‘This is the angel oak!’ says Albertine and points excitedly. ‘This is where the wicked wolves of the wood were defeated!’
I say, ‘Indeed?’ and try to keep the worst of the scepticism out of my tone. I should know better – I do know better – there are more things that roam than anyone suspects. The tree is enormous, its branches spreading up and out, the leaves on the turn, green to gold to fire. Soon they’ll fall entirely, leaving only a skeleton.
The tarn isn’t a large body of water, but Burdon said it’s deep enough to drown in; when I touched my fingers to the surface I found it icy. ‘You watch those children,’ Mrs Charlton said as she handed me a picnic basket this morning, as if it’s not my job. I may not know much about children – although she doesn’t know that – but I’m aware of that much at least. Don’t let them drown.
There’s a park on the far side of the village by a pretty stream, but we have chosen instead to take our picnic near the church, which is far enough away from other buildings that it almost looks like a conscious attempt to put distance between them. The tiny grey stone cottage where the priest lives is a miserable-looking place. We are sitting beneath an oak just outside the churchyard; the children’s coats have been discarded in the sun, but when the wind comes up it’s cold. We’re not so far from the tarn itself, and we can lean against the low stone wall that surrounds the graveyard, which looks rather cramped, tombstones at angles like badly grown teeth. If folk insist upon dying, the bone orchard will need expanding. My eyes keep straying expectantly, nervously, I must admit, to the church. I swallow hard, try not to stare.
Albertine senses my disbelief − this is our fourth day together, she’s a perceptive child − and takes determined steps closer to the trunk. ‘See? Those claw marks were made by the wolves as they fled.’
There are claw marks, yes, at such height as might be made by wolves, but they are fresh; so fresh that there is sap still seeping from the gouges in the bark.
‘And that,’ she says with triumph, pointing to a rock not so far off in the field, ‘is the last wolf, turned into stone by the good priest.’
It’s unlikely a priest would have wielded such magic, yet she’s right: the large stone lump does look very much like a wolf slinking off. I nod to hide a smile, then pause: if the last of the wolves were destroyed in the mists of time and memory, then what made those scratches? I don’t ask the question aloud; it’s enough that I’m made nervous by it. I recall the whatever-it-was that followed me along the drive my first day here, then file it away for later consideration.
We wandered through the town this morning under the guise of a lesson about town planning, but really it was a chance to have the children tell me about the Tarn. To see what they might let slip that adults would not. But they are still a little formal, a little standoffish – I think because they are still trying to get the measure of me. Or because they were urged to be on their best behaviour by their mother as we left the manor. Or perhaps, just perhaps, there’s still the memory of my temper on our first meeting.
The lesson content was somewhat beyond Sarai, but she’s displayed rather a talent for identifying plants and fungi, drawing them and flowers and leaves into her exercise book (no writing yet, she’s not quite got a hold of that). I have been telling her their official names and she in turn supplies the local names. When she pointed to a strange crimson flower growing over the oldest of the graves and said ‘Blood-bells’, I found myself at a loss; I’ve never seen their like before. I must investigate at some later date when no one’s paying attention. I think she enjoyed the chance to teach someone else something. Now, with the blanket laid out − a safe distance from the edge of the tarn − and our basket unpacked, the lessons are over for the day. Sarai is curled against my side, the boy is climbing the tree − ‘Stay in the low branches, Connell’ − and Albertine is dancing beside it.
‘Come and eat your lunch,’ I instruct. Connell is faster to obey than his sister.
‘Wolves of the woods, hey?’ I say and it brings Albertine to kneel on the rug, snatch up a sandwich in a fashion I’m sure her mother would find unbecoming. ‘Then tell that tale in full, my miss.’
She chews quickly, anxious to get the story out lest one of her siblings takes it into their head to do so − badly − and swallows. Albertine crosses her legs beneath her pink skirts, then draws herself up, hands clasped in her lap, head tilted just a little. Someone’s taught her how to tell and I recognise the gesture. It makes my chest ache for it reminds me of my mother perched on the edge of our tiny bed when I was a child and she still had the breath and the desire to entertain me. She might tell me tales of girls who became queens, of witches who flew, of boys who became pups; when she really wanted to frighten me, she’d tell me of her home and what happened there.
‘Once on a time and twice on a time, and all times together as ever I heard tell of, there was a family who owned this land. Their name was not ours, and it is lost, for they were wicked. So wicked that they chose to be wolves, once a year. They would hunt the people of the village for sport. The villagers knew no better, and thought it was their lot to sacrifice until the good priest arrived.’
I try not to scoff (a god-hound would not want sacrifice made to anything but the Church), but Sarai gives a puppy howl, which makes me laugh; to cover up, I nod encouragingly. Albertine smooths out her frown, continues.
‘And the priest fought the wicked wolves of the woods; though he was badly wounded, the good God preserved him, and in the end he prevailed until there was but one beast left, a great she-wolf. The priest cursed this last creature and it turned to stone. Then the priest chose the strongest family in the area and gave them stewardship of the land and the people.’ She smiles and finishes the formula. ‘This is the story you asked to taste, whether it be sour or sweet, it is done.’
‘And this once-upon-a-time? It was before us?’ I ask, then wish I had sharp wolf teeth to bite off my own tongue.
But the child’s too self-centred to think anything of my slip except to correct it. ‘Us, the Morwoods. Us.’ And why would she think any more of it?
‘Who told you this tale?’
‘Tib Postlethwaite when she used to look after us, before we had a governess.’ I met Tib the other day, who grunted at me as she delivered the milk and Burdon introduced us; gods help any child whose education is left up to her! All they’d have heard was story and superstition. Ah, perhaps she simply didn’t like me. But I think also about how Albertine’s eyes slid away from mine when she said the word “governess”. Should I ask questions now about the one who came before me? No. Too soon.
‘That was a wonderful recounting, Albertine.’
She blushes under the praise and looks around for the sandwich she discarded. Her brother’s eaten it during the telling, so I hand her another. I’m about to ask more questions, when a voice comes from behind the angel oak.
‘You shouldn’t be telling such tales, Miss Albertine. You know your mother doesn’t like them.’ Eli appears, leans against the trunk. ‘And they’re ignorant besides.’
She colours deeper, from a pleased pink to a roaring red.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say, wishing I wasn’t sitting; he’s so huge as he looms. ‘It’s just a tale. No harm in stories, no one takes them seriously. At least no one with half a brain.’
‘Only half a brain, you say?’ He stretches a long arm down and plucks a sandwich from the basket; I have to resist the urge to smack it from his hand. The mutton and cheese and bread are gone in three bites. ‘Still and all, no point in telling stories that make priests out to be heroes.’
I can’t fault him on that, and perhaps he sees it in my face for he smiles. Then Eli nods towards the church. ‘Exhibit A.’
A tall, round-shouldered man appears on the steps. He wears purple robes, though the colour is faded with age so it’s almost as lilac as my bedroom furnishings. It gives him an air of levity that’s at odds with his expression, which is unfriendly to say the least. Yet I know enough that a mere village priest has no right to wear such a shade – he should sport nothing more than mole brown. My throat closes up to see him. I don’t know what I expected. He might have been handsome once – surely he must have been? – but bitterness at the loss of things he thought he deserved has turned his face to stone. He raises a fist, shakes it, shouts, ‘This is the Lord’s place.’
Before I can reply, Eli yells, ‘It’s Morwood land and these are Morwood children. Take your complaints up to the big house, you old crow. You know what sort of a hearing you’ll get there.’
The god-hound huffs and puffs, shakes his fist a little more, but Eli just crosses his arms over his chest, plants his feet solidly and stares until the priest shuffles back inside. There’s a moment of stunned silence, then the children erupt into giggles; I force myself to join in. The laughter helps release the tightness in my chest but I can’t help but see him as if he’s painted on my eyes: the once-dark-now-granite hair, the stooping posture; the weight of disappointment. What did I expect my first glimpse to be?
I pull my attention away, look at my charges: the girls rolling about with mirth, Connell staring up at the groundskeeper with unabashed admiration. A proper governess would tell them this is inappropriate, bad manners; would tell them to respect their elders and those who hold themselves holy and can make your life difficult if you do not. But I’m not a proper governess; Not a governess’s bootstrap, my mother would have said with equal relish and disapproval.
‘As if he’d get a hearing up there,’ says Eli. ‘That being said, there’s a good chance he’s gone inside to collect holy water to throw on us. So, we’d best move along.’
Some five minutes later, I speak up, raising my voice so Eli Bligh can’t pretend not to hear me up there in front.
‘The god-hound? Would he not be welcome at the manor?’
Eli snorts. ‘He’s been out of favour for a long time, since I was a boy. Though the master and young mistress attend services when the spirit moves them, the old lady’ – he coughs and corrects with a glance at the children – ‘that is, Mrs Morwood the Elder and the Church apparently had a disagreement of some proportion.’
I’m itching to ask more, but it’s best not to be gossiping in front of the old lady’s grandchildren. He seems to realise that, and grins over his shoulder. ‘The details of which I am not privy to.’
I almost pout.
‘This doesn’t appear to be the way home,’ I observe. I’ll not hurry along behind him like some wife harrying a long-legged husband.
‘I thought you might like a little tour – a detour,’ he calls over his shoulder, and Connell laughs with delight. Small boys are easily amused.
I don’t say anything, just keep walking. We’ve headed away from the church and Tarn, but not towards the manor. The trees grow more thickly here, closer together; the path is hard to discern yet Eli’s march forward is unerring no matter how dark it gets beneath the branches. I say nothing, reminding myself that every opportunity is a chance to learn something.
At last, light!
We break out into a large clearing ringed with trees and nothing in the middle. Or rather, a deep hole in the middle of it all. The quarry. Where we stand, looking down, there is no path. Across the way, however, I see a switchback track that snakes to the bottom. One side is gravel and dirt and I assume stable, the other is mud-brown water. I wonder how deep.
‘It’s not used much,’ says Connell. Albertine has no interest in it, I can tell, or she’d be instructing me.
‘The same stone as the house?’ I ask.
Eli replies. ‘And the church and rectory, and some of the bigger houses further away.’
‘Neighbours,’ Connell says as if they might be unspeakably exotic.
‘Where does your mother take you to visit?’
‘The Penpraises and the Willows, the Madrigals and the Solomons,’ Albertine chimes in – a subject of interest to her clearly – ‘although Father says they’re beneath us, and I think Grandmamma might have said that too.’
I’ll dig into that more later. Instead I look at Eli, back at the quarry. ‘It’s dangerous.’
‘Only if you’re not careful.’ He grins. I pull Connell back from the edge. Not such a problem with the girls, they’re both staying close to the solidity of the trees. Eli continues, ‘It’s far from the Tarn and the house. No one comes out here much unless there’s stone needs cutting for repairs. Long time since it’s been worked properly.’
It’s not big enough for a commercial concern, and the stone’s not lovely enough to be sought-after. It’s terribly plain. A movement catches my eye across the great gaping hole. Something white, flashing between the boles, moving very quickly as if not to be seen.
‘What’s that?’ But I ask too late and it’s gone before Eli and the children turn its way. Flustered, I stare. ‘Nothing. Just my imagination.’
And perhaps it was. I try to recall if this place was ever mentioned but find nothing. Doesn’t mean there isn’t something buried deep, only that I can’t access it. I shiver and Eli notices. The sun’s getting low in the sky.
‘Right,’ says Eli. ‘Home then before your Miss Todd gets a chill.’
‘We’re allowed to call her Miss Asher,’ says Connell shyly, proudly.
‘Indeed?’ Eli raises a brow at me. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll earn that privilege.’
‘Highly unlikely,’ I say and raise my own eyebrow in return.
* * *
Back at the manor, Eli leaves us at the front door. We barely spoke on the walk; he paced ahead with Connell doing his best to keep up, firing questions at the big man; the girls and I came along behind, me quizzing Albertine on her spelling. Once inside, I’ve barely had time to remove the children’s coats when Luned appears. She’s become less snippy with me, possibly because I’ve resisted all her efforts to bicker.
‘Get along. I’ll take care of these. The old lady wants to see you. Second floor, the suite first to the left of the staircase.’
‘Thank you, Luned.’
Leonora Morwood did not send for me when her son said she would, nor any day since. When I met briefly with Jessamine yesterday morning about the children’s lessons – she did not criticise or suggest anything, I think she simply wanted to be involved in a small way and I was happy for her to be so, though jealousy at her care for the children did prick at me – she explained her mother-in-law had been ill. There was something in her tone that told me it was half a lie, but I did not question.
My pace is measured, not wanting to present myself either out of breath or madly perspiring. When I finally arrive at the relevant door, I take a few moments to compose myself: smooth my yellow skirts, tidy my braid, wipe away the tiny beads of sweat at my hairline and upper lip. Leonora Morwood is the one who hired me via the Academy in Whitebarrow (and the one before me). I have read her letters to Mater Hardgrace, seen the strong, elegant handwriting, noted their tone of demand, expectation of obedience. I raise my hand and – balled into a fist and shaking – after only the briefest hesitation, knock.
The voice that answers is firmly uninterested as it bids me enter.
I step into brilliant white light. When my eyes adjust I make out a large room with three tall arched windows, curtains held back by silken cords and ten fully lit candelabras placed carefully around the space. To one side is a large bed, a wardrobe, duchess, a writing desk and a small closed door. To the other is a sitting room, the walls covered with bookshelves, armchairs tightly crammed beside delicate tables piled high with volumes that are either being read or simply cannot fit on the shelves. Even at this distance I can see many of the spines bear a gold embossed M.
‘Oh!’ I say before I can stop myself.
‘What is it, girl?’ It takes a moment before I locate the speaker, whose tone has lifted from indifference to annoyance. She’s just a silhouette and at first I think she’s small, but then realise she is hunched over a wooden lectern right in front of the middle window. Her hair is a faded red, turning to snow, and hangs loose across her shoulders, down to her waist; she doesn’t turn to me.
‘You have so many volumes of Murcianus! They are very rare.’ And expensive, but I do not say that – a sure giveaway of one’s poverty is the mention of something’s value. I have been poor, but I have also been rich-adjacent and benefited from that. The few tomes owned by the university library at Whitebarrow are not merely kept behind lock and key but chained in place as well, viewed only under the strict supervision of the chief librarian (unless one has other, more surreptitious means). Yet here. So many! Unfettered and free!
The woman straightens; she’s quite tall, almost my height. Her dress is a deep burgundy and she wears white cotton gloves such as the archivists at Whitebarrow do. She turns towards me, beckons. As I draw closer I think her eyes are silver. Her face was lovely once, I can see that, but a tracery of wrinkles and sagging have marred it. I quickly calculate: she must be sixty; not old, but old-seeming. It’s not simply the furrows – that’s never enough to ruin beauty – but there’s some suffering beneath her skin. Yet the bones of it are familiar, the architecture is known. Though I recognise something in her, she’ll not do the same with me; this face will raise no alarm bells. I keep a distance between us, a good several yards.
‘You’ve heard of these works?’
Be brave, Asher. ‘Some of them, yes. And I know that Murcianus was not a man, but rather Murciana of the Citadel at Cwen’s Reach, first of the Blessed Wanderers.’
The woman raises a brow, nods. ‘Very few know that. Some of these copies came with those who fled the Fall of the Citadel. They passed to me from my mother, as they did from hers to her in a very long line. Others I have had found over the years.’
‘Marvellous,’ I say and I mean it. So much knowledge! ‘Are you descended? From her, I mean?’
She gives a laugh. ‘Easy to allege such a thing, yes? Who’s to gainsay you so long after the dead are dust, so very long after Murciana passed away. But no. I’ll not lay such a claim – one of the Little Sisters escaped, came here, married in. They say Murciana bore no offspring, besides.’
‘They say she did not die,’ I breathe, a little carried away to speak of such things with someone who understands them. ‘They say she wrote herself into a book, with ink of her blood, and pages of her skin, a quill of her bones, all threaded together with her own hair.’
‘I’ve not heard that before. Fanciful, but I must write it down.’ She says it so quietly it’s almost like a prayer. She raises a hand once more. ‘Come closer.’
So I step into the brightness that pours in with the afternoon’s direct sun, and I realise that her eyes are not silver. There’s the cast of oncoming webs in both iris and pupil… a milky fall of cataracts that will entirely take Leonora Morwood’s sight soon if I’m not badly mistaken. I don’t restrain my intake of breath.
‘Let me see you while I may, girl, you’re little more than a series of smudges at a distance.’ Her mouth thins.
‘My name is Asher Todd,’ I say to assert myself. ‘And I might be able to help.’