Page 8 of Darkest at Dusk
“You ought not to be here,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It is not safe.”
“Safe from what?” Her tone was careful but the concern beneath it was not.
“He has stirred what should have been left to rest. I should never have replied to his letter. Never opened the door. But he spoke with knowledge no man should possess. He made promises I was too weak to resist.”
“You mean the stranger who came to the house? The one who made you so angry?” she asked. “What did he want?”
“Not a book,” he said, turning his gaze to the floor. “Not truly. Though he would have been happy for that, too. No, he came seeking something else. Someone else.”
She took a step backward. The words chilled her, though she could not say why.
“Who was he?” she asked.
Papa gave no answer. Instead, his gaze returned to the trunk. His hand rose to the chain around his neck, drawing forth the iron key he always wore, the one that belonged to the brass bound trunk before him. He pressed the key to his lips, as though it were a crucifix and he a man condemned.
“I thought I could protect you,” he murmured. “But I was mistaken.”
“Protect me from what?” Isabella asked, her thoughts spinning to the visions, the voices, the wraiths. Did the stranger somehow know of her madness? Almost did she ask, but fear stilled her tongue. Papa believed she no longer saw them, heard them… If she spoke of it, she would betray the truth and tear down all her carefully constructed lies.
Papa leaned forward and began to whisper to the trunk itself, a low chant that seemed to vibrate within the very bones of the room.
The candle flame flared tall and thin, its light no longer golden but tinged with blue at the edges. The pages of one of the open books lifted and rustled, stirred by no breeze. The air in the room grew heavy, close, clinging to her skin like damp wool. A shiver crawled through her.
From the doorway behind her, a new sound arose. Soft at first, like the rustle of silk across stone. Then a whisper, faint and urgent, brushing the edge of her thoughts. She did not turn to look.
Instead, she fixed her eyes on her father, his gaunt face, his hunched form, on the key still clutched in his clenched fist as though it alone might hold the darkness at bay. He shuddered, the candlelight illuminating the trembling curve of his mouth.
“Go now, Isa,” he said without looking at her. “Leave me.”
Distress suffused her at his distant, resolute tone. Her thoughts spun through events of recent days, back to the morning it had begun.
And suddenly, he was there, the stranger, not in flesh but in memory, the man who had stood unmoved while her father’s fury buffeted him. His presence had filled the street. His gaze had pierced the glass, finding her, pinning her, seeing too much. It was not merely a fanciful notion. She had felt it that morning, silent, precise, inescapable, like a dagger sliding beneath her skin.
“Papa, let me?—”
“Please, Isa,” Papa cut her off. “Go.”
She hesitated, her breath coming shallow and fast. Papa’s voice had always been her anchor, her compass. Now it was foreign, distant, devoid of warmth. Devoid of hope.
The candle flame flared high and blue. The pages of the open books strewn across the floor lifted and danced in the still air. The whispers flew at her, curling around her like choking vines. She could not breathe. She could not think. There was something dark here, something evil.
“Go,” Papa ordered.
With a gasp, she turned and fled.
And the whispers followed, eager as hungry dogs.
The house was silent save for the rain that fell in slanting sheets and the wind rattling the shutters. Water spilled from the gutters in thick, silvery ropes. The study door stood ajar. Isabella froze, wariness snaking through her. For weeks now, Papa had taken to locking himself in whichever room he occupied, barricading the door with chairs, chests, or stacks of books.
But now, at the end of a long and silent day during which she had neither seen nor heard him, Papa had left the study door not only unbarred, but open.
A fly buzzed at her ear. She brushed it away and stepped inside.
When she saw him slumped in the worn, burgundy brocade chair he favored, eyes closed, chin resting on his chest, she forced a bright tone and said, “Papa, pray do not sleep here. You’ll have a crick in your neck come morning. You always do.”
The air felt thick and stale. Darkness dripped down the walls and pooled on the floor at her father’s feet. Light from the dying fire painted one side of his face, leaving the other in shadow. One arm lay across his chest, fist curled at the base of his throat; the other dangled loosely, fingers slack. An open book lay on the floor.
Isabella frowned.
