Page 6 of The Secret of the Three Fates
I ought to be afraid—any rational person would—and yet I could not quite convince my body of what my mind knew to be true. Only a fool would argue with a ghost. But surely this séance couldn’t be real. Could it?
“Who. Who is coming?” I asked at last.
Her mouth grew round and her word came out in a hush. “Run.” And with that final word the candles all snuffed out in the room, casting us all into the darkness and cold.
“It’s Mariah!” a man shouted from the far side of the room.
“She’s returned.”
“Back… she’s come back…”
The voices began to bleed into one as the youngest medium rose to her feet, rattling the tabletop with her movement, struggling with matches that refused to light.
Someone else was looking for the lamps.
Lady Amelia squeezed my hand, causing my knuckles to ache. Her skin damp against mine. The room grew colder, as if such a thing was possible.
“I left you the key, but you abandoned me. Why did you abandon me? Why did you leave me, my love?” The old medium’s voice grew shrill as she called out into the darkness. “The key will tell all and thenyou—youwill pay for your sins…”
At long last the youngest medium managed to locate the switch, and the room was flooded with artificial light, burning my eyes which had grown accustomed to the darkness.
The room warmed instantly, and the strange specter left as quickly as it had come.
“Murderer!” the scraggly haired old man across the table roared, leaping from his chair and lunging toward the spot where Mr. Owen sat. “Murderer!” he shouted again, waggling a bony finger at Mr. Owen.
Mr. Owen shrugged away from me, scraping his chair acrossthe worn wooden floors, and fled the room as it descended into chaos. Everyone spoke at once, clamoring to understand what had occurred.
The oldest medium had gone utterly slack, her neck resting on the high back of the chair. A grayness settled over her features as she opened her fathomless eyes and looked at me.
This was not the face of a woman who was playing a con. No vapor or smoke tricks here—nor silken scarves masquerading as ectoplasm.
My heart thundered in my chest as I heeded that warning voice at long last.
I ran—scrambling through the sweaty bodies, struggling to make sense of what had occurred.Where was Mr. Owen?I strained up on the tips of my toes—a benefit of my height I supposed—where I could make out a tuft of his fluffy white hair near the west wing doors. I darted through the crowd and down the hall after him in hopes of finding out what in God’s name had happened back there.
CHAPTERTHREEAn Ounce of Truth, No More, No Less
“MR.OWEN!” I gasped, chasing him down the servants’ stair into the bustling kitchen, past the harried staff still cleaning up after supper. The old man didn’t slow his pace at the sound of my voice, if anything he quickened it, disappearing out into the rapidly cooling night.
Murmurs of what had happened at the séance had already found their way down here, if the curiosity of the staff was any indication. Muttering apologies for us both, I raced out of the kitchen, following Mr. Owen past the ruins of the previous Manhurst Castle, which loomed in the moonlight, casting dramatic shadows in the night. The overgrown lawn was tall and dew-laden, soaking the silk and lace hem of my evening gown.
A stitch formed in my side as I climbed up and over the ancient wooden stile and headed out toward the lake where an old Palladian bridge connected this estate to the neighboring one. Hawick House, I think it was called. I’d overheard the dowager countess whispering about it to her daughter, Lady Amelia, half in awe and half in warning. The place’s lurid history alluded to, but never mentioned outright. Something about a murdered countess or duchess or something. I wasn’t really paying attentionat the time, as I was full up on murdered aristocrats after leaving Lothlel Green.
I could scarcely hear my own thoughts over my chattering teeth as I struggled on through the thick muddy ground, farther from the electric lights of Manhurst Castle.
During daylight, rolling hills and woodlands stretched out as far as the eye could see. With hidden streams that wended into dark and mysterious copses, the Scottish borders were a wild place where one could lose themselves—disappear, never to be found again. At night, such wildness took on a far more sinister tone, as if all the bloody years of history here conspired to ward off intruders.
My left foot sank into a muddy animal burrow, twisting my ankle and sending a fierce pain up to my knee. I tumbled to the ground, hands and knees in the cold mud. My gown gave a loud rip at the impact.
Lovely.
Just lovely.
Wiping the sting from my hands, I got up and limped farther into the night. I could barely make out his silhouette in the moonlight. I glanced over my shoulder, no longer able to see Manhurst at all. We must have ventured onto Hawick grounds by now. Fabulous. Mr. Owen would likely get me shot by some overzealous groundskeeper at this rate. It was dark now—with nothing but the moon and stars overhead to light our way.
A fox screamed in the distance. At least I hoped it was a fox.
Perhaps this was not the best of ideas.
