Page 2 of The Secret of the Three Fates
Mr. Owen appeared in the threshold, wearing his bright blue silk pajamas with a garish pomegranate-and-black dressing gown tied at his waist. His fluffy white hair looked as if he’d just awoken and my stomach unknotted in response.
“Good grief, Mr. Owen, I thought you were dead. Or worse!”
He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “It’d take more than this old place to do me in. You should know that, lass. Now, come sit and tell me why you look like you’ve drunk curdled milk.”
I huffed out a breath. All my worry from a few seconds before evaporated. He was fine.Fine.Mr. Owen was the closest thing I had to family, as my own father had died upon theLusitaniaseven years ago now, along with my mother and younger sister, Opal. At times it seemed a lifetime ago that I received word that their bodies had not been recovered, and yet at others it was as if I’d just received the telegram.
The telegram. Suddenly I recalled my reason for seeking him out in the first place.The missing manuscripts.I dug into my pocket and waved the folded-up paper at him. “Do you know anything about this?”
He wrinkled his nose and took it from me, holding it at arm’s length as he tried to read it without his spectacles. “Ah yes… that.”
“Ah… that…” I repeated dryly. “I take it there are no illuminated manuscripts here?”
He shook his head, then crumpled the telegram and stuffed it into his dressing gown pocket before turning and gesturing for me to follow into his room. As I entered, I caught a whiff of whisky—likely expensive stuff if his normal taste held true. His room was far darker than my own with the curtains pulled tight against the sun and the fireplace providing the only light.
I sank down into an old armchair with an irritated grunt. “I sense thereisa reason we’re here, and that you didn’t just change your opinion on Scotland after all these years?”
He settled himself slowly into the chair across from me. His left hand trembled as he ran it over his white beard before picking up a half-full glass of whisky. Its twin sat there on the table, equally full.
“Was someone here with you?” I glanced from the pair of whisky glasses to his face. The man had scarcely left his room since we’d arrived; I couldn’t imagine who he’d be entertaining in here. While I knew he’d grown up in Scotland, he had no family to speak of—at least none I knew of besides his litany of fictitious great-aunts he’d pull out of his pocket whenever he needed to make a point.
“Leave off, Ruby. It isn’t important.”
Of course it was important. Mr. Owen never did anything without a reason, and I knew he had no desire to be here. His temper had grown shorter with every moment we remained at Manhurst Castle. Something about this place bothered him and if he wasn’t going to tell me, I’d have to figure it out myself. There was a faint scent of flowers in the air. Lavender perhaps. No, that wasn’t it. But I couldn’t quite place it.
I leaned forward, placing my palm on his forehead. It was cool and clammy. “Mr. Owen, you are clearly unwell. It’s time we go home.”
“Not yet, Ruby. Another night. We must spend another night here.”
“Not yet?” I almost squeaked, my hand flying into the air. “There is no reason on earth good enough for us to stay. There are no manuscripts, the entire library is devoid of anything even remotely interesting. I cannot fathom why you want to remain here when you are clearly miserable!”
He turned back to face me, brushing away at the moisture gathered in his eyes with his palm. “I take it you haven’t seen the papers yet.”
The skin at my neck prickled. Newspapers were the bane of my existence. I still recalled the glee with which the New York newspapermen had picked apart my every flaw after my disgrace. I’d been scarcely sixteen at the time—manipulated and misused by a grown man I’d believed to be honorable—but it made no difference to society that I’d been the victim.A proper girl would never…that’s how every backhanded comment would begin. For the truth didn’t matter to society, nor did it matter to the men who profited from my pain.
My expression must have betrayed me, as Mr. Owen reached out, touching my hand tenderly. “No, lass, not those sorts of stories. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all. You are safe with me. I promise you that.”
I let out an amused sound—safewas a matter of perspective considering he’d nearly gotten me killed six weeks before on an errand to Lothlel Green. My relief was short-lived, as the meaning behind his words became clear. If it didn’t have to do withme,it had to do withhim.“Oh no, Mr. Owen… what have you done this time?”
He eyed his glass of whisky, tilting it in the firelight. “I did not think you would come with me if I told you the truth straightaway.”
Not again.“Told me what… Mr. Owen,whyare we here?”
He grimaced, picking up a folded copy ofThe Scotsman,turnedit over, and laid it flat on the table between us, allowing me to read the advertisement beneath the fold.
The Three Fates, at Manhurst Castle for one night only. Join them to commune with the dead. War widows. Grieving mothers. Brokenhearted sweethearts. Take heart and find your consolation and peace for ten pounds. TONIGHT!
I stared at it in disbelief.Mediums?Mr. Owen had brought me all the way to Scotland for us to commune with the dead? Anger. Annoyance. Dread. I wasn’t quite certain which emotion would win out. “You have to be joking. You’ve brought me here for a séance?”
He rubbed at his thick white beard and tapped the paper. “This is why I did not tell you earlier. You would have gotten all into a tizzy over it.”
I shot to my feet, hands on my hips. “I do not get into tizzies. It is perfectly reasonable to be annoyed when your employerliesto you and brings you to the middle of nowhere under false pretenses.”
He shrugged, his eyes not meeting mine. “I did not lie, Ruby. I obfuscated. Thereisa difference.”
“I’m not in the mood for semantics this morning. Aren’t there plenty of fraudulent mediums closer to home willing to takemymoney fromyou?”
He harrumphed, not rising to the barb, as both of us knew that Mr. Owen lived off my fortune. It was part of our agreement. I had free rein over the bookshop and permission to run his household however I saw fit, and his name was on the bookshop door in large painted letters. My money bought me anonymity and freedom—two things I treasured above all else.
