The open wick danced as I wandered into the hallway once more, causing leering shadows to sway around me. They swooped about the corridor like nightmarish bats, ethereal and fantastic, my imagination soaring to horrible heights.
The air filled now with a groan, a moan, a tearing asunder of a soul, and I nearly dropped the candle to cover my ears.
What was that?
Whowas that?
My breath caught, remembering Alex’s agonies. Had another fit overcome him?
I pushed aside my fears and made my way to the far wing, ready to help however I could.
But when I turned at Alex’s hallway, everything was still. I could hear the ticking of a tall grandfather clock a few doors down. Its steady beats tapped out an even, metronomic rhythm. I counted the passing seconds, waiting for another cry that did not come.
After three minutes of silence, I wandered back toward my wing. My insides felt jumbled and unsettled. Sleep was unlikelyto return, even in my stupor, so when I reached the foyer, cast in shadows, I took the stairs.
I’d find the kitchen and see if I could rustle up a cup of tea.
Dauphine enjoyed making blends from all of the herbs and leaves within the gardens. She was always offering out new creations at our shared breakfasts. Surely there was something to steady my nerves and set my mind toward rest once more.
In the kitchen, I filled a kettle and found a container of matches. Within moments, the stove was lit, the water heating.
Tins of tea lined a small shelf along one wall and I tilted my head, making my way through their scratchy handwritten labels. Just as I reached for the chamomile, the gaslights in the room flared, startling me.
I turned, expecting to see a valet or footman, or perhaps even the cook, rising early to begin work on the day’s bread, but it was Gerard who stepped down into the galley.
“Verity!” he exclaimed, jumping back so far in surprise he nearly slipped down the shallow steps. “I didn’t expect to find you up at this hour.”
“I heard…noises. It sounded as though someone was screaming.”
“Damn peacocks,” he muttered, wiping his hands across his work apron. “Nothing but nuisances.”
The apron was covered with bright stains.
Bright bloody red stains.
The memory of that final, awful cry echoed in my mind and I took an unconscious step away from him.
His eyes followed my horrified gaze and he froze. Frantically, I glanced about the kitchen, formulating a plan of escape. Therewas only one way in or out and he was standing right in front of it. My eyes fell on the block of knives between us and my throat dried up. Could I truly use a weapon against someone? Could I even get to them before he did?
But Gerard offered out a smile of chagrin. “I was working with a new strain of beets in the greenhouse, mashing them for compost. They create such a mess.”
I teetered on the ball of my foot, wanting to be ready to sprint for the knives if needed. “After the dinner party? So late?” My voice quavered, giving away my uncertainty.
He didn’t seem to notice. “No rest for the wicked, as they say.”
“You look like a farmer on butchering day,” I pointed out, catching note of all the dirt encrusted into the beds of his fingernails with a sense of relief.
Gerard let out a sharp laugh. “You thought this was blood? No wonder you’ve gone so white. Oh, Verity, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Well,” I said, feeling foolish as the spike of adrenaline left me. Of course it was beet juice. “What would you think? All those screams and then you come in here looking like that.”
“It’s true, it’s true!” he tittered. “I suppose I’d holler for help. Thank you for having a more collected mind than me. The last thing the staff needs after all that fuss yesterday is shouting in the night. Murderers on the loose. A madman at Chauntilalie.”
My cheeks colored as he laughed again.
“Oh me.” He wiped away a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, leaving behind a swish of red. “I was just coming down to have a bit of a snack before I turned in. Dauphine’s party menus are always portioned out so meanly. Would you care to join me?”
He turned to the sink, washing his hands. Black dirt and beet juice—yes, I was certain it was that now—dripped into the porcelain basin and swirled away down the drain.
