Page 78 of The Secret of the Three Fates
These had to be what we’d been looking for—what Mariah wanted us to find. But as I continued going through the images, Irealized that they’d been irreparably damaged. Naked bodies with faces hastily scratched out and identities removed. I wasn’t quite certain how it was done but the effect was jarring all the same.
“What is wrong with them?” Hecate asked.
“Either someone found these before Genevieve did… or…”
Hecate interrupted me, pointing at the background of one of the plates. There was a man there, fully dressed and cutting a fine figure in his suit, wholly unaware of the photographer’s presence. He was the only person in the image whose face was fully visible. His body radiated anger, the image was blurred where his hand would have been—the likeness captured mid-motion.
“Isn’t that the one they call Captain?”
The man bore a striking resemblance to Andrew, though whoever he was—his nose had not been broken. This wasn’t Andrew Lennox at all. Not to mention the clothing was far too old-fashioned. I sucked in a sharp breath as the gravity of what I held in my hands sank in. Mariah had most certainly taken these photographs, and this man… whoever he was, could only be one of two people—Mr. Owen, or his brother Malachi—both of whom would have looked a great deal like Andrew as young men. This was bad.
Very bad.
Had Mr. Owen also lied about his involvement with Eurydice’s Fall? I tucked the glass negatives under my arm and reached for the wooden-cased photograph. “Dare I see what you are?”
Hecate clucked at me. It seemed that ancient witches did not talk to themselves.
Ignoring her disapproval, I released the latch and opened the case, revealing an image of two figures—a young girl of about ten, and an older woman who looked an awful lot like Genevieve except her hair was fair. Based on their clothing alone, I would have put the image around 1890, which made sense as Genevieve waseasily a dozen years older than me. The woman held what looked to be an 1890s Kodak Number 3 camera, a fact I only knew as I’d managed to find one for Mr. Owen’s collection not long ago.
“What did you find, Morvoren?”
A mother’s tears… a daughter’s rage…
My stomach knotted. I knew well the depths of a daughter’s rage—of the lengths one would go to fix past slights.
Mariah’s body had never been found.
My head began to swim. What if Mariah hadn’t died all those years ago at all? What if she was still alive? Alive and angry. “We need Ruan… we need Ruan now.”
“What do you see?”
I could scarcely form the words, scarcelythinkthem. I latched the wooden photograph case, slipping it into my pocket. “You said that Genevieve and Lucy were close…”
“Lucy was very protective of the girl, why?”
I thought back to the image in my pocket—of mother and daughter—afraid of what it would mean if my suppositions were true. Of course, Lucy would be protective of Mariah’s daughter, of her own niece.
Hecate’s expression fell as she sniffed the air in alarm. “Fire!”
Hecate and I bolted from the bedchamber, out into the corridor, down the back stair and toward the source of the flames. The smoke grew thicker, filling my lungs, and I fell to my knees, crawling toward the door that opened into the garden and the ruins beyond. The muscles of my chest hurt from the exertion, but I clutched the glass plates tight against me with Hecate trailing at my heels.
Shouts ofFirerang out from elsewhere in the castle.
My pulse pounded in my ears as I struggled to remember where the door was. I’d only seen it twice, but I was not about to die like this, not when I was this close to saving Mr. Owen.
With each labored breath, I grew increasingly unable to think of anything but clean air. Water. Life.
Ahead I spied the edges of the door, visible through the smoke. My eyes burnt. I blinked back the wetness there.
Just a little farther.
All I had to do was make it a few more feet. My lungs rebelled against the rapidly warming air around us. The flames must be close now.
A little farther, Ruby. Go a little farther.My mother’s voice echoed in my head. I was dying. I must be to hear her voice again. Coughing, and body weakening, I finally found the door, reaching up for the catch. Warm but not hot. A good sign. It meant the fire was behind us, not ahead. Cool air rushed in when I pushed it open and the pair of us scrambled out onto the cool grass.
Sooty and coughing we collapsed on our backs, watching as the black smoke billowed from the upper floors of Manhurst, orange flames licking up into the smoky clouds—a beautifully terrible sight.
“Morvoren…” Hecate rolled over onto her knees, panting for air, as she stared at the ruins behind me.
