But what was this note? Another curse? A counter-spell?
Henry groaned. He had never before in his life had to think about magic spells and counter-spells. That was the stuff of fiction or the Inquisition, which was little more than fiction itself. He didn’t believe in witches and curses. But how could he not believe when he held a spell in his hands?
“I have to write to King and Rory,” he said.
“You have to write to the king? The king is quite mad.”
“I know how he feels.”
“Thank you.” She took the brandy from the lad and handed it to Henry, who downed it in one gulp. He coughed as it burned and put his head between his legs. He was feeling delirious and dizzy.
“Carlisle, you are scaring me,” Katie said. “The words on this paper make no sense. Dash of dust of the fae? What is the fae? Fairies? Is this some sort of nursery rhyme?”
“No, it’s a…” He looked about to make certain no one was listening. Did they still burn witches in England? He grabbed the paper and stuffed it into his waistcoat. “I can’t talk about it here, and I need to take you home.” Now that he had a purpose, the dizziness faded, and he got to his feet again. He gave the lad watching his horse another coin for the brandy, then offered Katie his hand. To his surprise, she didn’t protest. She mounted Gawain, and Henry followed. They rode out of Dunwich with Henry’s gaze darting into every corner they passed, searching for witches.
He saw none, but the paper burned him through the waistcoat.
Once they were on the road back to Carlisle Hall, Katie turned her head to look at him. “Can you talk about that paper now?”
“Tonight,” he said. “We’ll meet in the library. If I climb up to your bedchamber again, I’m liable to break my neck.”
“Fine. The library at just past one. We have a lot to discuss.”
*
Katie saw CarlisleHall with new eyes when she returned. Her father had not had possession of the property for very long, and Carlisle had obviously not taken pains with its upkeep. But now that she was in residence, she’d expected her father to begin repairs. She’d written to him of work she noticed needed to be completed, and he’d thanked her and told her not to worry. She’d assumed that meant he would have workmen see to the repairs. But no workmen had come. And the new information she possessed indicated none would be forthcoming.
She moved through the house, studying hearths that smoked and ceilings that showed water damage. Floors buckled and plaster crumbled. A maid dusted a piece of moldering furniture listlessly. Was she just keeping up appearances because Katie was nearby, or did the servant not know that her efforts were for naught?
When Mrs. Murray emerged from her chambers, Katie was seated in the parlor with tea waiting. Her companion’s brows went up, and she smiled. “This is a surprise. Usually, I have to look all over for you.”
Katie poured Mrs. Murray a cup and offered her a small sandwich. “Did you rest well, Mrs. Murray?”
“I did. I slept a little too long, I’m afraid. It’s nearly four.”
“The country air is most beneficial for sleeping, I hear. Do you think we will stay in the country much longer?”
Mrs. Murray paused with the teacup at her lips. “I couldn’t say, my lady. Your father didn’t say how long we should visit Carlisle Hall.”
“Yes, but this isn’t really a visit, is it? It’s more of a prison sentence.”
“I wouldn’t call it—”
Katie bristled. “I was banished from London and sent here so I wouldn’t try to leave for Paris again. I’m not allowed to leave, and the only thing I care about, my painting, has been taken away from me. This is a punishment, Mrs. Murray.”
Her companion seemed taken aback. She swallowed and blinked, then finally nodded. “Very well, I suppose that assessment is correct. It’s a punishment, but one you brought on yourself.”
Katie didn’t show her surprise at her companion’s words. She’d always suspected Mrs. Murray sided with her father on the matter of Katie’s attempt to flee England. Like her father, the woman saw it as disobedience rather than a grasp at freedom.
“And how long shall I be punished?” Katie asked.
“I am not privy to the marquess’s thoughts on the matter,” Mrs. Murray said.
“I see. Are you privy to my father’s plan to see this house fall to ruin? I assume that’s why no repairs have been made, despite the leaks during the rains and the cracks that will surely cause us to freeze should we still be imprisoned here in winter.”
“I have no idea—”
“You truly don’t know if my father intends to leave me here to rot along with the house?”
