The turret window was directly across from the door. Adria stared out of it and saw the trees, the lake beyond, and most of all, the half-moon. The room was cast in violet hues of night. A small bed—more of a cot, really—lay empty. The covers had been skillfully placed and tucked, the pillow fluffed and undented from anyone having lain on it. She dared a step into the room. A tall wardrobe stood to the right of her, and skirting that was a desk with a straight-backed chair. Adria narrowed her eyes, trying to see through the darkness to the top of the desk. There were a few envelopes on it. Letters. An inkwell. An ink pen on its dish. There also appeared to be a pocket watch with a long chain dangling over the side of the desk. But it was difficult to see.
Intrigued, Adria walked over to the desk. She peered down without touching anything. Yes. It was an open pocket watch, and if she was making out the hands clearly, they had stopped turning at two o’clock. Morning or night, she couldn’t know. Reaching out, Adria moved to pick up the watch.
“Don’t.”
She squealed, snatching her hand away as she whirled toward the direction of the voice. The door to the room slammed shut, and behind it was the tall form of a man.
Adria’s breaths came in short, frightened gasps. She clutched at her housecoat, pulling it around herself as though he had caught her alone in her own bedroom. Only he hadn’t. She had caught him alone in his. Adria backed up, her behind hitting the desk.
The man took a step toward her. It was wobbly, unsteady. The moonlight illuminated strands of long, straight hair that fell over his face. Deep-set eyes came into view, but their color was hidden by the night. He wasn’t as tall as her father, but close to it. His shirt was untucked and hung over dark trousers. His hand was wrapped around the neck of a crystal decanter, a whiskey-colored liquor sloshing inside it.
“Who are you?” Adria managed to squeeze out the words, even as an all-too-familiar feeling of dread made her rigid and rooted where she was.
He gave a quiet bark of laughter. “Who am I? Who am I?” He veered in his steps, and his head dipped, then righted. His right index finger danced in the air as he waved his arm toward her. “You may call me Mr. Crayne.”
“Crayne?”
“Mr. Crayne.”
Adria nodded. “Yes. All right then.” She’d learned, even through her defiance, that to be stubborn with a man sloshed with liquor was to invite needless trouble.
“And you. Who are you, oh, disturber of my peace?” Mr. Crayne stepped forward, and this time she could make out glazed blue eyes. Whiskers on his face were unshaven and coarse. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck down to the middle of his bare chest.
Adria averted her eyes.
“Well?” he demanded and lifted his arm with the decanter. Liquid splashed onto the floor. “No name? Nothing? You’re a ghost, then. I must assume you’re a grown-up Lucy sent to torment me further.”
“Who?” Adria frowned.
“‘Who’ is right.” Mr. Crayne spun toward the window and stumbled over to it. He slapped the windowpane with his palm. “See that lake out there? It’s deep. Dead ships lie at its bottom and mock the living above. Do you feel mocked, Lucy?” He turned, spearing her with a black look.
“I-I’m not Lucy,” Adria sputtered. Everything in her made her want to flee, but it was as though someone had glued her feet to the floor. She was unable to move under his stare.
In a few strides, his long legs swallowed the distance between them. Lowering his face to hers, a strand of his dark hair brushed her cheek. She could smell whiskey on his breath.
“You’re not Lucy. No. You are Alexandria Fontaine.”
Goose bumps rose on her arms.
He ran a finger down the length of her jaw, his skin cold against hers. “Aren’t you afraid of me? A drunken man with whiskey his best friend?” Pulling back, Mr. Crayne glared down at her. “I suppose they told you I didn’t exist. Like so much at Foxglove Manor does not exist.” He lifted the decanter to his mouth and took a swig, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Iiii . . .” Mr. Crayne drug out the word as though searching for the next one. “I never was a man. I was only a boy. Just a boy. Then bang!” he shouted, his voice deep and baritone.
Adria yelped, and her backside bumped the desk, sending the pocket watch to the floor in a clatter of metal chain.
Mr. Crayne reached around her until she was trapped between him and the desk. He slammed the decanter down on the desktop with vehemence. His face was inches from Adria’s.
“War does that, Miss Fontaine. Takes a boy and ruins him for manhood. Yes?” He tugged at his shirt, and Adria’s eyes widened as the drunken Mr. Crayne lifted it up and pulled it over his head. “See?” he demanded, turning so that now she was nose to his bare back. A scarred back. Long, puckered white scars scored him.
Horrified, she didn’t move.
“See?” he repeated, arching his neck to look over his shoulder at her. “Touch them! Feel them, I say! That is war, Miss Fontaine. And she says I am shameful. Blast it all, woman, why won’t you touch them?”
Mr. Crayne cursed and grappled for Adria’s hand. She resisted, pulled against his fingers as they wrapped around her hand, squeezing them together. He raised her fingers, and in compliance to avoid worse, Adria finished the movement and touched one of the scars. It was warm—hot, really—and thick. She ran her fingers down the length of it, then dropped her hand. Mr. Crayne turned back to her, his bare chest white against the night. “You see, Miss Fontaine? There is no forgiveness when a man loses his mind to battle. There is no understanding that the outward scars are merely a glimpse at what lies inside.” He reached for the decanter, and his chest brushed the front of her housecoat. Stepping back, Mr. Crayne took another drag from the decanter.
Adria dared not move. She remained still. Silent. Old instincts rose and quashed her courage, her curiosity.
They stood there, nose to chest, until Adria managed the wits to raise her head and look up at the lean man with muscled arms and chest.
“My name is Adria.” She wasn’t sure why she whispered. She wasn’t sure why she gave him her informal name. But she was completely unprepared when he lost his balance and fell into her. Without thought, her arms came up beneath his.
“Help me,” he whispered desperately in her ear. “This must end.”
Mr. Crayne collapsed, his weight too heavy for Adria to hold. They fell to the floor in a tumble of nightdress and trouser-clad legs and were splashed with the pungent amber of whiskey. The decanter had also fallen with a crash, the neck breaking from its body.
The bedroom door flew open.
Lula stood in the doorway. She took in the sight. Mr. Crayne and his naked chest. The whiskey. Adria in a housedress. The two of them entangled on the floor, with Mr. Crayne showing no evidence of remedying it any moment soon.
“Ohhhhh, Miss Fontaine!” Lula’s hand covered her mouth in a gasp. “Now what have you done?”