of options, to try outside. Perhaps a puddle of sunshine could be squirmed out of the day.

I stepped out and was almost around the corner before I realized the dark figure kneeling on the trampled snow was Lord Grey. At first, I thought his wrist was bleeding again, but as I looked closer, I recognized the ruby petals. I walked up to him.

“Look.”

I flinched. There were weeds everywhere. Their vein-like protrusions tangled up among the rose bushes, suffocating the flowers, oblivious to the threading thorns.

“How did this happen?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They were healthy yesterday. This has to be the creature’s doing.”

Lord Grey’s face darkened to match his voice—a lightning storm of hate. He lunged forward and flung his hands into the bush before him, bringing out a deep root. He tore it to pieces, clawing at it until it was green confetti on the snow. He reached for another one, completely ignoring the thorns.

“Sir, stop. Don’t you think you’ve lost enough blood?”

He didn’t look at me. I doubt he even heard me.

I tucked the dough against my hip and knelt beside him. “Please, sir.” My hand hovered near him, hoping the tug of energies would distract him. It did.

He brought his hands back to his sides. “They were my mother’s. She loved them.”

“They’re not dead, sir. We can still salvage them.”

That made him turn to me. “How?”

“We’ll cut the weeds. Are there shears anywhere?”

“Yes, I think there are some in the stables.”

“Wonderful. Here, sir, hold this.” I passed him the soft mound, which he took with all the surprise of a first-time father.

“What—?”

“Just bread, sir, or at least, it will be once I find it a warm spot. For now, our bodies will have to do.”

“Wait, it’s best if you don’t go alone.” He rose with a wince and a slight stagger, sending fear through me again, but he merely brushed off his misused trousers.

We walked in silence, Lord Grey still holding the dough, and entered the stable’s empty darkness.

Inside, I moved to one side, where there was more light with which to search, while Lord Grey took to the darker edges. I shivered as I remembered how I’d encountered Mr. Keery mumbling in one of those dark stalls. With a jolt, I realized only a few days had passed since that afternoon. It felt like ages ago.

I began moving some items—a bridle, the saddles that looked old and unused—hoping to spy the gleam of shears.

“God Almighty!” Lord Grey exclaimed, making me leap up, my heart already in my throat.

“Sir?”

“The size of some of these rats! For a moment, I thought we’d acquired another horse.”

I rolled my eyes, releasing the breath I’d been holding. He seemed to enjoy making me nervous.

I continued with my search, turning up whole masterpieces of cobwebs, but not what we needed. Lord Grey mumbled and cursed as he knocked things about in the gloom, making me grin despite myself. That’s precisely why I’d chosen the opposite spot to search.

“Try not to decapitate yourself, sir,” I called out after a rather loud thump.

Steps drew near me. “Very amusing, Anne. But look, it appears I am the victorious one.”

He held up not one, but two large pruning shears in one of his hands. In the other, of course, he still held the much-jostled dough. He was smiling like a boy who’d just won a race.

“Shall we?”

We spent the rest of the afternoon yanking and slicing the weeds. Lord Grey started a small bonfire, to burn the green menace to ashes, and I placed the dough on a stone next to it, because, well, there was no point in wasting a good flame.

There was a muted quality to the roses while we worked. I had expected the almost physical attack of perfume, yet their scent was as pale as the snow. Many times throughout the strange afternoon, I glanced over at the young man beside me, down in the cold dirt, his clothes a sludgy mess. Despite the blood loss and the morning’s trials, his face was lit up with purpose and energy. The thorns that made me jerk back didn’t faze him one bit.

Once or twice, when I looked up to feed yet another vine to the fire, I found his eyes on my face, a quizzical look, like a dog hearing a strange noise, quickly disappearing underneath his usual expression. And, as always happened in those tense moments in which my heart took off without my permission, the invisible woman Dora had spoken of hovered before me.

We had almost finished when I began to hear dull clops nearing the house. Lord Grey and I both stood.

“Horses!” I cried.

He wiped his smudged hands over his equally dirty trousers and stepped up to the main path. In a matter of seconds, a small cart appeared, driven by a bloated man with the baldest head I’d ever seen. It was a ruddy chicken’s egg.

With a whistle, he brought the horse to a stop.

“My Lord,” he said as he huffed and lowered himself to the ground. He didn’t appear at all surprised to see the manor’s master covered in mud. He was probably used to his strangeness by now.

From where I stood, I could see large sacks resting lopsided against the cart’s walls—some brimming over with onions, others with dimpled potatoes. I hoped none of those were for us, since we had enough potatoes to see us through at least a year. Limp chicken bodies tied to one another by their necks peeked out from a crate, along with the hooves of what I thought was a wild pig.

“Hello, John,” said Lord Grey.

The man brought down two sacks lumpy with vegetables and another one, which he handed over to me, with a few duck bodies ready to roast.

“I’ve brought the usual order, my Lord, and also . . .” He rummaged through his pockets until his face cleared. He brought out two crumpled pieces of paper.

“This letter is from Ms. Simple. She asked me to bring it to you, sir.” He handed the note over. “And this one is for a Miss Anne Tinning.”

With surprise, I took it from him. From the scribble on the envelope, I could see that it was from Elsie. I smiled.

Lord Grey nodded. “Thank you, John. That will be all.”

John bowed, making me feel immensely prouder about my own curtsying, and sighed as he shuffled back up onto his cart. I wondered how such a flimsy looking structure could sustain the girth it transported.

Lord Grey’s eyes followed the cart until it disappeared. Then he gave me a sharp look and broke the letter’s seal. He began to read it out in a clear voice:

My Lord,

 
                 I regret to inform you that Peter Keery succumbed to his injuries on the 6th of December. He never regained consciousness, and the doctor had very little hope for his recovery. He will be buried on the 9th. I know you cannot leave the manor, sir, but I thought you should know. Dora and I will remain in Thistle House until we can find another position. I am very sorry, but we cannot return to Rosewood Manor after what has occurred. If you’d be so kind as to mail our references to Thistle House, we would be grateful.

I am sorry to desert my post, one I’ve had for many years, without proper leave-taking, but I will not of my own free will step foot inside the manor again. I hope his Lordship understands and will forgive a weak woman’s fears.

                                                                         Your most humble servant,

 
                                                                          Laura Simple

My hands had clasped together, crushing Elsie’s letter, as the first few words struck me. Mr. Keery was dead. That was two people the creature had erased from this earth; two men who hadn’t deserved such a cruel fate.

A laugh slithered out from the flames, low and harsh, making the day many degrees colder. Lord Grey was shaking in anger as the creature laughed.

“That’s the last person you’ve harmed,” he whispered to the flames.

“I hardly think so, August. Your pretty little companion is getting to be quite a nuisance.”

I felt unseen eyes turn to me from deep in the fire.

“Anne, dear, have you figured out that pesky name yet?” It cackled. “Would you like a hint? I’ll tell you what: I promise I’ll point you in the right direction when you are minutes from death.”

I gathered whatever courage had not been torn apart by the last few days and spoke:

“We’ll see about that, wraith.”

There was a moment of silence; even the fire appeared to stop crackling. I kept my eyes steady on its orange waves.

“Very good, Anne. August, she’s a feisty one. I can see why you fancy her. Nevertheless, she’ll be one more limp body when I’m through.”

There was a shriek, like ice cracking, and the fire blew out, leaving behind a black plume of smoke twisting in the breeze.

TWENTY-
Two

I decided to wait to open Elsie’s letter. I didn’t want her words marred by Ms. Simple’s news. After I calmed down a bit from the shock, I’d be able to give them the attention they deserved.

But even while I prepared our supper, I couldn’t shake the feelings that smothered me. Not only was there the weight of grief, but also dread over the wraith’s threat. I had no doubt anymore that it would at least attempt to incapacitate me, if not kill me outright.

My hands moved with mindless jerks, taking complete control of the vegetables I was roasting and the rabbits I was slicing to accompany them.

Lord Grey had remained in the kitchen with me while I cooked, ignoring my assurances that I would be fine. As it was, I was more comfortable in the wraith’s presence than in the man’s. I hated the strange, internal bustling that began whenever I entered his vicinity; it was annoying and disconcerting to my already confused head. Lord Grey, however, seemed to be unaware of my discomfort as he sat at the scarred table, legs drawn up, knees cradling a book. I could barely see his eyes as he dipped in and out of the printed words.

He looked so young and untroubled, oblivious to everything but the story he held in his hands.