Page 72 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
“You’ll never make it up there in your sodded state. Take mine.”
“I am not—”
“You’re drunk. My bed, Miss Vaughn. No arguments.”
The rickety ladder leading up to the loft looked even more treacherous than it had two hours ago when I started into this bottle. My lids grew heavier. Mounds and mounds of books were piled upon the table. Half of them I’d gone through myself. And while I had long ago accepted therewassomething unusual about Ruan Kivell, I was ever more convinced there were no such things as demons. No monsters. No dragons. Just evil men. And hopefully the vicar would be the one to tell us the truth. Except he wasn’t even in town, not returning until the morning train.
“Do you think he did it?”
“Do I think that Reverend Fortescue killed Sir Edward?”
“Edward, George. Maybe even the uncle…” I paused, still unable to remember the blasted man’s name then shrugged it off. “You know who I mean.”
He nodded, wetting his lips and not responding.
“Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
“He’s capable of blackmail, that’s for certain—” Ruan rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. “And while he wishes me to the devil, I don’t believe he’s the sort to do the job himself.”
I frowned. “Would he hire someone, though?”
Ruan shrugged.
That wasn’t helpful.
“Once someone starts down that path, I suppose it’s an easy enough one to follow. Killing a man isn’t particularly hard. Not when it’s in your head that you must do it. Perhaps Fortescue has more mettle than I’ve given him credit for these past years.”
Outside a cock crowed. I checked my timepiece. Four in the morning. If we were to see the vicar after he arrived home, we’d have to get some sleep soon. I stared at the scattered papers in front of me. I didn’t want to close my eyes, though. Because the moment I did, the memories would return. I could handle them in Exeter, but here the wounds were all too fresh. Too entwined. My parents. Tamsyn. Everything I ever loved—ever touched—turned to dust. She’d been the only one with me when they died, and being with her again—it brought their loss back in force.
I bit my lower lip, examining the now-empty glass in front of me. “It was a mistake, Ruan…”Coming here. Seeing her again.I couldn’t say the words, and yet I needed him to know I wasn’t as brave as I pretended. That I drank to forget the things that would never go away. The ones I could no longer run or hide from. But that armor Tamsyn spoke of, it had failed me at last.
His hand came down warm and gentle on my shoulder. I could feel his thumb against the curve of my jaw when I finally looked up at him, his eyes fixed upon mine. Something passed there. Something I’d never felt before. Comprehension.
“I know.”
Some consolation that was. And then he stood, turned on his heels, and started climbing up that ladder, taking it two rungs at a time, leaving me with a maelstrom of thoughts. None of them pleasant. And a pile of old books.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWOPiskie-Led
Iwoke early the next morning, my head full of wool and rocks. The only benefit of said state was that I was too exhausted to care about how badly the rest of me ached. Perhaps Ruan was right about my drinking, as it no longer helped me keep the memories at bay; lately it had the opposite effect. But as I lay there snug in his bed, which smelled disturbingly like the man himself, I realized one pertinent fact.
Ruan Kivell was missing.
Not that he wasn’t in his bed—that part was no shock as I’d watched him climb the ladder to the loft long before I laid my own head down. Rather he wasn’t in the house at all. I scrubbed my hands roughly over my face before pulling on a sensible brown walking skirt and white blouse. I fastened the mother-of-pearl buttons at my wrist, then reached into my satchel and pulled out the little jar of salve Ruan had made, applying it gently to the cuts on my face. They were healing nicely beneath the garish bruising. Perhaps in another week or two I might look more like myself. Though I sensed I’d never feel the same again. Lothlel Green had changed me and only time would tell for better or worse.
“Morning, lass,” Mr. Owen said from the doorway. He wore a paisley dressing gown and looked altogether too pleased with the world for such an unchristian hour.
“How long have you been standing there?” I watched him through the mirror.
The old man shrugged. “Waiting on you to wake up.”
“Where’s Ruan?”
He lifted a chipped teacup to his lips. “Fancy a cup before breakfast?”
“Where’s Ruan?” I repeated.
“Don’t worry yourself, he’s due back anytime now. But there was a note for you.” He held his hand out. “Thought you might want it as it’s from the house.”
