Page 93 of Wolfsbane Hall
My Dearest M, I found the apothecary you suggested. It was filled with all manner of mystical objects. You may be right about the existence of the supernatural. I will write back when I have more information.
But he never wrote back. Because the date on the letter was three days before her death. The following letter was written to his mother.
Dear Mother, I will treat you in the same manner as you treated Marguerite.—Everett
Next letter:
Dear Mother, I have successfully turned your prized son and heir against you. —Everett.
Next letter:
Dearest Family, it ends tonight. I will have my vengeance. —Everett.
So Everett was the murderer.
Babette took the letters from her hands. Reading them, too. “It’s Everett,” she breathed. “It’s always been Everett.”
“Yes, but…” But it still didn’t quite fit. Because too much happened for him to have managed it alone. Why use the arrow and the knife if it was just one killer?
Why was Dean covered in blood?
What was it that Archibald said earlier?Dean was loyal to his brothers and would do anything for them. They were thick as thieves…
So, did James and Dean help murder Lorraine, too? Are they Everett’s accomplices?
Had they always been? Not just in covering up the deaths, but causing them, too? The bloody shirts, the crossbow, the knife, and the small, needle-sized prick at her neck. Three weapons. Three men being framed? It was damning evidence.
But the most obvious answer was usually the correct one.
They weren’t all being framed. They were all the killers. Celestine closed her eyes and reimagined the murder.
The lights went out, Lorraine got into a confrontation with Archibald, and Irene came to his defense, at which point Lorraine slapped Irene and tore off Archibald’s tie.
Then the men acted. Everett had stolen Vivian’s knife during the scuffle, and James shot the crossbow. The twins either took turns with the knife, or maybe only Everett used it, and Dean stood by as a sentry.
But it wasn’t only the knife. The prick on Lorraine’s neck. She’d been drugged, too. He was slowing her down during the fight. Then it slipped into place. When Dean had hugged his mother when she arrived, he lingered and slid his hand across her neck. He’d drugged her and stabbed her.
The noises, the evidence, everything made sense with that sequence of events.
“No,” Celestine said slowly. “It was all three of them.”
As each word left her mouth, the click of a gear turned. Magic filled the room—an enchantment laced into the walls, the floor, and even into Celestine’s very cells.
A full-body shiver stole over her body, and memories soaked into the room, playing out like a silent picture show. It was a ghostly image playing as if on a projector, like the new movie in theaters,The Wizard of Oz. Just like that movie, this one had color and sound.
It was a dark and stormy London night in 1761. The three Ashbrook brothers were walking down a street in Covent Garden.
Dean faced his brothers. “Are you two sure we want to do this?”
James shrugged, his typical nonchalance twirling on his face. “They killed Marguerite. They deserve our vengeance.”
“Right,” Dean scoffed. “And this idea of yours has nothing to do with the fact that they are withholding your inheritance because you want to invest in that mechanical thing.”
“It’s called a steam engine, and it is the way of the future.” James checked his pocket watch. Clicking it open and closed a couple of times in a perfect rhythm.
“The future, Dean. How can you argue with that?” Everett flashed his signature honey-sweet smile, just as false then as it was now.
“Are you sure this woman is not a witch?” Dean asked. “Witches are dangerous; we know that. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with Great-Grandmother.” Young Dean was brighter and had more energy. He wasn’t the broken, dark, brooding man he had become, but he was still the exceedingly responsible one.
