Page 2 of Seraph's Tears
Fear made my palms slick, and I clenched my valise tighter. My shoulder ached, five points throbbing deep into my muscles. A parting gift I would use as a reminder for why I’d come here, why I’d woven my own, secret plan.
Zorababel’s grandfather was in the field that day and saw the Falling with his own eyes, and he created a new sect surrounding the winged monster he thought was the new messenger for Erlik. Zor wanted to carry on his family’s legacy and track down this creature. I had no idea what he wanted to do with the Herald when I found him. If I found him.
Erlik, please protect me. I rarely prayed anymore, but my nerves were shaky and I fell back into old habits. My hand drifted of its own accord to the fragile chain around my neck, fiddling with the old brass key on it.
The manor house was small, as far as great country estates went, I supposed. Not that I’d ever visited one, even on a penny tour. Mirkwold Manor was shaped in a two-story L, the gray stone walls reminding me of some Gothic castle. Mullioned windows in sets of six lined the end and sides of the house. Chimneys rose from the steep, tiled roof, and a third floor of windows peeked from the gables. Attic dormers dotted the roofline. Within the crook of the L, in the gravel area designed for carriages to turn, sat the beginnings of a tower with arched windows and ivy crawling up the cracks. I imagined this had been some noblewoman’s solar long ago, based on the curve of the wall and many lined windows. The house’s front entrance, a great wooden door with iron bracing, nestled under a roofed porch with those railing things castles always had on their tall walls. I was too tired to remember the name of them.
He’s not going to murder me, I chided myself even as my legs tensed. Just because he’s the Herald of Death—maybe—that doesn’t mean he’ll strike me where I stand.
I climbed the two steps, then held my breath as I used the thick iron knocker on the wooden door in the stone wall-enclosed porch. For several moments I stood there, waiting. Listening. I tucked my loose hair behind my ears.
Shuffling sounded behind the door, like an old broom on cracked stone. The sound paused, then metal scraped against metal. Another minute passed, and now it was painful. I waited on tenterhooks. When the hinges creaked it nearly gave me a heart attack.
It still took an eternity for the broad door to open, until finally, finally, a wizened, white face peered through the gloom.
“Hello?” The elderly man’s tone was puzzled, as if he wanted to ask, are you sure you’ve the right house?
Should I have gone around to the servant’s entrance? Had I made a mistake already? Well, I would have to brazen it out. Too much was riding on this.
“Hello.” I smiled, squaring my shoulders and hoping I emanated an aura of authority. “I’m Miss Lovejoy, the new housekeeper.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. Was he hard of hearing? Or was his brain slowly processing what I’d said?
“I’m here for the position?” I inwardly winced and tried again. “I’m here for the housekeeper position. I answered the advertisement and received a letter of acceptance from Mr., erm, Ser. Mr. Ser.” Odd name, that. It had been one of the things that made Zor convinced his elders had found the right person. I opened my reticule and pulled out the letter, written on expensive foolscap. The thick, red wax made the edges flap open. I waved it in front of the man, proof I was supposed to be here. “May I come inside?”
The elderly man sighed and opened the door further, just enough for me to slip inside. My shoulder brushed the edge of the door, leaving a line of dust on my sleeve. I pursed my lips. I had a difficult job ahead of me if the maids worked so poorly.
I stopped inside the front hall, letting my eyes adjust to the dim room. Goodness, was it always this dreary? I’d originally laughed when Zorababel had said Mr. Ser was the Herald of Death. But who else would want to live in such a gloomy place?
I stood in some sort of Great Hall. Darkness crawled up the wood-paneled walls, reaching high above my head until it smothered the whole room. A few pieces of furniture, shrouded in dust cloths, littered the room haphazardly. My eyes strained, searching for the origins of the weak light. A few arched windows hovered far above my head and deep in one corner, in the crook of the house’s L shape.
Wood creaked overhead, like someone shifted their weight.
Alarm shot through my body and my breath caught in my throat. I whirled, looking upward for the hidden threat. Peering through the dim light, I saw only dark wooden paneling and a closed door leading to the rest of the house’s wing.
Something rustled overhead.
I gulped and looked up, up, up through the gloom.
A spot of light too weak to be called a shaft tumbled through the dust-covered windows and caught the edge of a wooden railing on the floor above me. I assumed, since this manor house was old and uncared for, it might be a minstrel gallery, where musicians would’ve played so the music could fall across the Great Hall.
A figure swathed in shadows loomed. One pale hand gripped the railing. Whatever he was, he was tall. And something lurked behind him. Cold eyes gleamed from the darkness.
I gasped before I could stop myself.
The figure stepped back, hidden again.
The elderly man turned to stare at me balefully beneath his heavy, white brows. “If you’re the housekeeper, that means I can retire.”
“Erm, what?” I blinked. This great house needed a housekeeper and a butler. I’d always been told large estates had scores of servants to keep them running. “In a few weeks?”
He shook his craggy head. “Tonight. I’ll give you a tour and head out.”
I gaped at him. “Tonight? Then who is going to teach me the routine? How to handle the other servants? Keep up with bills?”
“It’s just you.”
“Just me?” A horrible thought struck me. “You mean we’re the only two servants in this huge house?”
