Page 229 of Once an Angel
He followed Tansy up the stairs, making rapid mental notes to stave off his panic. The carpet was faded, its floral pattern worn bare in the center of each tread. Several of the balusters were cracked, and only
the newel post at the bottom of the stairs showed signs of being replaced in recent years. As they reached the upper landing, the patter of feet was followed by the slamming of a door. The sound echoed as if there were very few warm little bodies to absorb it.
Tansy took a candle from a hall table and led him to a rough-hewn door. Justin's dread swelled. As she opened the door, the flame quivered in a blast of cold wind. Narrow steps wound into utter darkness. He hesitated, knowing he did not want to see what awaited him. But the thought of Emily gave him courage. She would have charged headlong up those steps, banishing every shadow with her unrelenting light.
Wiping his clammy palms on his trousers, he started after Tansy. Chill, heavy air bore down on him. Before he was halfway up, his breath was billowing out in frigid clouds.
They reached a shadowy landing. Tansy pointed to a door. "That there is my room."
He understood her gentle prodding. There was only one other door.
He reached for it, his hand shaking. The battered knob felt like ice. He turned it and pushed, half hoping
it would be locked. The door creaked open. Tansy hung back as if reluctant to finish what she'd started.
As Justin saw where Claire Scarborough's weary steps had led her each night, something inside of him curled up and died. It would have broken David's heart to know his daughter had come to this.
The room was cramped, barely more than a closet tucked beneath the attic beams. As he ducked beneath the lintel, cobwebs brushed his hair.
A grimy window let in a thin sliver of winter light. Beyond the pigeons cooing on the sill he could see an endless ocean of chimneys and roofs, all dulled by a miasma of soot. A narrow bed sat in one corner,
still rumpled as if someone had just climbed out of it. He ran his hand over the lumpy tick, knowing it madness to wish it might still be warm. He sat down on it, dropping his head into his hands.
Someone was watching him. Tiny prickles danced along his spine. He twisted his head to find stoic blue eyes gazing at him. A doll sat propped against the pillow. He picked her up and brushed his hand over golden curls matted with age, touched the jagged crack in her porcelain skull.
Tansy's voice startled him. "That there is Annabel. I used to 'ear 'er talkin' to the doll when she thought
I weren't listenin'. Sometimes she'd cry." She shrugged apologetically. "The walls are thin."
The doll hung limp in his hands. Yes, the walls were thin, he thought. Even now he could hear within them the rustle of mice and other skittering creatures.
It shouldn't surprise him that the child had run away. It should only surprise him that she had stayed so long.
Icy fury poured through his veins, washing away the hopeless despair, sharpening his sense of purpose. His hands tightened on the doll. Damn Amelia Winters for condemning an orphaned child to this attic coffin! And damn himself most of all for letting it happen!
He rose and started down the stairs. Tansy followed, galloping behind him. As he strode into the parlor, still clutching the bedraggled doll, even Barney backed away, leaving the headmistress to face him alone.
The woman's name suited her, he thought maliciously. She was as gray and colorless as the peeling paint and faded carpet of her school. How could David have left his precious Claire with this grim creature?
Of course, he and Nicky had convinced David he would be gone for only a few months. Not forever.
His baleful stare fell on the old woman's gnarled hands. They were trembling as if palsied. Her steely fagade was cracking just like the paint on the medallioned ceiling. For the first time Justin saw her for what she was. A pitiful old woman whose school was crumbling around her head.
His empathy did not soften the bite of pure contempt in his voice. "My detectives are going to comb this city for Claire Scarborough. If so much as one curl on her little head has been harmed, I'll see you ruined. I'll tell all of London about that attic prison you built for David Scarborough's daughter. I'll ensure that even the poorest merchant wouldn't trust his dog to your care."
He spun on his heel, whipping his greatcoat around him. He paused in front of the wide-eyed Tansy and pulled a fat handful of pound notes from his pocket. Money meant little to him. He had lived too long
free of its encumbrance.
He pressed the notes into her hand. "If you remember anything else about the night Claire ran away, or
if you require any kind of assistance at all, come to Grymwilde Mansion in Portland Square and ask for me."
"Gor blimey, sir! Ya really mustn't!" But she was already shoving the money into the bodice of her shirt.
"Lord Winthrop."
The voice raked down Justin's spine like a steely claw.
