Page 72 of Grave Expectations
Holloway fished out a key from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it to me. "Unlock the door and get inside."
My hands trembled but I managed the task. There was enough light streaming through the high arched windows to see that the factory was mostly empty. An enormous kiln occupied the center of the vast space, its bricks blackened at the mouth. The thick chimney could easily fit two of me, side by side. Broken crates and barrels formed a pile in the corner, and a white powder spewed from torn sacks. Newspapers littered the floor, along with pieces of pottery, some of them jagged and sharp. I took note of all the potential weapons within reach.
It was colder in the cavernous factory than outside, and I wasn't the only one feeling it. Holloway waggled the gun at me. "Light a fire."
"Do you have matches?"
He jerked his chin at the window where a box of matches sat on the sill. I retrieved the box and gathered some newspapers, placing them in the kiln. Holloway dragged over a bag of coal. He was puffing by the time he reached me and sweat dripped from his brow. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and shivered.
"Hurry up." He hunched into his coat. Whoever had assisted him to escape had given him clothing for winter. He couldn't have retrieved them from home; it would be the first place the police would look for him.
It made me wonder if his neighbors and parishioners would protect him or alert the police if he had gone to them. Probably not. His reputation would be ruined now. How ironic that I was the cause.
I finished making the fire and knelt on the flagstone floor to soak up the warmth. Slowly, slowly, my fingers thawed, and I could once again feel my face.
"You like that, don't you, Devil Child? You're used to the flames of hell."
I didn't respond. Nothing I could say would convince him that I wasn't possessed by the devil.
He wiped his brow on the back of his sleeve. His breathing hadn't returned to normal after his exertion. If anything, he looked paler, his skin slicker. He'd lost weight since his arrest. The bones in his face were more prominent, his cheeks and chin sharper. Prison hadn't been good for him.
Perhaps I should have felt sorry for him, but I couldn't muster any sympathy. I felt nothing for him, not even fear. I'd seen what my imp could do. It might be time to summon it, if I could be sure I could do so before Holloway fired the gun.
He lowered it to his lap as if it had become too heavy. He wiped his brow again. No, not his brow, his eyes. They were wet. From crying or from the fever? "You were such a good little girl. Such a dear little thing." He shook his head and his lips trembled. Hewascrying.
A lump filled my throat. I swallowed it down. I wouldnotfeel sympathy for this man, for the life I could have had if he'd never thrown me out. That was the past and I refused to dwell upon it.
"How?" He spoke so quietly I almost didn't hear him. "How did the devil get in? I don't understand, Lord." He searched the ceiling, but the rafters remained quiet, still. "Why did you forsake my daughter? What did I do to deserve this?"
Slowly, slowly, so as not to alert him, I raised my hand to the amber. It throbbed in time to my heartbeat.
"Guide me in this time of need. Help me expel the demons inside her."
"Who released you from prison?" I demanded again, one last time. "Was it Lady Harcourt?"
His muddy eyes didn't quite focus on me. He swayed too, but the gun remained steady.
If I wanted answers, I needed to change questioning tactics. "I had a wonderful childhood. It was filled with everything a little girl needs—dolls, toys, pretty ribbons and an education." Albeit one confined by Holloway's strict beliefs. "And parents who loved me."
He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead. "We tried so hard to bring you up a good Christian girl." He shook his head, as if he couldn't believe all that effort had been wasted.
"You and Mama were my entire world."
"And you were ours. We never told anyone you were adopted. It seemed unnecessary, when we loved you as much as any parent loved their child." He looked as if he would start crying again. "And yet this is how our efforts are repaid."
"It's not your fault," I told him. "Or mine. I was born this way. You weren't to know."
His gaze sharpened. "Yes! Yes, you're right. It's not our fault. We did everything we could. We loved you…but our love could never be enough because of what you truly are. A de—"
"Don't say it." The pendant throbbed harder, as if the imp were begging me to release it.
He eyed me for a long moment, as if trying to see the demon he thought lurked inside me. I stared back, unblinking, willing him to see the little girl he'd once called his own. Wanting him to call me 'daughter' again, if only because it meant there might be a chance that I could walk free without hurting him. It was impossible to tell from his fever-ravaged face whether I was getting through.
"I wish Mama was alive."
"Do not call her that," he snarled. "She is not your Mama. She never was." He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward. For one heart-stopping moment I thought he might fire the gun accidentally. He seemed hardly in control of his own movements as he swayed back and forth. Spittle frothed on his lower lip and sweat dripped from his brow. "She was my beautiful, loving wife." He began to shake and cry, the tears and sweat pouring down his face. "And now she is dead."
"I miss her," I hazarded.
