‘What of Caulder, Miss Asher?’ Connell asks.
We are in the small room designated as a classroom: there is a chalkboard on wheels at the front, and I must confess we spend less time here than we might. I prefer – and so do the children – working around the house and gardens. There is a long bench and an equally long desk in front of it, with faint-ruled notebooks and sharpened pencils on top – I’ll not allow them ink and quills for some while yet, especially not the littlest, although Sarai’s page is already filled with clever doodles and drawings of the things she would like, kittens and puppies foremost amongst them; she has considerable talent for one so young. Albertine and Connell dutifully take notes as I speak, and they ask questions only after raising a hand and receiving a nod from me; discipline is the first lesson of any worthwhile class or so I’ve been told. A painted map of the known world hangs on one wall – I cannot say how old it is, but some of the newer towns are missing, and smaller villages too, but that might simply be because the cartographer thought them beneath his notice. Today is geography although admittedly I know more of history and tales than geographical details. But I know enough. It’s fortunate that my stolen education has been so very broad.
‘We were not discussing Caulder, Connell,’ I say.
‘No, but Bellsholm is boring.’
‘Bellsholm is a useful city, a port-city, a critical part of the trade routes that keep food and goods moving back and forth. People are fed, they are paid a wage, lives are made easier by the supply of necessities, and pleasant by the supply of luxuries. And it is where your mother is from, so it is relevant to you.’
The boy pouts and I cannot help but smile.
‘A little diversion, then. Caulder is one of the cities of the Darklands. It is located in the mountains and its major export is silver of very high quality. Although the best silver, it is said, was always in the coffers of the O’Malleys of Breakwater; they are now extinct.’ But that’s not what he wants to hear. ‘It is ruled by the Leech Lords who live on human blood.’
Albertine and Sarai gasp like delicate misses.
‘But how do people survive there?’ Albertine asks breathlessly.
‘The Leech Lords are few, and they know, for the most part, that their own existence depends on a populace that gains benefit from their rule. Towns and cities with a lord or lady must make tribute. In return, they are fed and protected. For the most part.’
‘And for the other part?’ asks Connell.
‘Not all leeches value their folk or believe in… responsible farming. And not all live in castles and manors. Some roam and feast and murder.’
‘What’s to stop them coming here?’
‘The borders, Albertine. The borders are protected forever. Such as they cannot cross over.’ I smile. ‘We are safe.’
I could tell her that the borders are held by the will of witches, that even the princes of the Church recognise that there are some who cannot be got rid of entirely. But there’s nothing to be gained by that sharing or by making too many aware of my knowledge of witches or those who told me; a secret has little chance when too many begin to breathe it.
‘Now, may we return to Bellsholm?’
‘What of Whitebarrow, Miss Asher?’ asks Connell.
‘You are trying to distract me from my course, young man.’ I smile. ‘It is a city of learning, a place of study, of doctor-professors and clever men.’ It is a place where women pretend to be less than they are, but that does not differentiate it from anywhere else. ‘Why do you ask? Would you study there?’
He shakes his head. ‘Father thinks I should, but…’
‘It’s not your dream then. So, somewhere else, some other subject?’
‘Literature.’
I smile. ‘Then tomorrow we shall begin a study of the works of Murcianus. I’m sure your grandmother will be happy to let us examine her collection.’
He looks dubious.
‘Leave it to me, Connell.’
‘Will Mother be well soon, Miss Asher?’ Sarai asks. She has been even less attentive than usual, concentrating on her drawings. I crouch down to look into her eyes. I touch her hand, pudgy fingers between mine.
‘Yes, Sarai. She will be well. You must just be patient with her.’ I feel a little jealous that she has a mother who returns her adoration; I’m tired from the hours spent talking to mine, who barely acknowledged me. It makes me a little thin-skinned.
‘Is she ill because of you? She does not like you, Miss Asher.’
Albertine hisses and Connell says, ‘Sarai!’
That hurts as much as anything I’ve ever suffered – such a tiny thing, yet its effect is like a lightning bolt. And it’s true, I know it, but for her to speak it aloud? A cut so sharp. I know it’s based on maternal jealousy, but I have cared for the woman, am doing my best to keep her safe. It’s all I can do not to withdraw my hand like a petulant child who wants to offer hurt for hurt. Yet I know my smile’s lopsided when I answer, ‘No, Sarai. Your mother is simply over-tired and a little sad.’
‘Mother is unwell because Father is cruel,’ says Connell and his tone is so bitter for one so young.
‘Connell,’ says Albertine with reproach but she does not contradict him. These two oldest have eyes to see, where Sarai understands both too little and too much and has not enough wisdom to distinguish where the truth lies.
‘Your mother will be well, children, it might simply take some time.’ It’s all I can say. It will not do to speak ill of Luther, not when he has already done such a sterling job of turning his son against himself, of making his elder daughter doubt him. ‘Now, let us return to Bellsholm.’
* * *
Luned is sitting with Jessamine while Mrs Charlton, who has sleepless bruises under her eyes despite my taking last night’s shift, makes lunch. She moves slowly around the kitchen placing dishes too carefully on surfaces to ensure she doesn’t drop them. I suppose I hadn’t really thought of her age before, but she’s easily sixty, the same as Leonora, but where the mistress of the house has energy to burn, the housekeeper is all but spent. I mix her a tonic with lemon juice and mineral salts to make it fizz, then a little sugar to sweeten it. Then I make another for myself; the hours of watchfulness weigh heavily on me. Somehow I still fear Heloise will get out of the prison I’ve made for her, find some way to subvert every bit of lore and magic I’ve learned.
‘Were there any… interruptions in the night?’ she asks. The first words she’s uttered to me since I wandered into the kitchen. The first words since she entered Jessamine’s room this morning and I left it; not unfriendliness, just exhaustion.
‘She slept well, woke twice.’ The truth.
‘And… did you see anything?’
‘I saw nothing in the dark hours.’ A lie. ‘But I don’t believe there’s nothing there.’
The door opens and a cold breeze blows in, bringing Eli with it. I’ve not seen him since Sunday, since… He’s wrapped up in a greatcoat, a scarf around his neck. His cheeks are red from the wind. I feel my own face redden as I recall our time in the stables. Then I remember it was not the last time I saw him. Sharp of tooth and red of claw.
‘Mrs Charlton. Miss Todd.’ Eli has two sacks over his shoulder and he thumps them onto the tabletop. One has blood stains. ‘Potatoes and coneys.’
‘It’s cold?’ I ask. Yesterday it was no cooler than autumn should be, and in the sun it might have been spring. Now winter’s here for sure.
‘It turns fast hereabouts. You’ll be wanting your coat from now on, Miss Todd; places like the stables can be chilly without enough clothes.’
‘I’m surprised you need a coat, Mr Bligh.’ I slant my eyes at him as I turn away. There’s broth on the stove; I ladle a bowl for Jessamine. ‘I’ll give Luned a spell, Mrs Charlton, but I must attend the children this afternoon.’
‘I’ll be up after lunch.’
I leave the kitchen, but I’m not alone. Eli follows me. We’re through the door into the corridor that leads to the foyer and he grabs at my arm. The soup splashes but does not clear the rim.
‘If you make me spill this, you’ll get worse than a scratch, Eli Bligh.’
‘Talk to me, Asher Todd.’
I frown. ‘What about?’
‘About the light I see at night from my cottage. The strange blue light from the second floor, from a room that’s been locked for years. The light that wasn’t there until you came?’
I swallow, pause to gather my thoughts. ‘I don’t know what you imagine in the night, Eli Bligh, where your wolfish mind wanders.’ I look at him at last, hope the lies are hidden by the veils in my eyes. ‘Why would I care for your nightly imaginings?’
‘Because I saw you at that window,’ he says and breathes into my face.
‘You fantasise, Eli Bligh.’ I smile. ‘I have no key but the one to my own chamber – how could I enter a locked room? Do you suggest I am some sort of burglar, given to lock picking? What would such an activity get me when I am gainfully employed in this house?’
He says nothing but lets go of my arm. He reaches into his coat, to an inside pocket, and pulls out a small parcel wrapped in off-white paper. ‘Heledd Jones asked me to give this to you when I saw her in the Tarn this morning. Said you’d be waiting for it.’
So much sooner than expected, so much more inconvenient than expected! He shakes it, something inside rattles, metal against metal. I reach for it; he pulls it away.
‘Eli, be so kind as to give that to me. It is a gift from Heledd.’ I feel the breath press from my nostrils, hot and annoyed. ‘Or do I need go tell her you cannot see your way to passing on my property? Do I need tell anyone that you go sometimes on two feet and sometimes on four? That if they want to find the priest they need look no further than your gullet?’ There I go, using threats to get what I want; too much like Heloise, too much like Leonora. Too much like a Morwood.
‘You might then need to tell why you were so helpful scooping his remains up.’ He’s got me there. There’s a long pause until at last he grins reluctantly. Eli hands me the small box. ‘You’d have told them by now if you’d wanted me hunted.’
‘I can always change my mind.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘I probably won’t.’ And I grin in spite of everything, think about kissing him; but I don’t.
* * *
Luned is leaning over Jessamine; the well-oiled door does not creak and my steps are naturally silent from a lifetime of sneaking. The maid is whispering to her mistress. It takes a few moments for me to get close enough to hear her, but the tone is clear: hatred. All well and good for me to come to this house with my plots and plans, but what about those who are already here? Those with their own designs?
‘Luned,’ I say for I’ve heard enough. She spins around but I keep my expression carefully blank so she won’t know. ‘Has Mrs Morwood woken at all?’
A sheen of sweat begins to pearl on her forehead. ‘No.’
‘Really? You’ve been here the entire time?’
Her expression is sour and she doesn’t meet my eye.
‘Luned.’
‘I went to my room for a little. To rest.’
‘Go and help Mrs Charlton in the kitchen.’ I think, if there is a need, it will be best for Tib Postlethwaite to sit with Jessamine in future.
She gives me a look and I wonder at what she thought of the governess who came before me. I wonder how she treated her. ‘Thank you, Luned, for attending to your mistress.’
When she leaves, I examine Jessamine closely. The lump on her forehead has gone down and her ankle is far less swollen. There are no broken bones, and I hope she will be able to walk on it soon.
‘Mrs Morwood? Mrs Morwood, wake up. I have something for you to eat.’
She doesn’t stir and I’m quite glad for it means she did not hear Luned’s malicious whispers: I will have everything you have. You will be gone. He’s promised me.
‘Mrs Morwood, you must wake.’ From my pocket I take a small bottle of smelling salts; I waft it under her nostrils. I can smell the ammonia from here; it makes my eyes water. Jessamine’s head twitches from side to side, her eyes flicker open. She startles, pulls away from me.
‘N-n-n-n-n-no.’
‘Mrs Morwood. Jessamine. I mean you no harm. Please believe me. Tell me: have you seen the ghost again?’
‘You… you believe me?’
‘I do. I have seen stranger things, Mrs Morwood.’
‘No, I have not seen her since yesterday… the stairs…’ She closes her eyes, tears squeeze. I touch her hand, hold it. She squeezes back.
‘Jessamine, you will not see her again, I promise. But I need your help. And I have a proposal.’
She pauses but not for very long, then nods.
* * *
In my room, as I pull the curtains to shut out the cold night, I idly wonder if Eli Bligh is watching from his cottage. If he watches this window – or the other one. If he sees the blue glow of Heloise, if he continues to wonder what it is, but decides he has enough ghosts of his own – or the house has ones that are not his concern.