Page 26 of Ladies in Hating
It could have been beautiful. Itoughtto have been beautiful—the building was not so very old, though its architecture followed medieval styles.
But it was falling apart.
The state of the house was a cold shock against Cat’s memories of the place. She recalled the architecture, the way the building bristled with flourishes, the stone unyielding and yet somehow as delicate as sugar paste. She remembered the way the marble seemed darker against the ice-gray color of the winter sky. Sheremembered the forest, the looming size of the house springing almost out of nowhere as one came around the trees.
But she did not recall the disrepair of the place, which was dire. Shocking. Vines trailed up the walls and curled through shattered windows. The timber that had been used in the construction of some of the walls appeared to bemelting,although surely that was some illusion of the eye. The planks had been covered in white—something? plaster?—that was peeling away in strips, like a snake shedding its skin.
As she watched, a bat emerged from one of the windows and hurled itself into the sky. And then another. And then a whole host of them, dozens and dozens, blackening her view of the clouds.
She blinked several times, and then closed her mouth with a snap.
It waswonderful.It wasperfect.If the building did not fall down around her ears and crush her, she was going to write the best Gothic novel England had ever seen.
She made her way toward the front door, which was roughly quadruple her height, an effect that would have been more imposing if it did not feature dozens of mouseholes all along the bottom.
She knocked.
Nothing happened. No sounds emerged from within the house. She waited as patiently as she was able—at least sixty seconds or so—then knocked again.
Still nothing.
Had Yorke been mistaken when he’d told her that the place was outfitted with a housekeeper and a cook? Perhaps the new employees had turned tail and run when they’d been confronted with the state of the place.
She set her teeth, grasped the immense iron handle—shaped, hideously and deliciously, like a skull, its mouth a yawning scream—and pulled.
It was dim inside and smelled of damp, and the walls were lined with emblazoned shields and strange tiny doors.
Unfortunately Cat’s brain failed to properly take in any of those sights, because a blurred white shape darted through the cavernous hall.
Jesus,she thought wildly,and angels and ministers of grace, defend us.
Ghosts. There wereghostsin the house.
She could not decide whether to fling herself backward, sprint away, or whip her notebook out of her traveling bag and scribble down her impressions. She stood paralyzed, dazed and befuddled, until her wits came sluggishly back to life.
Pull yourself together, Catriona,she ordered herself firmly. That is not a ghost. It is a dog.
The white form—still rather blurred—shot in her direction and then launched itself at her skirts. She avoided total collapse by a hair’s breadth, and as she watched, the dog rebounded off her knees, toppled over, rolled vigorously back up to standing, and then began to dash circles around her body.
Its tongue lolled preposterously out of its mouth as it ran, flapping wildly in the breeze created by its own momentum.
She could not help herself. She giggled.
If the sound had a tinge of relieved hysteria to it, well—no one was around to hear it but the dog.
She crouched down to greet the dusty and decidedly corporeal animal, which stood upon its hind legs and attempted to bathe her face. “Hello,” she said, amusement still curled in her voice. “Hello, my darling.”
It fell over once more, evidently through the force of its own delight. The dog’s ears were mismatched, one pointed up and the other flopped rakishly downward, and its eyes were a trifle overlarge.
It was—she discovered as it thrust its head into her palm—exceedingly soft.
“You are a most unexpected resident,” she told it. “Are you the housekeeper, then?”
It responded with increasing vigor and face-licking, and, oh, she loved dogs, loved their warmth and solidity and earnest trust. She gave up on cleanliness entirely, dropped her traveling bag, and let herself collapse completely onto the floor.
She kept up a stream of nonsense and gathered the wiggly little body into her lap. “No, I take it you’re not the housekeeper. A ratcatcher? The cook’s familiar? Perhaps you are a dust mop.”
The dog made no verbal reply—which, honestly, was a relief—and instead melted rather pathetically into her chest.
