“Go along to your chamber and take Pippins with you. You may return in the morning.”
“I wish to stay here.” Violet crossed her arms in defiance, but at Meg’s wearied look, she sighed and nodded agreement. She scooped Pippins into her arms and climbed off the bed. “But I shall return on the morrow. Father and I both. You must get well again so you can marry, and you must hurry and do so before I …”
Gloom stifled Meg. She wasn’t certain if Violet finished the sentence or Meg was only too dispirited to listen. Whatever the case, when the child left the room, Meg’s eyes already stung from blinking back the tears.
“Eat,” Uncle said again.
She glanced at the tray of food. Then back to his face.
“Eat, Meggy.”
“You killed everyone. Just like the letters said.”
A grunt, one that bounced back and forth between the walls of the room. He stood and hobbled for the door—
“Uncle, wait.” She ripped back the covers, threw her legs over the edge of the bed. A sob clenched her insides but the words came out seething, “You do not dare lie to me now. I will not let you.”
“Leave it be.”
“I cannot.”
“What’s done is done.” He grabbed the knob—
Meg hurried from the bed, knees buckling, and in one spiraling motion, Uncle turned and caught her.
He swept her into his arms. Instead of draping her back atop the bed, he walked back to his chair and sat with her in his lap.
Strange, how familiar he smelled. Like wool and herbs and pipe smoke. “Do not touch me,” she whispered, turning away her face.
With a calloused hand, he patted her head into his chest. She should never have derived comfort in this—in him—but she did. “Why did you ever take me,” she murmured against his shirt, “if you were only going to ruin me this way?”
For a long time, he didn’t say anything. The chair rocked a little, squeaking into the silence, until he finally scratched the stubble on his chin. “I worked here. Years ago. Valet for the elder Lord Cunningham a few months after his son left for school.”
Surprise scratched a nervous pattern inside her chest. “You never told me.”
“Didn’t tell you lots of things. Too busy teaching you. Keeping you out of trouble.” The chair thudded still. “Alistair Cunningham was sick. Found him one night by his bedchamber window. Sitting in his wheelchair with a dagger to his chest.”
Understanding galloped through Meg faster than she wanted it to.No.
“He begged me to do it. Said he was tired of suffering. I said no.” Uncle gave a quick, hard shake of his head. “Kept on though. Weeks. Every time we were alone. One day I did.” Muscles tightening, he picked Meg up and carried her back to bed. He moved through motions he knew well—checking her wrist pulse, touching her brow, readjusting the bandage.
Anything so he did not look at her face. “Told me it was right for so long I started to believe him. ’Til he was dead. Knew then it was wrong cause I couldn’t get his face out of my head.”
“Uncle.”
“Left Penrose and took an apprenticeship in Juleshead. Thought saving lives might make up for the one I took. Should have known it wouldn’t.” He grumbled, itched his head, every movement jerky. “Didn’t kill anyone else. Musgrave already had a stroke once. Had a bad heart too. Stopped breathing in my shop and couldn’t do anything to save him.”
“There were others.”
“Helped the ones I could. You did too.”
Something sputtered through her veins. Warm, startling—and a little like peace. All this time, she had doubted herself. She’d cast blame upon her own shoulders as swiftly as she’d cast it upon Uncle and Tom.
Had it mattered so much that she couldn’t remember the inside of the apothecary shop? That she had no recollection of the nighttime excursions or sitting on Uncle’s lap or walking into church with either of them on her arm?
She knew Tom.
She began to know Uncle.
