The Hollow Heart - foundtherightwords (2024)

Chapter 1: At the Old Oak Tree

Chapter Text

Christabel ran.

In the distance, she could hear the shouts and cheers of the hunting party, the excited barking of the dogs, and the occasional gunshots, cracking sharply in the crisp autumn air. She was not far enough. Lifting her heavy wool skirt above her knees, she pushed deeper into the bushes. The dead leaves from years past formed a soft carpet under her feet, muffling the sound of her steps, while the leaves of this year, despite having turned all shades of gold and crimson on the trees, had not yet fallen, so she need not worry about being discovered from their crunch underfoot. She hoped the party was not headed this way. After all her endeavors to snatch a moment alone, she intended to savor it to its fullest.

Christabel Cunningham hadn't had many opportunities to be alone in her twenty-three years on Earth. The only daughter of a wealthy New York businessman, she had been since birth surrounded by nurses and governesses and servants, who took care of her under the watchful eyes of her mother. Her father had died, quite suddenly, of a heart attack, when Christabel was only a child. Christabel did not miss him. To her, he was but a dim, distant figure, always away on business trips, or holed up in his study when at home, hiding from his wife, leaving Christabel to bear the brunt of her mother's nagging. The sole mark he'd left on Christabel's life was her name, given to her by him in a fit of romanticism, much to the disapproval of Mrs. Cunningham, who preferred classic names like Elizabeth or Catherine or Amelia. His death didn't leave much of a void behind.

Her mother, an ambitious and exacting woman, embittered by her failure to have a son and by becoming a widow so young, had poured all her affection and thwarted dreams upon her daughter, smothering the girl with them. She dictated everything Christabel wore and ate and read and play, and all the friends Christabel made and all the parties Christabel attended had to be approved by her. And so Christabel had grown up with her books and her dolls, lonely but never alone.

In truth, she hadn't been allowed to attend a lot of parties. As she grew up and learned more about her father's will, Christabel discovered a more mercenary side to what she'd once thought was her mother's overprotectiveness. As the trustee of her daughter's inheritance, Mrs. Cunningham could enjoy a lavish lifestyle, a townhouse on Fifth Avenue, a summer cottage in Newport, the latest fashion in her wardrobe and the most luxurious dishes on her table. But as soon as Christabel was married, she would be in charge of her own fortune, and Mrs. Cunningham would be left with half of what she was used to. Christabel believed that to prevent this, her mother would have locked her away forever, like Rapunzel in her tower.

But social standing has its advantages. Afraid of the wagging tongues of the town, the whispers behind closed doors that she was keeping her daughter from society to hold on to her money, Mrs. Cunningham had reluctantly allowed Christabel to make her debut when she came of age. Since then, her days had been filled with balls and theater trips in the winter, tennis matches and yacht races in the summer, giggling friends and fawning suitors, still under the watchful eyes of her mother. It was tedious, but Christabel had endured it because it was better than staying at home, surrounding by the dark walls of her room and feeling her mother's disapproving stare on her at all times. Besides, that was what was expected of all the debutantes. Smile, dance, flirt, ride, sketch or sing a little, play a little piano, speak a bit of French, a bit of German, be amusing but not sarcastic, be vivacious but not feisty, be modest but not withdrawn, and hopefully make an advantageous match, and then have daughters and watch them go through the same thing, over and over again.

Christabel knew she would not break free of this cycle. Her whole life she had been taught to do what she was told, to never question, to never put a foot out of line. But as her own, feeble form of rebellion, she made it a point to refuse every proposal she'd ever received—and there had been plenty of them. With her delicate features, dewy skin, wide blue eyes, and strawberry blonde hair, Christabel always turned heads in every room she walked in. It was true that her nose was slightly upturned and her front teeth were slightly crooked, but these flaws were seen as charming, not defective. And if her manners were at times rather listless and uninterested, well, her inheritance could more than make up for it. So a lot of men had fallen in love with her, or at least with her beauty, or with her money, and had proposed, but she had refused them all.

When Mrs. Cunningham found out about these refusals, Christabel always had a believable reason to convince her mother of her decision—the family had an unpleasant reputation, their fortunes were not equal, or the boy himself did not have a promising enough prospect. Mrs. Cunningham was appeased, for a while, but after two seasons and Christabel remained unmarried, she began to grow uneasy and warned her daughter of the perils of spinsterhood.

To all her admonishment, Christabel said nothing. It wasn't that she wanted to be an old maid for the rest of her life, far from it. But unlike other young women, who dreamed of marriage as a celebration of love or even as a way to further their social connections, Christabel saw it as a means to freedom. And none of the men in her circle could give her that freedom she so thirsted. They all grew from the same stocks, the same root. If she married one of them, she would move in the same circle, lead the same life, beating a tired circle from Manhattan to Newport and back again, perhaps with the occasional trip to Europe, but still seeing the same faces, doing the same thing as everybody else, and never be free of her mother.

For that summer season, Christabel had tried to convince her mother to go to London or Paris, or, if they had to stay, then she was secretly hoping—as hateful as it sounded—to catch the eyes of a European aristocrat, many of whom were flocking to America in search of an heiress to restore their family fortune. Europe would be the ultimate escape. However, her mother disliked traveling, and although Christabel's inheritance was sizeable, it was not large enough to draw the attention of an impoverish earl or baronet.

At least her mother had accepted Mrs. Carver's invitation to their summer mansion in Tuxedo Park for two weeks of English-style country party. There were to be riding and shooting and picnics in the woods, all culminating in a costume ball on All Hallows' Eve. They had just come back from Newport, worn out and looking forward to some quiet days to recover before the winter season, so Christabel had been afraid her mother would refuse, knowing her dislike of the outdoors. But an invitation to the exclusive Tuxedo Park was hard to come by, and when Mrs. Cunningham learned the party was thrown for Mrs. Carver's eldest, Jason, who had just come back from Yale, nothing could have kept her away.

Jason Carver. Christabel sighed. All the debutantes were in love with him, though to Christabel, he had always been just a good friend, nothing more. She'd never imagined he would set his sight on her, not when he was always surrounded by so many other girls. So it had come as a complete shock when, after a dinner party at the Carvers' mansion, Jason had asked to speak to her alone in the gazebo overlooking Tuxedo Lake. There, while the moonlight rippled over the water, turning the surface of the lake into a broken mirror, he had taken Christabel's hands in his and, tremblingly, haltingly, asked her to marry him.

For the first time, Christabel had hesitated.

Jason was one of her few childhood friends her mother had approved of, as the Carvers' Manhattan residence was not far from the Cunninghams'. He had always been kind and attentive to her, and unlike some men, she knew he cared not a jot for her inheritance, since the Carvers was one of the richest and most prominent families in the city. A marriage between her and Jason would send her mother to Heaven.

That was the problem, of course. Christabel never wanted to do anything her mother wished.

"If we are to marry, can we live here?" she'd asked. It sounded as though she had accepted him already, but she didn't care. She looked around at the untamed parkland of the mansion, with the woods surrounding it on all sides and the sparkling lake in the distance. It may not be far enough from her mother, but it would be something.

"Of course!" Jason had said, squeezing her hands. "We'll come here for the summer, and—"

"No, you mistook me. I don't mean for the summer. I mean permanently."

Jason had laughed at that, thinking it was a joke. "We can't possibly live here! I have my business in town, and there's nobody here for half of the year anyway. Why would you want to live here?"

Christabel had tried to say that she wanted to live in Tuxedo Park precisely because there was nobody there for half of the year, but one look at Jason and she knew he wouldn't understand. Nobody would.

"I'm sorry, I can't," she'd said and withdrawn her hands.

She'd half-hoped Jason would try to get her to change her mind, that he would say they could live anywhere as long as they were together, but he had only shaken his head, said, "It's not meant to be then," bowed, and gone back inside, leaving her alone on the shore of that moonlit lake. Of course. No amount of love could be enough to compel a man to throw away his whole life like that, and even if he had made the offer, she couldn't possibly have accepted such a sacrifice. Perhaps it was for the best.

Still, that hadn't stopped things from being rather tense and awkward between them when they set out for the hunt that morning. Christabel had never enjoyed hunting, but she jumped at any chance to be outdoors, to be able to walk and run and move freely without being criticized for not acting ladylike enough. And another reason—her mother, having no interest in hunting and riding, always stayed behind on such occasions. That morning, though, Christabel could feel Jason's mournful eyes on her whenever she turned. She'd only wanted to be alone with her thoughts, but it was difficult when she was surrounded by the hunting party with their guns and dogs and servants. It was only when they came across a flock of partridges and the others' attention was diverted that she managed to slip into the woods.

Now, as she walked through the trees, Christabel pondered her situation. Would it be so bad, being married to Jason? It would at least let her be mistress of her own life... except that life would still be tied to another's. No, if she simply wanted to claim her inheritance, she would've married the first man that proposed and had done with it. This regret was simply because she had started to feel anxious about her future. Could she go on like this until her mother died? Could she live as a spinster, becoming brittle and bitter in her old age, facing the pity and contempt of others? Christabel felt the old, helpless anger toward her father blaze up inside her once more when she thought about the predicament he'd placed her in. What was the use of ensuring no one could touch her inheritance, if she had to saddle herself to a man to claim it?

She passed through the line of trees and came to a clearing on the side of a hill, gently sloping toward a small glen, where an old oak tree spread its cape of gold leaves over a murmuring brook. It seemed something straight out of a Washington Irving story—all that was missing was a covered bridge. Tucking her skirt into the top of her gaiters, Christabel threw her arms over her head and sprinted down the slope, letting the cool air fill her lungs and clear her head.

Near the bottom of the slope, her skirt slipped out of the gaiters and tangled around her legs. Her ankles twisted under her and sent her tumbling down. She rolled head over heels the last few feet before skidding to a stop right by the oak. Luckily, the hill wasn't steep, and her fall had been more embarrassing than painful. She cursed under her breath. When they received Mrs. Carver's invitation, Christabel had begged and begged her mother to let her have a split skirt for the occasion so she could move about with more ease and perhaps even learn to ride a bicycle, as some of her friends had, but Mrs. Cunningham had insisted that her old riding habit, with its long trailing skirt, would do just fine. Christabel shouldn't do much walking or moving about anyway, Mrs. Cunningham had argued. Men wouldn't be interested in overly energetic girls. And as for riding a bicycle, showing off her legs in those newfangled bloomers, like some common hoyden? Forget about it.

"Are you all right, miss?" a voice said somewhere over her head.

Christabel looked up and saw a pair of blue eyes. A man had stepped out from the other side of the oak tree and was looking down at her. She suddenly became aware that she was sprawled on the ground with her skirt hiked up over her knees. She bolted up and pulled her skirt down, face burning crimson.

"Yes, yes, I'm perfectly fine, thank you," she sputtered, struggling to her feet.

Her ankle turned painfully. The man reached out a hand to help her. His grip was firm and strong.

"Thank you." Christabel peered at him more closely. He was dressed for a day out in tweed and stout boots, but with a walking stick, not a gun. "Are you with the Carver hunting party?" she asked, for she did not remember seeing him. He was a little older than Jason and her circle of friends, in his late twenties or early thirties perhaps, tall, with a fine-boned, elegant-looking face. But what startled her the most was his eyes, as clear and blue as the sky above, fixed upon her with an expression of fascination and interest quite unlike anything she'd received from her suitors. She reached a self-conscious hand to her hair, trying to dislodge any dry leaf that may have gotten stuck there.

"Carver? No, no, I'm a guest of Dr. Brenner."

Christabel's eyebrows shot up. Dr. Brenner was an eccentric who had inherited one of the largest fortunes in New York, but rather than continuing to run the family business, he had devoted his time to studies of the occult and other esoteric sciences. Unlike most of the residents of Tuxedo Park, who only kept their mansions here as holiday homes, he lived in a cottage deep in the woods year round, engaging in all sorts of obscure experiments, never interacting much with his neighbors. They tolerated him out of respect for his family name; some saw him as a harmless old fool and even invited him to some of their parties to show him off to their out-of-town friends, much like the ornamental hermits that the English aristocrats of old often kept on their grounds. Unfortunately, the Carvers were not one of these open-minded people, so Christabel had never met Dr. Brenner. She had to admit that she sometimes felt envious of him and the male privileges that allowed him to give up his family business, but not his wealth, and pursue his true passion. Alas, no such luck for her.

And here was this man, claiming to be a guest of the mysterious doctor! Her curiosity was pique immediately.

"Are you?" she asked, with interest. "I didn't know he ever invited anyone here. You must be a man of science or some sort of scholar, for him to allow you to encroach on his solitude. What is your business with him?" Then she colored again, realizing how intrusive her question was. Usually she never allowed herself to behave so casually with a gentleman, but there was something about this man that freed her from the confines of propriety. Or perhaps it was the scene around them, the wild woods and the open sky that had no use for etiquette. Still, the habits of upbringing were hard to shake off, so she cast her eyes downward and murmured, "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to pry."

"Not at all," the man said with a friendly smile. "As a matter of fact, my family came from this area before it was developed, and Dr. Brenner is helping me to research our history. I'm just looking for the ruins of their village."

"Oh. That sounds very interesting."

"And if there's anyone who must be pardoned," the man continued, "it should be me, for I have been so presumptuous in talking to you without so much as an introduction. You must allow me to make amends, Miss—"

"Cunningham. Christabel Cunningham," she said.

"What an unusual and beautiful name." The man looked into the distance. "The lovely lady, Christabel, whom her father loves so well. What makes her in the wood so late, a furlong from the castle gate?" he recited in his rich, musical voice whose reverberation seemed to reach Christabel's very core.

She laughed to hide her blush. "A very fitting quote. Only it's not so very late, and while the Carver mansion is grand, it is far from a castle," she said. "And I'm simply taking a walk, not praying for my betrothed. In fact"—the noise from the hunting party had ceased, and she realized it must be nearly time for luncheon—"I'm just heading back now."

"And alas, I am no Geraldine," the man said. "But may I accompany you anyway?" He extended an arm toward her.

Christabel hesitated, thinking what her mother would say about walking in the woods with a stranger. But surely, there was no harm in it. The hunting party was not so far away, and she could always tell the truth—that she had gotten hurt, and this man was helping her. She took the proffered arm, and they started walking toward the Carver mansion, not following the route Christabel had, but taking the longer way, along the lakeshore, Christabel hobbling to keep up with the man's long strides. There was a dull ache in her ankle, but she bit her tongue, not wanting to complain.

"I see that you are an admirer of Coleridge, like my father," Christabel said.

"Your father must be a man of great taste then."

Her smile disappeared. "I wouldn't know. He died when I was very little." She caught herself again. Why was she telling this man, whom she met not five minutes ago and whose name she still didn't know, all these things about herself?

"Oh, I am so very sorry." The man took off his cap, revealing longish blonde hair that fell over his forehead in soft curls. His eyes were full of sympathy. "I know how difficult it is, losing one's parents. My own parents—" His voice hitched. "They died when I was very young as well. An earthquake, in San Francisco."

Christabel's heart panged with sympathy. "That must be horrible."

Those brilliant blue eyes dimmed for a moment. "It was."

"So you live in San Francisco?"

"I do, yes."

"What is it like?" she asked eagerly. Outside of Newport and occasionally the Catskills, she had never been anywhere. She had never even left the state of New York.

Before the man could answer, she put her weight on the sore ankle by mistake and let out an involuntary yelp. He turned to her, all solicitous concern. "Have you hurt yourself in the fall?" he asked.

"I must have," she replied reluctantly.

Tucking his cap into a pocket, he knelt down, took her ankle in his hand, and gently turned it this way and that. "Does this hurt?"

"Only a little," she said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, that won't do." He put one arm around her and the other under her knees, scooping her up easily as though she weighed no more than a feather. "I should have noticed sooner," he said. "I'm sorry."

"It's quite all right." Christabel was feeling a little dazed. None of her suitors had ever picked her up like that—indeed, none of them ever touched so much as the hem of her skirt without asking for permission first. She found that she didn't mind being handled, didn't mind the lack of permission-seeking. Nestling against his chest, she glanced shyly up at her gallant rescuer. Despite his slender frame, he was carrying her across the uneven terrain with no effort at all. The sun was shining upon his blonde hair, turning it into a gold helmet, and his blue eyes sparkled as he smiled down at her. She was glad they were taking the longer route.

But all too soon, the shingled walls of the Carver mansion appeared behind the trees, and the hunting party came into view. Christabel was afraid her rescuer would put her down the moment they came upon the others, but if anything, his hold around her seemed to tighten.

"There you are, Christabel," Jason said, stepping forward. "We were about to send out a search party—" His countenance changed upon seeing her in the arms of the stranger. "What happened?"

"Miss Cunningham had a bit of an accident," the man said. "I happened to come across her and took the liberty of escorting her home."

"How fortunate," Jason said, his voice icy. He all but yanked Christabel out of the other man's arms, as though she was a child, or worse, a doll, a toy to be fought over.

"I'm perfectly all right, Jason," Christabel said, fighting to put her feet on the ground. "It's just a sprain."

Jason relented and put her down. Christabel turned to her rescuer, who was replacing his cap on his hat, preparing to go. "Thank you so much," she said. "I hope I haven't delayed you from your quest."

"It was my pleasure. It's not every day a beautiful lady fell from the sky and landed at your feet, is it?"

She couldn't stop a smile from spreading across her face. "I still don't know your name."

"Haven't I told you?" He looked confused.

Christabel frowned, trying to recall. "No, I don't think so."

"Ah." He tipped his cap at her. "Henry Creel, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Will I see you again, Mr. Creel?"

He flashed her another of his dazzling smiles. "You can count upon it." Then, with a bow in the general direction of the hunting party, who was staring at him, he turned and disappeared into the woods.

Chapter 2: Her Own Betrothed Knight

Chapter Text

Christabel did have to endure a lecture about the danger of wandering off on her own, but thankfully, Mrs. Cunningham was so upset by Christabel's injury that the lecture didn't last very long. Never mind that the ankle wasn't badly sprained. It wasn't even swollen. Her mother still insisted that she stayed off it until the All Hallows' Eve ball. Christabel suspected that her mother did it not out of concern for her wellbeing, but because it made Jason more attentive toward her than ever—he even intended to cancel the picnic the next day because Christabel would not be able to join them. Christabel, already uncomfortable with him after her rejection, did not relish the idea of being stuck at the house with Jason hovering over her and being chaperoned by her mother. So she convinced him to continue with his party, while she curled up on a window seat with a book.

"Don't fret, darling," Mrs. Cunningham said, coming behind Christabel with one hand on her shoulder and the other smoothing her hair back, though she knew Christabel hated being stood over like that. "Trampling through the woods in the sun and the wind would only dry out your skin and your hair and get you nowhere at all. Better save yourself for the ball. I just had your costume taken in a little, you're going to look lovely in it—"

Christabel didn't reply. She wondered how her mother would've reacted if Christabel told her that all her scheming was for naught, that Jason had already proposed and been rejected. She wouldn't want to go to the picnic anyway—except it would be a chance for her to slip into the woods, in the hope of running into a certain someone again...

At that moment, as though summoned by her thought, there was a faint ring of the bell at the front door. She heard the soft voice of a maid answering it, and another, deeper, male's voice. Her heart started beating faster. She recognized that voice.

A maid came into the room presently. "There's a gentleman here to see you, miss," she said, bobbing a quick curtsey.

"What gentleman?" Mrs. Cunningham's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He said his name is Henry Creel, ma'am."

"He is the one that brought me home yesterday, Mother," Christabel reminded her. She hadn't told her mother much about Mr. Creel, only saying that he was a guest from a neighboring cottage, but her mother, with her usual penchant for gossip, had discovered his identity anyway.

"Ah yes, a guest of that crackpot Brenner, is he? Some upstart from out West, Mrs. Carver told me. Have a care, Christabel. Now that he's found a way in, he's going to hang on to you like a dog to a bone until—"

"Yes, Mother, I shall bear that in mind," Christabel cut her off before she said something even more vulgar in front of the maid. For someone so concerned with decorum, Mrs. Cunningham could be shockingly nonchalant when it came to talking in front of the servants. It was as though she didn't consider them human beings with their own thoughts and feelings. Christabel nodded to the maid. "Please show him into the morning room, Mary. Thank you."

Creel was standing by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, looking down at the hearthrug, lost in thoughts. When Christabel came in, he lifted his eyes but didn't move from his position right away, and she was struck by a sense of déjà-vu. She had seen that pose somewhere—a painting, or a sculpture, with a person's face half-hidden by his arm, showing only his eyes. Was it a portrait of Lord Byron? No. But it was something romantic like that. Never mind. It would come to her eventually.

The sense of déjà-vu vanished as soon as Creel moved toward her with his arms outstretched. "Miss Cunningham," he said, clasping her hand in both of his. "I've come to inquire after you. How is your ankle?"

"Thank you, it's improved a great deal. But really, you needn't have bothered—"

He leaned toward her, smiling conspiratorially. "I did say you can count on seeing me again, didn't I?"

Christabel blushed. She seemed to be doing so a lot around Creel. "Yes, but I didn't expect it would be so soon." A discreet cough behind her reminded her of her mother's presence, and she reluctantly made the introduction. As Creel bowed over Mrs. Cunningham's hand, Christabel could see that her mother was not impervious to his physical charms, for all her attempts to remain aloof. Mrs. Cunningham was briefly interested to learn that Creel's family came from the nearby village of Ringwood, but when he said it was over two hundred years ago and that his father made his fortune out West, her interest quickly waned and her manners turned frosty. Her mother had always been a snob about family name and lineage, and Christabel doubted she would ever approve of Creel, not even if his forefathers had been on the Mayflower.

"And have you made any further discovery about your family's history?" Christabel asked, to fill in the awkward silence.

"Not yet, but Dr. Brenner have told me about the ruins of a settlement not far from Tuxedo Lake," Creel said. "If this nice weather continues, I intend to investigate it more closely. Perhaps you would care to join—"

Mrs. Cunningham made a disapproving noise in her throat, and Christabel gave Creel an apologetic look. He did not seem to notice anything amiss. He gently led Christabel to a chair by the window, keeping up a stream of easy chatter with both her and her mother, talking about San Francisco, about New York and how he wished he could visit it more often—polite, impersonal talk that meant nothing at all, but from the way those blue eyes fixed on her, she could tell there were things he'd like to say to her but was prevented by her mother's presence.

After fifteen minutes, the minimum amount one could entertain a guest without appearing rude, Mrs. Cunningham stood up, signifying the visit was over, and claiming Christabel needed her rest. Creel stood up as well, with regret plainly written over his handsome face. He thanked them for a lovely chat, wished Christabel a speedy recovery, and moved toward the front door.

"I hope we'll have the pleasure of seeing you again, Mr. Creel," Mrs. Cunningham said, in a voice that meant quite the opposite.

"Thank you, ma'am, so do I," he said.

"Will we, though?" Christabel asked, lowering her voice so her mother wouldn't hear.

"You can count upon it," he whispered, extending a hand to her.

They shook hands. The book Christabel had been reading, which she forgot she was still holding, slipped out of her hand and clattered to the ground. Before she could reach for it, Creel had bent down, picked it up, and pressed it into her hand. When she frowned at the feel of the book in her hand, he gave her a discreet wink, bowed to her mother, who was still hovering behind, then turned and left.

Only when she was back in the privacy of her room that Christabel felt safe enough to look at what she was holding—not one, but two books. Creel had slipped her another while picking up her first one. It was Tales, by Edgar Allan Poe. Christabel felt a surge of excitement mixed with gratitude for Creel's discretion and consideration. Her mother would never approve of such morbid reading material.

There was a name written on the flyleaf—"M. Brenner". Christabel grinned to herself. Creel must have scoured his host's bookshelf for this one. As she turned the pages, a note fluttered out. With quickening pulse, she picked it up. In a slanting, elegant hand, it said, "I believe a lady named after a Coleridge heroine would appreciate the romantic and macabre genius of Mr. Poe." And, a little lower, "If you wish to escape the castle, I shall be waiting. Same time, same place tomorrow. H."

The difficult part had been to convince her mother that her ankle would improve with some light exercise. When her mother suggested she took a turn around the Carvers' garden, Christabel had exploded—the reaction may have been exaggerated to frighten her mother, who hated public displays of emotions of any kind, but the frustration was very real. "Am I a dog, to be held on a leash?" she'd said. "Why don't I start wearing a veil in public too, while you're at it?"

It had worked. Her mother had agreed to let her take a walk around the lake but insisted that she took one of the Carvers' maids with her. After that, it had been the simple matter of bribing the girl with a few coins so she could slip away undetected.

As she walked, Christabel wondered what had prompted her to have a clandestine rendezvous with a man she'd met only the day before. He was attractive, to be sure, and very kind and gentlemanly, in a quiet, mild-mannered way that felt more natural and genuine than the excessive gallantry of her other suitors. But it was more than that. He came from another world. She knew little of the West, but a place where men could make their fortunes and become respectable regardless of their origins was bound to be different from the rigid, suffocating world she was living in. When he scooped her up into his arms, his movement so decisive and casual, she'd imagined she had been touched by that other world, and she longed to feel that touch again.

Creel was sitting under the oak when she arrived, cutting a dashing figure with his bare head and his body in recline. Again, Christabel felt that sense of déjà-vu. She must remember which painting it was that reminded her of him.

He looked up from the notebook in which he was writing or sketching and smiled at her. A flock of butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

"I was getting quite impatient," he said.

"I had to distract my mother."

"I didn't get you into trouble, did I?" Creel peered at her with concern. "I would've come to the house, but I have a feeling that she won't appreciate my visit."

Christabel sighed. "My apologies, Mr. Creel. My mother can be—"

He made a dismissive gesture with his pencil. "Never mind that. I'm glad you came."

She sat down on a clump of grass opposite him. The sunlight scattered through the leaves, throwing speckles of gold over his face, so one of his eyes shone while the other remained in shadow. The gleam in that eye threw the butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy, and she had to look down to hide her fluster.

"How did you know I wished to escape?" she asked, fingering a fold in her dress.

He smiled, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. "How could you not?" he said. "Five minutes with that crowd and I would have run for the hills."

"Is the San Francisco society not like that?"

"I daresay it is, but I don't know for certain. I don't spend much time in society, to be honest. I'm too busy with my studies."

So perhaps it was not his world that was different, it was Creel himself. "What do you study?" Christabel asked.

"A little bit of everything. History. Science. Literature. Speaking of which, how do you like Mr. Poe?"

"Very much. I finished the book in one sitting." She neglected to say that she'd had to read it under the covers, for fear of being found out by her mother. She didn't want Creel to think she was still a schoolgirl. "Did Dr. Brenner mind losing it?"

An enigmatic smile appeared on Creel's lips. "What Brenner doesn't know can't hurt him."

"Of course, he's rather obsessed with death, isn't he? Mr. Poe I mean, not Dr. Brenner."

"Aren't we all?"

"Not just death in general either, but premature death and false death, specifically," Christabel said. The fates of Madeline Usher and Fortunato were still haunting her.

"Because those are the most horrible." Mr. Creel's eyes turned dark. "When you die before your time, or when others think you're dead and you're powerless to tell them. Can you imagine?"

Perhaps this was not the most romantic subject of conversation, but nobody had spoken to her with so much openness and honesty. Usually, when she tried to discuss books and music with another man, she could only nod and go along with whatever opinion he had, or she would be labeled a bluestocking and a bore and catch the eyes of no other man. At least that was what her mother had told her.

"Have you investigated the ruins that Dr. Brenner told you about?" she said after a moment, for Creel's eyes were still dark, and she wished to dispel that look.

"I have, but they're not the right one. Far too recent."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Creel turned his eyes upon her, the one eye that shone in the sun now sparkled with quite a different light. "In fact, I hope my search takes a long time."

"Why?"

"So I can keep seeing you."

Christabel turned crimson. Later, as they said goodbye, she didn't ask if she would see him again. She knew that she would.

They did see each other again, almost every day after that. They talked a great deal, or rather, Creel talked and Christabel listened. He told her about his house overlooking the San Francisco Bay and about his travels—he had traveled widely; it seemed there were few places left in America that he hadn't set foot on, and in Europe as well. "My dream, though, is to travel to the Far East," he said. "Japan and China. Especially China. There's a lot of Chinese people in San Francisco, you know, and their culture fascinates me. It's one of the oldest civilizations in the world. I think it would be something to see it with my own eyes."

"I always wish I could travel," Christabel replied, wishing she could say something more interesting or share some travel anecdotes of her own. Her stories of Newport and the Catskills must sound awfully provincial to him.

He also told her about his studies—his current interest was medicine from plants and animals. All the while, Christabel could only listen in fascination and admiration, wondering how he managed to do so much and learn so much and go to so many places at such a young age. And her yearning for that world he'd opened to her, a world of newness, excitement, and sophistication, grew and grew, only she no longer wished to be simply touched by that world. Now she wished to be a part of it, with him.

Then something happened that derailed their time together.

It was three days before the ball. There was no entertainment planned for that day, and Mrs. Carver wanted everybody out of the house so they could start decorating and preparing for the ball. Jason and the others were talking about going down to the lake for some boating and fishing, when Mr. Carver received a telephone call in his study. The Carvers had just had their telephone installed, and its shrill, unaccustomed ringing echoed in the hall ominously. A moment later, Mr. Carver emerged, looking strangely pale and shaken. Mrs. Carver fluttered into the study with a frightened look. The guests mingling outside heard some murmurings, and then Mrs. Carver's voice raised in irritation, saying, "Nonsense! It has nothing to do with us. Besides, we have been preparing for days." She came out of the study, looking quite put out, and could be heard muttering under her breath, "The old crackpot! Even in death he was a nuisance!" as she fluttered to the back to go through the menu with the French chef once more.

Finally, Jason managed to learn the truth from his father—Dr. Brenner had been found dead in his house the previous night.

He had been found in his library by his servant, with an unmarked bottle next to him. There was to be an inquest, though in all likelihood, it would be a formality only—the body showed every symptom of poison, the library was locked from the inside, and everyone knew Brenner's penchant for the occult. No doubt it was the result of some foolish experiment. Mr. Carver had considered canceling the ball out of respect, but fortunately, Mrs. Carver had convinced—or perhaps bullied—him to carry on as planned.

This didn't stop the guests from feeling excited about the prospect of a murderer in their midst and exchanging theories on how Brenner had really died.

"What about that mysterious guest of his, the one who brought you back that day, Christabel?" one of the girls said. "Might he have something to do with this?"

"I don't know," replied Christabel, though she was worrying about the same thing. She couldn't believe Creel had anything to do with Dr. Brenner's death, but she was worried that this death and the inquest may keep him from seeing her. And with her mother getting into one of her fits and forbidding Christabel from even setting foot outdoors—as though a murderer was lying in wait and ready to pounce on her—she didn't know if she could go to the woods again. She hadn't realized how much she had been looking forward to their daily meeting until it stopped.

That evening, she was wandering around the garden, feeling listless and despondent, when she heard a whisper nearby, "Miss Cunningham?"

Christabel bit back a startled cry. A shadow detached itself from the privet hedge and came to stand in front of her. It was a young man, as dark as Creel was fair. His skin was pale, and his eyes and hair appeared black in the moonlight. "Sorry, miss," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Mr. Creel's servant."

He was holding himself awkwardly, as though trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. Somehow, this awkwardness made Christabel's initial fear vanish. "Is Mr. Creel all right?" she asked.

"Yes. He couldn't come himself because he's being questioned by the police." The young man pulled a note from his pocket and handed it to her. "He asked me to bring you a message."

Christabel went over to a gas lamp and opened the note. Her eyes fell on Creel's familiar slanting hand: "Meet me by the oak tomorrow, 10 AM. H." Emotions flooded her heart, mostly joy and relief.

She looked up to see the young man still standing there, as if waiting for something. "Thank you," she said. "Please tell him I'll be there."

He nodded but made no move to leave. Christabel remembered and searched her pockets for a coin for his tip, but came up empty. "I'm sorry, I don't have any money on me—"

"I don't want your money!" For a moment, his diffidence was gone, replaced by a brief look of rage. That, too, disappeared in a flash, though the man's hands remained balled into fists. "Begging your pardon, miss," he said, controlling his voice with difficulty. "But... if I were you, I wouldn't go."

With those enigmatic words, he vanished into the dark, leaving Christabel alone with the note.

The next morning, she managed to escape her mother and slip away. She went to the old oak tree and let out a sigh of relief when she saw Creel's familiar figure leaning against it. He still smiled at her, though his eyes were grim, and when she offered him her hand in greeting, he took it in a tight grip.

"What's happened?" she asked. "Is there going to be an inquest for Dr. Brenner's death? Will you have to make a statement?"

He shook his head. "The police seemed pretty confident that the poison was self-administered. They are going to rule it a suicide, or perhaps an accident." Christabel breathed more easily, but Creel's eyes remained dark. "I blame myself," he muttered.

"Surely you have nothing to do with it? You said so yourself, he took the poison of his own volition."

"I knew that Brenner was interested in alchemy and the elixir of life and things like that," Creel said. "But I didn't realize he would be so foolish as to attempt to brew one himself and drink it without testing it first. I should have warned him."

"No." Christabel laid a hand on his arm. "It was not your fault. You couldn't possibly know that."

He looked down at her hand, then up at her face, and something in his eyes set her pulse pounding.

"I'm returning to San Francisco soon," he said.

Her heart went cold. "Because of Dr. Brenner's death?"

"No. Because I've found what I was looking for."

"Your village?"

"Better. The remains of my family's cottage. Would you like to see?"

She nodded, and, still holding her hand, he led her through the trees, to the north end of the lake. Christabel followed him, trying to feel happy for him, but she couldn't stop the disappointment from rising within her, disappointment at the thought that he would go away, back to that free and easy world, while she would be stuck here, perhaps for the rest of her life.

They stopped at a clearing surrounded by elms and oaks, all glorious in their autumnal coats. There was something like a boulder or a cairn in the middle of the clearing, covered so completely with ivy that Christabel almost missed it. Creel knelt to spread the ivy apart, and Christabel saw that it was actually the remains of a stone fireplace.

"Look," he pointed to a smooth, flat stone at the back, where a large "C" had been carved.

"C for Creel?" Christabel asked, astonished.

"Yes."

"How long ago did your ancestors live here?"

"About two hundred years."

The thought of all that history now gone and buried in the ground under her feet made Christabel forget her heartache for a moment. "And did they move away, or—"

"No." Creel's face was somber. "The mother and the daughter died in mysterious circ*mstances, and the father was accused of killing them by witchcraft. He was hanged. Only the son survived."

Christabel's body grew cold with horror. Sometimes, caught in all the comfort and ease of modern life, she forgot how violent the history of their country was. She couldn't think of anything to say other than "Oh." Just then, the morning sun shone into the clearing, and her eyes caught something sparkling amongst the stones. "What's that?"

Creel dug into the daub, which had all but crumbled to dust, and pulled out something not bigger than the palm of her hand, covered in dirt. Red glints showed through here and there in the sunlight.

"My word!" he exclaimed. "I can't believe it!"

Pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped the dirt off of his discovery. It was a piece of stained glass, in the shape of a rose. "Do you know what you've found?" he said, awe in his voice. "It's our family crest. My ancestors brought it over from England and put it on the cottage's front door. I have something similar at my house in San Francisco. It's extraordinary that it was still here and intact after all this time." He beamed up at her. "I knew you would be valuable to me in some ways. I knew it the first moment I saw you."

The look in his eyes sent her heart into a somersault. Somehow she managed to open her mouth, and was about to say something back, something silly and girlish and inadequate, when she was interrupted by a scream that rent the air.

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought it was a woman or a child in distress, but when the scream continued, it became clear that it was an animal. Creel slipped the bit of stained glass into his pocket, jumped to his feet, and ran toward the elms. They soon discovered the source of the scream—a hare, caught in a steel trap. Blood pooled around the places where the cruel sharp teeth cut into its hind leg, but it was still alive, its eyes fixed on them with an imploring, almost human look.

"Oh please, please help him!" cried Christabel.

Creel stood looking down at the hare. "There's no helping it," he said. "But I can put it out of its misery."

"No!"

"Its leg is broken, Miss Cunningham." His voice was harsh. "Even if I free it, it would be lame and soon fall prey to a fox or an eagle. This is kinder." He took off his gloves. "Look away."

Christabel told herself she should just leave, she who always took care to never be present at the kill on a hunt, but some terrible force had gotten a hold of her, rooting her to the spot, making it impossible for her to tear her eyes away from the hare, from its chest still moving rapidly, from the twitching whiskers and the pink ears with red veins that stood out against the sunlight. Only when Creel snarled, "Look away, Miss Cunningham!" that she remembered herself and raised a trembling hand to cover her eyes.

There was a squeak, then silence. She lowered her hand. Creel was covering up the little body with dry leaves. "This trap was no doubt set by a poacher," he said, pulling his gloves on. "We should let someone know."

Somehow, the casual way with which he pulled on his gloves horrified her more than anything else. It finally shocked her out of her daze, and she turned and ran out of the clearing, chest heaving with sobs.

She didn't realize Creel had chased after her until she felt his strong grip on her shoulders, turning her around, and she found herself in his arms, hot tears staining his waistcoat, while he said, "Stop it, Miss Cunningham. I can't stand tears. If you don't stop crying, I'm going to have to do something quite drastic to stop you." Then his embrace turned into a caress, as his hands ran from her shoulders to her waist, and he pulled her to him and clasped his mouth to hers.

She was rooted to the spot again, not by some unknown force this time, but by the power of his arms and his body and most of all his mouth, a force that robbed her of her breath and her thoughts and her senses, leaving her with no choice but to submit to it.

A moment later, or a lifetime later, she felt the pressure of his mouth lift, but his arms remained around her. "I can't imagine leaving this place without you," he whispered in her ear. "Will you come with me, Christabel?" His kiss had left her so breathless that she couldn't answer right away. "Say yes," he said, a note of urgency in his voice. "Say yes now, or—"

"Yes," she said weakly, almost before she could think. It was as though he had put the word in her mouth and it had come out by itself, with no control from her. She opened her eyes and saw that the sun had gone behind the clouds, leaving the clearing gray and dreary. She couldn't help remembering, too, that they were standing on the ruins of a family home destroyed by tragedy, and that an animal lay dead at their feet. It was certainly not her ideal place for a proposal. But she didn't care. All she cared was that she was going to be free.

They agreed that Christabel would inform Mrs. Cunningham of their engagement the next morning, and if her mother approved, Christabel would send Henry a message and they would ask for her blessing together, after the ball. And if she didn't... well, they would deal with that together as well.

As she went to bed that night, Christabel wondered if she'd been too hasty. But, she reasoned with herself, others had gotten married after just one encounter, one look across a ballroom. And when she thought about how Henry made her feel—she thought of him as "Henry" now, with a certain relish—and the promise of freedom he brought, all her doubts were silenced.

There was one thing she couldn't get out of her head, though—it was the image of Henry standing over the hare, calmly putting his gloves back on. It disturbed her, though she did not know why. He'd been right, of course. It had been an act of mercy. Yet he had stood over that poor suffering hare not like an angel of mercy, but more like an avenging angel.

And with the thought of angels, it came to her in a flash, what she had been trying to remember since his first visit to the Carver mansion—what Henry's pose by the fireplace had reminded her of. It was The Fallen Angel, the painting by Alexandre Cabanel, whose reproduction she had seen in a book. Yes, he had looked exactly like it, with his tousled hair and that strange, intense look in his eyes, half of pain, half of rage. Exactly like Lucifer, after his fall from Heaven.

Chapter 3: The Mighty Spell

Chapter Text

"Have you lost your mind?" Mrs. Cunningham said. "I won't allow it!"

Christabel sighed. She knew this was how her mother would react to the news of her engagement, but there was a small part of her that still hoped and wished that her mother could have been happy for her.

"You've mistaken my meaning, Mother," she said, with as much calmness and dignity as she could muster. "I'm not asking for your blessing. I'm simply informing you. I am twenty-three years old, I don't need your permission to get married. And Henry and I are getting married, whether you like it or not."

"I am your mother!" hissed Mrs. Cunningham, glancing at the closed door of their suite, looking out for eavesdropping servants. "And I won't let you marry some upstart nobody! Why, his father could have been one of those gold hunters!" She closed her eyes briefly, the idea of her daughter marrying the son of a prospector too horrifying for her to contemplate. "I will lock you up if I have to!"

"You've used that threat once too often, Mother," said Christabel coldly. "Aren't you afraid of what people will say?"

Mrs. Cunningham sputtered in outrage, and Christabel's heart pounded with exhilaration. She had never been able to speak to her mother like that, but now, when freedom was so close she could practically taste it, it had given her a boost of courage. But her triumph was short-lived, for a vindictive glint came into her mother's eyes, and she said slowly, "Mrs. Carver told me Jason has made you an offer."

"Yes, and I refused him," Christabel said warily. Her mother was planning something, and she didn't like it. "Didn't Mrs. Carver tell you that?"

"She did," her mother continued in that same awful, calm voice. "But I told her it was just silliness. Now that you've had time to think it over, you have accepted him, and we're going to announce your engagement at the ball tonight."

Now Christabel thought it was her mother who had lost her mind. "What are you—"

"What would it look like then, when you run off to marry someone else? Aren't you afraid of what people will say?"

Christabel stared. She didn't imagine her mother could be this extreme in her control. "You would humiliate your own daughter?" she asked in disbelief.

Her mother was all smiles and sweetness now. "I'm only doing what's best for you, darling."

"Jason would never agree to it," Christabel said, desperate to regain some control.

"He already did," her mother said smugly. "Now go and try on your costume. I'll send a maid up to help you." She went out, and Christabel heard the lock click shut. So her mother had locked her in, for good measure.

Alone, Christabel slumped down on the bed and let the tears of anger and desperation flow down her face. They were all ganging up on her, including Jason. By publicly announcing the engagement, they would force her into it, binding her hands and silencing her voice just like a kidnapped bride of some savage land, and she didn't know if she had the strength to stand up to all three of them. If only she had Henry with her! Could she risk bribing one of the maids again? Or—who was that servant of his, the strange, rather impertinent young man? Perhaps she could find him and ask him to bring Henry a message...

But Christabel never had the chance to write a message, let alone to send one, for her mother didn't leave her alone for a moment that entire day. She hovered over Christabel, ordering the maid to tighten Christabel's corset so she could fit into her costume, and telling Christabel to stick to the soup at lunch if she still wanted it to fit by that evening. And then she spent the rest of the day supervising the maids in packing their trunks—they were returning to New York the next day—in a state of false cheerfulness that oppressed and infuriated Christabel, like a summer storm that refused to break. Christabel thought about feigning a headache or illness to avoid going to the ball, but it wouldn't change a thing—her mother would still announce the engagement, with or without her. She held on to the hope that perhaps, when he found no message from her, Henry would know something was wrong and come to her rescue... But what could he do? No, she couldn't count on that. It would be best to steel herself for the inevitable and stand up for herself, if she could.

She tried to think of what she would say to the announcement. What my mother said is not true. I have rejected Mr. Carver, and I have no intention of marrying him. In fact, I am engaged to someone else... Too much? I'm sorry, my mother seemed to have been mistaken—No, she shouldn't place the blame on her mother. That would only worsen her mother's ire. I'm sorry, there seems to have been a mistake. I was honored by Mr. Carver's offer, but... Should she mention Jason at all? Her mother had said he was going along with this farce, but perhaps that was a lie to convince Christabel that it was no use fighting back. Should she fight fire with fire and preemptively announce her engagement to Henry before her mother could announce the sham one? But without Henry there, she would look rather foolish, wouldn't she?

Christabel's legs were shaky as she descended the stairs in her costume—a red velvet dress with long puffed sleeves and a huge lace ruff framing her neck and face, the skirt split open to show a petticoat of gold satin. The dress was trimmed with gold hearts, and a bejeweled girdle made of red hearts encircled her waits. Her hair was done up under a red velvet-and-gold crown, and a scepter also in the shape of a red heart in her hand completed the look. It was ostentatious and heavy and not at all to Christabel's taste, who would prefer to go as Psyche or a fairy, but she'd decided it wasn't worth it to fight her mother on this.

The Carvers' enormous ballroom was thronged with people and ablaze with light. The candle flames reflected on the silk and satin of the guests' costumes and on the jewels—both real and paste—that adorned their heads and necks and wrists, casting brilliant flecks over everything, dazzling Christabel's tired eyes, so she could not see who was dressed as what. The orchestra was striking up a quadrille. Someone took Christabel's hand and drew her into the circle. She danced along other young men and women, following the steps mechanically without seeing who her partner was. All she could think about was the announcement and what she was going to say. I'm sorry, there seems to have been a mistake. I have rejected Mr. Carver, and have no intention of marrying him—I'm sorry, there seems to have been a mistake. I am engaged to someone else—I'm sorry, I can't—I'm sorry—

It all sounded so clumsy, so childish. What was she apologizing for? None of this was her fault.

Then the quadrille was over, a polka began, and Christabel found herself dancing with Jason, who was dressed as Louis XVI.

"What's this I hear about our mothers planning to announce our engagement tonight?" she asked him, without preamble.

Jason was slightly taken aback by her accusing tone, but he soon recovered. "Your mother said that she could convince you to change your mind," he replied with a placating smile.

At that smile, any hope Christabel had of turning Jason into an ally vanished. "So all of you just go around deciding my life for me? Am I not a person, with my own thoughts and feelings and opinions? Or they just don't matter?" She realized she was getting loud, and people's heads were starting to turn toward her. She forced herself to lower her voice. "Why don't I just attach strings to my limbs so you can jerk me around like a puppet?" she hissed.

Jason's arms tightened around her. "Come now, Chrissy dear—don't be like that—"

"Don't call me Chrissy!"

She pried his hand from her waist and turned away, but the dancers closed in around her, a crowd of kings and queens, of French marquises and Oriental princesses, of cats and demons and birds of paradise, their eyes staring inquisitively, their mouths whispering gossip behind their fans or gloved hand, all blocking her way. The ballroom was a gilded cage, and she was trapped in it.

Suddenly, the crowd parted. Coming toward her was a figure dressed all in red—red brocade doublet and hose, red stockings and shoes, and a red velvet hooded cloak. An hourglass shape, half-red and half-black, adorned his chest. Nobody at the ball wore mask, but this person's forehead and nose was covered by a half-mask in the shape of a skull. Red spots splattered the lower half of his face like blood. The figure caught Christabel and whirled her into the next dance, a waltz.

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm not interested—" she tried to say.

"Hush, my dear Christabel," the figure said. "We are being observed." Her heart leaped at that rich, melodious voice. So he had come after all!

"Henry!" she exclaimed, almost sobbing with relief. "I wanted to send you a message, but I couldn't—"

"I know, my love, I know," he said, caressing her arm. "That's why I came. It took me a while to find the appropriate costume though. Do you like it?"

Though worried about their predicament, she couldn't help feeling thrilled at the way he called her my love. She ran an appraising eye over his costume. "What are you supposed to be?"

"The Red Death, from The Masque of the Red Death. Did you not recognize it?"

"Oh! Of course." She lifted up her red velvet skirt. "Look, we're matching!"

"And you are—?"

"The Queen of Hearts. You know, like in a deck of cards." She rolled her eyes. Now that Henry was here, all her fear was gone. "So silly. My mother insisted on it."

A strange smile spread across Henry's red-splattered lips. "The Queen of Hearts. Of course you are. How fitting."

She didn't ask him what he meant. "Listen, we don't have much time—" Maneuvering him through the crowd to the edge of the ballroom, where they could have a modicum of privacy, she gave him a brief summary of her mother's intention. "I believe they're going to announce it after the firework display," she concluded. "What are we going to do?"

Henry's eyes, brilliant blue behind the red polished surface of his mask, were thoughtful. "Do you want a big wedding?" he asked.

Christabel frowned at the non-sequitur, but she answered anyway. "No." Most of her friends dreamed of big lavish weddings with white satin and lace and pearls and orange blossoms, but none of it had ever mattered to her. "Why do you ask?"

"Then we can get married tomorrow morning, if you so wish."

Understanding dawned in her mind. "You mean—eloping?" she whispered.

He nodded, his smile widening under his skull mask. "We'll slip away tonight, get married in New York tomorrow morning, and be on the train back to San Francisco before they know it."

Christabel's heart hammered. By this time tomorrow, she would be Mrs. Creel and on her way to San Francisco! It sounded almost too good to be true.

"But"—she glanced back at her mother, who was watching her from the corner of the room with the other chaperones, a mistrustful frown on her face—"how are we to slip away?"

"I have a car at Brenner's," said Henry. "But we can't leave now, it will look suspicious. Before supper, I'll go and bring the car around. When the fireworks start, meet me by the back gate. They're all going to be looking up at the sky then, nobody will notice."

The waltz ended. Henry gave her hand a brief squeeze to lend her some courage, and slipped into the crowd.

Mrs. Cunningham questioned Christabel about her mysterious partner, of course, but she only answered vaguely that he was some friend of Jason's and danced the next three dances with Jason to soothe her mother's suspicion. All the while she kept her eyes fixed on Henry's red hood as he moved amongst the other dancers, praying that her mother wouldn't suddenly decide to make the announcement earlier than planned.

When Mrs. Carver clapped her hands and the orchestra stopped playing, Christabel's heart almost stopped as well, as she was certain they had decided to make the announcement early after all. But no, Mrs. Carver was only inviting people to go in for supper. Christabel searched for Henry. There he was, standing on the very edge of the crowd. He gave her a subtle nod before disappearing through a side door.

Christabel hardly knew what she was eating at supper. The meal seemed to go on forever, and every time Mrs. Carver or her mother or Jason stood up, her body would grow numb and cold with fear. But eventually supper was over, and people started drifting outside for the firework display. Christabel hung back until she was certain her mother was with the others, and then she ran upstairs and into her room.

She didn't give herself time to think. If she thought about what she was about to do, she would lose heart and never be able to go through with it. Thank God they had packed! She tore off her satin-and-velvet costume, heedless of the glass hearts on the girdle, which tinkled as she tossed it on the floor, and removed the ridiculous crown from her head. She threw on the traveling suit that had been laid out for the next day and picked up the valise containing some changes of clothes and her traveling case with some essentials. Did she need more? How long did it take to travel to San Francisco? Should she pack more? There was no time for that now. Had the fireworks already started?

She scribbled a few lines to let her mother know she'd left, without saying where or with whom—her mother could work that out easily enough—and put it on the desk. Then, valise and case in hand, she cracked open the door and looked down the long hallway, just as the tip of her mother's duch*ess of Burgundy headdress with its fluttering veil came up the stairs. Christabel's blood froze in her veins. Was her mother coming to check on her? Either way, she could not possibly go down the same way now. What to do? What to do?

Locking herself in the room, Christabel turned around like a caged bird, frantically searching for a way out. Her eyes fell on the large elm growing outside the window. One of its branches almost reached the window sill. If she climbed onto the branch, she would be able to slide down the trunk...

Her mother was moving about in the room next door. She may come into Christabel's room any moment.

She threw the valise through the window and thanked God when it fell soundlessly on the grass below. Then, gripping the traveling case with one hand, she gathered up her skirts with the other and lifted herself on the windowsill. From here, she realized that the branch was much smaller than she'd thought. Would it hold? Only one way to find out. She stepped across the gap onto the branch. One foot, and then another, and then—

Her foot slipped. She reached out—for the window frame behind her or the tree trunk in front of her—but her hands only found thin air. The world tipped over, and Christabel fell, the canopy of the elm quickly receding over her head and the ground rushing up to meet her at an alarming speed—

She was too startled to scream. She only shut her eyes tightly and waited for the inevitable, sickening crunch of her body hitting the ground.

It never came.

Instead, there was only a jolt, and then a heavy grunt. It took Christabel a moment to realize someone had caught her, and the grunt was her own, made by the air being knocked out of her lungs as she fell into the arms of her rescuer.

She opened her eyes. In place of Henry's blue ones, she found herself looking into the dark, dark eyes of the strange young man who had introduced himself as Henry's servant. For a second, when their eyes met, Christabel felt as though the air had been knocked out of her again.

Then fireworks burst over their heads, breaking them both out of the spell.

"You all right, miss?" the dark-eyed man asked.

"Y-yes, thank you."

"Can you walk?"

"I— I don't know." She wasn't injured, but the rush from the fall had left her weak and trembling.

"Then, with your permission, miss, I'll carry you to the car. Mr. Creel is waiting."

She nodded. He leaned down to pick up her valise and traveling case, and, with Christabel in his arms, walked to the back gate in long, easy strides. For a confused moment, Christabel was reminded of the day she first met Henry—had it only been two weeks ago?—and the same matter-of-fact way that he had picked her up and carried her. The only difference was that this young man had asked for her permission first.

A small two-seat roadster was parked by the back gate of the Carver mansion. Henry was in one of the seats, waiting. He'd changed back into his usual clothes, though there were still some red spots on his jaw and chin. The man put Christabel next to Henry, placed her cases at her feet, and took the driver's seat. Soon the car was rolling down the path through the trees, while the fireworks continued to flash and crackle on the sky above, their boom and the pop of the car engine unable to drown out the the delighted oohs and aahs of the revelers.

"I thought you'd changed your mind," Henry said, hugging Christabel close.

"She had a fall, sir," the dark-eyed man said on her other side. "She's a bit shook up."

"All's well now," said Henry. "I see that you've met my assistant, Kas."

The dark-eyed man—Kas, what an odd name—nodded at Christabel briefly. "Please to make your acquaintance, Miss Cunningham," he said, before turning his attention back to the road.

"Soon to be Mrs. Creel, Kas," Henry corrected him, laughing. "Soon to be Mrs. Creel. Isn't that right, darling?"

Christabel was still too dazed after her fall to answer, and she was unsettled by something she thought she'd glimpsed in Kas's eyes when he glanced at her—something almost like pity. It reminded her of his enigmatic words the day he'd brought her Henry's message. I wouldn't go if I were you... But surely she'd imagined it. What did he have to pity her about? He didn't know her, and besides, she was on her way to marry the love of her life. What was to be pitied about that?

"Did you bring this car all the way from San Francisco?" she asked Henry, to change the subject.

"No, it's Brenner's. But he doesn't have much use for it now, does he?" Henry grinned and winked at her. She smiled back, though she didn't see much humor in the situation. "I do have my own car in Frisco though, a much better one," he continued. "You'll see."

They hadn't gone far from the Carver mansion when Henry suddenly called out, "Stop!"

Kas pulled the car over by a bend on the road. Christabel looked around, confused. "Why are we stopping?"

Henry grabbed her hand. "Come. There's something I want to show you."

"We don't have time—my mother may have already realized that I'm missing and raised the alarm—"

"It will take but a minute."

Christabel let him drag her through the woods to a clearing. A crescent moon shone its silvery light over the ivy covering the ground. Startled, she recognized this was the same clearing where Henry had proposed, where the ruins of his family's cottage still stood. She hoped somebody had removed the dead hare.

"Here." Henry pulled something out of his pocket. It was the same piece of stained glass she'd helped him find amongst the stones, the one depicting a rose, now polished and attached to a chain to form a necklace. "I had this made for you." He put the chain over her head and settled the rose on her chest. "I know it's not a ring, but I wanted to give it to you, because, well, because it's half yours, really. You found it."

Christabel lifted the stained glass pendant to examine it more clearly. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Henry clasped her hands in his, closing her fingers around the pendant. "We have this tradition in our family," he said, "that the bride and groom will have a separate Celtic ceremony and exchange their own vows, in keeping with our roots, before the church ceremony. We can't have much of a ceremony here, but I can't think of a better place to exchange those vows, do you agree?"

His eyes were shining with a fervent light, and Christabel, caught up in his excitement, found herself excited as well.

"What are the vows?" she asked.

"Repeat after me," Henry said. "Heart bound to heart, soul bound to soul. I pledge to you my life and undying love. I'm yours, my body, my spirit, my being whole."

"Heart bound to heart, soul bound to soul. I pledge to you my life and undying love. I'm yours, body and spirit, my being whole," Christabel repeated, trying to suppress a delighted giggle, not wishing to ruin the moment with her girlish nervousness. How terribly romantic. Not just an elopement, but a secret pagan ritual in the middle of the woods, under the moon as well! Oh, wouldn't Mother throw a fit if she knew!

A red glow seemed to emanate from the pendant clasped between her palms, but when Christabel opened her hands and looked again, it was gone. Under the moonlight, the rose wasn't even red—it looked almost black, like volcanic rock. She must've imagined it, or it had been a flash from the fireworks.

"In the eyes of my ancestors, that means we are married now," Henry said, leaning forward to kiss her. "Nothing else matters."

They ran back to the car. Kas started the engine, and they flew down the road back to New York, as the last of the fireworks died out over their heads.

They arrived at Manhattan just as the city was waking up. The electric streetlamps were still burning, but they were already dimming in the approaching gray light of dawn, and workers were filling up the streets, ready to start their day. Kas dropped them off in front of a chapel and headed to the station to secure their passages on a train to San Francisco, while they waited for the chapel to open.

It was probably because she was too tired, but Christabel didn't remember much of the ceremony—afterward, in her mind, the memory was forever shrouded in the grayish light and fog of a Manhattan autumn morning. What she did remember was the minister being rather grumpy about having to perform a marriage ceremony first thing upon waking up. She remembered, too, how Henry had brought in two men who were on their way to work to act as witnesses, and how he gave them each a silver dollar once the ceremony was over. But what she'd said, what Henry had said, how he'd looked when he slipped the gold band over her finger—when had he found the time to buy a wedding ring?—and how she'd felt at that moment, it was all a blur.

Then Henry called a cab, which hurried them to Grand Central, and Christabel was bundled into a compartment. She barely had time to remove her hat before collapsing onto a bed and promptly falling asleep to the soothing rhythm of the train as it rolled westward, taking her toward a life new and unknown.

Chapter 4: Over the Mountains Haste Along

Chapter Text

She was running through the woods. It was dark, and the mottled silver carpet of moonlight did nothing to illuminate her path, except to deepen the shadows. Her heart was pounding in her chest, making it hard to breathe, and her legs burned, the muscles so exhausted it was like moving through molasses. But she couldn't stop, she couldn't afford to stop. Something was behind her, an evil, terrible thing. She didn't know what it was, she only knew she must not let it catch her, never let it catch her...

This is a dream, she told herself. I'm no longer in Tuxedo Park. I'm on the train, going—somewhere. Where was she going? She felt that if she could remember that, she would wake from this dream and everything would be right. Why couldn't she remember?

She stumbled over something and went sprawling on the ground. Usually, this would be the point where she woke up, but this time she didn't wake. The dream continued.

She looked down at what she had tripped over, and recoiled in horror.

It was herself.

She was lying on her back, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the dark sky. One leg was caught in a steel trap, still dripping blood. The pendant lay glistening on her chest. No—it wasn't the pendant. As Christabel bent down to look more closely at her own body lying there on the forest floor, she realized that the dark spot on her chest wasn't the stained glass pendant, but blood—a pool of black, thick blood, frozen like a lump of volcanic rock, right where her heart should be.

The trees exploded behind her.

Turning away from the horror of her own death, Christabel whirled around and saw another horror—the thing, the terrible, evil thing that was chasing her, had finally caught up with her. She saw now that it was a hare, a giant hare, so tall that the tips of its ears rose above the canopy of the forest, and so big that it blotted out the moon, so all she could see were its whiskers shining silver under the moonlight, and its eyes, glowing like two furnaces, blinding her.

At her feet, her other body stirred. Bloody fingers tugged weakly at the hem of her skirt. The mouth opened. Though no words came out, Christabel knew, knew from the look in those desperate eyes. Her other body wished to be put out of her misery, before the hare caught her—caught them both—and did something even worse.

And somehow, she found herself closing her fingers around her throat, but it wasn't the throat of her other body, it was her own throat, and it wasn't her fingers, but Henry's. The hare was gone, and there was only Henry, his face looming above her, his eyes burning just like the hare's, his hand crushing her windpipes, choking her...

Christabel opened her eyes. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, and for a moment, she did not know where she was. Bright sunlight was shining over her eyes through a large window, and the window was moving. No, the window wasn't moving, the whole room was moving, and it wasn't a room, it was a train compartment. Yes, she was on a train, to—San Francisco. She was married and on her way back to San Francisco with Henry.

She slowly sat up, watching autumnal woods and farmland pass by peacefully outside the window, playing with the new weight of the wedding ring on her finger, letting the steady click-clacking of steel wheels over rail joints soothe her jangled nerves.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

Once her heartbeats had returned to normal, Christabel started to take in her surroundings. The compartment was as well-appointed as the most luxurious hotel room, with gilt moldings on the ceiling and along the walls, silk curtains, velvet upholsteries, and carved mahogany furniture. With all the giddy delight of a child on her first trip away from home—and this was true in her case, for she had never been anywhere further than Newport—she looked over her compartment, turning on the tap over the little sink, opening the cupboard to find her two cases, hat, jacket, and shoes neatly placed inside, marveling at the electric reading light over her bed.

But where was her husband?

The compartment only had a single berth, the cupboard only held her things. There was no sign of Henry. He wouldn't have left her here, would he? Or—a knot of worry started twisting her stomach—had something happened and he had been held back in New York?

That terrible possibility wiped all thoughts from Christabel's mind. She jumped off the bed, threw on her jacket, and went out into the corridor in search of her husband.

All the compartments along the corridor were either full or locked from the inside. She passed through the sleeping cars and into the dining car. It was mostly empty, with only a few passengers sitting over cups of coffee, and she realized the knot in her stomach wasn't just from worry, but from hunger as well. She was absolutely famished. How long had she been asleep?

The ladies' parlor was next, where a number of women were chatting or reading or writing letters. Some gave Christabel a curious glance as she went past, and she forced herself to slow her steps. She must be looking terribly untidy, with her wrinkled dress, flyaway hair, and panic-stricken eyes. She shouldn't have gone to search for Henry herself. She should've sent a porter, or at least made herself look more presentable, instead of running through the train like a madwoman. But she went on anyway.

A burst of masculine laughs told her that she was approaching the clubroom car, and Christabel hesitated. She didn't want to burst in on the men's place. But she had to settle her worry. Perhaps she could just open the door to peek in and make sure Henry was there, and return to her compartment.

She pushed the door open. And there he was. His back was to her, but she could see him throwing his blonde head back in laughter amidst the cigar smoke and the clinking of whisky glasses in the dark interior of the saloon car. The knot in her stomach loosened, but at the same time, a new feeling rose in its place—not quite anger, more like irritation and disappointment. This was their first day as husband and wife, and he chose to spend it away from her.

The men fell silent as Christabel entered. Henry turned around, and a peculiar look passed across his face—a scowl that briefly drew his eyebrows together over his Roman nose, which once again put her in mind of Cabanel's Lucifer. Christabel shivered, remembering her nightmare.

Then the scowl was gone in a flash, replaced by his usual smile as he stood up to meet her.

"Darling, what are you doing here?" he said. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"I've slept quite enough, thank you," she replied stiffly. She longed to kiss him, but not with all these men ogling her as though they had never seen a woman before. "I've been looking for you all over. Where were you?" Though she tried not to show it, some of the disappointment still seeped through in her voice.

"I was right here."

"You aren't even staying in the same compartment?"

Henry took a quick look around the room. Christabel had the uncomfortable realization that they were having the very first quarrel of their marriage life in a public place, so when Henry grabbed her arm and took her into the corridor, she didn't fight back.

"Don't blame me, blame Kas," Henry said, once they were outside the clubroom. "He couldn't find a suite or even two compartments close together, so he booked me a compartment at the other end of the train. Besides, you were fast asleep. What do you want me to do, sit and wait until you wake up like Sleeping Beauty?"

She was quiet, abashed. He was right, of course. She was acting like a petulant child who had woken up from a nightmare and become sullen when she couldn't find her mama. No wonder he'd scowled at her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's been a rather eventful night, and I was tired, that's all. You're right, I should rest some more."

He let go of her arm and nodded. "I'll see you at dinner then."

Fully reprimanded, Christabel returned to her compartment. Passing through the dining car, she realized she was too hungry to wait until dinner, so she sat down and ordered a pot of tea with some scones. She ate with relish, putting three sugars into her tea, piling cream and jam high on the scones, knowing that she would never again have to listen to her mother telling her to watch her figure.

It was only after she'd had her fill that Christabel made a mortifying discovery. "I don't have any cash," she said sheepishly to the waiter. She could go back to the clubroom car and ask Henry for some money, of course, but she did not want to be humiliated again, after he'd basically sent her to her room.

"It's all right, madam," the waiter replied smoothly. "If you would give me your compartment and berth number, we'll charge it to your bill."

The whole situation soured the trip for her a little. Mostly she was angry with herself for being so clumsy and naïve about everything. She was a married woman now and must act accordingly.

When it was time for dinner, Christabel felt a little better. The train offered a ladies' maid service, so her hair was now properly dressed and she'd changed into an evening gown—how lucky that she'd thought to pack one! When Henry came to escort her to the dining car, she thought she could detect an admiring look in his eyes and flushed with satisfaction.

Over dinner, Henry told her that they would arrive in Chicago early the next morning, and then it was three more days to San Francisco.

"Is the train going to pass by the Great Lakes?" Christabel exclaimed eagerly. "Can we see them? It's"—she tried to conjure up the map of the country from her geography lessons—"Ontario and Erie, isn't it?"

Henry shrugged, digging into his roast beef with gusto. "It'll be dark when the train passes them."

"Oh." She deflated, then quickly brightened up as an idea occurred to her. "Can we stop in Chicago for a few days?" she asked. "I've never seen the city."

"You'll find that it's not that different from New York, only even busier and rougher," Henry said. "Besides, we're still too close. Who knows, your mother may have called the police on me for kidnapping you. I can't rest easy until we're settled in San Francisco."

Christabel looked down at her lobster salad to hide her flush. "Of course."

In truth, she had another reason for suggesting a stay in Chicago—she was hoping they could have a proper wedding night. Despite her mother's rigid control, Christabel was not wholly ignorant about what happened between husbands and wives, and she would be lying if she said she hadn't dreamed of Henry in that way, even before he'd kissed her. She had hoped that he would take her hint and suggest a stay in a hotel, where they could have more privacy, but he was right. They weren't out of danger yet. Once they were back in San Francisco, there would be plenty of time to enjoy being married.

After dinner, Christabel lingered over her coffee, expecting Henry would invite her to join him in the observation car—the one public place on the train where men and women could mingle. But as soon as he drained his wine, he got to his feet, offered her his arm, and led her back to her compartment. "Good night then," he said, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head before sauntering back to the clubroom car.

Christabel sighed as she went inside and got undressed. Perhaps a train was not the best place to be newlyweds.

Over the next few days, she didn't see much of Henry. She had breakfast brought to her compartment, so they would meet only for luncheon and dinner, and afterward, Henry would give her a friendly peck and returned to the clubroom car, where he could read and talk with the other men about things that only men would understand, she supposed. She tried not to mind it too much and found her own ways to kill time. When she got tired of watching the scenery outside the windows—once they left Chicago, it was all farmlands as far as the eye could see, most lying brown and exhausted after the harvest—she turned to the library in the ladies' parlor. The magazines and books of light fiction it offered interested her a lot less than a timetable of the railway she found, left by some absent-minded passenger. She spent hours poring over the booklet, staring at all the stops, most of which she had never even heard of, rolling the unfamiliar syllables on her tongue, trying to imagine what it would be like to visit them. Some sounded charming and quaint, like something out of a fairy tale—Blue Creek, Willow Island, Battle Mountain, Stone House. Others were exotic and romantic—Argenta, Oreana, El Moro. Some were downright bizarre but promised such stories behind them—Miser, Separation, Fair Play, and the incomparable Rough and Ready. So many places. There were also descriptions and illustrations of all the notable sights along the way. She must convince Henry to make the return trip, with stops this time—perhaps in the spring, after they had settled in San Francisco.

On the third day of the trip, the mountains began, and Christabel forgot everything else. She had never seen mountains like these. The homey mountains of New England had nothing over these veritable fortresses that rose dramatically out of the flat plains, their colors ranging from gray and brown to dark green and deep blue, almost purple, capped with glittery snow in the distance. There were few signs of life, except for a homestead or ranch nestled here and there at the foot of these giants, and the occasional cattle, listlessly browsing amongst the brown shrubs near the tracks, and even some white skulls grinning at the sky.

The train began to climb, passing through tunnels that had been cut out of the mountains, showing swathes of their inside all golden brown and dull red. Scraggly pines clung to the rocks, while a foaming river flew swiftly by beneath them. Then even the pines disappeared, and the mountains flattened, their sheer faces looming on one side of the train like the walls of some houses built by giants.

Christabel couldn't take her eyes off them. Her only wish was that Henry had shared her enthusiasm. He didn't listen to her when she talked about them at luncheon, and that evening, he didn't even show up to escort her to dinner as usual. When Christabel sent a porter to search for him—she had learned her lesson after that first day—the porter came back saying that Henry was in the middle of a poker game and told her to have dinner without him.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Christabel thanked the porter and closed the door, before ripping off her evening dress. She slumped down on the bed and turned to the window, though it was dark outside and there was nothing to see. This was not how she imagined the first few days of her marriage would go. Had she done something to displease Henry? Had she talked too much or embarrassed him somehow? Was he still angry with her for barging in on him that first day? Why was he ignoring her like this?

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she woke up, the window was no longer pitch black—the sky was turning a soft bluish gray. Then she saw something outside the window and sat up in astonishment, her misery over Henry's neglect completely forgotten.

The train was running over the silver surface of a lake. It spread all the way to the end of the horizon, an endless mirror that reflected the brightening sky. This must be the Great Salt Lake of Utah.

Seized by an urge to see the lake in its entirety, Christabel threw her robe over her chemise and ran down the corridor, toward the observation car at the end of the train. All the compartments were locked, their inhabitants still fast asleep. What fools! Do they not know that they are missing out on such a marvelous sight?

The observation car was empty. Christabel threw open the glass door that led to the platform outside. Her mouth fell open at the scene before her. There was no bridge. Instead, they were traveling on a causeway so low and narrow that the water was flush with the rails, giving the impression that the train was floating over the lake like a boat. The sky and the lake were the same silvery blue, and the smudge of mountains in the distance was so perfectly mirrored on the lake's surface that if it hadn't been for the causeway cutting across the lake like a pencil line, it would have been impossible to tell where the sky ended and the earth began. Not a breath of wind ruffled the gleaming façade of the water. Not a sound disturbed the absolute peace of the place, not even the clickety-clack of the train. For a moment, Christabel felt she was the only person alive in the world.

Perhaps not quite. A small cough behind made her whirl around, and she found herself looking into those unfathomable dark eyes again. Kas. She hadn't thought of him since he dropped her and Henry off at the wedding chapel on Monday morning.

"Beg your pardon, miss," he said, then quickly corrected himself, "I mean, Mrs. Creel. I know I shouldn't be here, but there's no observation platform in third class." He gave her a quick bow. "I'll go now."

"No, that's quite all right," Christabel said. "You don't have to leave on my account." After days of being alone, she was getting tired of her own company, and didn't mind sharing the platform with someone else. Drawing the robe closer around her body, aware that she only had on a thin chemise underneath, she turned back to the lake. "It's quite something, isn't it?"

"It is." Kas came to stand by her at the railing. He pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a surreptitious sip. "That's why I came out here. Wish I could see it during the day though."

"Oh, are we going to pass it by the time the sun comes up?"

Kas seemed discomfited, as though he'd revealed too much. "No," he said slowly. "I just won't be able to see it then."

"Because the first-class passengers may frown upon your presence?"

"No." A pause, then, "I have this condition. Photosensitivity, they call it."

"What is it?" Christabel asked, for she had never heard of such a thing.

"I'm allergic to sunlight," he said, matter-of-factly. "This weak light is fine"—he waved his hand at the dawn—"but anything stronger and I'll break out in rashes and suffocate."

"That's terrible!" Christabel exclaimed. "How do you cope during the day, over in the third-class car?" She thought of the bright sun shining even through the curtains of her window. She could shut them if she wanted, but in third class, where one was surrounded by other passengers, it wouldn't be that simple.

He looked at her strangely, and it occurred to her that perhaps nobody had thought to ask him that before. "I stay in the sleeping berth," he said with a shrug. "It's above the windows so it's darker up there. That and a big blanket will do me just fine. Pretty sure my fellow passengers thought I was some sort of ghoul, but I'm used to that." He cracked a small smile, and she smiled back uncertainly.

"How did you contract it, or were you born with it?"

He didn't answer. A pained look crossed his face, and Christabel realized she was being too nosy again. She wondered what had compelled Henry to hire a man with such a debilitating condition.

"I suppose Mr. Creel hasn't mentioned it to you," Kas said, almost apologetically.

"It must have slipped his mind." She was too proud to admit that Henry hadn't mentioned anything much to her at all.

They were quiet for a while, watching the sky and the lake turn the softest shade of lavender, separated by a border of pink edged with gold.

Christabel glanced at Kas curiously. He was younger than she'd thought, not much older than herself, and the dark curls falling over his forehead and the long lashes framing his large eyes made him look even younger. For all his reticence and politeness, he didn't act like a servant or talk like one. Henry had called him his assistant. Again, Christabel found herself wondering how he had come into Henry's employment.

"So, Mr. Kas—" she began, breaking the silence.

"Just Kas, ma'am."

"All right. Kas. Have you been working for Mr. Creel long?"

"Since I could remember."

"Did you grow up with him then?"

Kas's voice was quiet. "No, not really."

His answer surprised her, but it could mean anything—either Kas was younger than he looked, or Henry was older than he looked, or they weren't close enough to qualify as "growing up together"—and she didn't want to pry.

"Is he a good master?" she asked. "Do you enjoy working for him?"

Again, that strange, searching look, before he answered. Christabel was aware that not many people would care if their servants liked working for them, but she was trying to get a clearer picture of the man she'd married and thought it would be best to ask someone who'd known him for much longer than she had. "He has his tempers," Kas said with a shrug. "But he took me in when I had nowhere else to go, so I shouldn't complain."

That didn't quite answer her question. "But is he—"

"Shh!" Kas said suddenly, nodding to their left. "Look!"

Christabel followed his gaze but saw nothing but the surface of the lake, still deep blue where the light hadn't reached it. "What am I looking at?"

Kas took her hand and pointed to a spot somewhere between the water and the sky. "There. Do you see it?"

This time she did—a bird, long and slender, its plumage a shade or two darker than the sky, was gliding over the lake. It landed not far from them, so nimbly and gently that the water hardly even rippled. Now there were two birds, one the perfect mirror image of the other, bending their necks and touching their beaks together, before raising their plumed heads as though to greet the dawn. Then, with a graceful but vigorous beat of its wings, the bird rose from the lake and flew off toward the mountains, while its mirrored image disappeared into the depths of the water.

Christabel didn't know she had been holding her breath until the bird vanished into the distance and she let out a long sigh.

"It's a great blue heron," Kas said.

"I thought most birds have migrated to the south by now."

"Not these. Their nests are in the salt marsh around the lake shore."

"It's beautiful," she said, smiling up at him. This was what she wanted from Henry, just a sharing of all the simple joys and pleasures in life. Wasn't that what husbands and wives were supposed to do? Perhaps she had been too passive, waiting for him to take charge. She should tell him. How would he know what she wanted if she didn't?

She became aware that Kas was still holding her hand. He, too, seemed to come to the same realization, for he immediately dropped her hand and stepped away. "I should head back," he said, clearing his throat. "The sun's coming up now."

Christabel nodded. She should return to her compartment as well, before some early-rising passengers caught her in nothing but a chemise and a robe, holding hands with her husband's servant. The thought burned her cheeks. She walked into the observation car without another word.

They went down the corridor together, Kas walking ahead to open the doors for her. As they passed the clubroom car, loud voices from inside made Christabel pause. "Don't tell me they've been at that damnable poker game all night!" she grumbled.

Kas looked embarrassed. "When Mr. Creel is focused on something, he often loses track of time," he said. "You mustn't mind it."

Christabel huffed. She was taking another step forward when a shout came from the clubroom, "Thompson, for God's sake, put that gun away!" It froze her to the spot.

"Mrs. Creel, don't—" Kas said, but Christabel no longer listened. She threw open the door to the clubroom car.

She was greeted by a bizarre scene, like a tableau vivant that she and her friends sometimes put together back in New York. The clubroom car was shrouded in darkness, all the curtains pulled, the few electric lights shedding an artificial, theatrical illumination over everything. A green-baize table and several chairs lay on their side. Coins and cards were scattered across the carpet. Two men stood facing each other in the center of the car—Henry, still in his suit, looking as cool and unruffled as ever, and another man, Thompson presumably, in his shirtsleeves, wild-haired and wild-eyed, with a smaller revolver in his hand, pointed straight at Henry's heart. All the other men were staying clear of the gun.

Henry barely reacted to Christabel's arrival. Like the other men, he was standing stock still, probably not daring to make a sudden move for fear of setting Thompson off. Thompson, on the other hand, swung around for a second, took note of Christabel, and turned back to Henry with a crazed grin.

"Looks like you got some reinforcements, Creel," he said. "Too bad your wife is not carrying a rifle under her petticoat."

Christabel gripped the doorframe, forgetting even to blush. Behind her, Kas put a gentle hand on her arm, trying to draw her back.

"Kas, please help him," she whispered.

"He'll be fine, Mrs. Creel," he said. "Go back to your compartment. I'll find the conductor."

Christabel stepped away from the door, but Thompson waved the gun at her. "Oh no, you don't, lady," he said without taking his eyes off Henry. "Make a move and you'll be a widow."

"Don't be a fool, Thompson," Henry said evenly, his eyes cold and hard like steel. "What are you going to do, shoot us all and jump off the train? You can't get away with this."

"No, it's you who can't get away with it, you son of a bitch!" Thompson hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. "You can't cheat a man out of his entire fortune and get away with it!"

"Oh, for the love of—" Henry sounded exasperated. "I did not cheat! All these gentlemen could bear witness to that. I won fair and square. Now, give me the gun before you hurt yourself."

He took a step forward, one hand held up, the other slowly extending toward the revolver. With an angry bellow like a branded bull, Thompson jumped out of reach and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 5: The Hall that Echoes Still

Chapter Text

Christabel screamed.

The clubroom car descended into chaos as Henry collapsed to the floor. The men jumped on Thompson to seize him and take the gun, blocking Henry from her view. She shook off Kas's hand holding her arm and ran into the room. Incredibly, Henry was sitting up, though a red stain was spreading fast across the front of his shirt.

"Oh God," Christabel cried out, trembling hands feeling for his wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Don't try to move. Where are you hit?"

"Stand aside!" he snapped, shoving her away none too gently. "Kas! Get her out of here!"

Kas was beside her, lifting her up. She fought back, but he was stronger, much stronger. "Calm yourself!" he said in her ear. "Look at Mr. Creel, he's fine! It's just a graze, I'm sure. You need to go back to your compartment and let the conductor handle this."

Christabel looked back at Henry. He was struggling to his feet, a hand clasped to his chest, and blood was still welling up between his fingers, but it was true that he didn't look like a man on the brink of death. She wished he would've said something to assure her, but he wasn't even looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the hapless Thompson, who was now slumped on the floor, and the look in those eyes sent chills down Christabel's spine.

She let Kas take her back to her compartment. After making sure that she needed nothing, he went back to see to Henry, promising to send her words as soon as there was any news.

She didn't even bother getting dressed. She sat in her chemise with her knees drawn up to her chest and tried to calm the trembling of her limbs. Henry did look fine. She had seen the gun go off very close to his heart, but in the murkiness of the room, in the panic of the moment, she might have been mistaken. Perhaps Kas was right, perhaps it was just a graze. Could someone bleed so much from just a graze? Why didn't anybody come and tell her anything? Why did they all insist on treating her as some silly thing that would only faint or fly into hysterics?

Finally, she could no longer take it. She put up her hair, dressed herself as best as she could, and went back out.

As the door opened, she almost ran straight into Kas.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"Everything is fine now," he said reassuringly. "Mr. Creel is fine. They have stopped the bleeding. The man, Thompson, is detained. The conductor has sent a telegram, asking for a doctor and the police to meet the train at the next station."

The nervous energy that had been keeping Christabel upright seemed to drain out of her all at once. She collapsed into Kas's arms, and he had to lead her back to the bed.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine. Just a little dizzy, that's all."

"Would you like something to eat?"

At the mention of food, Christabel realized she hadn't had anything to eat since luncheon the previous day. "Yes," she said. "Perhaps some food would—" Her eyes landed on Kas's hand supporting her arm. "Kas! Your hand!"

He looked down. Her curtains were closed, but a ray of sunlight shone through the gap and fell on the back of Kas's hand, turning the skin an angry shade of red. Looking embarrassed, Kas quickly covered the hand with his sleeve and backed into the corridor, which was still bathed in shadow.

"I'll ask a porter to bring you some breakfast," he said, then turned on his heel and vanished.

The station where they had to get off to meet the doctor and the police was Blue Creek, one of the stops Christabel had looked at with such fascination in the timetable. She was disappointed to discover that it was nothing like the romantic image she had conjured up in her mind, consisting only of a dilapidated depot attached to a rickety platform and a handful of clapboard houses huddled together, all covered in reddish dust. There was no sign of the eponymous creek.

Christabel had insisted on accompanying Henry, while Kas would go on ahead with their things and wait for them in San Francisco. She felt a little sorry that Kas wasn't there—there was something about his presence that calmed her, and she needed that, especially when Henry still didn't talk much to her. When they allowed her to see him after he had been bandaged up, she'd had to stop herself from throwing her arms around him, for fear of tearing his wound. She'd had to be content with just kissing his hand. Yet he hadn't even kissed her back. He'd only said irritably, "Quit your crying, I'm not dead yet. You know I can't stand tears."

The poor stationmaster of Blue Creek was quite flustered when they arrived, not knowing who to offer the only chair in the office to—Christabel, because she was a lady, or Henry, because he was wounded. Christabel, feeling sorry for the man, saved him the trouble by sitting down on a crate, leaving the chair for Henry so he could be examined by the doctor, who had been summoned from the nearby town of Ogden.

"This is remarkable!" the doctor exclaimed. "The bullet had gone straight through, but there seems to be very little damage to the tissue."

"I must have been quite lucky then," Henry said with a tight smile.

"Why, it looks like it's started to heal already!"

"Everyone in my family has always been fast healers. If there's nothing more you can do for me, Doc, I must talk to these police officers."

After the baffled doctor applied a fresh bandage, Henry shrugged his shirt back on and turned to the two officers, who were waiting patiently. A handcuffed Thompson sat sullenly to the side, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the floor.

The police report took much longer. Henry kept shaking his head, making exasperated gestures, and saying "Is all this necessary?" The stationmaster made some coffee and offered Christabel a cup, which she took out of politeness. It tasted of machine oil.

At last, the police were apparently satisfied with the account, Henry signed the report, and the officers left, dragging Thompson with them. The next train arrived—they got a private suite all to themselves this time, compliments of the railway. Christabel settled into the seat next to her husband, grateful that they finally had some time together. She only wished it hadn't come at the cost of a disaster.

"What a hassle," Henry grumbled, leaning against the seat with his eyes shut.

"What did you say to the police?" asked Christabel, brushing the hair out of his forehead.

"They wanted to charge Thompson with attempted murder. I told them it was an accident. The man is a drunk and a sore loser, but not a murderer."

Christabel stared at him. "But why? He was holding you at gunpoint and threatening me! Why would you show him leniency?"

"Don't you understand anything? If they charged him with attempted murder, there would be a trial, and I would have to come back to this God-forsaken place to be a witness. I'm far too busy to be wasting my time with such a—" He waved dismissively. "Anyway, it's all over now. I just want to get home. God, what an utter wreck this trip has been."

Christabel wanted to ask if he meant the entire trip, including their marriage, or if he simply meant the train journey. But his eyes remained closed, and even then, there was such a look of displeasure on his face, that she didn't dare make a sound.

They arrived the next evening. From the train station, they headed to the ferry that would take them across the bay and into San Francisco. Despite her exhaustion and the cold, clammy wind that whipped at her hair, Christabel stood on the upper level of the ferry, trying to get a view of the city that she would be calling home, hopefully for the rest of her life. All she saw was a thick fog, through which a constellation of twinkling lights could be glimpsed, in a mirror image of the twinkling stars in the sky above. It reminded her of the blue heron she'd seen on Great Salt Lake, and Kas. She wondered if he was waiting for them.

He was. When Christabel exited the busy ferry terminal on Henry's arm, she found Kas waiting by a black Daimler with its hood folded back, every spoke shiny, every bit of leather gleaming. Christabel, used as she was to the luxurious cars and carriages of New York, still gaped at it.

"Didn't I tell you, darling?" Henry gloated, as Kas handed Christabel into the back seat. "Much better than Brenner's tin can on wheels, isn't it?" Henry's mood seemed to improve a great deal the moment they set foot in San Francisco, and Christabel's spirit lifted as well. He must have been grumpy simply from traveling. Anyone would, after being trapped in a steel box for five days and being shot at on top of it as well. Now that they were home, things were bound to get better.

Henry had told her that Creel House was on the other side of the bay, facing the Pacific Ocean, so they had to drive through the city to reach it. The fog was thinner here, and Christabel eagerly kept her eyes open to take in as much as she could. Although it was late and the cable cars had stopped running for the night, the streets were still thronged with motorcars, horse-drawn carriages, and late-night carousers. Buildings crowded close to each other on either side of the streets. It wasn't as grand as Manhattan, perhaps, but it was certainly busier, and had none of the staid solemnity of an old city. There was a free and easy air about the people that walked along the street as they called to each other and laughed with each other, and excitement flooded Christabel's veins. She was going to like it here.

The car kept going up and down steep heels, while the city spread out behind them and around them like a carpet of black velvet strewn with diamonds. It was such a beautiful sight that Christabel kept twisting around to look at it, until Henry said, "Sit still, darling. We don't want you tumbling off and cracking that pretty little head of yours open, do we?" His tone was mocking, but Christabel was so taken with everything that she didn't even feel annoyed.

Then the street opened up, and a darker, more liquid patch of night appeared ahead of them. The city's lights and hubbub fell behind them as the car took a turn and wove its way along a sheer cliff, with the sea on one side and rocky hills on the other. The fog had come in again. The car's headlight cast a small pool of light that only illuminated the immediate path in front of it, so Christabel couldn't see much, but she could hear the murmur of the sea, low but insistent, lapping at the rocks below, drowning out even the sound of the car and the hiss of the wind in her ears. Behind them, the road twisted and wounded like a silver snake. Occasionally, a dark bulk of a cliff face would materialize out of the fog like a sentinel giant, forcing the car to swerve around it, and another section would be added to the snake, while the rest of it was lost to the dark and the fog.

The drive went on for so long that Christabel felt they had entered a completely different world, one that had nothing to do with that bustling, exciting city they'd left behind. She didn't realize she had gone to sleep until a new grinding sound under the tires woke her up. She lifted her head from Henry's shoulder and looked about in wonder. They were surrounded by snow, heaps and heaps of it shining pale under the fog. How was it that there was snow already? Then the car's headlight swept across them and she realized it wasn't snow, but sand. They had come down from the cliff and were now crunching their way through endless sand dunes, through which the wind was blowing with a lonely sound. It wasn't difficult to imagine that she was the only living being in this cold, misty desert, for Henry was still as a statue by her side, and at the front, Kas was hunched over the wheel, not making a sound either.

"Where are we?" she asked, her voice hushed. For some reason, she felt there was something lurking amongst those dunes, in the fog, and would jump out at them if it sensed them. It was silly, of course, but it still made her edge closer to her husband.

"They call it Outside Lands," replied Henry.

What a fitting name. It seemed to Christabel they were on the edge of the world, and they could drive and drive until the car ran out of petrol, and found nothing but sand and fog.

"Now, keep your eyes peeled, we'll be coming up to Creel House very soon."

Christabel sat up and tried to recall some of the excitement she'd felt when driving through the city, though the long drive through the dark and this desolate, sinister landscape had sapped her of any enthusiasm she might have. But she could sense Henry's impatience to show her his home—their home—so she did her best to conjure up some eagerness.

At last, a dark mass appeared behind the dunes, way out in the sea. "There," Henry said, pointing. The fog lifted a little, showing Christabel the sharp points of some towers or turrets and the windswept top of a grove of trees, all silhouetted against the starlit sky. She stared, not believing in her eyes. Henry had said the house was remote, but she hadn't expected it to be this remote.

"Is it—is it on an island?" she asked.

Henry laughed. "It is, sometimes," he said enigmatically and left it at that.

Christabel had her answer soon enough. The road turned into a path just barely wide enough for the car, a land bridge connecting the sand dunes with the island, and the car drove down it.

"We're lucky it's low tide tonight," Henry said, while waves lapped at the tires. "Otherwise, we'd have to take the boat." He nodded at a little rowboat moored by one of the dunes.

Rock outcrops lay in the water, scattered around the path like sea creatures emerging from the depth. In the distance, Christabel could glimpse some hulking shape, like a beached whale lying on its side, its skeletal ribs exposed to the air. She pointed at it.

"What's that?"

"Shipwrecks, darling," Henry said. "It is a veritable graveyard from here to the mouth of the bay. Ships get lost in the fog, or get pushed by the strong tides and hit the rocks just below the water. That one took most of the crew with her. They say on foggy nights like this, you can see their ghosts around the wreck, searching for their earthly bodies."

Christabel shivered, less from the macabre subject of the story and more from Henry's cheerful, casual voice. She sat away from him and tried not to pay attention to the wreck still lurking out of the corner of her eye.

It was perhaps a quarter of a mile from the shore to the island. As it reached the island, the path merged with a gravel drive that went up and around the house. The car climbed this slope, and finally, Creel House appeared in front of Christabel.

It wasn't a big house—only three stories—but the narrow façade, steep roofs, and the many gables and turrets and cupolas made it look taller than it was. The grove of trees Christabel had seen from the shore—cypress, by the look of them—stood behind it, shielding the house from the ocean, their branches all swept eastward, like a group of giants with arms desperately reaching for the shore.

Kas helped Christabel down, while Henry went on ahead to unlock the front door. "Welcome to Creel House," he said, throwing the door open with a flourish.

"Aren't you going to carry me across the threshold?" Christabel asked with a smile.

"If you insist." Henry came back down the steps, swept her up into his arms just as he had the day they met, and carried her inside.

Christabel laughed, only for the laugh to die in her throat the moment they went through the door.

The house was dark and silent. More than that, there was a strange, oppressive air about it. Some houses made you feel welcome immediately upon entering, while others kept their secrets close to their hearts, for all that they opened their doors to you. Creel House seemed to belong to this latter category. The silence was deafening, as though the house were listening, waiting, ready to spring something nasty on the unsuspecting visitor. But she was not a visitor, was she? She was the mistress.

"Where is everybody?" she asked, taking off her hat and gloves. She put them on the side table by the door and noticed a layer of dust on it. No doubt the housework had been neglected while Henry was away. She made a mental note to speak to the housekeeper about it.

"Who do you mean?" Henry struck a match and lit a lamp set on the table. The lamp flared to life, illuminating a staircase leading to the upper floor and a long corridor leading to the back of the house. A stained glass window overlooked the stairs, and Christabel recognized the rose featured in its center, a perfect, enlarged reproduction of the pendant she wore on her neck.

"The staff. The other servants."

"There are no other servants. Kas is all there is."

"Oh." She was slightly taken aback, but Henry's answer wasn't completely shocking. Now that she thought about it, he'd never mentioned any servants. As a bachelor, he probably didn't need more. "He does everything, even the cooking and the cleaning?" she asked.

"Yes. He's more than adequate."

"I'm sure he is, but that was when you were a bachelor. You're married now. I'm going to need a lady's maid, at the very least."

"For what?"

"Well, to help me get dressed and do my hair and other things," Christabel explained, trying to stay patient.

"Nonsense. You can't even dress yourself? What are you, a child?"

Henry's dismissive tone annoyed her. "I'd like to see you lace yourself into a corset!" she snapped.

He shrugged. "Fine, we'll talk about it later. For now, I need a good long sleep in a bed that doesn't move."

He sauntered upstairs without a look back, leaving his bride standing forlornly in the hallway, surrounded by dust and darkness. Was that a quarrel? They had been married for less than a week, and already had at least two quarrels that she could remember. Christabel sighed. Clearly, married life was going to take some getting used to.

Kas appeared from the corridor, a candle in his hand.

"I'm sorry about the state of the house, Mrs. Creel," he said. "Mr. Creel doesn't care about such things... I'll get everything cleaned up by tomorrow."

"It's all right, Kas." She shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

"If you'd follow me, I'll show you to your room."

He led the way up the stairs, down a corridor framed by pointed arches, like those in a church, an impression that was heightened by the dark, medieval-looking paintings that loomed in the shadow of the arches and the chill, vault-like air that permeated the whole house. The room Kas showed Christabel into was of a good size, though it was as dark and oppressive as the rest of the house, with heavy mahogany furniture and velvet draperies. Kas set down the candle and a box of matches on a chest of drawers, and she saw that he had brought her cases up and had even laid out a tray of tea and cookies.

"I only came back this afternoon so I haven't been able to get fresh milk," he said apologetically, "but there's sugar if you want. The bathroom is through there"—he pointed to a door at the other end of the room—"and I've lit the boiler, so the water should be hot for your bath."

His talk of groceries reminded her of something else. "How do you manage the shopping and everything, with your—your condition?" she asked.

He stood up straight, squaring his shoulders. "I manage just fine, ma'am. I haven't had any complaints from Mr. Creel."

"No, that's not what I meant." She didn't want him to think she was a harsh, demanding type of mistress, like her mother. "Only—I hope it isn't too much trouble for you, having to go out in the sun."

"Oh." His eyes softened. "No, I don't have to. I put in a standing order to a store in town and they make deliveries." He added, "I know it seems we're at the edge of civilization here, but downtown is only ten miles away. And when electricity and telephone lines are extended to this side of the city, we'll catch right up with the rest of them."

She knew he was trying to reassure her, and she nodded. "Of course. Thank you."

At that moment, a faint sound came through the window—a doleful wail, like that of a dying animal. Two sharp ones came in quick succession, followed by a third and a fourth, lower, but still audible over the rushing of the sea.

She turned to Kas, eyes wide in fear. To her surprise, he was smiling. "It's the foghorns over at Mile Rock to warn the approaching ships," he explained. "Just one of the things you'll have to get used to while living here." He turned to go, but something made him linger at the door. "Are you sure you'll be all right?" he asked.

Through her fatigue and frustration, she still detected the genuine concern in his voice, and it touched her. "Yes, I'm sure," she said, trying to smile.

"Good night then."

"Good night."

After a cup of sugary tea and a hot bath, Christabel felt slightly better. No doubt she and Henry were both tired and irritable due to the long journey. It wasn't the best time to have a discussion of their household arrangement. All that could wait until the next day.

Even so, she couldn't stop the disappointment from clouding her mind just like the fog out there. This was her wedding night—her proper wedding night—and her husband hadn't even had the courtesy to see her to her room, let alone show an inclination to spend it with her. Why, she didn't even know which room he was in.

Tomorrow, she decided, trying to chase the gloomy thoughts away. I'll figure it out tomorrow.

Before getting into bed, she opened the curtains to let in some fresh air. Her room looked over the grove of cypress trees, and beyond it, the little beach behind the house, a crescent of sand gently sloping toward the sea. At the far end of the beach rose a white tower—a lighthouse. As she watched, Christabel spied Kas walking into the lighthouse, and a moment later, a little light came on at the window. So that must be where he lived. Somehow it made her feel safer, knowing he was out there, keeping watch.

Picking up her candle, she turned toward the bed. As her gaze swept across the window, her eyes caught something outside, and fear seized her heart.

Dark figures—she could not tell if they were male or female, or even how many of them there were, but they were definitely human—were hovering by the cypress grove.

They say on foggy nights like this, you can see their ghosts around the wreck, searching for their earthly bodies.

A cold sweat broke out over her body. She ran to the window and peered into the mist-shrouded darkness, but she couldn't see anything except for silvery patches of fog that swirled and twisted around darker patches of night. Then came a gust of wind, blowing the fog away, and the cypresses stood clear and silent against the starry sky. There were no figures underneath them.

Had they really been there at all? Or was it just her fatigue and the fog playing tricks on her eyes?

Christabel stood by the window for a while longer, but nothing moved amongst the cypresses. Eventually, when the candle in the lighthouse went out, she blew out her own candle, closed the curtains, and climbed into the cold bed. There, she curled up under the pile of quilts that smelled faintly of dust and tried to slow the hammering of her heart, until she sank into an uneasy sleep.

Chapter 6: The Chamber Carved So Curiously

Chapter Text

Christabel woke with the feeling that she'd had a bad dream. She tried to remember what it had been about, and could only conjure up an image of cypress trees, hundreds and thousands of them, surrounding her, stretching as far as the eye could see, dark, twisted shapes looming out of the fog. There wasn't anything particularly disturbing about them, yet the memory of the dream lingered, weighing down her limbs, tightening her chest, and keeping her mind exhausted, although she discovered, by a grandfather clock in the front hall, that she'd slept for nearly twelve hours.

In the daylight, Creel House did not improve much. It was probably because daylight could not penetrate its depth. The gloom was worsened by all the dark Victorian furnishings that must have been fashionable when the house had been built—redwood paneling, mahogany furniture, wallpapers the color of raw liver, and blood-red carpets and curtains—which swallowed up any speck of light that was brave enough to come through the tall, narrow windows. If it wasn't for the candle and matches that Kas had considerately left for her the previous night, Christabel doubted she would have found her way downstairs at all. The darkness pressed down on her eyes, making her feel as though she was going blind, so after leaving her bedroom, she'd gone down the corridor and opened every curtain she could put her hands on. Outside, the fog had lifted, to be replaced by a slate-colored sky and drizzling rain, but even the watery light was preferable to the murkiness of the house.

And it was quiet too, oh so quiet. Her footsteps struck the thick carpet with no sound at all, and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock only accentuated the stillness. The silence constricted Christabel's throat, and she didn't even dare call out for Henry or Kas, afraid of hearing only the echo of her own voice.

She paused at the stained glass window for a moment, comparing her pendant with the bigger rose. The light coming through the glass was stained red, falling across her hands like blood. She then made her way to the first floor and down the corridor leading to the back of the house. The first two doors she opened led into a drawing room and a study, both so dark that she could only glimpse heavy furniture and tall shelves lined with books. The third was the dining room. More dark wallpapers and furniture. She'd really have to talk to Henry about updating the decorations and bringing the house into the twentieth century.

Breakfast was being kept warm on the sideboard, though there was only one setting at the table. A note was tucked under the plate, along with a grocery list. Written in a strong, large hand, it read, "Mr. Creel has gone to town on business and asked that you have breakfast without him. If you want any changes to the grocery order, please let me know. Kas."

Giving the list a quick scan, Christabel was struck by how little she knew about housekeeping. She wasn't even sure what they needed on a day-to-day basis. Perhaps Kas would be kind enough to help her.

The stillness of the house seemed to have robbed her of an appetite, so she only spread a piece of toast with some marmalade and nibbled on it while continuing to roam the house. It wasn't as large or grand as her family townhouse in Manhattan. Christabel was glad of that though. She didn't think she could be mistress of a large house anyway. At least Kas seemed to have kept his words, for everything was dusted and polished. Christabel wondered if he'd cleaned all night.

She found two more rooms on the first floor—next to the dining room was the kitchen, which opened into what appeared to be a greenhouse, connected to the main house by a covered walkway, and a parlor, with a bay window looking out into the sea, though of course the view was obscured by thick curtains. It could be a nice place for her to retreat to with her books and her music, while Henry worked in the study next door, or they could share it on cozy evenings when there were no guests. She decided this would be the first room she'd work on.

The second floor contained only bedrooms, but they all appeared to be closed off, other than her own and one at the very end of the corridor, which was locked. It must be Henry's bedroom. Christabel tried not to feel hurt that it was locked. Henry probably locked it out of habit. There was a small door set into the wall just outside this room. Opening it, she discovered a cramped staircase leading up to the attic. She expected it to be dusty and cobwebbed, but it was as spotless as the rest of the house, perhaps even more—it was clearly kept in regular use. Curiosity getting the better of her, she retrieved her candle and went up the creaky steps.

The attic was vast, taking up the entire top floor of the house, stretching back so far into the darkness that the feeble flame of the candle could not illuminate its edges. Shelves and cabinets lined the wall. In the middle of the floor was a large table with a steel top, strewn with glass vials, test tubes, burners, and other scientific equipment whose purpose she did not understand. A desk stood next to this worktop, its pigeonholes filled with papers containing complicated equations and diagrams—Henry's notes on his studies and experiments, she supposed.

Christabel tried a window and discovered they were all nailed shut. She turned her attention to the shelves. Most of them were stacked full of books on every subject imaginable, others were full of bottles of chemicals, all neatly labeled in Henry's slanting hand. Then she came to the far end of the attic, and her steps faltered.

Glass cages were arranged along the wall on sturdy steel legs, their lids secured with padlocks. Most seemed empty, filled with nothing but sand, rocks, and dry twigs. Christabel leaned closer to one, the candle held high. Did she spy some movement amongst the rocks? A twitching black leg appeared, then two, then three, and Christabel recoiled in horror when what she had presumed to be a black rock broke apart into a mass of wriggling bodies. Spiders, hundreds of them, the smallest no bigger than a sesame seed, the biggest only the size of her fingernail, crawling all over the glass to get away from the light.

And then, stirred by the light or perhaps the movement of the spiders, the other cages came to life as well. More spiders, mostly the black kind, but also some brown, smooth like a pebble, or furry, some pale like the sand they were hiding in. And there were other things as well, coiling, slimy ropes that slithered and writhed with a whispery hiss, occasionally showing a forked tongue or a rattling tail. Snakes. The cages were full of spiders and snakes.

Christabel stepped away from them, forcing herself to go slowly. The glass was thick and the lids of the cages looked well-made, but somehow, she still believed that if she made a sudden move, those creatures would burst out of their cages and lunge at her...

Her back collided with something. She screamed.

"What are you doing here?" came Henry's stern voice.

Christabel's knees buckled with relief. She leaned against Henry for support, but he stepped away, causing her to stumble. "Careful," he said, and she noticed he was holding a large cardboard box, which rattled ominously. "I ask you: what are you doing here?" he repeated.

She didn't understand why he looked so displeased with her. "I was just—looking around. I know I should've waited for you to show me the house, but I got impatient." She tentatively touched his sleeve. "Was that wrong of me? I didn't mean to snoop."

Henry's eyes glinted in the murkiness. "No, not at all," he said, smiling. "And it's not snooping when it's your house, is it? Come, let me show you."

His smile eased the knot in her stomach. She waited while he lit a lamp over the worktable, turning the wick high so a pool of yellow light illuminated some of the further reaches of the attic. He then set the box down, and, taking her arm, he led her around, pointing out the different kinds of spiders and snakes, listing off their names, black widow, brown recluse, tarantula, viper, mamba, so quickly that Christabel couldn't remember them all.

"Beautiful creatures, are they not?" Henry said. "And so misunderstood too. Their venoms can cure as much as they kill, you know. After all, they're only doing what they must to survive."

He then proceeded to tell her about each of the creature's venom, how powerful it was, what it could do to a victim. Christabel tried to muster up some interest, but found herself unable to. Back in New York, when Henry told her about his studies while they sat in the sun, under the trees of Tuxedo Park, it had been fascinating, enthralling, a sharing of mutual interest. Now, in this darkened attic, surrounded by all those creepy crawlies, the light in Henry's eyes appeared almost feverish, and he droned on and on without paying any attention to her.

"Take the black widow spider," he said, stopping in front of the cage with the black-and-red creatures she'd first noticed. "A single bite is just like a pinprick, you'd hardly even feel it. But just a few minutes, and a numbing pain will spread from the bite, paralyzing you, making it difficult to breathe. In severe cases, it can lead to seizure... and death."

Then, to her horror, he opened the lid and, still holding her arm with one hand, dipped his other hand into the cage, right in the midst of those wriggly bodies and legs.

"Should you—should you be doing that?" Christabel asked shakily.

"Don't worry, darling, they only bite when threatened," Henry said, lifting his hand out. A spider clung to his finger like a drop of blood. "Besides, they never bite me. They know I'm their master." He turned his hand, letting the spider scurry along his fingers. As it moved, Christabel could glimpse a red mark in the shape of an hourglass on its belly, and was suddenly reminded of Henry's costume at the Carvers' All Hallows Eve ball. He extended his palm out to her. "Would you like to say hello?"

Christabel shrank back, shaking her head. She could not understand the hungry look in Henry's eyes.

"No? Well, maybe this would be more to your taste then." He returned the spider to its cage and opened the cardboard box he had brought, which was shaking and squeaking. Christabel soon discovered what was making all those movements and noises—Henry pulled a white mouse out of the box, dangling it by its hairless pink tail. Ignoring the poor creature's writhing and squirming, he lifted the lid of another cage, this one containing a single, fat cobra, almost as big as Henry's forearm.

Paralyzed with fear and revulsion, Christabel could only watch as Henry lowered the mouse into the cage. The cobra raised its hooded head and appeared to be sniffing the air. The mouse, too, seemed to have sensed the predator, for it screeched and thrashed even more violently, in a vain attempt to escape.

"Henry, please—" Christabel begged. Her voice sounded thin, like that of a scared child.

"Shh. Watch."

The cobra fixed its baneful yellow eyes on the mouse. In a blur of movement, it struck. The mouse's screech was cut off abruptly, and the cobra settled back down, its head bulged, the mouse's limp tail disappearing into its mouth like a pink ribbon.

Christabel could take no more. She wrenched her arm out of Henry's hand and ran blindly out of the attic, down the small staircase, and straight into someone.

"Mrs. Creel? What's happened?"

It was Kas, except she couldn't really see him, could only feel his hands on her arms, because all the curtains were closed again, and the corridor was once more plunged into darkness. It was like escaping from being buried alive in a coffin only to find oneself locked in the crypt. Now she knew how poor Madeline Usher must have felt.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, lashing out wildly at Kas, feeling much like the doomed mouse as it was being lowered into the cobra's gaping jaw.

His hands loosened instantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Christabel stepped back, trying to catch her breath. Her fear was gone, replaced by embarrassment for having run away and screaming like a child, and that embarrassment turned into irritation.

"Why are the curtains closed?" she snapped. "From now on, I want them open, day and night, do you hear me?"

She stalked into her room and slammed the door behind her. Throwing her windows wide open, she leaned against the windowsill, breathing in the fresh air and daylight until they calmed her.

The door opened with a creak. Christabel whirled around. Henry strolled in, looking as calm as ever.

"What's this?" he said. "You're not crying over some silly mice, are you?"

"No—no—"

"Good, because you know I can't stand tears." He approached her and grabbed her chin, tilting her face up into the light. "And there is nothing to be afraid of. That's just how they feed, the snakes. If the prey is not alive, they will be bored and not eat. It's completely natural."

Christabel nodded slowly. Once, during a trip to the Catskills, she'd seen a hawk snatch a rabbit from the meadow. It hadn't been upsetting one bit. Perhaps she had let the dark and stifling air of the house get to her...

"But must you keep them in the house?" she asked. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Most of them like dark and dry places, and it's too damp to keep them on the ground floor. Don't worry, the containers are perfectly secure." His face turned serious. "Still, I would prefer it if you don't wander about the house by yourself. And stop bothering Kas about the curtains. You'll just have to get used to the darkness."

Feeling irritated again, she jerked away from his grasp.

"Why do you employ him?" she asked. "He told me about his condition. It's positively ghoulish." She knew she was being unfair to Kas, but how fair was it when Henry expected her, the mistress of the house, to accommodate the servant? Shouldn't it be the other way around?

Henry shrugged. "He has his use. And let's face it, if I didn't employ him, no one would take him on, not with that—condition of his."

Christabel's irritation subsided. Well, if her husband employed Kas as an act of philanthropy, then she shouldn't be too harsh on either of them.

"All right, Henry," she said, leaning on his chest. "I promise I won't go into the attic on my own again, and I'll let Kas keep his curtains."

She nuzzled his neck, hoping for a return kiss, something comforting and reassuring to calm her down after the scare she'd just had. But Henry pushed her away—quite literally, like one pushing away an unwanted dish at the dinner table—and, with a brief "Good", went out again.

After lunch, Christabel found Kas in the kitchen. He stood up upon her entering and moved uncertainly toward the windows.

"Shall I open the shutters, Mrs. Creel?" he asked. The house seemed to have some effect on him as well, for he seemed paler, more subdued and diffident, quite unlike how he had been on the train.

"No, it's quite all right." She held out the shopping list. "I only want to give you this. I've looked it over and added a few orders of my own." As he took the list, she continued, a little stiffly, "And you can keep the curtains closed. No need to change how you've always done things on my account."

"It's all right, ma'am, I'll manage." There was a slight pause, as though he was weighing his words, deciding whether to say them at all. "And I apologize for earlier. This house can be a difficult place to live in at times. I'm sorry if I've made it worse for you."

In response, Christabel only gave him a curt nod, not wanting to show how much his simple words meant to her, much more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

It took several days for Christabel to get used to Creel House and its closed, oppressive air. It no longer frightened her as it had on her first day, but she was certain she would never fall in love with it.

Kas kept his word and kept the curtains open for her, having devised some sort of pulley system that allowed him to control them from the door, so he could close them when he needed to walk through the house and open them again behind him. The daylight helped tremendously, though it showed that the house was even more neglected than she'd realized. The furniture was scratched and chipped from careless handling, the carpets and curtains were fraying, and the wallpapers were peeling in places, including a strip in the corner of her room. She was determined to talk to Henry about refurnishing the house soon, and told Kas to order some catalogues and samples from the best furniture makers and upholsterers in town, in preparation.

For some reasons, she felt hesitant to talk to Henry about such things. For a start, she didn't want to throw her weight about too much too early in their marriage, as she kept having a vague but nagging sense that Henry resented her presence. She thought she could understand it, having heard about it enough from her married friends in New York. No matter how in love a man was, a part of him always regretted marriage, always yearned for the freedom of bachelorhood. She should give him time to get used to being married.

But the other reason was that they hardly had any moment alone together. Every morning, Christabel woke up alone and breakfasted alone. Henry was away most days, taking the car with him, and when he was home, he locked himself in the attic with his monstrous creatures, sometimes even forgetting to join her for dinner. He brought back more boxes, boxes that rattled and growled and scratched and skittered, and Christabel remembered the little white mouse and stayed away. But at night, she lay alone for hours, hoping to hear him turn the handle to her door, but he never did. She was tempted to come to him herself, but shyness held her back. She'd already eloped with him, what kind of lady would he think she was if she came knocking on his bedroom door at night as well?

Fortunately for Christabel, diversion soon arrived in the form of her old things from New York. She'd fully expected her mother to have thrown away all of them or perhaps burned them in a fit of rage, so it was a pleasant surprise to come downstairs one morning and find several crates in the hallway, filled with clothes and books and even trinkets from her room. There was no letter from her mother, not even a note, but that didn't disappoint Christabel. If anything, she was relieved.

She spent several happy days unpacking the crates and putting things up in her room, finding comfort in their familiarity. Then she discovered a curious thing, or rather, two curious things.

She was putting her underthings into the bureau when she found something in its bottom drawer—a little cigar box made out of flimsy plywood, all warped and faded with age. The box contained a pair of scratched spectacles and a cheap pocket watch, long dead.

Christabel wouldn't think it strange to find some forgotten belongings here and there in the house, but these two things had clearly been kept together and hidden away, mementos of sorts. Even more curiously, upon closer inspection, she realized that the spectacles were not randomly scratched. Someone had made an attempt to carve two letters onto one of the lenses—F.B. Somebody's initials? The inside of the watch's lid had been scratched too, with different letters—P.M. The spectacles and the watch must have belonged to two different people. So why keep them together?

There was something vaguely familiar about those scratch marks, though she couldn't remember where she'd seen the handwriting before. More than that, they were disturbing, desperate. Whoever made them had clearly been anxious to leave behind some reminders of these people, whoever they were. It seemed to Christabel that those marks were made not only on the surface of the glass and the brass of the watch, but on the barrier of time as well, and at any moment, the owners of these mementos would be able to scratch down that barrier altogether and reach her from the past. The thought made her shiver, and she tossed the spectacles and the watch back into their box, and shoved the box into one of the empty crates to be disposed of. She did not want them around her.

One day, the drizzling rain stopped long enough for the sun to come out and clear the fog. Henry was out again and Kas was shut up in the lighthouse, but Christabel took full advantage of the nice weather by taking a long walk around the island, something she hadn't been able to do since her arrival. She went straight to the grove of cypress trees first, trying to look at them from the same angle from her window, searching for any sign, any irregular shape or formation on their bark that may suggest the figures she'd seen on her first night. There was nothing of the sort. The trees stood still and silent, casting a thick shadow even under the full sun. The memory of those silent trees in her dream came back like a cold finger down her spine. Christabel wrapped her cloak closer to her body and went down the drive, onto the path toward the shore, which had emerged from the low tides.

A soft jingling caught her attention, and she spied a horse-drawn wagon, bright red against the sand dunes, with Melvald's General Store painted in curly gold lettering on its side, rolling down the shore toward Creel House. This must be the weekly grocery delivery. She quickened her pace to catch up with it. The wagon drew up to the shore at the same time she did. The driver, a woman of late middle age, jumped down from her seat at the sight of Christabel.

"Afternoon, ma'am," she said. "You'd be the new Mrs. Creel, I bet."

Her phrasing puzzled Christabel for it indicated that there was an old Mrs. Creel, but she decided the woman must have meant Henry's mother, or perhaps simply that she was a newcomer of Creel House.

"I am," she replied.

"Joyce Byers, at your service," the woman said, taking off her bonnet, revealing a face that must have been pretty once, and was still handsome how, framed by two wings of dark hair shot with silver. "I have your order here."

She opened the back of the wagon and began unloading crates and boxes with an agility that belied her small stature. Christabel lingered about, not wanting to leave the first sign of outside life she'd seen in a week.

"Do you just leave them here, Mrs. Byers?" she asked.

"Please, call me Joyce. Yes, and I'll ring the bell here so young Kas knows to pick them up." Joyce indicated a bell tied to a hook planted at the start of the path, which Christabel hadn't seen on the night they drove up.

"Why don't you bring them to the door? Aren't you afraid they're going to get stolen?"

The older woman regarded Christabel for a moment or two. "Mr. Creel doesn't like people coming to the house," she said. "Besides, it's high tides half of the time. This is more convenient. We never got any complaints about stolen goods. Nobody ever comes out here anyway."

"Have you been delivering to Creel House for long?"

"Nearly thirty years now, even before it was Creel House."

"All alone?" Christabel exclaimed.

Joyce chuckled. "Like I said, nobody comes out here. When I first started working at Melvald's, there was just the lighthouse, kept by old Mr. McKinney."

"Really?" Christabel asked with interest. "Did he leave when the lighthouse was decommissioned?" Henry had told her that after new lighthouses were constructed on the Golden Gate Strait, many lighthouses along the bay were decommissioned, and his father had brought up the land to build Creel House.

Joyce's face turned somber. "No, the lighthouse was decommissioned because he left. After his son, Patrick, died, old Mr. McKinney drowned his sorrow in the bottle. The lighthouse fell into disrepair. After that one ship sank with all aboard, Mr. McKinney was removed from his post as the keeper, and the lighthouse was retired." She glanced at the top of the lighthouse, just visible behind the cypresses. "I'm surprised Mr. Creel kept the old thing when he had the house built."

"I think it adds character to the place," Christabel said, a touch offended.

"Character, yes. Except"—the older woman became hesitant, furtive—"well, I suppose it's not my place to say it."

"What?"

"Nothing, ma'am, it's probably just a silly rumor." She closed up the back of the wagon and attempted to climb back on the seat, but Christabel held her back.

"No, please. Tell me."

Joyce looked at her with pity and heaved a sigh. "People say that young Patrick McKinney died from falling off that lighthouse."

Christabel dropped her hand in shock, not just from the gruesome fate of Mr. McKinney's son, but from his very name as well. Patrick McKinney. P.M. Could the pocket watch have belonged to him? Perhaps the lighthouse keeper, in his grief, had scratched his son's name on the watch as a remembrance... But then who was F.B.?

Christabel was curled up on the window seat in the parlor, trying to distract herself with the furniture catalogues and samples of fabrics and wallpapers that had arrived with the groceries that afternoon, when she heard the car coming up the driveway. She expected Henry to go straight up to the attic as usual, and was surprised when he came into the parlor, looking rather displeased.

"What's all this?" he asked, eyeing the samples Christabel had spread on the seat around her.

"Oh, I was just—I've been meaning to discuss this with you, actually," Christabel said, relieved that she'd finally had an opportunity to broach the matter. "What do you think about updating the furnishings of the house a bit?"

"What's wrong with the furnishings?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Except—it's all rather dark and gloomy. I was thinking we could lighten it up a bit. Besides, these curtains and carpets and cushions could do with replacements..." She trailed off, for Henry was still scowling at the samples.

"And who's going to pay for all these 'replacements'?" he asked, finally looking at her.

"What do you mean?"

"I just received a telegram from your bank manager today, telling me I do not have access to your account. I even produced our marriage certificate, but the manager claimed that the account was under your sole name and thus could only be accessed with your permission." She had the feeling this was what he'd come in to talk to her about and was just searching for an excuse to bring it up.

"Yes, that is a stipulation in my father's will to make sure my mother couldn't touch it," she explained.

"But what if something... happens to you?"

Christabel tried not to dwell on the fact that Henry was contemplating her death barely a month into their marriage. "In that case, the money will go to my children. If I have none, it will go back to my mother if she is still alive, or to some distant cousin if she isn't."

"Not to your husband? That's preposterous!"

"You're going to have to take it up with my father, I'm afraid," she said with a shrug, trying to lighten the mood.

"It's a damn nuisance, that's what it is."

Henry's growing irritation was leaving a bad taste in her mouth. "What's wrong?" she asked, trying to stay patient.

"What's yours is mine, by law. Yet if I need money, I have to come to you hat in hand like some beggar?"

"Married women are allowed to have their own assets, you know," Christabel said evenly. "Have been for nearly sixty years now."

"But I am your husband!" Henry shouted. "It is my right!"

"Your right?!" Christabel jumped up from the window seat, scattering fabric and wallpaper samples all over the floor. "What about your duties? Day after day you leave me in this Godforsaken house, you barely even look at me or speak to me, let alone spend time with me. What kind of marriage do you call this? Perhaps I should annul it on the grounds of non-consummation!" It was a bluff, but Henry's demand to own her money angered her so much that she wanted to get back at him.

For a moment, she thought Henry was going to hit her. But he only ground his teeth so hard she could see the veins popping on his temples, and he bit out, "Pay for your own damn furnishings then!" before storming out of the room. The slam of the attic door came a moment later, hurting her more than any physical blow he could have inflicted.

The parlor door cracked open, and Kas's worried face poked in. "Is everything all right, Mrs. Creel? I heard shouting—"

"Oh, leave me alone! Must you always be underfoot?" She tossed the samples and the catalogues into the wastepaper basket and swept out, not stopping to see the hurt look in Kas's dark eyes.

Back in her room, Christabel got undressed, violently yanking off buttons and tapes, heedless of the tearing sound they made, pulling pins out of her hair, throwing them willy-nilly on her dressing table, all the while trying to fight the hot tears that were choking her throat from rising to her eyes.

So Henry was no different from all the others. He was after her money, had been all along. That would explain his coldness on the train, his neglect since they came to San Francisco. All his sweet talk had been just that—talk. How stupid had she been to not see it? And now it was too late...

A knock on her door jolted her out of her gloomy thoughts. She was startled to hear Henry's voice on the other side, all gentle and sweet, "Darling? May I come in, please?"

Christabel debated telling him to go away. But what would she accomplish by drawing out the tension? After all, they were married, and she was stuck with him for the rest of her life. Best to learn to live with him. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Many married women happily handed their money over to their husbands and they were none the worse for it.

Still, she kept a cold countenance as she opened the door for him. Henry stepped in, taking both of her hands in his. "Listen, darling, I shouldn't have yelled at you like that," he said. "It's only that—when I learned about the bank account, I felt like you didn't trust me, and it hurt." He lifted her hands to his lips in a rather charming gesture of contrition.

"You should've told me that you wanted access to my account," Christabel said, determined not to let him off that easily. "I could've written a letter of authorization for you."

"No, no, it's all right. There's no need for that. It's your money, you should control it. In fact, you should transfer it to a bank here in San Francisco. That would be safer than to rely on a distant New York branch."

She was taken aback by his quick acceptance. Had she been too hasty in condemning him?

"All right, I'll consider it," she said uncertainly.

"As for your accusations," Henry went on, "I have no excuse. I have not fulfilled my husbandly duties. But I'm willing to rectify it right now."

Without waiting for her answer, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was the same way he'd kissed her right before he proposed to her, but somehow, this time, Christabel wasn't swept away by it as she had, or, rather, it now overwhelmed her in an unpleasant way. All she was aware of was how tightly he was holding her, making her corset dig uncomfortably into her hips, how forceful his mouth was, how probing his hands were. Then she felt those hands tear at her back and heard her corset strings snap.

"Damnable thing," Henry mumbled, throwing the torn corset to the floor. "Stop wearing it."

He then pushed her toward the bed, until her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she had no other choice but to collapse on her back, with Henry's weight bearing down on her. He pulled at her clothes and his own, and now his hands were roaming all over her body, his breath quickening. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, trying to remind herself that this was what she wanted. Unbidden, the memory of the hare came into her mind, and she remembered how these hands, the very hands that were groping and squeezing her, were the same hands that had snuffed out the life of that creature, the same hands that had lowered the mouse into the cobra's mouth. Sudden, irrational fear blossomed in her stomach. She struggled against Henry, but he was pinning her down with one hand between her legs and the other in her hair, and she couldn't move.

"Please, Henry..." she whispered, but either he didn't hear her or refused to answer, for the pressure of his hands on her didn't let up.

He thrust into her without warning. A sharp cry of pain was wrung from her lips, only to be drowned out by a burst of the foghorns on the bay. The pain, mercifully, was short-lived, and as it dulled, her cries turned into whimpers, while the horns droned on and on outside her window.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Henry sat up and fixed his clothes.

"There," he gasped. "Let's have no more talk of annulment now, shall we?"

He left the room without a backward glance.

It was some time before Christabel came out of her daze. Slowly, she pulled down her nightgown and sat up. So that was that. The wedding night she'd dreamed of. What a joke, a mockery of love. The pain wasn't even the worst part of it—that she'd known to expect, and it wasn't intolerable. No, the worst, most disturbing part of all was the sense that Henry had no thought for her. To him, she had no more identity than the hare or the mouse, and he'd consummated their marriage only to bind her to him, not out of any desire for her, or even for pleasure.

A chilly breeze came in through the window. The peeling wallpaper flapped, its scratching noise grated at her nerves, taunting her. Unable to endure it any longer, she jumped up from the bed, ran to the corner of the room, and savagely tore the wallpaper off in a long, ragged strip. Clutching it in her hand, she slumped to the floor, the tears she hadn't allowed herself to shed finally flowing.

After a long while, Christabel picked herself up and returned to bed. That was when her eyes caught something on the wall that sent a jolt of fear through her and dried her tears immediately. Picking up the candle, she came up to the wall for a closer look. A section of old plaster was exposed behind the torn-off wallpaper, and carved into it, in the same desperate hand, were the initials "M.M."

Chapter 7: Fearfully Dreaming

Chapter Text

F.B.

P.M.

M.M.

Those initials haunted Christabel's thoughts during the day, driving away even the pain of Henry's coldness. "P.M." must be Patrick McKinney. Could "M.M." be a member of the McKinney family as well? She didn't dare ask Henry. She could've asked Kas, but he remained evasive, and she wasn't sure if she could trust him not to report her questions back to Henry. She waited for Wednesday to roll around and went out to meet the grocery wagon, but Joyce said that there had only been old Mr. McKinney and Patrick living at the lighthouse twenty years ago, and Mr. McKinney's first name had been John, so "M.M." definitely wasn't him.

Christabel thought about going into town and searching public records for any connections to Creel House that may shed light on the matter. When she tentatively asked Henry if he could drive her, he scoffed and asked, "What do you need to go there for?"

"To look at the shops, buy a few things," she said, keeping her eyes on the handkerchief she was hemming in her lap, afraid that her true intention may show on her face.

"You can order everything you want. No need to traipse there for miles and back."

"I'm tired of having nothing to look at but the sea and the sand all day."

"I thought you liked the quiet."

"I do, but—"

"Besides," he continued, not letting her finish, "it's a noisy, dirty place, and much more lawless than Manhattan. I don't like the idea of you wandering there on your own, and Kas can't accompany you."

You certainly don't care enough to offer to accompany me yourself, thought Christabel grimly, but she said nothing.

With no better option, she searched through all the books in the study, hoping to stumble across some dedication on a flyleaf or a handwritten note that may point her in the right direction. But there was nothing, and she didn't want to risk another trip into the attic to search through Henry's collection there.

She told herself there could be a perfectly rational and mundane explanation for all of this. "F.B." could have been a friend, or, more likely, a sweetheart of Patrick McKinney's, and they had scratched their names into their belongings together. "M.M." could be someone completely unrelated, a builder or a wallpaper hanger who'd wanted to leave his mark behind. With such short letters, the handwriting could look very similar. As for that frenetic, desperate feel of those scratch marks... well, it could simply be her overworked imagination. So she hung a painting over the patch of torn wallpaper and tried not to think of them anymore.

That was easy enough during the day, when she had other things to occupy her. At night, however, those initials joined the hare, the spiders, the snakes, and the cypresses to haunt her sleep. In her dreams, the cypresses all bore the same initials up and down their trunks, which disappeared into the dark canopy overhead. When she leaned in to look closer, the bark split open, and black spiders, glittering like little jet beads, spilled from the crevice.

Why did those initials have such a hold on her? Was she simply bored and looking for ways to distract herself? Deep down inside, she knew there was something else, something in those nameless letters that called to her and compelled her to identify them, to remember them.

November passed. December came, with more chilly air and rain. It was nowhere near as cold as December in New York, but the damp chill penetrated one's very bones and froze one's blood just the same. Creel House seemed to be perpetually mired in a gray fog. It wasn't simply overcast. An overcast sky she could endure, but compared to that dull, predictable gray slate, fog was much more alive. It assaulted her senses. She could taste it, feel the wet mist on her skin, see how its cottony skein erased the world around her, and hear its mournful voice in the sound of the foghorns.

Only when she went far enough from the house—either to the shore or down the little beach at the back of the island, where the lighthouse was—that she managed to escape it. Sometimes Christabel found it hard to believe that a mere ten miles away, there was a bustling, glittering city where people went about their lives, working, shopping, dancing, laughing. She wished to go there, if for nothing else then at least for the reassurance that the city actually existed and not merely a mirage. But high tides and the fog conspired to keep her on the island. Even when it was clear, she would have to walk five miles to catch a streetcar into town. She could ask Joyce for a ride on the grocery wagon, only she was too proud to admit that she was stuck on this island like a princess in a tower, except the dragon guarding her was invisible, and there was no knight in shining armor coming to her rescue.

Worse still, her health seemed to be failing, perhaps it was due to the strain, combined with the constant damp and cold of the house. Nothing was particularly wrong, only she seemed dogged by a vague malaise. The food didn't agree with her, especially breakfast, for she sometimes had terrible stomach cramps afterward, and even vomited once or twice, which made her take to the bed for the rest of the day and left her with no strength for anything else. The catalogues and the samples, which must have been retrieved by Kas and replaced on the table in the parlor, were forgotten. Only those haunting, haunted initials remained.

The first time she'd vomited, she had been perversely excited, thinking it was a symptom of pregnancy. After that disastrous first night, Henry had made several more visits to her bedroom, albeit sporadic ones. She had learned to tolerate those visits, and thought that a child may soften Henry or perhaps bring them closer together, allowing them to know each other better, turning them into a true family. But when her menses arrived as usual, her hope was dashed, and her excitement turned into worry. Thinking the breakfast food might have gone bad from being left out for too long, she instructed Kas not to prepare it too far ahead and to leave off the eggs and the bacon and even the milk, but even toast and marmalade made her throw up. Only when she stuck to plain toast that the symptoms seemed to subside.

One day, after a particularly bad morning, she was lying down in the parlor when Henry came in looking for something. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Upset stomach," she said. "I'll be fine." She didn't want his pity.

Henry looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then disappeared, and came back with a little blue vial full of some dark liquid. He measured twelve drops of it into a glass of water and held it out to her. "Here, drink this and you'll be right as rain."

"What is it?" There was a label on the bottle, written in Henry's slanting hand. It said "Belladonna".

"Tincture of belladonna," replied Henry. "It'll help, trust me."

He had never spoken to her with such care, such solicitude, that Christabel forgot her resentment of him and obediently gulped down the liquid. It was sweet, with a slightly bitter aftertaste, but not unpleasant. And it did seem to work, for her cramps lessened a great deal afterward, only it did so by sending her into a heavy, lethargic sleep.

That was when the nightmares began.

She was back in that place of the cypresses, surrounded by a fog so thick she could barely see her hands in front of her face, so thick it seemed to weigh down her feet, forcing her to drag them laboriously as though she was walking through snow or mud. It felt real too, so real that she could taste the cold wetness on her lips, feel the chilly wind blowing through her, wrapping her skirt around her legs, making it more difficult for her to move. She didn't know where she was going or what she was looking for, yet she knew, with a certainty often found in dreams, that nothing good awaited her at the end of this journey.

Then the fog thinned, and figures appeared in front of her. They were the same figures she'd seen on her first night at Creel House. How she knew this, she wasn't sure, for that night she had seen nothing but the merest suggestion of some human shapes. Here, though, despite the fog, they appeared quite clearly, quite solidly. There were three of them, two men and one woman. As she drew closer, Christabel could see every detail of their persons with a strange vividness. All three were young, her age or even younger. One of the men was slight and weedy, with watery blue eyes behind a pair of cracked spectacles. The other a black man, tall and strong-looking, a gold watch dangling from a chain on his waistcoat. The woman, a girl really, had red hair, which stood out brightly against the swirling gray mist. There was a ring on her finger, set with a ruby as red as a bubble of blood.

All three had gaping, dripping wounds on their chests.

"Who are you?" Christabel said in her dream. "What do you want?"

They said nothing, only stood looking at her.

She looked more closely at the gold watch on the black man's waistcoat, splattered with blood. "You're Patrick McKinney, aren't you? And you"—she turned to the bespectacled man—"are you F.B.? That means you"—this was directed at the redhead girl—"must be M.M. Please. Let me help you. I know you want to tell me something. What is it?"

They remained silent. Christabel took a step forward, trembling fingers reaching for the watch, convinced that if she could touch them, either they would react and tell her what she wanted to know or the dream would be over. That's how it works, isn't it? You can't touch things in your dream.

But somehow she did. Her finger brushed the lid of the pocket watch. It was cold, a freezing, burning cold, and that cold traveled over her hand, her wrist, her elbow, until it felt like she'd plunged her whole arm into a snow drift. She raised her hand, trying to shake off the cold, and was horrified to realize that her hand was now see-through. The figures were turning transparent as well, blending as one into the gray mist. Belatedly, Christabel understood that they meant to take her with them, that she, like them, would fade into nothingness.

"No," she said hoarsely. "I don't want to go. Please. I don't want to—"

But the cold had spread to her chest, cutting off her voice and sending a bolt of searing pain through her heart, like a knife slicing her heart clean away. She looked down and saw a gaping wound on her chest, its edges pulsing an angry red, the only spot of color in that gray world. Somehow, she remained standing, while the cold kept spreading, over her neck, down her legs, until a curtain of gray fell over her eyes. She saw no more, and was no more.

She would dream this dream again and again, whenever she had to take the belladonna tincture for her stomach cramps, which was quite frequent now. The details varied. Sometimes they were in an unknown place, sometimes there were not just three figures but tens and hundreds of them, as many as the cypresses, sometimes there were no figures at all, and sometimes, she would be in her room and the figures would be down by the cypress grove, silently calling for her—this was the worst of all, because it felt so real. But it always ended the same, with the fog, cold and wet on her lips, seeping under her skin, cutting her heart out by its invisible hand, and turning her into oblivion.

The nightmares plagued her even during the day. Christabel thought bitterly of how she had so often dreamed of being alone, only to realize that solitude was no dream. She would be sitting in the parlor, reading or sewing, and the stitches would turn into the initials, or the print would turn into spiders skittering across the page. Sometimes it got so bad that she even saw the figures outside the window, lurking in the fog. Her only savior was the doleful bellowing of the foghorns, which would jolt her out of those waking nightmares and return her to reality.

She began to fear sleep. If there had been any laudanum in the house, she would've taken it, but Henry didn't keep laudanum, and she was too ashamed to ask Kas to order some for her. Back in New York, she'd seen plenty of high-society women with that dazed, glazed look, women who were unhappy in one way or another and had no source of comfort other than that addictive liquid. She didn't want to become one of them. So there was nothing else to do but to endure the nightmares.

Under the strain, unable to keep down her food or to sleep, Christabel grew thin. Her eyes stood out on her pale, pinched face like those of a hunted animal, and even her hair lost its luster, turning dull and brittle like straw.

One night, after waking from yet another nightmare, the neckline of her nightgown soaked with sweat, she was too terrified to go back to sleep. She thought if she'd had another person in bed with her, or perhaps just in the room with her, it would ease her fear a great deal, but she couldn't bring herself to knock on Henry's door. So she crawled out of bed, threw a shawl over her shoulder, and made her way into the kitchen for the next best thing—a cup of strong coffee.

The kitchen's back door was ajar, and a soft light came in through the window from the hothouse outside. Kas must be up and about. Sometimes Christabel wondered when he'd even sleep.

Seized by a sudden wish to not be alone, Christabel put on a pair of rubber boots usually kept by the back door and went outside. It was dark, and the light gleamed between the glass walls of the hothouse like a beacon, drawing her to it.

She'd never been inside the hothouse. Henry had warned her that he grew some poisonous plants there for his studies, and, not wanting a repeat of the scene in the attic, she'd stayed away. Now, she stepped through the door into a large glass structure, which took up most of the backyard, heated by the stoves set along its walls, and filled with trays and pots of green. After the chill night air, the warmth felt heavenly. Christabel ambled along, examining the plants with curiosity. Most of them didn't look like much, weedy little shrubs with clumps of dark berries dangling from their stems. Others were larger, sprawling bushes with thorny leaves and spiky fruits hidden in their midst. Those ugly fruits reminded Christabel of giant, green spiders, and she shivered and walked quickly away from them.

Further on, the hothouse was devoted to regular herbs and vegetables, tomatoes and lettuces. Then Christabel caught a sweet, elusive fragrance in the air. Following it, she came to the far end of the hothouse, closest to the beach, and found herself in a small but exquisite garden laid out on either side of the path. Although it was the middle of a winter night, flowers were blooming, their white and purple and blue petals glowing pale like moonlight in the dark, set off to perfection by a background of green and silvery bushes. There were gardenias and tuberoses and lilies, and others she did not recognize. The sweet fragrance she caught was coming from a sprawling leafy bush, full of unassuming little blooms that shone like stars on a dark green sky.

Kas was kneeling by a plant with long, flat leaves, propping it up with sticks. Hearing her steps, he turned around.

"Mrs. Creel," he said, standing up. "Is something the matter? Is there anything you need?"

"No, I can't sleep, that's all." Or rather, I can't let myself fall asleep. "Did you plant all of this? It's beautiful."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said stiffly, watching her with those dark eyes.

"What's this one?" Christabel asked, brushing her fingers over the star-like blooms. A haze of sweetness washed over her.

"Night-blooming jasmine. The Chinese call it 'night perfume flower'."

"They're all night-blooming flowers, aren't they?"

"Yes, it's a moon garden." Kas seemed to be relaxing slightly. "Just because there's no sun doesn't mean that things can't grow and flower." He gave her a shy smile, and she smiled back.

"Can't you do something like this out there?" The grounds of Creel House were left bare for the most part, or covered with more cypress shrubs. Christabel had begun to hate those scraggly trees.

Kas shook his head. "The soil is too sandy, and it's too cold," he said. "But I can expand this for you, if you'd like."

"Oh, I don't want to put you to too much trouble—"

"It's no trouble. It is your house, isn't it?"

Henry had said something similar, but somehow, when Kas said it, she was more convinced. She made it a point to visit the hothouse more often. She didn't know if it was because of the warmth from the stoves or the sweet scent of the flowers, or simply because she was away from the house, but already she was feeling better. The tight band around her chest was loosening, her stomach was no longer twisting painfully, and that hounded, haunted feeling on the back of her neck was gone. She looked around the little garden, asking Kas to tell her the names of the flowers she didn't know—phlox, mock orange, and four-o'clock, so called because it started blooming at sunset.

"And what's this one?" she asked, crouching in front of the plant Kas had been working on when she came in.

"This?" He grinned. "She's my pride and joy."

"It doesn't look like much." She didn't say that the plant looked almost like Kas in a way—long, thin stems like his limbs, and flat leaves with wavy edges, which, despite his attempt to train them on a frame, still sprawled awkwardly all over the place, much like his curls. The stem Kas had propped up grew out of one of the leaves. It was pinkish and ended in a bud no larger than her thumb, covered in delicate pink tendrils.

"Not now. But give her a couple of days, and she'll show you her full glory."

"She?"

"Queen of the Night, she's called."

The name, and most of all Kas's excitement, piqued Christabel's interest.

"Why is it called that?" she asked.

"Because her beauty is fleeting. A bud like that only blooms for one night."

Now she was truly curious. "Really? Can I come and watch?"

"Of course."

Christabel stood up. A wave of dizziness hit her, and if it hadn't been for Kas catching her in time, she would've crumpled to the ground.

"Mrs. Creel, are you alright?" he asked, alarmed.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she said, as he lowered her onto a bench. "Just haven't been sleeping well."

Kas remained knelt by her side, peering up at her face with concern. "Would you like me to bring you a glass of warm milk? Or perhaps some chamomile tea?"

"No, thank you. I should get back to bed." The dizziness had passed, and Christabel reluctantly got to her feet. She didn't want to leave the warmth of the hothouse and Kas's company, but she didn't know what she would say if Henry found her here. She had a feeling he wouldn't be pleased.

"Wait." Kas plucked a sprig of jasmine and handed it to her. "To help you sleep."

Christabel had received plenty of flowers from men before, huge bouquets of roses, exotic orchids, pretty nosegays of wildflowers. None of them had quite touched her as this little humble little spray of greenish white blooms with their sweet perfume. "Thank you," she said, taking the jasmine and tucking it into her shawl. Suddenly feeling shy, she turned and hurried out of the hothouse.

Back in her room, Christabel slipped the jasmine under her pillow. As its scent filled the space and drove away the usual dusty, musty smell of the house, she let herself relax and drift off into sleep. Ghosts would dare not enter here.

For several nights afterward, Christabel made her way into the hothouse to check on the Queen of the Night. The bud grew quickly and steadily, to the size of a quail's egg, then a chicken's egg, the thin white petals already showing beneath the pink outer layer. Kas said that when it was the size of a goose's egg, it would be ready to bloom.

They talked a great deal during these nightly visits, though Kas didn't have much to offer in the way of history. Christabel learned that he was from Indiana, and, like Henry, he was an orphan. In a desperate attempt to understand the man she'd married, she asked if he remembered how Henry had been as a boy, and Kas only shrugged and said, "Pretty much the same as he is now."

Christabel was silent. Orphaned at a young age, Henry had had to make his own way in the world and was no doubt used to doing whatever he pleased. It explained why he was so tyrannical, so selfish.

Another night, while watching the fog rolling back in outside the hothouse, she asked, "How can you stand living in this place?"

Kas shrugged. "It's not so bad once you get used to it."

"But it's so quiet, it's deafening. Some days I feel like I could kill just to have a bit of music, a piano in the house, or just... something, other than the foghorn." As soon as she said it, the tuneless chorus of the foghorns started up again, mocking her. "And all that fog..."

"I don't mind the fog," Kas said. "After a long night, it's much easier to ease into a day if it was foggy. There is no sun to contend with, just a gentle lightening of the sky. I always get nervous when we have a few sunny days in a row. When the fog returns, it feels like... a release, like an exhale when you've been holding your breath."

Christabel had never thought of the fog as something comforting. To her, it was menacing, sinister, oppressive. Much like Creel House itself. She examined Kas for a moment, searching for any sign of wistfulness. "Don't you miss the sun?"

"What's the point of missing something you can't have?"

His resigned tone irritated her. "Why does there have to be a point?" she said. "It's natural! Every living being needs the sun, even these night flowers."

"Not when it can kill you," he said flatly.

Abashed, Christabel bent over the rosebush she was pruning—she had asked Kas to teach her some gardening, hoping that she could create a little something for herself outside, when spring came. So he had pointed her to the rosebushes he had been wintering inside the hothouse. Now she cut off the dead stems and old flowers with sharp snips of the shears, angry with herself. Why had she reminded Kas of his condition? She'd only been trying to appear empathetic, yet as usual, she had put her foot in her mouth. No wonder Henry always spoke to her like to a child...

The shears slipped, and a sharp blade sliced across her finger.

"Oh, bother!" she exclaimed as blood poured from the cut. After patting her pocket for a handkerchief but finding none, she turned to Kas. "Do you have a rag or something?"

Kas didn't answer. He was staring at the blood on her finger with a strange expression, his eyes darkening. That look made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. She curled her bleeding finger into her palm, squeezing it. "Kas?" she called. "Kas? Are you all right?"

Kas seemed to be wrestling with some invisible force for control. Fumbling, he pulled the silver flask out of his pocket and took a quick swig. "Here," he said, tossing his own handkerchief at her feet, before leaving the hothouse without another word.

The next night, Christabel debated going to the hothouse. She was troubled by Kas's behavior. He hadn't spoken to her all day, had barely looked at her when he served the meals. The only explanation she could think of was that she had offended him in some way, perhaps with her thoughtless question about the sun. But she couldn't quite shake off her memory of his face when he was looking at her bleeding finger, his nostrils flaring, his upper lip curling, like a predator sniffing for prey.

Still, she lingered in the parlor after supper long past her usual bedtime, picking up books and throwing them down again, wandering restlessly in front of the bay window. Somewhere around midnight, there was a timid knock on the door. "Mrs. Creel?" came Kas's voice.

Christabel jumped. She quickly sat down on the sofa and picked up a book, trying to look like she had simply been reading late and not waiting for him, no, not at all...

"Yes?"

Kas poked his head through, his curls all tousled, an excited gleam in his eyes. "I saw the light on and thought you may still be up," he said, a little breathless. "The Queen of the Night is blooming. Would you like to see?"

Christabel's worry vanished. She jumped up and followed Kas through the house, feeling rather giddy, like a child on Christmas morning. At the back door, he turned to her. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Trust me."

Hesitantly, she shut her eyes. Kas's strong hand wrapped around hers, tugging her forward. A wave of warm air and a rich, moist smell of earth told her that they were now in the hothouse. Kas kept leading her, walking slowly so she didn't stumble. When she smelled the flowers, she opened her eyes a slit, but Kas admonished her, "No, not yet," and she closed them again.

Finally, he said, "Now."

Christabel opened her eyes. They fell on the most splendid flower she'd ever seen, as large as an Indian lotus, with slender petals, as thin as silk and as white as the purest snow, swirling around a center that was still half-hidden. She could hardly recognize it from the little bud she'd been watching for the last few days.

"I understand now why it's called the Queen of the Night," she breathed out. Turning to Kas, she gave his hand, which was still holding hers, a gentle squeeze. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied, and slowly, almost reluctantly, let go of her hand.

They stayed by the Queen of the Night for hours. The petals kept unfurling, showing off the golden filaments at its center, while its scent, a little fainter than that of the jasmine but fresher, enveloped them like a delicate veil.

"I've once seen a plant with dozens of blooms on the same stalk," Kas said. "I haven't quite figured out the right condition for it to grow like that yet, but I'll get there."

He went on to tell her about how he'd gotten the cutting from a man in Chinatown, how the Chinese valued the beauty of these flowers so much that whenever one bloomed, the owner would hold a viewing party, with drinks and food made from the flowers and poetry and painting contests, and how in India, it was considered good luck to witness the blooming of the Queen of the Night.

Christabel sat on the bench with her chin resting on her hand, unable to take her eyes off the flower. She imagined that if she held herself still enough and watched closely enough, she could see those petals actually move, like a swan ruffling its wings before taking flight. Sometimes she amused herself by looking away from the flower for a moment and looking back to see how further it had opened. Even when she got so sleepy that she could hardly keep her head up and had to lie down on the bench, she still kept her eyes fixed on that flower, that snowy cloud that contained a little sun at its core.

She must have fallen asleep, because when she opened her eyes, she was all alone. The flower had closed and was now hanging limp from its stem, while the winter sun shone through the roof of the hothouse. Kas had covered her with her shawl and wadded his coat under her head as a pillow. The coat smelled like the hothouse, of earth and wood fire and flowers, with a salty note of the sea as well. She buried her nose in it for a moment, taking comfort in those warm scents.

She hadn't dreamed, or if she had, it had been pleasant enough to evaporate completely from her mind upon waking, just as the fog had vanished under the morning sun.

Gathering up the coat in her arm, she went into the kitchen, where she found Kas bending so thoughtfully over breakfast that he didn't see her come in. Lifting the half-eaten jar of marmalade, he looked at it and took a careful sniff, before tossing it in the garbage can.

"What are you doing?" she asked, confused.

"Mrs. Creel!" He jumped, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Uh, Joyce told me the store had some bad marmalade, so I'm replacing it."

Christabel had never heard of marmalade going bad. "Can marmalade go bad?" she asked.

"Sure it can. Something to do with faulty sealing. A whole batch got moldy." He took a new jar out of that week's order, opened it, and scooped out a few spoonfuls, before placing it carefully on the shelf. Seeing Christabel's bemused look, he explained, "Mr. Creel, he doesn't like the look of a new jar—you know how it is..."

Christabel shrugged. She wasn't interested in Henry's bizarre habits. If he wanted to eat his marmalade upside down wearing a fez on his toes, that was his prerogative. She placed the coat on the kitchen table. "This is yours, I believe." Remembering, she added his handkerchief to it as well, but Kas waved her off.

"Please, keep it. For the next time you cut your hand."

He said so in such an easy, friendly manner that Christabel decided to take the plunge. She had been working up the courage for it over the last few days, and Kas's tenderness for his garden and his thoughtfulness toward her had finally convinced her that she could trust him.

"Kas, I've been meaning to ask you something," she began. "Do you know the story of the lighthouse keeper and his son, who used to live here before Mr. Creel's father bought the island?"

"Old Mr. McKinney? I see that you've been talking to Joyce. Yes, I know of them. Terrible what happened to the son."

He seemed willing to talk. Taking that as a good sign, Christabel continued. "Do you remember anybody else who used to live here around that time, or before?" she asked. "Someone whose last name started with a B?"

Kas's face remained unchanged, but the spoon in his hand froze.

"That sounds rather specific," he said slowly.

"Oh, I just saw some initials somewhere," she said, trying to sound casual. "Or at least I think they are initials. F.B."

Kas returned to sorting the groceries, his back against her. "I don't remember," he said, "but perhaps I can ask Mr. Creel for you."

Christabel's heart dropped. "Oh, no! Please don't! I don't want to bother him with this."

"You mean you haven't asked him yourself?" Kas glanced over his shoulder at her.

"No. It's just idle curiosity, that's all."

Kas let out a long breath, seemingly of relief. "There was a business associate of Mr. Creel, by the name of Frederick Benson," he said.

Christabel frowned. "Mr. Creel? You mean Henry's father?"

There was a bit of a pause.

"... Yes," eventually Kas said. "I believe they came out there together to invest in something, but then Mr. Benson had a change of mind and left."

"Have you ever met this Mr. Benson? Do you remember what he looked like? Did he wear glasses?"

Again, that slight pause. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Creel. I was very young then. I don't remember."

Christabel mulled this over. Just like with Patrick McKinney, this might have given her a name to go with the initials, but it still didn't explain who wanted to remember them and why. It was likely she would never get those answers.

Nodding thanks to Kas, she made her way to her room to wash and get dressed. As she neared the kitchen door, Kas called after her.

"So Mr. Creel has no idea you know about Mr. McKinney and Mr. Benson?" he asked.

"No, I don't think so."

"Good. I'd keep it that way if I were you."

He went back to preparing breakfast, leaving Christabel to her puzzlement. He'd had the same look in Tuxedo Park when they first met, when he cautioned her about seeing Henry. Now Christabel began to wonder if she should have taken his advice back then.

Chapter 8: Sweet Music and Loud

Chapter Text

Christmas drew near. There was no snow, but Christabel was thankful that the cold was keeping the fog at bay. When it got too cold for her daily walk, she busied herself with Christmas decorations, determined to give Creel House a festive air, despite Henry's utter lack of interest.

She was learning to pick her battle with him. Like the matter of finding her a lady's maid—Henry kept putting it off, so she'd stopped mentioning it. After all, she reasoned with herself, they never went anywhere, so there was no need to dress up, and thus no need for a maid. As for Christmas, Henry had flatly refused to go to church for Christmas service or to any of the Christmas concerts in town, but he'd agreed, albeit in an absentminded kind of way, to let her decorate the house. So she'd asked Kas to cut down one of the cypress shrubs of the right size and shape of a Christmas tree and put it up in the drawing room. At least they've come in useful, she thought with grim satisfaction while draping garlands of popcorn and cranberries over the tree.

Kas seemed fascinated with the decorating. He helped her make the garlands, wove some loose cypress branches into wreaths and hung them on doors with red ribbons, and even found some ivy vines to put around window frames. It appeared Henry had never bothered much with celebrating Christmas before. She felt rather sorry for Kas and made a mental note to get a present for him.

For all their efforts, Creel House remained dark and sullen, a Scrooge that refused to be swayed by the holiday cheers no matter how many spirits of Christmas paid it a visit. But Christabel wasn't deterred. Some more decorations, something sparkly to catch the light of the candles, and a good crackling fire in the hearth, and Creel House would be ready for Christmas.

She'd stopped fighting with Henry about her money as well. She'd relented and agreed to transfer her inheritance into his account at a local bank. Since most of her father's bequest was in the form of shares and stocks and would require some paperwork to transfer, she'd offered to put her idle money into the account first. That seemed enough to appease Henry, and he even drove her to the bank himself.

"You shouldn't leave all that money lying in the vault, darling," he said, on their way into the city. "Let me invest it, and I'll give you a much better rate of interest."

Sitting next to him on the passenger seat, Christabel only shrugged. She didn't care what he did with the money, as long as it meant he'd stop nagging her about it. Besides, she was still smarting from his refusal to stay longer in the city for her to do her Christmas shopping.

This annoyance only grew when she saw how the city was decked out for the holidays—even the street lamps were wrapped in tinsels and ribbons. It was strange seeing the familiar sights of excited shoppers hurrying down the streets and Christmas decorations under an unaccustomed blue sky, so different from the gray skies and white snow of New York, yet they still made Christabel so homesick that she almost cried.

But there was nothing to do but accompany Henry into the bank, nodded at all suggestions from Henry and the bank manager, and signed all the papers they gave her. Seeing Henry was in an amiable mood, she convinced him to let her pop into the department store across the street while he wrapped up some business of his own with the manager. She'd spied the shop when they drove up and had been hoping to find some decorations for the tree there, perhaps a present or two as well.

There was so much to see in the store—she didn't realize how much she'd missed such a simple, frivolous activity as shopping—that Christabel only became aware she'd been inside for too long when the clock struck twelve. Henry was certainly going to be angry with her; she was surprised he hadn't come in to drag her out himself. She quickly paid up and reluctantly left the store with her purchase.

Crossing the street, Christabel soon found out why Henry hadn't come to find her—he was locked in an argument with an older man.

"I'm telling you, you're mistaking me with someone else," Henry was saying, in the same even tone he'd used with that man, Thompson, on the train.

"I'm not mistaken!" the other man shouted. "I'd recognize you anywhere, you bastard! You have not aged a day!" He must be in his forties at least, disheveled, with unkempt blonde hair hanging limp about his face, a scruffy mustache, and a desperate look in his blue eyes.

Their raising voices had started to draw attention, and the bank manager and a guard were coming out to see what the commotion was.

"Sir, please stop harassing our customer," the manager said to the older man. "This is a place of business. If you don't leave, I shall have to call the police."

"Call them then," the man said. "I'd love to have a word with them as well. Tell them to arrest this—this criminal"—here he poked a dirty-nailed finger in Henry's direction—"on charges of kidnapping and murder!"

"The man is clearly insane," Henry told the manager in a low voice, but the other man still heard.

"Insane, am I? Let's see how insane I can be when I tell the police that you've kidnapped my sister!" His eyes landed on Christabel as she ran to Henry's side. "Or have you found someone to replace her already? It's been what, nearly fifteen years now?"

"Sir, Mr. Creel has been an esteemed client of our bank for nearly a decade," the manager said, stepping between the man and Henry with a placating gesture. "I can assure you, whatever you're accusing him of—"

"His name is not Creel!" the man shrieked, making a lunge for Henry. "His name is Ballard, Peter Ballard! What have you done to my sister, you son-of-a-bitch? What have you done to Maxine?!"

The manager nodded at the guard, who quickly stepped in, seized the older man by the arms, and marched him away.

"No, listen to me!" the man screamed, trying in vain to fight off the burly guard. "His name is not Creel! He's Peter Ballard! I'm not mistaken! He still looks exactly as he did fifteen years ago!"

Those screams reverberated through the street, as clear as day, even as he disappeared around the corner.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" the bank manager asked, holding Christabel's elbow.

"Yes, thank you," she answered shakily. Somehow she'd managed to keep hold of her shopping.

Henry did not spare her a glance. He nodded brusquely at the manager's apology and reassurance that it would not happen again, got into the car, and started the engine, forcing Christabel to scramble to follow him or be left behind. It was like the train trip all over again. She was frightened out of her wits, and he saw nothing but his own anger.

It wasn't until they were halfway back to Creel House that Henry exploded. "That is why I don't like going into the city," he said through gritted teeth, gripping the steering wheel so hard that Christabel was afraid he was going to pull it clear off. "It's full of lunatics!"

Christabel wanted to point out that Henry seemed to have a talent for attracting lunatics whenever he went, but she knew it would be a good way to direct his anger toward herself. So she stayed quiet, while the island with its perpetual shroud of fog loomed in the distance.

On Christmas Eve, Christabel tried her best to be cheerful, but she could feel her spirit wilting just like the pitiful tree standing in the corner of the drawing room. Despite her efforts, it still looked bare and even more scraggly than it had outside. The strings of popcorn were ragged like the teeth of some long-dead animals, the cranberries shone dully like dark drops of blood, and the glass baubles, imported from Germany as the proprietor had assured her, which had shone with such brilliance in the store, now seemed gaudy, out of place. No present adorned its base save for the one she'd bought Henry. She'd sent her mother a Christmas card and a letter but received no reply. When she asked Henry if they should give Kas a present as well, he'd waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it," he'd said. "I've given him a Christmas bonus."

She hadn't asked whether he had a present for her.

After dinner, she could no longer stand the thought of the single, lonely box under the tree, so she retrieved it and placed it in front of Henry, who was finishing up his port in the dining room. "Here you go, darling," she said. "It seems rather silly to wait until tomorrow."

Henry barely glanced at it. "What's this?"

"Your present, of course!"

He tore off the wrapping paper, revealing a silk cravat and a cravat pin set with a ruby. "It matches mine, see?" she said, holding up her stained glass rose pendant.

"Yes, very nice, darling," Henry said absently, draining his glass of port and getting up.

"Aren't you going to try it on?" She tried to smile, but tears were stinging the corner of her eyes.

"What for? We're not going anywhere. Now, are you finished with this Christmas nonsense? I have work to do."

He went upstairs, and a moment later, she heard the attic door slam shut.

Alone in the dining room, surrounded by the torn paper, with the cravat and the pin tossed carelessly on the table, Christabel took a deep breath, waiting for the tears to flow, but they didn't come. They were caught in her chest by wounded pride and by anger, anger at Henry for his utter indifference, and at herself. Had she really thought that he would've behaved differently, just because it was Christmas? How naïve could she be?

Not wanting to go upstairs to her dark room and its ghosts, and unwilling to let Kas see her crying over silly little presents, she gathered up the cravat and the pin and went into the drawing room. The tree with its incongruous ornaments stood like a silent reminder that no matter what she did, it would never be good enough. Everything and everyone in this house was rejecting her.

She had to do something, she had to scream or break something to get rid of the iron fingers squeezing her throat, of the unshed tears burning her eyes. Storming over to the tree, she grabbed one of the glass ornaments that she had chosen with so much care and excitement, and hurled it to the hardwood floor. It exploded into thousands of tiny pieces, glittering like shards of starlight in the flickering flame of the candles.

The sharp pop of the ornament shattering made Christabel realize how childish she had been. Suddenly exhausted, she knelt down and reached for the little broom and shovel by the fireplace to clean up the pieces. That was when her eyes alighted on a large parcel under the tree, which she hadn't seen when she'd come into the room. She was quite certain it hadn't been there when she'd gone in to get Henry's present.

Christabel pulled the parcel out and placed it on the hearthrug. It was rectangular, quite heavy, and wrapped in ordinary brown paper, with a label that said "Mrs. Henry Creel, Creel House, Outside Lands, San Francisco" in an unfamiliar hand. There was no return address. Somebody must have sent it to her, and Kas had put it under the tree for her during dinner. But who? Not her mother or any of her old friends from New York, surely. They had all cut her off.

She unwrapped the parcel impatiently. The wooden lid of a box or a small trunk showed underneath. As soon as enough of the paper was peeled off, she unclasped the lid and lifted it up. Inside the box was a phonograph, along with about a dozen wax cylinder records.

Heart beating faster with excitement, Christabel assembled the phonograph and slipped a wax cylinder into place. As the first soft notes of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" flowed from the horn, the lump in her throat immediately vanished and she almost burst into tears, though they were tears of joy this time. It seemed too long since she had heard anything other than the murmurs of the sea, the moans of the wind and the foghorns, and the echoes of her own thoughts. She'd almost forgotten how soothing music could be. Under its magic, even Creel House seemed to change. The tree looked charming and festive, and the dark was no longer sinister and oppressive but cozy and comforting.

She sat on the hearthrug with her arms around her knees and listened to all the records. When the clock struck twelve, she went up to her room, got ready for bed, and listened to them again. There were popular songs, carols, and little pieces of orchestral music. Each was only about two or three minutes long, but it was more than enough to ease her mind and fill her heart.

Most of the records were labeled with the names of the songs on them. The last four, however, were unlabeled. They contained guitar music, gentle melodies like the pattering of summer rain on a window. But now, in the quietness of her bedroom, as she listened to them again, Christabel noticed another sound in the background, a strangely familiar one. She played the records once more, putting her ear close to the horn in case she'd misheard. No, it was faint but unmistakable—the sound of foghorns. Two sharp, quick ones, followed by two more, slower and lower. The same foghorns that had been bellowing outside her windows, haunting her dreams.

Those records had been made here, at Creel House, or at least somewhere very near here.

By who? There was only one person who could have made them, and it wasn't her husband.

Christabel went to her window and looked out. The lighthouse was dark. She thought about going down into the hothouse, or perhaps the kitchen, but decided against it. Questions and answers would have to wait until the next day. For now, she let herself get lost in those sweet melodies once more and drifted off to sleep with more ease than she had in over a month.

Christabel woke with a strange but pleasant lightness. It took her a while to figure out why she felt that way—she'd slept through the night without being woken by nightmares. She wondered if the music had anything to do with it.

As soon as she finished breakfast, she took the present she'd bought for Kas and went down to the lighthouse. She knocked quietly on the peeling door, her stomach turning with something quite different from its usual cramps. It was apprehension, she knew. After the gruesome story she'd heard about Patrick McKinney's death, the lighthouse had taken on a sinister air for her, as sinister as Creel House itself. She didn't know what she was going to find inside. And how Kas would react.

"Yes?" came Kas's voice from behind the door.

"It's Mrs. Creel. May I come in?"

There was a pause, then she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, and the door opened a crack. "I'm sorry," Kas said. "I can't open it any further. It's quite sunny out today. Please, come in."

"It's all right," replied Christabel, slipping through the door. "Thank you."

For a moment she stood silently, taking in the inside of the lighthouse. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting. An extension of Creel House, perhaps, only even more dilapidated. But this funny little circular room had nothing in common with Creel House, except for the thick curtains at the window.

For one thing, it was light and airy, despite the curtains. The whitewashed walls, the candles blazing on every available surface, and a glowing stove gave it a homey, cozy air. An old armchair with stuffing coming out of the back, a small table by the stove, and a little bed behind it made up all the furniture in the room. The rest was taken up by books, books on shelves nailed to the wall, books on the floor by the chair and next to the bed, and on the chair and the bed themselves as well. Scattered here and there on the shelves were little curios, shells and fossils and even little animal skulls, peeping out from between the spines of the books. Somehow they managed to look friendly and inquisitive, despite having no eyes and no flesh. A spiral cast-iron staircase took up most of the back wall. It, too, had been commandeered as an impromptu bookcase.

"What's upstairs?" Christabel asked, pointing at it.

"The lamp room. But it's not used anymore. Nothing up there but bats now."

There was even a little Christmas tree on the table, a miniature cypress draped with popcorn and cranberries, quaint and charming, a far cry from its bedraggled cousin in the big house. "That's nice," said Christabel.

Kas shrugged. "I thought I'd get into the holiday spirit as well. Is there something you need?" he asked, watching her with a half-curious, half-wary look. "Do you wish to change something about Christmas dinner? I have everything ready as you've ordered."

"No, I don't need anything." Christabel hesitated, wondering how to bring up the phonograph in a polite way. She looked around at all the books. "Have you read all of these?"

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on her questioningly. She picked up a book on the table—Coleridge. Kas must have been reading it when she knocked. There was a seagull feather between the pages, and when she opened to the bookmarked spot, the familiar lines of "Christabel" met her eyes. She raised her eyebrows at Kas, and he responded with an embarrassed little smile.

"I've always wanted to know what happens to her, to Christabel," she said, putting the book down. "I wonder why my father named me after an unfinished poem."

"Perhaps he wished for you to finish your own story."

She hadn't considered it that way. The distant memory of her father suddenly became much nearer and dearer to her.

"I came to say thank you for the phonograph and the records," she said. "They're from you, aren't they?"

A faint touch of pink flushed Kas's pale cheeks. "Well, you mentioned that you miss music, so when I saw it for sale... Was that too forward of me?"

"No, not at all," she quickly said. "I'm touched that you remember. Still, it must have cost a lot."

The moment she mentioned it, Christabel realized how tactless it was of her, but Kas didn't seem to notice. "I have nothing else to spend money on," he said with a shrug.

"And some of those records are you playing, right?"

He nodded again, looking embarrassed. "If you don't like them, I can shave them clean and record something else—"

"No," she interrupted, "I love them."

Kas smiled again, just a flash, but it lit up his whole face.

"Where did you learn how to play?"

"From a Spanish missionary, when we first came to San Francisco."

"And is that your guitar?" Spotting the instrument leaning against the bed, Christabel picked it up without waiting for Kas's answer. It was clear that he took great care with the guitar, for the wood glowed like honey, and every tuning key gleamed. The words "Dragon Slayer" were carved into the body. She looked at Kas, amused. "You name it?"

Another quick grin flashed across his face, and for a moment, he looked almost boyish with enthusiasm. "You know how the knights in the old legends often name their swords, like Excalibur and Night's Edge and Protector of the Realm and things like that?" he said. "This is the same."

"The guitar is your weapon?"

His eyes darkened with a strange shadow. "Some monsters can be vanquished by music," he said enigmatically.

Christabel thought of how light and refreshed she'd felt that morning, how the ghosts seemed to have kept their distance all night. Is that why you gave them to me? Or is it a mere coincidence? She looked into Kas's eyes. The candles were brightening them into a soft brown, making them shine as brightly as the guitar. Something in his gaze sent a strange warmth coursing through her, burning her cheeks and making her chest flutter. She turned away, searching for a source of diversion.

"Where did you find these?" she said, pointing to the skulls.

"In the woods, on the beach. Anywhere during my travels with Mr. Creel, really."

"Why do you collect them? Most people would find them macabre."

"Would they?"

"Of course. Death is frightening." She thought of Henry in his Red Death costume.

"Is it? I don't think so. I think it's beautiful. If nothing dies, nothing grows. Death means a new beginning."

She stared at him in wonder. Henry had also said things like that when they'd first met, but always with such pomposity, as though he was proclaiming some grand wisdom. Kas sounded like he was stating a simple fact. Who was this man, who was a servant and yet didn't act like a servant, who could say such beautiful things in such an understated way, who confounded her and comforted her at the same time?

She was so flustered that she'd almost forgotten her true reason for coming to the lighthouse, and only when she put her hands in her pockets for want of something to do that she remembered it. She took out the little paper package.

"I wanted to give you this as well," she said. "Your Christmas present."

Kas's face lit up with disbelief. "You didn't have to—"

"No, please." She gestured for him to open the package. "It's my pleasure."

Kas undid the paper. Inside was a pair of leather gloves, lined with fur. Christabel had agonized over what to give him, something that was personal enough without being too personal. When she saw the gloves advertised in a catalogue, they had felt just right.

"I hope they fit," she said. "I notice that your hands are always cold, so..." She trailed off, for Kas was still bent over the gloves, running his fingers over the soft leather, and she couldn't see his face. Was he angry? Had she offended him again? "I'm sorry," she said uncertainly. "I must have overstepped. I didn't mean—"

"No." He finally looked up, and she was taken aback by what she saw on his face. He seemed on the verge of tears. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. It's just—I've never gotten any presents before. Thank you." He tucked the gloves into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Thank you," he repeated, hand tentatively reaching out for her.

Thinking he wanted to shake her hand, Christabel gave it to him. But he didn't merely shake her hand. Taking her hand in both of his, he held it for a long time, caressing her fingers just as he'd caressed the gloves. His hands were warm now, and their gentle touch sent her nerves all fluttering, from the tips of her fingers to her chest, from her chest to her stomach, and from her stomach to her knees, making her tremble and breathless. Then, to her astonishment, he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm briefly, before squeezing her fingers closed and laying them against his cheek for a moment, as if to trap the kiss in her hand.

A bell above the door rang loudly, shrilly, and Kas dropped her hand like a hot coal.

"Mr. Creel is ringing for me," he said. "I must go." He took down a cloak from its hook behind the door, which covered him from head to foot. But even this wasn't enough—he also picked up a large parasol. Thus equipped, he opened the door wide to let in the brilliant sun and stood by, waiting for her.

"Well, Merry Christmas," Christabel said unimaginatively and went out. Even then, she didn't return to the house right away but remained in the garden, watching Kas hurry across the sunlit space under his dark cloak and parasol, while her palm still tingled with the memory of his kiss, as though she'd been touched by the gentlest brand of all.

Chapter 9: A Palfrey White

Chapter Text

Christabel didn't know when she'd first realized that her husband held her in contempt. That he didn't care for her she already knew, knew from the night they consummated their marriage, and perhaps even before that, since the moment she'd woken up alone on the train after their elopement. The contempt, though, took a little longer to register.

She was too proud to admit that she had made a terrible, terrible mistake in marrying him. For a while, she had believed that for all their differences and all of Henry's indifference, she could learn to tolerate him and they could make a life together. After all, she had heard much worse from the married women in her circle back in New York, tales of husbands who beat and abused their wives, husbands who brazenly carried on with actresses and servant girls, or husbands who forced their wives to bear so many children in search of a male heir that the wives' bodies simply gave out from exhaustion. Henry was none of that. He put a roof over her head, kept her in relative physical comfort, and now that his visits to her bedroom were less frequent, it seemed that his biggest failing, from the outside at least, was simply negligence. All the little things he did or failed to do that chafed and pricked at her, were nothing serious, or at least she told herself so. But as their marriage entered its third, and then fourth month, Christabel could no longer ignore the truth—that not only Henry had no love for her and had married her for her money, but he also actively disliked her.

But she wasn't ready to give up. Henry had given her just cause to hope that he could change, that their marriage could work. To let go of that hope would be to let herself fall into the abyss of regret and misery, and so Christabel had held on to that diminishing hope, day after day, week after week, month after month.

After the disappointment of Christmas, New Year was luckily uneventful. Other than a toast with champagne at dinner on New Year's Eve, they did nothing else, and Christabel didn't push for a celebration either. At midnight, she sat by her window, listening to the dull popping sound of the fireworks exploding five miles away at Sutro Heights, wondering if the coming year would be better or worse. She could probably watch the fireworks if she went down to the beach, but that would put her close to the lighthouse, and she wished to avoid it if she could, or, rather, to avoid its inhabitant.

Since Christmas, she had been feeling rather awkward around Kas. She missed him when he wasn't around, but at the same time, she dreaded seeing him so much that she never went back to the lighthouse and even stopped going to the hothouse altogether. When she ran into him, she only exchanged the briefest words necessary with him. But at night, it was a different matter. She would sit at her window for hours, watching the lighthouse, drawn to it like a moth to the flame, listening to the phonograph until she'd learned all the songs by heart. He was right, the music kept the ghosts at bay. Instead, it brought memories, memories of his eyes on her, his fingers around her hand, his lips on her palm. And that was precisely why she had to avoid him.

One day in mid-January, Kas drove Henry into town at sunset. They came back later that night, pulling a little covered cart behind the car. Curious, Christabel went down to meet them. Henry exited the car, looking mightily pleased with himself, and even smiled when he saw Christabel at the front door.

"Come, darling," he said, beckoning to her. "Let me show you something."

Surprised at his pleasant tone, she let him take her arm and followed him to the garage by the side of the house. Kas had parked the car and was now opening the cart, revealing a little white horse—not full-grown, probably a yearling. Although it still had that gangly, awkward look of a foal, there were already hints of beauty and power in its long, slender legs, the perfectly balanced back, the dark, intelligent eyes, and the elegant toss of its tail and mane. But what captured Christabel's attention was its coat, the smoothest, shiniest white coat she had ever seen. As it timidly stepped out of the cart, it was like a sliver of the moon had fallen to Earth and was glowing in the dark.

"Oh, what a beautiful creature," Christabel breathed out.

"Magnificent, is she not?" Henry said. "Didn't I say that I would give you a better rate of interest for your money?"

Christabel turned to him, astonished. "Do you mean that she's mine?"

She saw Kas flash Henry a strange, inquiring look, and Henry shrugged, as though the idea had just occurred to him. "Sure, why not? If you like."

"Oh, thank you!" In her joy, Christabel forgot all her anger toward her husband. She threw her arms around him to give him a kiss, but he deftly stepped away.

"Not in front of the servant, darling," he said, and Christabel backed down, abashed.

Still, she was too ecstatic about the horse to be hurt by his rebuff. She went over to the animal. Kas put some sugar from his pocket into her palm, which she offered to the horse. The horse sniffed Christabel's hand, a little warily at first, and then, after giving the sugar a lick and satisfied that nothing was amiss, she crunched up a cube of sugar, her sharp ears flicking in obvious enjoyment. Christabel slowly reached out her other hand and petted the horse's mane.

"Such a lovely thing you are," she crooned. "Where did you find her?" she asked Henry.

"She came all the way from Turkey," he replied. "You wouldn't believe the trouble I had to go through to bring her here."

"This is why you didn't say anything about my Christmas present, did you? Because she didn't arrive in time?"

Again, she noticed Kas giving Henry that strange look, but Henry didn't seem to be paying attention. "You're not angry with me about that, are you?" he said. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

Christabel tried to put on a stern face, before eventually relenting and saying, "All right, you're forgiven for now." She went back to petting the horse. "I think I shall call her Luna."

"Very fitting, darling." Henry nodded at Kas. "Put her in the stall, Kas, and let Mrs. Creel have free rein of her."

"Yes, sir," Kas said, but remained where he was. Feeling his eyes on her, Christabel looked up from where she was crouching next to Luna. He was gazing at her and the horse, and his expression puzzled her a great deal—it was something akin to pity, although whether it was pity for her or the horse, she could not tell.

Now that she had Luna, the bleakness of life at Creel House lifted a great deal for Christabel. In the morning, she no longer dreaded getting up, for she had Luna to take care of, and at night, she slept more soundly, thanks to all the time she spent outside of the house and all the exercises she was getting. If the weather was nice, she would take Luna along with her on her daily walk around the island or down to the beach. She ordered a training saddle and taught Luna to bear the weight and to be led by the reins. On rainy, foggy days, Christabel kept to the stall, which was a part of the garage, now converted with a bed of hay and a trough, and groomed and brushed Luna until her coat shone like silver.

But it wasn't merely the physical exercises that lifted Christabel's mood. The little horse filled her heart as well, the heart that had been empty for so long without her even knowing it. Luna was so well-behaved, never tried to bite or pull at the reins, and so clever too. She knew the moment Christabel lifted the saddle down from the wall that it meant a walk, and when the combs and brushes were brought out, she would stand still, ready for the grooming. Every morning, as soon as she opened the garage door, Christabel could already see Luna pressing her nose through the slats of her stall, waiting. She would greet Christabel with some light, affectionate nips or nudge Christabel's arm with her head, like a dog. Those simple gestures never failed to touch Christabel, and she poured into Luna all the love and affection she hadn't been able to give to anyone. She spent most of her time with Luna, even sometimes just sat with her in the stall, reading or sewing, taking comfort in the horse's warmth and calmness.

Thanks to Luna, Christabel also found a new determination to work on her marriage. Henry remained distant and distracted, but she told herself that was simply how he was. Given the opportunity, he would show his affection in his own way. She tried to be less demanding, less irritable with him. And she tried harder than ever to avoid Kas. For all of her softening feelings toward Henry, she still couldn't seem to shake off a strange flutter deep inside when Kas looked at her, when their hands accidentally touched as he served her during meals, or when they brushed past each other in the corridor.

What made it all the more difficult was that Luna seemed to have taken a liking to Kas. If Kas happened to come into the garage for something while Christabel was brushing her, Luna always greeted him with a soft whinny and nosed about his coat, searching for sugar. Somehow he always had sugar ready in his pocket as well, which made Christabel wonder how spontaneous his visits to the garage really were.

"Now, Luna, leave Kas alone," one day Christabel chided her, half-joking. "You know too much sugar is not good for you."

"Let her indulge a little, Mrs. Creel," said Kas, giving Luna the sugar cube and rubbing her short mane. "Let her be happy."

"What do you mean?" Christabel asked, bemused. "She's perfectly happy." But Kas was in one of his cagey moods and only went on rubbing Luna's mane, saying nothing.

In February, an unexpected letter came for Christabel. It was from Jason, who was in town on business and wished to invite her and Henry to dinner at his hotel. She didn't quite know how to feel. The letter was polite and friendly, as though they had been regularly corresponding with each other, with no mention of what had transpired between them all those months ago, no indication that Jason was angry or offended by her elopement. Could this be an olive branch of sorts? Perhaps her mother wished to reconcile and had asked Jason to act as a mediator, or Jason himself was hoping to build up a friendship.

Henry was a lot less optimistic.

"Absolutely not," he said flatly the moment Christabel brought up the invitation. "I'm far too busy to go to dinner with some New York snob. And why would you want to see Carver anyway? He tried to force you into marriage. For all you know, it could be a trap. The moment we show up, your mother may leap out from behind the potted palms and demand that the police arrest me for kidnapping."

"Don't be ridiculous," Christabel scoffed. "In fact," she said, with a burst of inspiration, "it would be quite suspicious if we refuse. It would look as though we were trying to hide something." Henry continued to scowl at her, but she could see him wavering. "We need not stay longer than necessary," she continued, smiling sweetly at him. "If he becomes rude, we'll leave right away."

In the end, Henry had reluctantly agreed. Christabel couldn't quite believe it, not when she penned the short note of acceptance to Jason, not when they drove into town, not even when she walked into the dining room of the Palace Hotel in her evening gown of claret velvet trimmed with black lace, with her arm through Henry's. Heads turned as they entered, and Christabel's heart swelled with unaccustomed pride. Yes, she and Henry made a handsome couple. For all his claims of not caring about his appearance, Henry was looking exceptionally dashing that evening, and he'd even worn the cravat and pin she'd given him for Christmas, much to Christabel's joy. Perhaps he was not so indifferent after all.

Dinner started well enough. Jason filled Christabel in on news of her mother and New York, while Henry talked about his studies and San Francisco. Christabel had forgotten that he could be so charming when he wanted to be. As for herself, she remained quiet, keeping up a façade of normalcy, watching and gauging Jason's true intention. She wasn't sure what she would say to him. She wouldn't dream of hinting at the truth of her marriage to Jason or her mother, but perhaps... if her mother was willing to reconcile... it would be nice to have a sympathetic ear.

"This wasn't just a social call, I'm afraid," Jason said, after the main course was served. "I was tasked with an important mission in coming here." Christabel braced herself as he continued, "Heather would be quite angry with me if I fail, so—"

"Heather?" Christabel interrupted him, not understanding. "Heather Holloway?"

"Yes." A smug smile lifted Jason's mouth, turning his handsome face disagreeable. "We are engaged."

"Congratulations," Christabel said impassively. Heather was one of the debutantes that had always hung around Jason. Christabel was friendly with her, as she was with all the girls, though they had little in common.

Jason apparently mistook her disinterest for dismay, for he turned even smugger. "That's why Papa sent me on this trip to the West Coast, you know," he continued. "He wanted to make sure that I can be trusted with the responsibility once I'm a married man. Heather and I will be traveling in Europe for at least six months after the wedding, and he doesn't want me to slack off altogether. Heather was quite put out, of course, but she's overseeing the building of our house on Fifth Avenue, so I hope it would keep her busy and happy. She insisted that I personally invite you to the wedding."

Christabel finally understood. This was no extension of the olive branch. This visit was not to reconcile. It was to brag. Jason had come here expecting to see her writhing in regret and shame over her elopement, hoping to show her what she'd missed out on, to tell her that she could've been in Heather's shoes had she been a little more sensible.

With that, her intention of telling Jason the truth about her marriage instantly vanished. Her marriage with Henry may not be perfect, but at least at Creel House she could be herself. She could talk to Kas and fall asleep in the hothouse without fearing judgment or gossip. She would not give that up to be in Heather's, or anyone else's shoes for that matter. She had been in those shoes. Nothing sensible about them. They pinched.

"Anyway, we're hoping that you, both of you, can make the trip to New York this June for the wedding," Jason concluded.

"We'd love to, but I don't know if we can get away," replied Christabel, turning to Henry with a bright smile. "There's so much to do around Creel House, isn't that right, darling?"

Henry was taken aback at her sudden enthusiasm, but he went along anyway. "Yes, indeed," he nodded.

And so Christabel spent the rest of the meal telling Jason about Creel House, exaggerating its charms and completely passing over its sinister aspects, giving every impression of being a happy, contented bride. Henry was on his best behavior as well, though Christabel could detect a trace of sarcasm under his polite words.

By the time the meal was over, Jason was looking quite deflated. Christabel asked him to stay in touch, knowing that it wouldn't happen. "My mother doesn't answer my letters," she added. "But when you see her, please thank her for sending my things from New York. It means a lot."

Jason frowned. "I don't understand," he said. "She didn't send you anything."

"Yes, she did. After I arrived in San Francisco."

Jason was still looking mystified. "But I thought you went back for them. Your mother told everybody that she returned from Tuxedo Park to find your room cleaned out. She was quite angry about it."

Surprised, Christabel turned to Henry, who was looking bored. He must have gone to her house after their wedding and packed up her things, knowing her mother wouldn't. Oh, how she had misjudged him! Who needed flowery words and gentle touches, when he did such thoughtful things?

She left as she'd arrived, with her arm through Henry's and her head held high. In saying goodbye to Jason, she was finished with the past. Her life was here now, with Henry, and she would do everything she could to make the best of it.

As Kas drove them home—Christabel noted, with delight, that she had started to think of Creel House as home now—Henry leaned back against the seat with a sigh of relief. "There," he said. "I hope you're satisfied now."

"Oh, yes, thank you." With Kas at the front, Christabel couldn't kiss Henry as ardently as she wished, so she satisfied herself with a peck on his cheek instead. "And thank you for packing up my things from New York as well. I should've known my mother wouldn't be so kind."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

She smiled. "Useless to dissemble, darling. I know what you did."

Henry turned to her with a frown that wiped her smile clean off. "I didn't do anything. I have no idea what happened to your stupid possessions."

It was clear he hadn't heard a word she'd said just then or to Jason. Now that she thought back, Christabel remembered that Henry had been with her the whole time after they left the church. So he couldn't have packed up her room. Could it be that he had ordered Kas to do it? She glanced at Kas and noticed how his back had gone tense and stiff, and he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles threatened to burst through the gloves she'd given him. Next to her, Henry was looking bored again. Had she been mistaken? Could it be that Kas was the thoughtful one and not Henry?

Christabel's cheerful mood was quite gone by the time they returned to Creel House. Henry tossed the cravat aside, heedless of the precious ruby pin, and swept up the stair two steps at a time without looking back. Christabel sighed, watching him go. He must have been tired. And truth be told, so was she. A good night's sleep, and tomorrow they could start afresh.

In her room, Christabel unpinned her hair, letting the golden locks down over her shoulders. She then reached behind her, undoing the velvet-covered buttons that ran all the way down her back from neck to hip, and wriggled out of the dress. As she moved to her corset, however, she found the strings were twisted in an unmovable knot. She struggled with it, straining to look over her shoulder and feeling about the strings with her fingers, but it was no use. Though Christabel had become quite adept at dressing herself in the past few months, she'd always worn her corset loosely laced. That evening was the first time she had to wear a proper evening gown in a long time, and to fit into it, she must have laced herself so tightly and tied the strings so securely that they became tangled. She would never be able to undo it without help.

For a moment, she considered going to bed in her corset. Her mother had made her do so when she'd first started wearing corsets, in an attempt to "improve" her figure, and the thought of those stiff frames around her ribs made her shudder. Her sleep was bad enough without her unable to draw a deep breath. With a sigh, she threw her dressing gown over her chemise and went into the corridor.

Henry's bedroom door was closed, and her knock went unanswered. He must be in the attic then.

Her feet were shaky as she went up the cramped staircase leading up to the attic. After that memorable first day, she had never been back there and had no desire to. If it hadn't been for the predicament of the corset, she wouldn't have risked it.

The door to the stairs was open, but the attic door was locked, and she knocked on it with trepidation. No answer. She knocked again, certain Henry was there—she could hear thudding and clanking as he moved about inside. After her third knock, there was a muffled curse, followed by a heavy clang of a lid coming down, and the door was flung open by Henry, in a pair of black rubber gloves that reached to his elbows, holding a glass jar in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other.

"What?!" he snarled.

His angry look almost made Christabel retreat. "I'm sorry to bother you," she said apologetically. "Such a silly thing, but I can't unlace my corset, and I'm wondering if you could—"

She opened her dressing gown. It had been a while since Henry last saw her in her chemise, and she thought if only he would look at her, really look, then perhaps some of that anger would leave his face. But he didn't look. He exploded at her.

"Your corset?!" he shouted. "You interrupted me in the middle of a delicate, difficult experiment, to ask me to unlace your corset?! Do I look like a lady's maid to you? I told you to stop wearing those blasted things!"

He slammed the door in her face.

Something inside Christabel shattered. She went back to her room and leaned against the door, fighting the tears rising to her eyes, stinging, blurring. It wasn't the first time Henry had shouted at her or talked to her as though to a child, but after the evening they just had, when she had been having such tender thoughts about him... It was worse than a slap to the face. It was a knife to the heart. Now she knew she had been wrong about his thoughtfulness with her things. Henry would never have done something like that. He had no regard for her. She had simply tricked herself into thinking it would be better between them, but in truth, she was building a castle in the air, and it was crumbling, fast.

She yanked ineffectively at the corset strings, which only tightened the knot. A savage anger rose within her, anger at Henry, at her mother, at everything and everyone that had conspired to land her here, but most of all at herself. She wrapped her fingers around the strings. If she could snap them loose, then perhaps she could escape this helpless, oppressive feeling of being trapped. But for all her twisting and wrenching, the knot remained unmoved.

To hell with this. If she couldn't untie it, she would cut it off, like Alexander the Great did with the Gordian knot. Christabel dug around her drawers for a pair of scissors. Even nail scissors would do, but there were none to be found.

Without thinking, without even stopping to put her dressing gown back on, she ran downstairs and into the kitchen. She pulled a drawer clean out of the cupboard, scattering knives and forks all over the floor. There, a pair of kitchen scissors lay amongst the mess. She snatched them up and reached behind her—

"Mrs. Creel?" Kas said behind her. "What are you doing?"

Christabel whirled around. Kas was entering the kitchen, his arms laden with fresh vegetables from the hothouse, his eyes wide open. How she must have looked to him, all disheveled, with her hair down and a pair of scissors in her hand. Like a mad woman.

That's what I am, she thought bitterly. The mad wife in the attic, like the first Mrs. Rochester.

No. She shouldn't waste time wallowing in self-pity. And anyway, she wasn't locked in the attic. If anything, that epithet was more suitable for Henry. The mad husband in the attic...

"I was just trying to cut this damned thing off," she said, reaching for the knot again.

"Calm down, before you hurt yourself." Kas put the vegetables on the table. "Let me see." He gently took the scissors from her hand and examined the knot.

"Don't bother!" she hissed. "Just cut it off!"

"I can untie it. Stay still. No need to ruin a perfectly good garment."

He worked at the knot for a while, carefully, methodically unraveling the strings one bit at a time. He said nothing, but the calmness radiating from him enveloped her like a warm wave, easing her anger and despair. Her breathing and heartbeats slowed.

As her mind was taken off the cursed strings, she became aware of him, of his presence behind her, of his hands pulling at her so steadily yet gently, of his scent, like the scent on his coat, a combination of the salty ocean spray, the fresh, earthy smell of the hothouse garden, and the warm smokiness of a wood fire. He smelled like how she imagined the island would smell, with none of the dustiness and decay of the house.

"It's a tough one, this knot," he said. "Maybe I should cut it off after all. Do you mind—"

"No!" she said quickly. "No, you were right. It'd be a pain to mend. Try it again. I think I can feel it loosening already."

Kas bent over the knot again, and she found herself wishing it wouldnot untie. She wished it would take a long, long time, so they could keep standing like this, close but not quite touching, his hands steadying her, his breath softly teasing the hair on the back of her neck...

"Kas?"

"Yes, Mrs. Creel?"

"It was you, wasn't it? You packed up my things in New York and sent them here."

It took him a moment to answer. "Yes. I got the address from Mr. Creel."

"How did you get in?" She and her mother had taken their maids to Tuxedo Park, leaving only an elderly butler behind in their townhouse.

"I—I broke in," said Kas. "It was wrong of me, that's why I didn't tell you. I only thought that you would like your own things, since you didn't bring much with you. I should've asked first. I'm so sorry."

Christabel tried to feel angry, but she could only think how wrong she'd been. Wrong about her mother, wrong about Henry. And wrong about Kas as well.

"It's all right," she said. "You were looking out for me. If I'd been thinking more clearly, I would've gone myself." But she hadn't, because she thought Henry would take care of everything. What a fool she'd been. And then, because the thought of marriage had been on her mind all night, she asked, "Do you ever think about getting married?"

He laughed quietly, though more amused and self-deprecating than bitter. "What woman would have a ghoul like me?"

"Nonsense," she said. "Any woman would be lucky to have you." Kas didn't say anything, and Christabel thought perhaps this was not the most proper topic of conversation to have with her husband's servant. Then again, it was not proper to have him unlace her corset either. Tonight, she was ready to throw propriety out the window. "If you meet someone that will marry you," she continued, "will you leave us?"

Kas stepped closer, close enough that his breath tickled her ear. "I'm not going to leave you," he said. "You can be sure of that."

Before she could answer, the pressure on her ribs finally lifted.

"Here we go!" Kas said triumphantly.

As Christabel took a grateful, deep gulp of air, he moved his hand between the fastenings, slowly loosening them. His fingers brushed her back through her chemise, and she shivered a little. It was different than when Henry touched her, a shiver born not from fear and disgust, but from some stirring deep within her. She'd felt it when he kissed her hand, and now it set her blood pounding pleasantly in her ears, her heart, and elsewhere. Even after the corset was completely loose, Kas remained where he was, his hand slowly moving up, toward the lace edging around the neckline of her chemise, where her shoulder blades and the nape of her neck lay bare. Time hung suspended between them while she stood, not daring to even draw a breath, waiting for—for what? She did not know, did not want to imagine. If she did, she would either flee from him or do something much, much more foolish, and she didn't want to do either.

The tip of Kas's finger grazed her skin. His touch was electric. She gave an involuntary gasp, and Kas moved away as though he, too, had been shocked.

Christabel turned back, and he took another step from her, avoiding her eyes.

"There, you're free now," he mumbled and went back to the vegetables.

The irony of that statement made Christabel want to cry.

Up in her room, she discarded the corset to one side. Henry was right about one thing—corsets were a nuisance, and now that her social life had dwindled to the point of non-existence, there was no need to submit herself to such torture. She was trapped enough in this house without having to confine her own body as well.

The scrape of the corset across her back reminded her of Kas's feather-light touch, and her blood flamed again at the memory. Seemingly by their own volition, her feet took her to the window. She opened the curtains a crack, peering down at the lighthouse. It was dark, but she thought she could spy movements inside. Was he there, looking up at her?

Emboldened by the thought, she pulled the curtains wider. It had become her habit to leave the curtains open at night, when she slept, but she only did so once she had finished undressing, put on her nightgown, and blown out her candle. Now, she left the curtains wide open as she looked down across the backyard. A pool of shadow gathered at the lighthouse's window. For a moment, she wondered what her mother would say if she knew, what would happen if Henry walked in and saw her. The thought only made her furious with herself. Was it not enough that she was trapped, body and soul, here in this house, this marriage, this life? Must she trap her own mind as well? She lifted her chin in defiance, and, remaining by the window, where anyone looking up could see her clearly she slowly, deliberately pulled the straps of her chemise down over her arms, first the left, then the right. It seemed to her that the shadow, like herself, was holding its breath, watching, waiting.

The moment the chemise slipped off her shoulders, she turned from the window, put out her candle, and climbed into bed. She found his handkerchief under her pillow, where she had been keeping it—his scent still lingered faintly amongst the cotton folds. Lifting it to her nose to inhale that comforting blend of earth, fire, and sea, she slipped between the covers and, finally, gave free rein to her imagination.

Chapter 10: Warned by a Vision

Chapter Text

Sometimes Christabel felt there was a veil over her eyes, blinding her to the truth of her marriage, of Henry's true nature. Each time he hurt her, it was like a tear in that veil. In the early days of their marriage, those tears were far apart, easily ignored, but over time, they kept building and building. Now, there were simply too many, and the veil was falling apart.

Then came another incident, and this time, it wasn't just a tear. This time, the whole veil was wrenched painfully from her eyes, and finally, she understood what it meant to suffer death by a thousand cuts.

Luna was growing fast. Christabel knew that soon she would have to hire a trainer or perhaps send Luna to a stable to get properly trained, but for now, the horse was making great progress. Christabel dreamed of when Luna was big enough and they could ride up and down the shore, to Golden Gate Park and Sutro Heights and beyond.

The only thing about Luna that worried Christabel, the only thing that marred her perfect beauty, was that she had a rather strange bump on her forehead. Indeed, Christabel hadn't even noticed it in the first few weeks, thinking it was just bones, but as Luna grew, so did this bump, until it protruded into a quite visible nub between her ears. She often rubbed it against things and really enjoyed it when Christabel scratched around it.

When Christabel brought the matter up to Henry, he became oddly excited. Though he hadn't spared Luna another glance since he gave her to Christabel, that day Henry personally went into the stall to examine the horse. Luna, who was always so calm and friendly, gave a frightened little whicker and ran in panicked circles around the stall, refusing to let Henry come near, let alone touch her. Henry had to retreat before she quieted down.

"We may have a unicorn on our hands, darling," he said to Christabel with a grin.

"Don't be absurd, there's no such thing as a unicorn," she retorted. If he was not going to have the bump looked at, then she was not going to waste her time convincing him. Since it didn't seem to bother Luna much, Christabel put it out of her mind.

A few nights after that, Christabel's old nightmare came back. Since Christmas, thanks to the phonograph and her growing collection of records, her sleep had been specter-free. That night though, despite having listened to the phonograph before sleep as usual, Christabel found herself face to face with those three ghosts again, their eyes gray and empty like the mist, their chest gaping and dripping blood. They were on the beach this time.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, as she'd always asked them in her dreams, but she wasn't expecting an answer. Almost resignedly, she screwed her eyes shut and waited for the inevitable moment when the mist came for her and erased her. Once, when she was little, she had been skating in Central Park on one of the rare occasions her mother allowed her out of the house. Unbeknownst to her, the ice had cracked earlier that day. As she slid across the ice and felt, rather than heard, the gunshot snap beneath her skates, her heart had dropped to the bottom of her stomach, and it had seemed like an eternity before she hit the freezing water. There had been no more ice skating after that.

It felt just like that now, only increased a hundredfold, as she waited for the mist in her dream.

But the mist never came. There were hoof beats behind her, and Christabel turned just in time to see a streak of silver rush past her in a spray of sand. It was Luna. With the certainty of dream logic, she knew it was Luna, although other than its shiny white coat, this horse looked nothing like Luna—it was fully grown, and a long, sharp horn grew out of its forehead. A unicorn.

The unicorn headed straight for the three figures by the edge of the water, its horn aiming at them. Somehow, Christabel knew that if it touched them, something terrible was going to happen, just as something terrible always happened to her when she touched those figures. "No, Luna!" she screamed. "Stop!"

It was too late. The horn went through the chest wound of the figure in the middle—Frederick Benson—and it was no longer Christabel that was screaming, but Frederick, Patrick, and the still unnamed girl, their mouths yawning dark holes, issuing forth terrible screams, like those of a dying animal. To her horror, the unicorn was fading as well, swallowed up by the fog. Luna had taken her place.

"No, Luna, no!" Christabel cried, trying to hold on to the horse, but her hands only ran through cold, wet, empty air.

Luna reared up, looming over Christabel, and let out a scream, a too-real scream of fear and pain. The moment Luna's front legs, now little more than two wisps of fog, came down over her head, Christabel woke up.

She lay still, feeling the pillow damp with sweat under her cheek, listening to her thundering heartbeats. It had been so real, that dream, even more real than her waking nightmares, especially those screams... The figures had never made a sound in any of her previous dreams, they'd only stood and looked at her in silence. So what had changed?

When her heart refused to calm down, Christabel got out of bed, threw on her dressing gown, and went to the window. It was still dark outside, though a lighter strip of gray on the horizon told her that dawn was not far off. There was a light on at Kas's window, but that was nothing unusual. He often kept a light on throughout the night. Everything was quiet.

No, not everything was quiet. Straining her ears, Christabel could make out voices rising in contention and panic. They were coming from the other side of the house. Heart hammering in her chest again, she flew downstairs and followed the voices into the garage.

Blazing lights hit her full in the face, blinding her after the gloom of the house, and for a moment, Christabel couldn't see anything. When her eyes finally adjusted, a horrible sight greeted her—in the middle of the stall littered with crushed straw and splintered wood, evidence of a great struggle, was Luna, lying on her side, unmoving, a tongue so dark it appeared almost black protruding from her foaming mouth, legs bent at stiff, unnatural angles. Henry and Kas stood over her, their eyes wide, chests heaving from exertion. Dangling from Henry's hand was what Christabel thought was a leather belt at first, but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a cobra, its head smashed.

Christabel didn't remember what she did then. She must have screamed and run to Luna, for the next thing she knew, Henry had tossed the dead snake aside and was hauling her to her feet, while she fought him to reach Luna's side.

"Let me go!" she screamed. "Let me help her!"

"She's beyond help!" shouted Henry. "Kas, put the carcass under the cypress, while I take Mrs. Creel inside."

The carcass. She thought he meant the snake, and then it hit her. He meant Luna. Her lovely Luna, now nothing but a carcass, like one of those weather-bleached skeletons she'd seen from the train.

Kas threw Christabel an anguished look. "Yes, sir," he said, taking a blanket and draping it over the inert white form. That simple, irrevocable gesture finally convinced Christabel that Luna was really dead. All her panicked strength drained out of her, and she let Henry drag her out of the garage and back to the house.

"What happened?" she asked, the moment they were through the door.

"The cobra escaped its cage. I guess the horse got spooked, and the cobra fought back."

"But you said the cages were secure!"

Henry shrugged and steered her toward the stairs. "Accidents happen. Now, go back to bed. Kas will bury her."

His dismissive tone stung. "I want to be there," she said.

"What?"

"I want to say goodbye to her. At least give me that."

"Don't be hysterical. It's just a horse. I'll buy you another one."

"I'm not a child," she said, pushing his hand away. "Do you think you can just give me another toy and I'll shut up?"

Henry rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for this."

He headed back to the garage. Some of Christabel's shock was wearing off, and anger rose in its place. How dare he be so nonchalant, how dare he dismiss her like this! She lunged after him.

"You're not even going to apologize?"

"For what?"

"This is your fault! You did this! You and those monsters of yours!"

She didn't see him move. Something struck the side of her head, leaving her cheek stinging and her ear ringing. She clasped a hand to her face, out of shock and fear more than pain, while Henry opened the door. He didn't even look at her. "Go back to your room," he said calmly and stepped out.

The moment he disappeared into the dark, Christabel turned and ran. But she didn't run upstairs. She ran outside, down the drive, and all the way across the path bridging the island and the shore. Upon reaching the shore, she kept running, driven by sheer grief and despair, ignoring the cold wind across her face, the rough sand under her feet. She only wanted to get as far away as possible from Creel House.

Christabel ran until her legs and her lungs gave out. The sun was coming up, shining through the gray clouds like a silver coin on a pewter tray, doing little to warm the air. Creel House still loomed behind her, enveloped in its own mist, a dark, malevolent mass, scowling, mocking. She would never be able to outrun it. She crumpled to the ground, leaning against a sand dune, too exhausted and heartbroken to move.

She told herself not to think of Luna, though everything around reminded her of the little horse, from the cold, white sun that put her in mind of Luna's coat, to the sand where Luna used to run. But the tears wouldn't come. A heavy, somber fear, the remnant of her dream, weighed her down like a shroud, preventing the grief from taking over. That particular dream had been prophetic. Did this mean that her previous dreams all foretold her future as well? Was she fated to die a horrible death, like poor Luna?

No. She couldn't think that way. It was bad enough that she was out here on this God-forsaken beach in her dressing gown and bedroom slippers like some madwoman, now she believed in premonitions and fate too? No. She must stay rational. As much as she hated to admit it, Henry had been right. What happened to Luna had been an accident, no more.

At the thought of Henry, another kind of grief, mixed with anger and fear, surged up within her like bile, and her cheek throbbed again. It wasn't just that he'd hit her. She could even accept that he'd done so in the heat of the moment. But what disturbed her most was the casual way he'd done it, without a care, without a look back, like swatting away an irritating fly. That was what she was to him. Nothing.

What could she do now? Where would she go? Leave Henry and return to New York with her tail between her legs, admitting to her mother that she'd made a mistake? No! Not in a million years, not after she'd made such a show to Jason about how happy she was. And to be one of those divorcees, to have people turn their backs on her, to see their mock-polite smiles, knowing how they whispered about her behind closed doors? No, no, no. She couldn't bear it. She had married Henry to escape all that, she couldn't leave him to go back to that world now. The very thought of it made her stomach twist with shame and disgust.

Then her stomach twisted with something else, and Christabel realized the sun was now high in the sky. She had been out since daybreak. She was tired and cold and hungry, and there was nothing around her but sand and sea. With a sigh, she struggled to her feet. Creel House may be loathsome and frightful, but it was also her house, in name at least. She was not going to give it up just yet.

As she reached the causeway, Christabel saw, with dismay, that the path was now completely submerged. The tides must have come in while she was running down the shore. The boat was back on the island. She rang the bell. The sun was too bright for Kas to be out, but if Henry was home, he would come for her, surely. She rang the bell again, straining to see if there was any movement on the island. There was none. Was Henry out? Was he looking for her? The shore stretched on for miles and miles, had he missed her behind the sand dunes?

She dipped a foot into the water, testing it, only to jerk back as if she'd been bitten. The water was freezing cold. If she tried swimming in this, the cold would kill her before she could reach the island.

She rang the bell again, her hope of getting answered diminishing by the minute. Perhaps she could wait until Henry came back, or until sundown... It wasn't the day for grocery delivery, so nobody would come down this path and she need not worry about having to explain her awkward predicament.

Just as Christabel dropped down onto the sand again in fatigue and despair, a movement on the island caught her eyes. A dark speck was bobbing over the water toward her. It was the boat! As it got closer, Christabel saw that the parasol had been rigged over it, and shielded under it, wearing his long cloak and the gloves, was Kas.

"Are you all right?" he shouted the moment he came within her earshot.

"Yes." Something burst in her chest at the sight of him, something warm and pleasant that chased away all the pain and hurt. By now, she was desperate enough to accept any rescue at all, but she was glad it was Kas that came for her, glad in a way she knew she wouldn't have been if it had been Henry.

"I'm sorry it took me so long. I couldn't make the parasol stay upright," he said, maneuvering the boat so she could step on. His eyes widened as they landed on her face, and Christabel put a subconscious hand to her cheek. It must be more swollen than she'd thought.

"Don't worry about it." She meant both about the boat and her cheek, and Kas clearly understood, for he said nothing more. Once she settled on the seat opposite him, he started toward the island in long, steady strokes. Only his white-knuckled grip on the oars betrayed his true feelings.

"I wish you didn't have to risk yourself for me," she said.

"I don't mind."

"Where's Mr. Creel?"

"He had to go into town on urgent business." She was silent. Of course. He hadn't bothered to comfort her about Luna, why would he care when she ran away? Sensing her anger, Kas added, "I wanted to go after you, but he told me to let you blow off steam." He watched her for a moment and said, more quietly, "I'm so sorry about Luna, Mrs. Creel."

Pain squeezed her heart, choking her.

"What have you done to her?" she managed to ask.

"I've—I've buried her."

"Under the cypress trees?"

"No, by the beach."

Christabel nodded. She couldn't bear the notion of Luna being confined to those dark, haunted trees. "Thank you," she said. "She would like that. It's her favorite place."

Then she thought of Luna, sweet, pretty, clever Luna, dead and buried now, and she began to cry. Never again would Luna run on the beach alongside Christabel, never again would she nip Christabel to ask for pets or push her nose under her hand in search of sugar, never again would Christabel open the garage door to find Luna waiting for her. How many times she could have petted Luna or given her sugar without being asked, and hadn't? It was too late to make up for it now. The tears kept coming, wrung out of her in bitter, gulping sobs, and Christabel buried her face in her hands and cried and cried, for Luna and for herself.

The boat stopped. She felt Kas sit down by her. He held the parasol in one hand, shading them both, and his other arm went around her, pulling her to him. She held back at first, but when he drew her forward to his chest, she let her head fall onto his shoulder. Oh, how lovely! How lovely! For so long, too long, Christabel hadn't been properly held, and she had almost forgotten how lovely it was to sit like that, with his shoulder taking on the weight of her grief and his hand massaging the knots out of her back. Her sobs quieted. With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent of earth and smoke and the sea.

"It's all right," he murmured, rocking her against him, gentle as the rocking of the waves on the sides of the boat. "You'll be all right, Mrs. Creel."

The name rankled. "Don't call me that," she said. It came out sharper than she'd intended, and Kas's arm stiffened across her shoulders.

"What'd you want me to call you then?" he asked.

She lifted her head to look at him. "Call me by my name. Call me Christabel. At least—at least when it's just the two of us together."

Those words struck her as oddly intimate, and she became aware of how close their faces were, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, could see his dark eyes, enormous in the shade under the parasol. He'd heard the desperation in her voice too and was looking at her, eyes wide in shock or fear. How foolish she'd been! Just because she'd been fantasizing about him didn't mean that he felt the same about her. What she did in the privacy of her bedroom was shameful enough, but here—she was practically throwing herself at him. A servant! What would her mother say? My God, what if he told Henry?

"You know what, never mind." She sat up straight and pushed him away. "Just take me back."

"As you wish, Mrs. Creel," he said. Something in his voice was like an arrow through her heart. Had she really worried about what her mother would've said? Why did she still care? Everything she'd done had been to get away from her mother, and it seemed she hadn't escaped at all.

Kas got to his feet to return to the bow. She grabbed his hand, pulling him down by her side. She didn't know what possessed her to do so when she'd pushed him away only seconds ago, but at that moment, she couldn't bear to be away from him. He looked down at her hand clutching his, then lifted his eyes to her face. The look in those eyes made her breath catch in her throat, and, without thinking, she kissed him.

His lips parted in surprise. She pushed forward, taking his bottom lip between hers, marveling at how soft his mouth was, how responsive he was to her kiss, so unlike Henry, whose answer to her kisses was always a tight-lipped grimace. Kas's arm was around her again, his mouth moving hesitantly under hers, returning the kiss with a fervor that matched her own. Her hands came up to clasp his temples, her trembling fingers sinking into his curls, holding him close, while she captured his mouth again and again, draining it, like one dying of thirst—

He wrenched himself away from her, so abruptly that he left her dizzy.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, even as she was drawn back to him by some invisible magnet. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I..." She hardly knew what she was saying. She only saw his mouth, still temptingly close, and couldn't stop herself from pulling him to her once more, from claiming that soft, lush mouth with hers once more—

"We can't," he said, seizing both of her wrists to hold her at arm's length.

The parasol dropped out of his hand into the water, and Kas's face began to redden as sunlight spilled over him. He snatched the parasol up and scrambled to put it back in its place by the bow, but it wobbled, refusing to stay.

"Here, let me." Christabel took the parasol and held it over him. For a moment, Kas looked like he wanted to protest, but he took up the oars again without another word.

Though they sat side and side, he held himself stiffly, as far away from her as possible, while they traveled the rest of the way to the island. When they reached the shore, Christabel got off the boat on her own and held the parasol for Kas as he pulled the boat up and tied it to the dock. The house loomed above them, and the fog reached out its fingers, drawing them back into its grayness.

"I'm fine from here," Kas said, taking the parasol from her without looking at her.

Christabel turned away, but she couldn't bring herself to go into the house, to face its gloom and Henry's silent contempt. Her feet took her toward the garage. She had to see for herself, to believe that Luna was really gone.

The stall had been cleaned up. The saddle, reins, and brushes were gone from the wall. The straw had been swept away. There was no sign that a horse had ever been here.

The sight of that empty stall brought on a fresh flood of tears. Christabel slowly sat down, put her forehead on her knees, and let the tears flow down her face and drop onto the floor, like rain.

Something between the floorboards caught her eyes. Christabel picked it up and turned it over in her hand curiously. It was a flat, triangular shape, the size of her palm, slightly curved, grayish green in color and ridged all over. She would've thought it was simply a piece of tree bark, if it hadn't been for its strange shape and feel, rough and smooth at the same time, almost like a fish scale.

"Don't touch that!" Kas yelled behind her, making her drop the thing.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It could be from the cobra. Anyway, it's not a good idea to pick up unknown things around here." He tried to appear casual, but from the way he used a piece of rag to pick up the thing, Christabel realized Kas knew more about it than he let on. It was too big to be from any cobra, unless that cobra was the size of a python. But she was too tired to press him about it.

"You go up to the house," Kas said. "I'll bring you some food later."

There was nothing else to say then. "Thank you, Kas."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Creel."

Mrs. Creel.

Pulling the belt of her dressing gown tighter, Christabel stumbled into the house, swallowing the lump of disappointment in her throat.

Chapter 11: Force and Fright

Chapter Text

The days following Luna's death were the worst for Christabel since her arrival at Creel House. She was lonely, horribly lonely. Without Luna, her daily walk felt empty, aimless, and she tried hard to avoid the fresh mound of dirt overlooking the beach, though Kas had planted a bush of night-blooming jasmine on it so it wouldn't look like a grave. And Kas... what used to be comforting from him was now a torment. She was afraid to be alone with him, afraid of what he might do if she let him, of what she might do if he let her.

Her torment had little to do with guilt. She no longer loved Henry, that much she knew. Perhaps she never had. He had fascinated her, and she had only seen him as a ticket to freedom. But did she love Kas? After Henry, she no longer trusted her own heart. She certainly wanted Kas, wanted him even more now after that agonizingly brief kiss, but how much of that want was for himself, and how much was born out of sheer loneliness? How much was because he was the only other person around, the only one that treated her with some decency? What about Kas himself? He wanted her too, she knew. Even before the kiss, she'd known it. He'd spent his hard-earned wage on a phonograph for her and gone to the trouble of recording music for her, he'd risked going out under the sun to save her, he'd always comforted her ever since the first moment they met, he brought her what she needed even before she knew it herself. Nobody would do such things if he didn't care. But did he want her for herself, or simply because she was the only woman who would give him the time of day? And of course, there was the little matter of her being married to his master...

Back in New York, the gossip columns would occasionally explode over the scandal of an extramarital affair or an elopement, but even those only occurred between two persons of the same social circle. The mistress having an affair with a butler, the daughter of a prominent family running off with a footman, or the heir to a large business empire impregnating a maid, such things were too disgraceful even for the rags. They would get hushed up very quickly, and if they got discussed at all, it was only in whispers behind closed doors, to warn or to gloat over the misfortunes of those foolish enough to let lust cloud their judgment. Christabel had never dreamed that one day she would find herself in the same situation.

She could only be thankful that Henry didn't notice anything wrong, didn't see anything suspicious in the way she and Kas danced around each other and avoided each other. In fact, after Luna's death, Henry was almost affectionate toward her, as affectionate as he could be. He seemed to realize that he had gone too far and was trying to make it up to her.

One day, he announced that he had a special treat for her—he was taking her to town to see the Chinese New Year parade. Christabel didn't really want to go; whenever they'd tried to do things as a couple, it had turned out disastrously. But after Christmas and New Year, she felt Henry owed her some sort of celebration, so she donned her claret velvet dress again, leaving off her corset this time, and off they went.

Leaving Kas waiting by the car in an alley, Henry led Christabel down Dupont Street, toward the heart of Chinatown. Christabel had never been to a Chinatown before. There was one in Manhattan, but it was close to the slum of Five Points, and no decent people, let alone a woman, would ever set foot there. The Chinatown of San Francisco seemed more respectable, at least on the outside, though it was far busier than any place she'd ever seen. Even the streets of Manhattan during the St. Patrick's Day Parade were not as crowded. People thronged the sidewalk three deep, mostly Chinese and mostly men, in black silk shirts, white trousers, little silk hats covering their heads, and long pigtails down their backs. The few women, in their resplendent silk robes, their impossibly tiny feet crammed into beautifully embroidered satin shoes, were busy tending to small children with three funny tufts of hair on their heads. The crowd was so thick that Christabel couldn't even see into the stores that lined both sides of the streets—she could only glimpse the signs in Chinese on the top of their doors and the silk and paper lanterns hanging over their windows. The parade hadn't started yet, but firecrackers were already being set off everywhere, and the entire place smelled like what she imagined a battlefield would, of acrid smoke and gunpowder.

The crowd didn't seem to bother Henry, as his height allowed him to move through them with ease. Elbowing people aside, ignoring their angry Chinese and English protests, he steered Christabel toward the front of the crowd, where she would have the best view, keeping a protective hand on her waist. Christabel followed his lead, though deep down, she would've much preferred it if it had been someone else at her side...

No. She must not indulge in such fantasies any longer. That way lay heartbreak and ruin. She had already made one mistake in eloping with Henry; she could not make another one in yearning after Kas as well. After all, Henry was her husband, and she must treat him as such.

The sound of music in the distance cut off her train of thought, and Christabel turned her attention to the parade. People in lion costumes danced down the street, jumping about to vigorous drumbeats, batting a red ball held up on a long pole by their leader. More dancers followed, waving colorful fans and fluttering silk banners, acrobats performing unbelievable moves, stilt walkers looking like some giant birds on their tall bamboo sticks—Christabel stared at them in awe, wondering how on Earth they managed to walk with such ease. Musicians playing drums, cymbals, and bamboo flutes flanked the dancers, playing at such an ear-splitting volume that she could not tell what the melody was.

"Amazing, is it not?" Henry said in her ears, and she nodded. Yes, it was noisy and crowded and bewildering, but it was also overwhelming in a good way. It allowed her to forget her troubles for a moment and simply get lost in the wild movements and colors and sounds.

The music reached a fever pitch, and a burst of firecrackers exploded at the end of the street. The crowd around them surged up like a wave, momentarily blocking Christabel's view.

"What is it? What's happening?" she yelled to Henry over the noise.

"It's the Golden Dragon. The grand finale. Watch!"

A vision of gold and fire appeared out of the smoke of the firecrackers. It was a dragon, though quite different from the dragons Christabel knew from her fairy tales, those lizard-like guardians of gold and princesses in towers. This was something much more unearthly—a huge horned head, eyes and mouth wide open to show the fire burning within, followed by a long, long undulating body covered in golden scales and festooned with lights. Christabel knew it was only made out of silk and paper and gold foil, and the body was being controlled by people holding up bamboo poles, but the smoke and the flickering light masked the dancers, making it seem like the dragon was moving on its own, making it that much more real.

Christabel watched, so mesmerized that she didn't notice Henry's hand had slipped from her waist. The crowd was getting more boisterous, and she soon discovered why—the dancers were tossing coins to the spectators, and people were climbing over their own mothers to get to the money. Christabel stumbled, her cloak caught on something or by someone and was ripped from her neck, but she hardly felt the cold, pressed as she was by hundreds of bodies on all sides. She called for Henry, only for her voice to be lost in the deafening sounds of the firecrackers and drums. The magic of the parade was gone. Now she was caught in a storm of cracking thunders and fire, of shouting voices and pushing hands, of sharp smoke and rank body odor, caught and drowned in it...

Then the crowd and the smoke thinned, and she glimpsed Henry's tall figure disappearing into a shop across the street. Was he searching for her? He couldn't be, for she saw him handing money to a man with a long, drooping mustache in exchange for a package of something, looking in no great hurry. Puzzled but relieved at having caught sight of her husband at last, Christabel dodged between the spectators and the dancers, barely avoiding getting hit in the face by one of the dragon's fins, and made her way to the shop. Over the entrance was a sign with three Chinese characters on it, and a symbol she didn't recognize—a circle divided in half by a wavy line, one half painted white with a black dot on it, the other black with a white dot.

A bitter, herbal smell assaulted her nostrils the moment she entered. Shelves upon shelves lined the walls, stacked with bottles, vials, and packets of strange-looking plants and herbs. In the display window, bundles of dried newts dangled near a giant glass jar containing some sort of root that looked like a horribly disfigured baby.

Eyes and ears still dazed after the commotion of the parade, it took a while for Christabel to realize that there was no sign of Henry or the mustached man. The only person in the shop was a little boy sitting by the door, impassively watching the crowd outside.

"Excuse me, have you seen the tall blonde gentleman who came in just now?" Christabel asked. The boy turned, and she was startled to realize he was no boy, but a dwarf, quite an old one at that. There was something disturbing about that wrinkled face set on the small, childlike body. He gave no indication of understanding her question, and, after a sullen glance at her, turned back to watch the crowd.

Exasperated, Christabel walked further into the gloom of the shop, calling for Henry, for anyone. She lifted the curtain separating the front from the back, and was hit by another wave of bitter smell. Workers looked up at her from where they were cutting, pounding, and mixing medicines, their gaze curious and hostile. From the back of the room, the mustached man spread the workers aside to approach her, yelling in Chinese.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak Chinese," Christabel said awkwardly. "I'm only searching for my husband, Henry Creel. He was in here just now?"

The man kept yelling at her. His mustache flapped on either side of his mouth, making him look like an angry catfish. The only words she could make out, in between the Chinese rant, were "No" and "Out".

"All right, I'm leaving," she said, raising her chin. "There's no need to shout at me."

She indignantly swept up her skirt and took a step back, but the man had another idea—he gripped her arm tightly in a hand with nails so long they were almost like claws, and dragged her through the workroom toward a back door, paying no attention to her protest. He shoved her through the back door into an alley and locked the door behind her.

I knew it, Christabel thought in dismay as she stood in the filthy alley, feeling the chill air on her bare arms and neck and shoulders. I knew something would go wrong. But it was no use standing around feeling sorry for herself. She could still hear the parade from here, so it shouldn't be a problem to find her way back to Kas and the car.

Or so she thought. Henry had told her that the streets of San Francisco were laid out in a grid, which made it easy to navigate, but she discovered that the Chinese had created many shortcuts and walkways between the buildings, turning the grid into a maze. Many times, she would turn a corner only to find she had been down that alley, or gone past that building already. All the while, the sounds of the parade floated to her through the air, tantalizingly close yet remaining elusive.

There were some Chinese men following her. They said nothing and did nothing, but always kept a fixed distance between her and themselves, never letting her out of their sight. Christabel quickened her steps, trying not to show that she was running, hoping she could lose them at the turn ahead.

She came around a corner, into another alley, and immediately regretted it. This alley was occupied. Several men were bent over a game of dice on the stoop of a building, passing a bottle of alcohol between them. They all turned toward her, and she gave an involuntary shiver.

"You lost, ma'am?" one of them asked, lifting the brim of his felt hat to get a better look at her. He looked white but was dressed like a Chinese, in a silk robe.

Christabel shook her head—she did not trust herself to speak without giving away how afraid she was—and took a step backward. Her back collided with someone, and she looked over her shoulder into the leering grin of one of the Chinese men who had been following her. Her heart dropped. This was a trap, and she had walked straight into it.

"So eager to leave?" the white man said, getting up. He was clearly the ringleader. "You should stay awhile."

He nodded to the Chinese man behind Christabel, who immediately grabbed her arms, bending them painfully behind her back.

"I know you high-and-mighty ladies," the white man continued, approaching her slowly like a serpent approaching its prey, followed by several of his cronies. "Your life is so cushy, so boring, so you come here for the mystery of the Oriental, to fulfill some sick fantasies about the filth and depravity of the Chinese, don't you? Well, we can show you how filthy and depraved we really are, right, boys?"

He was now so close she could see his yellowed teeth in the gloom of the alley and smelled his rancid breath on her face. Terror rose within her, pinning her to the spot. He placed his hand at the neckline of her gown, and with a ripping noise, her bodice was torn from shoulder to waist. Cold air hit her torso, shaking some of the numbness from her limbs, and she started fighting madly against the vice-like grip on her arms, screaming her throat raw.

"Shut her up!" shouted the white man. The man holding her moved his hand to her mouth. The moment her arm was free, Christabel twisted and lashed out at her captor, hitting, clawing savagely with all she had. Her nails dragged across something fleshy, she heard a muffled curse, and more hands descended on her, gripping her arms, her waist, her legs. Fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing, cutting off her screams, cutting off her air. Black spots appeared in her vision, and she could feel her consciousness slipping away into nothingness. It was just like when the mist took her in her dream, except now the pain was not in her heart, but on her throat and in her lungs...

There was a blur of movement, and the pressure on her windpipes eased. The hands gripping her were no more. Turning her head to the side, she was dimly aware of a dark shape moving too fast in the murky light for her to see, cutting a swathe through her attackers, sending them scattering, their screams mingling with the sounds of the parade into a nightmarish chorus.

And then all was quiet. The dark shape was bending over her, and it was Kas's hands that ran over her shoulders and back to check for injuries, and Kas's frantic voice that asked, "Christabel, are you hurt? Did they hurt you?"

The sound of his voice calling her name finally shook her out of her daze. Still she couldn't speak, and could only shake her head between panting, sobbing coughs. Kas wrapped his coat around her quivering shoulders and scooped her into his arms. "It's all right," he whispered. "I'm here now."

They sat for a long, long time, with Kas holding her against his chest, brushing his lips over her hair, until her breath returned to normal and her trembling subsided. She nestled deeper into his arms, feeling safer than she'd ever felt, as though she hadn't just escaped certain death. At that moment, she wanted, more than anything, to just sit like that forever with Kas, forgetting about Henry and Creel House and the rest of the world. But it was not to be. As fireworks exploded overhead, signifying the end of the parade, Kas lifted her in his arms and took her back to the car.

As they left the alley, Christabel couldn't help glancing back. That was when she discovered that not all her attackers had fled. A number of them, including the ringleader, were on the ground, eyes wide open and unblinking under the flashes of the fireworks, their bodies twisted grotesquely. She looked up at Kas in awe. He had always seemed so gentle; she never imagined he had it in him to put up a fight, let alone to kill. Somehow the thought didn't frighten her. If anything, it was reassuring. She knew that as long as she was with Kas, no harm would come to her.

Kas had just helped Christabel into the car when Henry came back, a package tucked under his arm. So she hadn't been mistaken, he had been at the shop. Where had he gone then? Why had he left her alone?

"What happened?" he asked, taking in the sight of Christabel's crumpled form on the backseat, wrapped in Kas's long coat, her gown all torn and muddy.

"She was attacked," said Kas. "A group of men cornered her in an alley. But I found her and stopped them."

"Did you? How fortunate." Henry pushed Kas aside to look down at Christabel. "Well, you can count on this as the last time I ever took you into town," he said to her. "I've told you how dangerous it is, but you never listen! And now look what you've brought on for yourself!"

Christabel curled up in the backseat, too exhausted both mentally and physically to fight him, to remind him that she'd never asked to go to the parade and that he had been the one leaving her alone. What was the use? He would find a way to twist her words around, to blame her somehow. So she just lay there, letting the tears fall into her hair while he shouted at her like he was reprimanding a child.

"Mr. Creel, please," Kas stepped in. "What good would that do now? She's had a terrible shock, we'd best take her home."

"Be quiet," Henry snapped. "There's no we here. I will deal with my wife as I see fit, and you—you do as you're told."

Kas backed down and started the car without another word.

The car wound its way down the coast back to Creel House. Christabel wished she could have sat at the front, next to Kas, to feel his reassuring presence by her side, but she didn't feel strong enough to sit upright, and anyway she couldn't, not with Henry sitting there, his face thunderous, his barely concealed rage radiating from him like an ice storm. She knew he was angry with her, and as unfair as it was, his anger with Kas was even more senseless. Was he worried about the men lying dead in that alley? Did he blame Kas for not keeping an eye on her, for letting her get into danger? It didn't seem to occur to Henry that he, as her husband, was as much to blame as Kas, if not more.

As Kas pulled into the drive, Henry said, "Kas, come see me in the attic."

"I'll just see Mrs. Creel to her room first, sir," Kas replied, going around the back to put down the hood.

"She can take care of herself."

Kas whirled around to face Henry. "She can barely walk! She needs to get warm!"

"That's her own fault for wandering into the alleys of Chinatown, isn't it?" The contempt in Henry's voice lashed at Christabel's heart. She tried to hold back her tears, not wanting him to see her cry, not wanting to show her weakness.

Ignoring Henry, Kas leaned over the backseat, lifted Christabel into his arms, and carried her into the house. She rested her head on his shoulder, grateful for this closeness, no matter how brief. He took her into her room, put her on the bed, and went about lighting the fire.

Once the fire was crackling in the hearth, he tucked the blanket more closely about her shoulders. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Do you want something to eat, or to drink? Coffee, or something stronger?"

She shook her head. Seeing him get to his feet, she reached out a frantic hand and grabbed his wrist, as she had on the boat. "Please, don't go." She couldn't stand the idea of being left alone in the dark, with all its whispery shadows and its ghosts.

Kas leaned down, the amber flecks in his eyes shimmering in the firelight. He brushed his fingers over the bruises that had formed on her throat, his eyes full of remorse. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry. I left you, when I promised that I wouldn't..."

His touch seemed to ease the pain instantly, like magic. She threw her arms around his neck and drew him to her for a desperate kiss. Her lips had barely grazed his when he pulled away. "I have to go," he said. He plucked her arms from around his neck with a gentle but final gesture, stood up, and all but ran from the room.

Chapter 12: Through Mist and Cloud

Chapter Text

Christabel couldn't leave her room for two days afterward. Though she sustained no serious injuries, her throat had swollen shut, making every mouthful of food feel like she was swallowing glass, and her limbs were so sore that every movement was agony. So she lay in bed, heart breaking and body aching, and had no comfort at all. Kas didn't stop by her room again. He left her trays of soft food and soothing teas outside but never ventured inside, never even spoke to her through the door. She tried to listen for the moment he came up the stairs to intercept him, but his footsteps, already quiet, were muffled by the thick carpet, and by the time she heard the clanking of the tray and opened the door, he was gone.

Even when she was well enough to go downstairs for meals, she saw no sign of him. The food was prepared and the house cleaned as usual, but no Kas, not in the kitchen, not in the hothouse, and the lighthouse window remained dark. Her heart sank. Surely—surely—Henry hadn't dismissed Kas over what happened? Or had he gotten into trouble for killing those men? But nobody had come to the house looking for Kas, no police knocking on their door. Apparently, a few dead criminals in the back alleys of Chinatown didn't raise much concern with the authority.

"Where's Kas?" she asked Henry one evening over dinner. Her throat was still so raw that her voice came out little more than a croaky whisper.

"Oh, he's around here somewhere," Henry said, unconcerned.

Christabel breathed a little more easily. So Kas hadn't been dismissed or arrested, at least. But why was he avoiding her? Was he afraid she was going to throw herself at him again? Then she must put his mind at rest. Those kisses had been madness, born out of loneliness and fear and despair. No more. The comfort of their easy friendship in the previous months was too precious to be thrown away for this torment of want and uncertainty. She must reassure him of that.

After dinner, with that resolution in mind, she put on her cloak and went to the lighthouse. The curtains were drawn, and there was no answer when she knocked. But where else could he be? She knocked again.

"Kas? Are you there? It's—" She hesitated, not wanting to say "Mrs. Creel", but to say "Christabel" would be presumptuous. She settled for, "It's me. Can we talk, please?"

"I can't right now," came Kas's reply. His voice sounded strange, low and gravelly, as though he, too, had hurt his throat. "Please go away."

"Please. I'm afraid I may have caused you some trouble, and I want to apologize."

"No need. Just go."

"Oh, this is ridiculous! Must we keep talking through the door like this?"

She reached for the door handle. It turned under her palm. The lighthouse was dark, with only the faint glow of the stove by way of illumination. The skulls on the shelves shone like pale ghosts. It took a moment for Christabel's eyes to adjust and notice Kas huddled in the chair. He didn't seem to hear her come in.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" Christabel asked, reaching for his shoulder.

The moment she touched him, he jumped, as though scalded by her hand. His face, deathly white beneath its fringe of dark curls, made Christabel take a step back. She had never seen him so angry, so savage, his eyes two glassy black pools, his mouth twisted in a snarl, his hands clenched around something that twitched and squealed.

"What are you doing here?" he growled. "I told you to go! If you know what's good for you, leave! Now!"

First Henry, now Kas. Was there no one left for her in this place? Choking back her tears, Christabel turned and fled down the beach.

Christabel sat by Luna's grave, wishing to find some comfort from the familiar scent of the night-blooming jasmine, hoping to it would bring her closer to Luna's spirit. But although the bush lovingly draped its green arms over the mound, it was too cold for it to bloom. Even the flowers were deserting her. The beach was freezing. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shoulders, trying to shield herself from that biting, damp chill that no fire could lift. She must have dropped her cloak at the lighthouse, but she couldn't bring herself to go back there to retrieve it. She didn't want to think about Kas, about how he was like Henry after all, how he could be so sweet one moment and so violent the next.

But her heart refused to believe that Kas's gentleness was just an act. Why would he go to such lengths to be kind to her, only to turn against her? At least Henry had had the excuse of wanting to trap her into marriage... Could Kas—could his act be some nefarious plot to seduce her so that Henry could divorce her and keep her money?

Christabel let out a mirthless laugh and leaned her forehead on her arms. Such twisted schemes were the stuff of dime novels, not real life. Besides, Henry had her money already; all she needed was to wait for Mr. Murray, her lawyer, to complete the transfer and send her the paperwork to sign. There was no need for seduction. Creel House must be affecting her mind more than she'd realized if she was ready to entertain such morbid, fantastical thoughts. And the idea of Kas trying to seduce her...

"Mrs. Creel?"

She hadn't heard him approach. She didn't look back, hating that her heart still jumped at the sound of his voice, hating that she was blushing furiously just now, thinking about him.

"What do you want?" she said, trying to sound indifferent.

"I want to apologize. For shouting at you back there." He was coming closer, and she could hear that his voice was back to usual, soft, diffident, with none of that animalistic growl. What had happened with him at the lighthouse? "I was—I was afraid that Mr. Creel may find out—"

So he was only thinking of protecting himself then.

"You don't have to apologize," she said, finally turning around to face Kas. He was standing a little behind her, holding her cloak in his hands. He still looked pale, and his eyes were still dark, but the glassy, inhuman look was gone from them, and they were sparkling in the gloom. Still, Christabel refused to let her guard down. "You think you've offended me?" she continued. "You're just a servant. Your words mean nothing to me. I can have you dismissed if I'm angry with you. In fact, I would have dismissed you myself, if Henry wasn't so dependent on you." Those words were horrible, hateful; she was disgusted with herself even as she uttered them, but she had to, if she wanted to save her heart.

Kas froze, looking as if she'd just struck him across the face. "You don't believe that," he said, almost pleadingly. "You don't believe a word of that."

"Don't presume to know what I do and don't believe." She turned her back to him, facing the sea again. "You don't know me!"

Kas sighed. "You're right," he said. "I don't know you at all. And I'm sorry for it. I'm so sorry, Christabel. I only wish I could do something to help." He came up behind her and draped the cloak around her, before turning back to the house.

Perhaps it was the heartbreaking note of resign in his words. Perhaps it was his voice calling her name. Perhaps it was his lingering touch on her shoulders. Or perhaps it was the combination of all three, that melted the ice Christabel was trying to build up around her heart and made her reach out to him.

"Kas, wait." He stopped, and she shuffled across the sand until they were close enough to touch. "There is something you can do."

"What?"

"Kiss me."

Kas blinked. He looked up at the house, half-hidden behind the sand dunes, then back at her, and brushed some stray hairs from her face. Her whole body jumped at his touch, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation.

"He'll kill us if he finds out," he said.

"I don't care." Fiercely, she grabbed his wrists to press his hands to her cheeks, and he gave an involuntary wince. His sleeves had ridden up, showing a patch of reddened skin around each wrist. She unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his sleeves further up, first the right and then the left, to look more closely. There were more red marks on his arms, angry welts that looked like burns, showing clearly even in the dim half-light.

"What are these?" asked Christabel, her voice hushed. "Who did this to you?"

"It's nothing." Kas tried to pull away and push his sleeves down, but Christabel held him fast. A terrible realization dawned in her mind.

"Did he do this?" she asked. Kas didn't answer, but the look of shame in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. "But why?"

Kas shrugged. "He was displeased. And when he's displeased, he will make it known, on anyone or anything he can put his hands on. Better me than you."

Cold fear washed over Christabel. Henry had only laid his hands on her once, but if this was what he was capable of... Her rage, however, burned stronger than fear—rage for Kas and for herself. And she felt shame as well. How could she have suspected Kas of working with Henry to defraud her? Kas was as much a victim as herself.

"We can't let him do this," she said. "We have to leave."

Kas's eyes were bleak. "And go where?"

He was right, of course. Even if they were brave enough to face judgment and ostracism to leave Henry, there was nowhere they could go. Kas would not be able to find work, not with his condition, and with her money still tied up in the transfer, she was chained to Henry as tightly as Kas was. Why, oh why had she been so foolish as to agree to it, to give up her financial freedom and give Henry the means to control her? Of course, back then she'd thought she was being a good, obedient wife...

"We'll find a way," she told Kas stoutly.

And then, because it pained her to see him so miserable, she lifted Kas's arm and put her lips to the burns, wishing fervently that she could kiss them all away. She trailed her mouth along his forearm to the inside of his wrist, first the left and then the right, feeling his pulse pound under her lips, listening to his breath catch and quicken, listening to the beating of his heart, in sync with hers. His hand found her chin, gently turning her face up to him, while his thumbs caressed the curve of her lips. Under his delicate touch, her mouth fell open, compliant, expectant, yet he didn't kiss her, only kept brushing her lips with those calloused yet gentle thumbs, while those inscrutable eyes roamed her face, searching for something only he knew, until she thought she would go mad with waiting and wanting. Just when she couldn't take it anymore and stretched up to kiss him herself, he pulled away.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"We shouldn't be doing this."

Frustration rose within her, turning into fury. "Shouldn't?" she snapped, breaking free of his hands. "I've had enough of men telling me what I should and shouldn't do! If you don't want me, just tell me, and I'll never bother you again!"

"I do want you," he said, holding on to her arm, his eyes imploring. "I can't tell you how much I want you, but—"

At once, Christabel realized how selfish she'd been. He had so much more to lose than her. She might be shunned by society, but he would lose his livelihood. She couldn't do that to him. She would rather never touch him again and still have his friendship, than give in to this lust and risk losing him forever.

"Yes, I understand," she said stiffly, taking a step back. "You're right. We shouldn't." She walked away, trying to forget how he'd looked at her just now, when he said he did want her.

Kas, still holding her arm, spun her back toward him, and lowered his mouth to hers.

The moment their lips touched, a great wave of relief washed over Christabel. At last, at last! Their kiss on the boat had been a flustered, tentative dip into the water, but this, this was a full-body dive, as his mouth moved over hers in exploring caresses and his hands clasped her on her waist, in her hair, holding her flush against him, as though afraid the sand beneath them may open and swallow her up if he let go. Warmth began to bloom in her belly, spreading all over her, buckling her knees. She dropped to the sand, pulling Kas on top of her.

"You said you can't tell me how much you want me," she whispered. "Show me then."

And he obliged. His hand was on her, pushing up her skirt and petticoat, searching, stroking, stoking the warmth in her veins into a fire. She lifted her hips and helped him to pull her drawers down over her feet. There was a moment of fluster as the lace got caught on the heel of one of her boots. Christabel felt a wild urge to laugh, but Kas was so nervous, so hesitant, that she didn't want him to think she was laughing at him. Finally, her drawers were free. It felt so wicked, so depraved, lying there on the sand with her skirts hiked up, with the cold, damp air over her bare thighs while her legs were still encased in stockings pulled over her knees—wool ones too, the warm, practical kind. Why had she worn them? They were so... sensible. And what she was doing, what they were doing, was as far from sensible as she could imagine.

Then Kas nestled himself between her legs, and all thoughts of stockings were driven from her head.

"Are you—are you sure—?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

In reply, she took his hand and placed it where she ached for him the most. In that instant, it was like a dam was broken, and his control fell away. He dove into the water of her body with wild abandonment, his face buried in her neck, teeth scraping the skin at the base of her throat, and she responded in kind, arching into him with her chest, her hips, her whole being, so she could feel his weight and his strength and his warmth on her, in her.

A sharp sting on her throat made Christabel gasp. Kas's teeth had broken through the skin, and when she touched a hand to her neck, it came away red.

Kas went pale and recoiled. If her legs hadn't been locked over his hips, she believed he would have fled there and then. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—" he said, frantically wiping at the barely discernible drop of blood on his lips, his eyes widening so much that she could see the whites surrounding his dark irises. He reached a hand toward her but seemed afraid to touch her, afraid to make things worse. "I'm sorry, I can't—" He pushed away from her.

"No!" she choked, clinging to him. He'd left her twice; she'd be damned if she let him go a third time. Not now.

"But—I've hurt you—"

"You haven't. It's just a scratch." She cradled his face in her hand and looked straight into his eyes, those dark eyes that had captured her since the first time she'd seen them, only then she had been too blind to realize it. "I trust you," she said. "Please. Please, Kas. Stay with me."

He leaned over her, a hesitating, trembling hand skimming over the bite on her throat, his touch as light as the fog. She took his hand, trailing his thumb to her mouth, bit it, then licked it, tasting her blood on his skin. With a moan, he bent down and placed his lips on the bite. The sting faded almost instantly. He lingered at her neck for a moment, before moving up so their faces were parallel.

"Look at me, please," he begged.

And she did, keeping her eyes fixed on him, reassuring him that she wanted this, that she wanted him. The fire inside her was back now, mingled with his own fire, building even more wildly, chasing away the chill of the damp sand at her back, of the fog on her skin, burning off the chill that had settled into her bones since she came to this place. In her mind, she knew what they were doing was wrong, but as his warmth filled her to overflowing and her cries drowned out the mournful sound of the distant foghorns, her body did not feel anything but bliss, and her heart did not feel anything but joy.

Afterward, she felt Kas drawing her skirts down, gently, always so gently, his hands lingering on her hips for a moment. She seized those hands, pressing them to her. "Stay."

He adjusted his clothes and covered them both with her cloak. "Don't worry," he said, tucking her against his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, the other bent to pillow her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

She let out a sigh of relief. And then, stretching out against Kas to let his warmth envelop her, she slept.

Chapter 13: A Thing Divine

Chapter Text

"Christabel, wake up," said a voice in her ear.

Christabel yawned and stretched. The cold rushed in, shaking the last remnant of sleep from her head and her limbs. She realized she was still lying on the sand, wrapped in her cloak, and Kas was kneeling beside her, his eyes dark in the gray light of dawn.

Everything from the night before came flooding back. She bolted up.

"Did we stay out here all night?" she asked, clutching the cloak close to her.

"Yes. I must get back. The sun's coming up soon."

"Yes, yes, of course." She peered at him, trying to gauge his feelings. He was looking pale again, but that could just be a trick of the light. Did he regret what they'd done? Was he afraid, angry? "Do you think he suspected—?" she asked.

"I don't know. But I don't think so." It was true. If Henry had noticed her absence, he would've come looking for her already. "You can just say you took an early morning walk," Kas said.

"Yes, I suppose... You go ahead. I'll stay here for a while."

He nodded and turned away.

"Kas?"

He spun back, expectantly.

"Can I see you again?" she asked.

"You see me every day."

"No, not like that." She could feel blood rush to her cheeks, making her feel absurdly giddy. She hadn't felt much like a new bride after marrying Henry, after their belated and disastrous wedding night, yet she was feeling like a bride now. "You know what I mean," she said.

Now it was Kas's turn to peer at her. Then, abruptly, he tilted her face up and kissed her full on the mouth.

"Come to the lighthouse later," he whispered, before pulling away and walking toward the house.

Left alone on the beach, Christabel lifted a hand to her lips, where his kiss, his taste, still lingered. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth while she watched Kas's lanky figure disappear behind the sand dunes.

The moment she returned to the house, Christabel checked herself in the mirror, but there was no sign of the bite on her neck—only a small pink mark, so faint that she wouldn't have been able to find it had she not known it was there. Thank God! The bite must have been lighter than she'd thought. And thank God Henry wasn't up yet. By the time he came down, Christabel had brushed the sand out of her hair, changed into a morning frock, and was sitting with her breakfast, looking for all the world like she'd just had a good night's sleep, which was quite true. In Kas's arms, on the cold, damp sand, it had been the deepest, most restful sleep she'd had since arriving in Creel House.

Henry showed no indication that he even knew she'd stayed out all night. Still, Christabel had to try hard to keep her countenance and avoid Kas, afraid that the look on her face may raise Henry's suspicion. When Kas was serving lunch and accidentally grazed the back of her hand with his fingers, they both jumped and blushed so much that she was sure they had given themselves away, but Henry didn't notice. He kept rattling on about some species of venomous snake that had recently been discovered in Ceylon.

Even after Kas had served them coffee after lunch and retreated to his lighthouse, Henry kept up his chatter—he was in one of his lighter moods. Christabel hardly heard what he was saying. Her mind was too busy going back over the events of the previous night and coming up with excuses to get out of the house. Why was Henry being so gregarious today? Did he suspect something and was deliberately taunting her with his talk of snakes and spiders? What must Kas be thinking?

It wasn't until midafternoon that Christabel managed to slip away on the pretext of taking a walk. Henry just nodded absently and went up into the attic, locking the door behind him. She didn't even know if he'd heard her.

The warm glow of a fire was shining through a crack in the curtains at the lighthouse's window. Christabel rapped on the door, as quietly as she could, yet the knock still sounded so loud in the fog-muffled air, almost making her jump out of her skin. The door opened immediately. Had Kas been waiting for her this whole time? She stepped inside, and, after a quick glance around, he shut the door behind her.

Inside, the lighthouse was as warm and cozy as she remembered it. They stood facing each other silently, awkwardly. What could they say to each other, after a night like that?

"I thought you weren't coming," Kas said.

"I couldn't get away."

"I thought you regretted what you—what we did."

She looked at him, remembering those lips, those hands, that body on hers.

"I do regret it," she said. His eyes widened, as though she'd just slapped him, and she hurried to continue, breathless, "I regret that we didn't do it sooner. I should have—"

She didn't get to finish. The light in his eyes, dimming a moment before, now blazed again, brighter than the fire in the stove, as he crossed the room to her in one stride and cut her off with a kiss. So he had been waiting for her—that hungry, insistent mouth could mean nothing else. The hesitation from the previous night was gone. He was kissing her with the full confidence of knowing that he wanted her and she wanted him back. The strength of it was intoxicating. He peeled off her knitted jacket, his palms scorching hot through the thin fabric of her dress. Every part of her seemed to rise to his touch. She wrapped herself around him, her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, pressing him close to her, so she could feel him with every fiber of her being. He put his hands under her thighs, lifted her up, and carried her to the bed in the corner, where they collapsed in a heap, with Kas on the bottom. The bedframe squeaked in protest, and Christabel giggled.

"I can't stay long," she said.

"Then we shouldn't waste time talking, should we?" he whispered, kissing her while she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

His shirt was flung aside, and she dropped her head to trace her lips along the lean muscles of his chest and his belly, drawing whimpers out of him, before straightening to remove her dress—after the incident with the corset, she had left it off altogether and taken to wearing a simple combination of blouse and skirt, or a loose tea gown, which she was now pulling over her head. Her slip got stuck, and this time, she did laugh, with helpless giggles amidst the folds of linen and lace while Kas, also laughing, reached out to help her. Off went the slip, and her hair came free with it, tumbling over her shoulders. She wore nothing else underneath, save for her stockings—silk ones this time.

"God, you're so beautiful," Kas breathed out.

He swept her hair back, letting the silky strands slip through his fingers like molten gold, before dropping his hand to caress her neck, her shoulders, her back, and the rosebuds of her breasts. Unlike the frenzy of the night before, he seemed to be taking his time, marveling at every line, every detail of her, all the while gazing at her, his eyes so full of wonder and want that they sent her pulse fluttering wildly, at her throat, at her breasts where his hands were, and down below, where their bodies met.

She let him look and touch until, growing impatient, she leaned down to softly bite at his kiss-swollen lip and undo his trousers. He lifted himself to replace the hand on her breast with his mouth. With a moan, she threw her head back and rocked against him, her body finding him by pure instinct. He sat up, clasping her to him, and they found a rhythm together, of rolling hips and clutching hands and caressing mouths, two bathers plunged deep into a luscious sea, seeking, searching amongst the currents, until a wave of ecstasy crashed over them, drowning them both in its pulsing ripples.

Later, skin damp and still tingling with pleasure, Christabel lay down on Kas's chest, breathing in sweat and the ocean, while he ran his hand dreamily over her hair and her back.

"You said we should have done this sooner," he said. "How soon?"

"The moment we met?" she replied with a grin.

He chuckled. "I doubt it. You barely saw me then. You even tried to tip me!"

Christabel pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her blush, laughing. "My God. I was such a fool."

"No, you weren't. I was just invisible."

"Well, no more," she said, propping herself up to look at him, really look at him, taking in all the features she had never bothered to notice before—those dreamy brown eyes with the enviably long lashes, the little half-moon of a scar on his forehead, the dimples that framed his smile. "I've found you now and I'm not going to let you out of my sight again."

And who knew? Perhaps it was not too late for them. She only had to hold out long enough until the transfer of her father's bequest was complete, and then... and then... perhaps Henry would grant her a divorce if she offered him enough money. Then she and Kas could leave. Now that she had Kas, the notion was no longer so daunting. They could go somewhere far away, where nobody knew them, where there would be no judgment, no fear. Only the two of them, together.

In the meantime, they found every opportunity to be alone together. Christabel never imagined that she would be thankful for the isolation of Creel House and the lack of servants, but now she was, for it saved her and Kas from having to sneak around. As for Henry, he was so self-absorbed that she doubted he was even aware of what was going on around him half of the time.

Early in the morning, before the sun came up, when Kas was making breakfast, Christabel would tiptoe into the kitchen to join him. If Henry also rose early and they heard him coming down, she would run out the back door and come back ten or fifteen minutes later, acting as though she'd just had a refreshing morning walk. Most days though, Henry didn't come down until well after ten, giving them plenty of time together. But even that wasn't enough. When Kas worked around the house, they would find ways to touch or to snatch a surreptitious kiss, in darkened doorways and corridors. Sometimes, when it was rainy and Kas could go out during the day, they would sneak down to the beach, where the dunes hid them from the house's prying eyes, and fell into each other's arms.

Most of the time, they were in the lighthouse. Some nights, when it was clear, Kas took Christabel up to the disused lamp room, where they sat behind the glass, watching the twinkling stars above and the rolling sea around them, feeling like they were trapped in a fishbowl floating on the edge of the world. While rain pelted at the windows, they built up the fire in the stove and snuggled up in front of it, under the benevolent gaze of the animal skulls. They read to each other, or Kas played his guitar while Christabel listened, curled up by his side. She ordered more blank cylinders to record his playing and tried to memorize the sweet, soft melodies, so that late at night, when she didn't have his arms around her, she could repeat them to herself and chase the bad dreams away.

But they didn't spend much time watching the stars or reading, and Kas could never play long enough for her to memorize the melodies, because she could never watch him for long before interrupting him with a kiss, and music and poetry and the sky and the sea would be forgotten, in favor of other, more tangible pleasures.

And what pleasures! Their first night together had awakened a fervent need in both of them, a need to know each other fully, thoroughly. It had taken a while for that need to fade, but even when it did, their desire was never gone. It was only replaced by a sense of quiet wonder, as they discovered each other like a pair of cartographers mapping a territory that was both familiar and unknown. Christabel learned every freckle across the bridge of Kas's nose, the way his eyelashes cast their shadow on his cheeks when he was sleeping, the ropes of muscle along his arms, the scar on his chest that he said was from a knife fight when he was a boy. She learned that Kas was everything her husband was not, gentle, considerate, eager to please and to be pleased. And with him, she learned more about herself and her own pleasure than she could ever imagine. One memorable night in the greenhouse, she'd pressed him against the glass wall and kissed her way down his neck, his chest, and lower and lower, until she'd sunk to her knees in front of him and stayed there for some time. Later, when he'd lifted her onto the worktable to return the favor, her pleasure had increased tenfold, remembering how she'd reduced him to a quivering, ecstatic mess, there amongst the moonflowers and the nightshades.

Her conscience never once smarted with guilt. If anything, she even found a certain illicit thrill in the secrecy. In her mind and her heart, Henry had lost her a long time ago, and any husbandly rights he had over her were in name only.

The only thing that marred her happiness was Kas's dark moods. Though they were less frequent now, he refused to explain them to her. She learned to watch out for them, for when his skin turned pale and cold to the touch and his eyes went dark. In those moment, she could see that he was struggling and longed to hold him, to comfort him, but she kept her distance. She wondered if he was an opium eater, and those dark moods were his withdrawal symptoms. There were certainly plenty of opium dens in the city. She hadn't seen any opium eaters back in New York, but from what she'd heard, they tended to become lethargic when in withdrawal, whereas Kas, if anything, was more alert, like a predator ready to spring.

Christabel told herself that it didn't matter, and it really didn't. It didn't change the way Kas treated her, and he even warned her of those moods when they were about to descend on him, so she would know to keep away. He would tell her the truth when he was ready.

There were also other things that he couldn't tell her, even if he wanted to. One day, while lying on the hearthrug in the lighthouse with her head in his lap, she asked, "Kas, what's your first name? It feels a little strange, calling you Kas all the time."

He was silent for a while. "... I don't have one," eventually he said. Seeing her astonished stare, he explained, "Mr. Creel—he found my mother dying as she was giving birth to me, somewhere near Indianapolis. She died before she could tell him her name or give me my name. Mr. Creel simply called me Kas, and it stuck."

Christabel was shocked. "This was Henry's father, you mean?" Kas hesitated, then nodded, almost imperceptibly. "But if he took you in and raised you, he must've cared for you in some way! How could he treat you like that, never bothering to give you a proper name?"

"He had his reasons," Kas said with a resigned shrug.

"What about the late Mrs. Creel?"

Again, a little pause. "She was... kind, in the short time that I knew her. But she was used to submitting herself to her husband's will."

Christabel gazed at him, her heart breaking. Did Henry inherit that callousness from his father? The late Mr. Creel certainly hadn't picked Kas up from the street out of a sense of altruism. Perhaps he'd seen Kas as a plaything for his son, a dog to be kept at his beck and call. That was how Henry had learned to treat Kas, just like he treated everyone and everything around him, with such casual cruelty as though he weren't even thinking about it. She thought back on Tuxedo Park, how Henry had stolen Dr. Brenner's book as a gift for her, how he'd stolen Brenner's car after Brenner's death. So many little warning signs, and she'd ignored them all.

"You tried to warn me about Henry, didn't you?" she said. "Back in New York, when you delivered that note to me at the Carvers'. You told me not to see him."

"I should've tried harder."

"No, don't blame yourself." She reached up to caress his face. "I wouldn't have listened anyway. I didn't even listen to my own mother, so the words of a stranger would not mean anything to me." She added, "Besides, I don't regret it, you know. If I hadn't married him, I would never have met you." It was true. Although she wished to be free of Henry, she was thankful to him for two things—that he had taken her away from her mother, and that he had brought her to Kas.

"Would you promise me something, Christabel?" Kas said.

Hearing the change in his voice, she sat up to look him in the eye. "Anything."

"If you get a chance at freedom, take it. Run away, far away, where he can never find you. Don't worry about me."

"You mean—leave you?"

"Yes."

She was appalled. "I can't do that!"

"You must. I'll find my way to you if I can, but you must save yourself first." He took her hands. "Promise me!"

He looked so anxious, his eyes so full of concern for her and his grip on her hands so desperate that Christabel had to relent. If she still harbored any doubts about his true feelings for her, they had vanished completely now. "All right, Kas. I promise," she said, sealing the vow with a long kiss.

As she put her head back down on his lap, Christabel knew she had no intention of keeping her word. She could never leave Kas behind. Because she loved him. She knew that now. She'd thought that the passion she felt for him was mere lust, that she wanted him simply because she was starved, starved for affection, for attention, and for human touches. But at that moment, watching his face above her and holding his hand in hers, she knew it wasn't just that. She wouldn't have traded him for anyone. She loved him, and she would do everything in her power to make sure that they stayed together.

Chapter 14: The Doleful Tale

Chapter Text

Other than Joyce and the grocery wagon, the only outsider that came to Creel House was the mailman and his truck, a gleaming black vehicle with "United States Mail" emblazoned on the sides. The mailman was a taciturn fellow, far less chatty than Joyce, and as Creel House was often the last stop on his delivery route, Christabel didn't blame him for not wanting to linger around for a chat. Still, in the past couple of weeks, she had taken to wait for him, not for some gossip as she did with Joyce, but to intercept his delivery. She was expecting a letter from her lawyers, informing her that the transfer of her inheritance to Henry was completed. All that was required was her signature on the deed. Once Henry had it, he would have no more use of her. That was why she had to have a hold of the paperwork. She was still kicking herself over her stupidity with the transfer, but it was too late to do anything about it now. The deed was her only bargaining chip. If Henry was happy enough with the money she'd put in his account and granted her a divorce, then she would throw away the deed and keep the rest of her money. If he fought the divorce or demanded more, then with the deed in hand, she could negotiate how much she was willing to give him in exchange for her freedom.

She knew she could've simply waited for Kas to pick up the mail and met him then, but she had not told him of her plan yet. She didn't know how long the divorce procedure would be, or even if Henry would agree to the divorce at all, and she didn't want to raise any false hopes. And she couldn't forget that desperate, beseeching look in Kas's eyes when he asked her to leave him behind. She was afraid that when it came down to it, Kas may choose to stay with Henry so she could go free. She would not force him to make that choice.

On a fine April afternoon, the tides were low, and Christabel went down to the shore to wait for the mailman as usual. The sun was out and Kas could not accompany her, not without raising Henry's suspicion, so she went alone, keeping a wary eye on the sand dunes. For a few days now, she had been feeling a lurking presence amongst them, a creeping sensation on the back of her neck, like she was being watched, but when she turned around, there was no one and nothing there.

The mail truck hadn't stopped by since last week, when it delivered some of the blank wax cylinders she'd ordered, and Christabel watched the winding road along the cliff with impatience and dwindling hope. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she sighed and resigned herself to another fruitless afternoon.

Just when she was about to return to the house, a black dot appeared on the road. It drew near and grew, and was indeed the mail truck. The mailman slowed down upon seeing her but didn't stop the engine. "Mrs. Creel," he said, touching his hat. "Got a letter for you here."

He handed her a thick envelope bearing the seal of the firm of Murray and Hopper. Christabel took it with trembling hands, almost forgetting to thank the mailman in her excitement. This was it. This letter could decide her future—hers and Kas's.

As the mail truck turned around and went back the way it came from, Christabel fumbled to tuck the envelope into the waistband of her skirt and cover it up with her jacket, hoping that she wouldn't run into Henry on her way back and that he wasn't in a physically demanding mood.

"Mrs. Creel?" said a voice behind her.

With a startled cry, Christabel whirled around. A man was coming toward her in the falling light.

Fear knotted her stomach, but she tried to stay calm. "Who are you?" she asked, slowly and surreptitiously stepping toward the bell. "What do you want?"

"Please, I mean no harm," the man said, raising both hands in a placating gesture. "My name is William Hargrove. I just want to talk. You are Mrs. Creel, are you not? I've seen you, with him, outside the bank..."

He came closer, and Christabel recognized him—the man who had accosted Henry outside the bank, right before Christmas. His hair was longer now, matted with dirt, and his unkempt beard covered most of his face, which must have been handsome once. Only his eyes still burned with that same desperation.

"What do you wish to talk about?" Her back had hit the bell, and it gave a little chime. Ringing it would do little good if the man attacked her. By the time Kas reached her, it would be too late. Could she outrun him? He may look tired and dirty, but there was power in his build, and though he was keeping his distance from her, he could easily close that distance with a few leaps. Still, some strange force—curiosity, intuition, or pure presentiment, she did not know—kept her on the shore and listening to him.

"About the man you are married to, the so-called Henry Creel," Hargrove said.

"What is it about him?"

"He's not who you think he is."

Christabel almost laughed. If only this man knew that she'd discovered that bitter truth for herself a while ago...

Unfazed by her lack of response, Hargrove continued, "His name isn't Henry Creel, or at least it wasn't when I first met him. He called himself Peter Ballard then. He was married to my sister, Maxine."

Christabel recalled his shouting accusations outside the bank as the security guard hauled him away.

"You said he kidnapped her," she said slowly.

"He did! He married her and took her with him, and I haven't heard a word from her since." Hargrove sat down on the sand, slumping forward, his lank hair covering his face. "Perhaps it was my fault. I drove her away. She was my stepsister, you see. My father was a widower, and he married Maxine's mother when I was a boy. I didn't treat Maxine very well, I'm afraid. I blamed her and her mother for coming between me and my father. We were living back East then, near Chicago. When Maxine met Ballard—or Creel—he charmed her and my stepmother right away, but I wasn't fooled. I thought he was only interested in her money—her father left her an inheritance, you see." Hargrove shook his head. "I played right into his hands. He used my opposition to convince the poor kid that I was trying to prevent her happiness, and she agreed to run away with him."

Hargrove's story struck Christabel with an eerie sense of familiarity, and goosebumps broke out all over her skin. It could have been her story. She, too, had been trying to escape her old life. She, too, had been convinced by Henry that he was her way out. Was this what he did, seek out naïve young women for—for what? For their money?

"How long ago was this?" she asked.

"1891." He still looks exactly as he did fifteen years ago...

"Mr. Hargrove, I'm afraid you're mistaken. My husband is thirty-two years old. Are you saying that he married your sister when he was seventeen?"

"No, no, that's the thing." Hargrove got to his feet, agitated. "Maxine was eighteen when she married him. He was already thirty-two then."

"I don't understand."

"That's how I recognize him right away, you see. He hasn't aged a day. He may tell you that he's thirty-two, but he's much older."

Hargrove was sounding less and less sane by the minute. Christabel's mind was telling her to leave, to walk away, but that strange premonition kept her rooted to the spot.

"I'm sorry about your sister, Mr. Hargrove," she said, trying to sound reasonable, "but I'm not sure what you want from me. Even if my husband was married to her previously, which I very much doubt, she could have—passed away from natural causes."

"No!" Hargrove hissed. "He did something to her! I know it!"

"How?"

"I dream of her. About a year after she went away, both her mother and I started having these dreams of Maxine. She never says anything in them. She just stands looking at me, with this huge gash on her chest. That's how I know. She's gone, but she did not go peacefully."

Cold. She felt cold. A freezing wind rose from the sea, or perhaps from Creel House itself, blowing away any remnant of the spring sunshine that still lingered amongst the dunes. Christabel stared at the older man, unable to utter a word, for her throat had suddenly become dry, as though she'd swallowed sand.

"Look, I'm sorry to have bothered you like this," Hargrove said, mistaking her silence for offense. "I know how this sounds. Before my stepmother died, she entreated me to find out what happened to Maxine. She said, 'Bill, you have to find Maxine, find her, and bring her home.' I've been searching ever since. And this is the best lead I've had. Perhaps your husband is not Peter Ballard. But it can't be a coincidence that he looks so much like the man I've been searching for. They could be brothers, father and son, or cousins..."

"My husband has no family," she managed to say.

"All right, but would you mind taking a look at this picture anyway?" Hargrove pulled a tintype in a leather case out of his pocket—the leather was greatly worn, evidence that he had been carrying it around for a long, long time—and showed it to her. "Perhaps you have seen her likeness somewhere?"

Christabel glanced at the tintype, and whatever warmth that remained in her body drained out of her, leaving her frozen and numb. The tintype was a family portrait. An older, hard-faced man and a tired-looking woman sat in the foreground. Behind them stood Hargrove, younger and clean-shaven, but still recognizable. And next to him was a young woman, not a great beauty but pretty enough, with a bold and direct gaze.

Christabel had seen her, yes. Just as Hargrove had described her. A silent ghost, her chest wound dripping blood.

"Did she—did your sister have red hair?" she asked. Her voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

Hargrove's eyes widened. "Yes! How did you know?"

"What was her maiden name?"

"Pardon?"

"She was your stepsister. Before she married my—before she married Henry, or Peter Ballard, or whatever his name is, what was her maiden name? Was it Hargrove?"

"No, she never took my father's name. It was Mayfield. Maxine Mayfield."

Maxine Mayfield. M.M. The final piece of the puzzle. Except it didn't clear up anything, because even though the puzzle was complete, it showed nothing but white mist, giving more questions than answers.

Christabel returned to Creel House in a daze, without hearing Hargrove's barrage of confused questions. He didn't follow her.

Frederick Benson. Patrick McKinney. Maxine Mayfield. Three names, three ghosts. All with some sort of connection to Henry and Creel House. Coincidence, or was there something more sinister? And where did she, Christabel, fit into that? There had been money or some material goods involved with all three—Benson's business venture, old Mr. McKinney's lighthouse, and Maxine's inheritance. And of course, Christabel's own as well. Was Henry some sort of murderous conman, killing people for their money? It was certainly the most plausible answer. And if it was true, then her life may be in danger.

She realized that Henry had never spoken of how he'd lived after his parents died, whether he had been taken in by relatives or not. Could it be that Hargrove was speaking the truth, that Henry was much older than he appeared? As for those strangely prophetic dreams...was she doomed to become just another set of carved initials on a cypress tree? No, she was not going to think about that now.

There was only one person who had been around Henry for long enough, one person she trusted to give her an answer.

She found Kas in the hothouse. He was digging up some seedlings to transfer outside—he'd promised her a border of hydrangea around the house. Hearing her footsteps, he turned around and smiled at her, a smile that lit up his face and never failed to send warmth all through her, even now, when she was cold with fear and confusion.

"Did you have a nice walk?" he asked. Then he saw her face. "What happened? Are you ill? Here, sit down." He guided her to the bench and knelt in front of her, taking her limp wrists in his hands. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asked in such a tender voice that it broke through her daze. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on his strong hands, clutching them like they were her anchor to life, to safety, to reality itself.

"Do you know a woman named Maxine Mayfield?" she asked.

Kas dropped her hand and stared at her in consternation. "Where did you hear that name?"

"You do know her, don't you?" She scrutinized him. Fear and guilt chased each other across his features, and he turned away, refusing to meet her eyes. Suspicion took root in her mind. "She was the previous Mrs. Creel. Henry was married to her, wasn't he?" Joyce had called Christabel the new Mrs. Creel when they first met. Could it be that Joyce had been thinking of Maxine as the former Mrs. Creel? Christabel continued, her voice rising in accusation. "The man said it was fifteen years ago. How could Henry have been married fifteen years ago? How old is he, really? Thirty-five? Forty?"

"Which man? Who told you these things?"

"His name is William Hargrove. Maxine was his sister, stepsister. He's been looking for her."

"How could you know that what he said was true?" said Kas. "He may be lying to you, or he may be mistaken himself."

"No, he's not. He showed me her picture, and she looked exactly as I've seen her."

Kas's head snapped up. "What do you mean, you've seen her?" he asked in a horrified whisper.

"In my dreams, Kas," she said. "I've seen her, and Patrick McKinney, and Frederick Benson." She watched his eyes widen in horror, and understood. "You've seen them too, haven't you?" she said, taking his hands and squeezing them so hard that her rings left dents on his palms. "That's why you gave me the phonograph. You know it would keep them away. Something happened to them here at Creel House, didn't it? What was it? I know you know something. Tell me!"

Kas remained kneeling, his eyes full of sorrow, silently pleading with her. "I can't," he said.

"You can't, or you won't?"

There was a rustling sound, and Henry came into the hothouse. Christabel and Kas darted away from each other like two criminals.

"There you are, darling," Henry said to Christabel. "I thought you were taking a walk."

"I was, but it got rather cold so I came back," said Christabel, getting to her feet, surprised at how steady her voice and her legs were.

"Mrs. Creel was just telling me where to put the hydrangeas, sir," Kas chimed in.

"The hydrangeas will have to wait. You're taking me into town tonight," said Henry.

Kas gave Christabel a quick glance. "Yes, sir."

"Where are you going?" she asked Henry.

"To Chinatown, on business. I'm afraid it's going to take all night, so don't wait up for me, darling." Henry brushed the back of his finger down her cheek, and she had to fight the urge to pull away. "We leave after dinner," he said to Kas. He then turned on his heel and left.

As soon as Henry disappeared into the house, Kas turned back toward Christabel and grabbed her arms. His initial fear seemed to have vanished. "Listen to me," he said in an urgent whisper. "You need to leave."

Now it was Christabel's turn to stare at him. "What?"

"Take whatever you need and leave. Tonight. You'll have to walk to Sutro Heights—no, wait, I'll send a message to Joyce and ask her to come pick you up. Go to the station, get on a train, or go to the wharf and get on a ship. Just leave. Don't look back."

"What—what are you saying?"

"You've promised me, remember? This is your chance. I'll hold him off for as long as I can, but please, you have to be as far away from San Francisco as possible by tomorrow."

She couldn't understand his urgency, and it frightened her. "Why? What's going to happen?"

"I don't know. But this is the longest he'll be away from the house. You have to go."

Christabel seized his wrists. "I'm not going anywhere without you!"

"Please, Christabel. I'm not worth it."

"Yes, you are." She took his face in her hands and kissed him, hard. "You're worth everything to me."

His eyes softened, but he shook his head, even as he leaned close to her. "Don't," he said in a despondent whisper. "You've promised that you'd leave."

"Can we just leave now, together? Let's take the car and drive as far away as we can."

"And live as fugitives for the rest of our lives? I'm not doing that to you."

Desperation gripped her. She lifted his face so he would look her in the eye. "Please, Kas," she begged. "If you love me, please tell me what's going on! What is Henry planning?"

Kas jumped up. He turned away from her, pacing in an agitated circle and running a hand through his curls, gripping it so hard that she was afraid he was going to pull the hair clean off. "I don't know. I don't know. He never tells me anything. I—" He looked back at her and paused for what felt like a hundred years, searching her face, his eyes brimming with love and anguish. Then he seemed to have come to a decision. "Go to the attic," he told her. "See for yourself. Look in the icebox. Look in his desk drawers."

"The attic? But the door's locked—" After Christabel had stumbled into the attic on her first day at Creel House, Henry had taken to locking the door at all times, even when he was home, even though Christabel never wanted to set foot in that cursed place ever again. The key he wore on his watch chain.

"I'll find a way to get you the key," said Kas. "I have a key that looks similar, I can try to swap it." He sat down next to her. "Just... as soon as you've found your answer, go. Don't stay for me."

Christabel touched the envelope still tucked into the back of her skirt, feeling all the hope she'd put into it slipping away by the minute. They should have run away months ago, money be damned. Now they were stuck. She knew she should go up to her room, hide the transfer deed, and perhaps prepare to leave, but she remained on the bench, leaning against Kas's shoulder, not wanting to part from him. Something told her that whatever she'd find in the attic, she would not be staying in Creel House for very long, and she wished to spend as much of her remaining time with him as possible.

Dinner was tense, silent. The key gleamed on Henry's waistcoat, taunting Christabel. She'd never thought about what he kept up there in that room with its snakes and spiders, and now it loomed in her mind like a dark cave. Kas went around the table serving the food as usual, but he avoided making eye contact with her and kept a white-knuckle grip on the tray.

Even Henry noticed something was wrong. "You've hardly touched your food, darling," he said, indicating Christabel's still-full plate. "Are you not feeling well?"

"No, no, I'm fine." She forced herself to swallow a bite, though she had no idea if it was fish or chicken or beef—it all tasted like dirt in her mouth. "Must you go out tonight?"

"Worried about being on your own, aren't you?" Henry smiled. "No need. You'll be perfectly safe here. And we'll be back by morning."

"What are you doing there?"

Henry regarded her over the rim of his wineglass with surprise, and—she thought—mistrust as well. Belatedly, she realized she might have aroused his suspicion by showing an interest in his work, where she had shown none before. But he answered anyway.

"I've been studying traditional Chinese medicine," said Henry. "Tonight, an herbalist is preparing a very special potion, and I was privileged enough to be invited to watch him at work."

"Then why do you need Kas to accompany you?"

Henry drained his wine. His eyes were like two shards of ice as he fixed them on Christabel, and she was sure her face was burning up under his scrutiny. "Why do you need Kas to stay home then?" he asked.

"That's not what I meant," she protested weakly.

Not taking his eyes off of her, Henry signaled for Kas to refill his glass. The key reflected the candlelight, glinting banefully. Behind Henry, Kas discreetly palmed something small and metallic in a napkin as he picked up the wine bottle, and finally caught Christabel's eyes.

In an instant, she understood what he was going to do. While Kas moved toward Henry with the bottle, she got to her feet. "I think I may have walked too long this afternoon," she said, making a show of rubbing her forehead. "I can feel a headache coming. I should go to bed."

Kas fumbled, seemingly not knowing whether to continue pouring the wine for Henry or to put down the bottle and pull her chair back for her. The bottle tipped forward, and red wine spilled all over Henry's shirt front.

"Will you watch what you're doing, you idiot!" Henry shouted.

"I'm so sorry, sir," said Kas, using the napkin to blot the spill.

"Darling, are you all right?" cried Christabel, moving toward Henry with her own napkin. There was great confusion as she and Kas both fussed over Henry, ineffectually wiping the wine off of his shirt, while Henry pushed them both away.

"Just leave it!" he screamed, jumping from his chair. Kas took a step back. Christabel glanced at Henry's watch chain—the key was still dangling there, but was it her eyes, or did it look slightly different, more scratched? Kas gave her a discreet nod, and she let out a relieved sigh.

"You should go and change," she said to Henry.

He shrugged, unconcerned. "There's no time. We're late. Kas!" he barked, and Kas jumped. "Bring the car around. We're leaving."

"Yes, sir."

There was no time for Kas to hand her the key. Had their effort been for nothing?

Christabel followed Henry to the front door, a feeling of foreboding rising in her chest, making her heart beat with jerky, painful thuds and leaving her hands and feet icy cold. She didn't know what was happening that night, what Henry had been doing, and what he was going to do, but she was going to lose Kas, she could feel it. Or Kas was going to lose her. She didn't know which would be worse.

"May I come with you?" impulsively she asked Henry. Kas, who was waiting by the door, stared at her in alarm, but Henry only smiled thinly as he shrugged on his coat.

"After what happened last time, I didn't think you'd want to return to Chinatown," he said.

"I'm not afraid." She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, trying to put on a brave face.

"But this is no pleasure trip, darling. I'm there to observe a very important ritual." Seeing Christabel open her mouth to protest, Henry put up a hand. "Women are forbidden to attend, I'm afraid. Besides," he added, "I thought you had a headache."

She deflated. There was nothing else she could say or do but watch them leave in dejection, like a child being punished.

As Henry got into the car, she heard Kas say, "Sir, I forgot my gloves. I won't be a minute."

"Oh, for God's sake," Henry grumbled. "Hurry up!"

Kas ran back up the front steps and slipped into the hall, where Christabel still stood, bewildered, fearful, not knowing what to do. The moment the door closed behind him, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her as he'd never kissed her before, passionately, desperately, as though it was the last time they kissed. He then pressed the key into her hand and closed her fingers around it, just like he'd once closed her fingers around his kiss.

"Find what you need, and go," he said. "Be safe."

She clung to him, pulled him to her for one more kiss, but he stepped away with a heartbreaking finality.

"I love you," he whispered. He was out of the door and disappeared into the fog before she could reply.

Christabel stood in the hall, clutching the little key in her palm, listening to the sound of the car's motor fade away down the drive. Then she went to her room and packed her valise with some essentials, putting the transfer deed, still in its envelope, amongst the clothes for safekeeping. This done, she came back to the corridor, and, with the memory of Kas's lips giving her strength, she climbed the little staircase leading to the attic.

She wished she'd had the presence of mind to say "I love you" back to him. She wished she had insisted on coming with them. She wished she had been braver, cleverer, stronger, so she wouldn't have landed in this predicament in the first place. But she was here now, and she could only try her best to find her way out of it. And to see Kas again, and to tell him how much she loved him.

She put the key in the lock and turned it.

Chapter 15: A World of Death

Chapter Text

As soon as Christabel set foot inside the attic, her senses were overpowered by its dusty, musty smell, along with a more subtle whiff of decay. Clasping a handkerchief to her nose, she set about lowering the lamp that hung from the ceiling by a chain, lighting it, and drawing it up again. Its glow could not penetrate the furthest corners of the attic, but it was enough for her to see where she was going. For closer inspections, she lit a candle she'd brought from her room.

The icebox. Kas had told her to look inside the icebox. She assumed it was the large cabinet in a corner of the room. Holding the candle high over her head, she made her way there, passing the cages of the snakes and spiders with their rustling, crawling, creeping inhabitants. She expected the cabinet to be locked, but to her surprise, the doors fell open easily. She supposed Henry thought the locked attic door was secure enough. Heart in throat, she brought the candle closer with a trembling hand, afraid of what she may find there.

The icebox was full of glass bottles of various sizes, most of them containing some dark red liquid. Wine? No. It was too dark, and—she picked one of the bottles up and sloshed the liquid around—too viscous to be wine. She carefully uncorked the bottle, brought it to her nose, and recoiled as she sniffed in a coppery stench. Blood. The icebox was full of blood.

What was Henry doing with all this blood? Was it animal or human? The bottles were mostly unlabeled, except for one, which bore a tag that said "Unicorn", written in Henry's slanting hand.

Not all of the bottles contained blood. At the back was a single bottle, as big as the jar Christabel had seen at the shop window in Chinatown. Inside it was what she thought was a big twig at first, but as she shone her candle on it, she realized it was—what was it? It looked like some sort of tail, but it was unlike the tail of any animal she'd ever seen. About the size and length of her forearm, it was covered in grayish ridged scales and ended in a wicked-looking hook, like a scorpion sting. This was labeled "Wyvern". Unicorn and wyvern. Heraldic, imaginary creatures. Some sort of code, perhaps?

There was something familiar about the scales covering that tail, and as Christabel leaned down to take a closer look, she remembered—it was the same as the one she'd found in Luna's stall the day the horse died. Her prophetic dream came back to her. Luna had looked like a unicorn in it. At the time, she'd dismissed it as a fancy, the product of her imagination stirred by Henry's inane comment. But had it really been inane? He had seemed quite excited when she mentioned the bump on Luna's forehead...

No. There was no such thing as a unicorn. But Christabel was now sure that poor Luna's death had not been an accident, and that proved something even more horrific—that Henry believed Luna was a unicorn. That he was out of his mind.

The icebox had brought less clarity than she'd hoped. Shutting its doors in frustration, she turned toward the desk at the center of the room. But here she was even more out of her depth. The desk's pigeonholes and the drawers of the cabinet next to it were crammed full of paper, each sheet filled with so much writing that it all blended together into a spidery mass in front of her eyes, and she could make neither heads nor tails of it. She didn't even know where to begin looking.

In a drawer, she found printed pages, old, yellowed, and brittle, apparently torn out of books. They were written in what looked like Latin, Greek, Arabic, and Persian; some were brilliantly illuminated and illustrated; there were even a few thin pages of Chinese, fragile as tissue paper. She couldn't read them, but they disturbed her. In her mind, a person that had no regard for books, a person that could rip pages from venerable tomes in this way, was certain to have no regard for anything else.

She pulled out drawer after drawer, frustrated, anxious. And then she drew her hand back in fear—a spider was crawling out of the bottom drawer. When she raised the candle to look again, however, it melted into the grain of the wood. Nothing but a trick of the light. She lowered the candle, and the spider appeared once more, this time scampering into the drawer. It repeated this movement a few times, crawling in and out of the drawer just out of the corner of her eyes, only to vanish when she looked properly.

A prickling sensation started on the back of her neck. Christabel knew the ghosts were in the attic with her even before she turned around.

But it was impossible. It had been so long since she'd seen them. And she wasn't asleep. And even during the worst of her hallucinations, they had always stayed outside, under the cypress grove. How could they be inside now?

She turned back to look at them. They were hovering in a corner like a patch of irregularly shaped fog; only the darkness of the attic gave them some definition. But she was no longer afraid. She knew now that they hadn't been trying to take her away or turn her into one of them. They were trying to help. "Please," she whispered. "Please, tell me what happened to you. Show me."

The girl, Maxine, raised a silent finger and pointed at the cabinet. Then Christabel understood. The spider had been a sign.

She pulled open the drawer. Behind her, the figures wavered and disappeared, their work done.

There was only a notebook inside, but it wasn't so much a notebook as a thick stack of paper bound together between two leather covers, allowing for new pages to be added when necessary. She sat down on the floor with her back against the cabinet and opened the bulging cover. It appeared to be a diary or journal of some kind.

Jan. 12, 1866, N. Carolina, said the first entry.

Immortality is not the mere prolonging of one's life, it said, in Henry's familiar slanting hand. To achieve true immortality, one must preserve one's essence, in other words, protect one's soul. The only way to do this is to extract the soul and store it in a magical container, a phylactery, thus transforming the body into an indestructible vessel. This requires a complex ritual and a carefully prepared potion (or elixir). Accounts of such feats can be found in the writing of Censorinus, Hermes Trismegistus, Simon Magnus, and the Chinese physician Sun Simiao, especially his "Essential Formulas of Alchemical Classics". It is my determination to devote the rest of my life (ha!) to study these works and discover their secrets, to devise a ritual of my own!

Immortality? Alchemical elixirs and rituals? This was worse than she thought. Henry was surely out of his mind if he believed in such nonsense. She looked again at the date. 1866, forty years ago. And it was his handwriting... But the date didn't mean anything. He could have easily backdated it. The more troubling question was, why bothered? Or perhaps this was his father's work. It wasn't out of the question that father and son had similar handwriting, and it was certainly more plausible than all other explanations.

She flipped through the rest of the notebook. It was more of the same, rambling thoughts on his travels and discoveries and experiments, spanning over the course of three decades. Months or even years would go by without an entry, and then a burst of activities for a few days or weeks, followed by another period of dormancy. As Christabel read more and more, the notion that Henry was simply following in his father's footsteps became less and less likely. There was no mention of a wife and child anywhere. And all the locations of the entries were places he'd told her about. Eastern and Southern Europe, Turkey, Egypt, even India. Jumbled words and phrases jumped out at her, venom, poison, arsenic, belladonna, ritual of defilement, ceremony of endless night, sacrificial heart, and most of all, blood, blood, blood.

Then the word Kas caught her eyes, and she paused and forced herself to focus. The entry was dated from 1870, the location being the Rila Mountains in the Balkans.

Managed to trap myself a bloodsucking creature in the forest. It (for I cannot bring myself to refer to such a creature as "he") has the appearance of a grown man, but it is impossible to tell how old it is. It has all the attributes of a vampire—feeds on blood, burned by sunlight and silver—though garlic and the crucifix have no effect on it whatsoever. It is near feral, nothing like the elegant and seductive vampires of the stories at all. It still retains some ability of human speech though. Conversed with it with the help of a Bulgarian interpreter. It claims its name is Kas, it's been living in the region for over 50 years, and there are many more like it, some much older, though this may simply be a boast to frighten me.

At the bottom of the page is a crude sketch of a creature with a bald head, and bulging, vacant eyes. His mouth hung open, showing two sharp fangs and a thick, blood-red tongue like a slab of raw liver. He looked nothing like her Kas. He barely even looked human. But then again, he could not possibly be her Kas, could he, if Henry met him in 1870?

This was confirmed by another entry, a few days later:

I've been forced to kill Kas. The stupid creature seemed unable to understand that I am its savior and tried to attack me in my sleep, so I put a silver bullet in its heart. It's good to know that some legends are proved to be true. But all that effort, wasted! I've managed to draw a good amount of its blood before its death, only it won't keep for long. I am never going to resort to vampirism to attain immortality—what kind of a life would that be, living like an animal, hunting for blood, never going out in daylight? But this blood is essential to the elixir of transformation. I must find another steady supply.

Christabel scanned the subsequent pages for more mentions of Kas. It seemed that in the next year or so after killing the original Kas, Henry had tried to use the creature's blood to infect several people, but the blood drove them all mad, and one by one, they either died or got killed. Then she came upon an entry written in 1880 in Indianapolis.

Had a breakthrough discovery!!! it said. There is evidence to support the theory that if a pregnant woman is bitten by a vampire, her child will be born a half-vampire, or a dhampyr. This dhampyr will have the powers of a vampire without any of the weaknesses. And a child would certainly be easier to control than a grown-up. With that in mind, I've sought out and found a pregnant female, simple enough in this den of vice. Sedated and injected her with blood from the latest "Kas". She gave birth to a male child. I took it and disposed of her.

There was that casual cruelty again. Disposed of her. As though she was a piece of trash, not a human being. Christabel looked at the date and location again. 1880, Indianapolis. It fitted what Kas told her about his origins. Could this child be Kas? Then that meant that whoever took Kas had lied. His mother hadn't died giving birth to him. She'd been killed.

Over the next few months, there were sporadic references to the child in the diary, not by name, only as "the dhampyr". The dhampyr is growing well. The dhampyr has begun feeding on his own. The dhampyr is aging at a normal rate.

Then, eighteen months later: To my annoyance, the dhampyr still has all the weaknesses of a vampire, but at least he is docile. I left him without blood for three days to test his predatory instincts. He is angry, and once I fed him again, he fell on the blood ferociously, but he has no instinct to hunt or attack on his own. It makes him more biddable.

I've decided to call him Kas. After all, he was born of Kas's blood. It's quicker than "the dhampyr", and it saves me from having to think of a name.

Christabel let the diary fall into her lap. So this was Kas, her Kas. But what did it all mean? Could it be possible that he had been infected with the blood of a vampire at birth and become some monstrous half-creature? But there was no such thing as vampires... was there?

She couldn't read anymore. The attic had not brought the answers she'd expected. All she saw was evidence of Henry's madness. She didn't need more reasons to convince her to leave Creel House. It was something she should have done months ago.

Before putting the diary back, she flipped to its last pages to see if there was anything she'd missed, some mentions of herself, perhaps. She found a page written with what looked like a cooking recipe, though it was like no recipe she had ever seen:

• 2 drops of distilled Arsenic
• 1 drop of distilled Belladonna
• 1 pint of Blood from a unicorn yearling, killed by wyvern venom
• 1 pint of Blood from a humanoid killed by a giant spider
• 1 pint of Blood from a vampire or vampire spawn
• 1 pint of Venom from a giant spider
• 1 pint of Venom from a wyvern
• 1 intact heart of the sacrificial human, killed by a mixture of arsenic and belladonna

Prepare during a lunar eclipse and consume within an hour

Behind this were four pages only partially filled, rather different from the dense writing in the rest of the diary, but what was written on them chilled her to the bones.

The first page read:

SUBJECT no.1

Sex: Male

Age: 21

Acquired: June 4^th, 1885

Phylactery: Pocket watch

Pocket watch? This must be referring to Patrick McKinney, surely.

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: June 10^th

Ritual: Aug 8^th, penumbral lunar eclipse

It concluded: Subject died during construction of phylactery. Heart not viable.

The second page was more of the same.

SUBJECT no.2

Sex: Male

Age: 25

Acquired: Sept 25^th, 1887

Phylactery: Pair of spectacles

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: Sept 30^th

Ritual: January 31^st, partial lunar eclipse

This must be Frederick Benson then.

Again, Subject died during construction of phylactery. Heart not viable. But beneath that was another line, underlined in thick strokes: Phylactery must be my choice, not the subject's!!!

The third page:

Subject #3

Sex: Female

Age: 18

Maxine.

Acquired: Mar 10^th, 1891

Phylactery: Antique ruby ring

Christabel remembered the cracked ring she'd seen on Maxine's finger in her dreams.

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: Mar 26^th

Ritual: July 18^th, partial lunar eclipse

This page ended a little differently, but no less grim: Subject survived construction of phylactery. Phylactery destroyed during ritual. Subject died. Heart not viable. This was followed by another note: Heart must be willingly given for phylactery to work.

There was only one page left, and Christabel was frightened to read it. She had a pretty good idea of what it was going to say. In the end, she looked anyway, unable to resist the horror, like a person being drawn toward an abyss even as she was repulsed by its dark depths.

It was written on a newer piece of paper, the ink not yet having time to fade to brown.

SUBJECT #4

Sex: Female

Age: 23

Acquired: Nov 2^nd, 1905

Their wedding day. For him, it hadn't been a wedding at all, just an act of acquirement.

Phylactery: Pendant, stained glass taken from childhood home

Heart pledging ritual successful

When had he performed this ritual? How did she know nothing, remember nothing about it?

Started Arsenic and Belladonna: Nov 15^th

And the final line: Ritual: Apr 17^th -18^th, total lunar eclipse

She looked over the other pages. 1 intact heart of the sacrificial human, killed by a mixture of arsenic and belladonna. They had all been fed arsenic and belladonna. She remembered her stomach cramps, the bottle of belladonna tincture that Henry claimed would help, the subsequent nightmares and hallucinations. He'd been poisoning her. Like the previous victims. None of them had lived for longer than four months since he "acquired" them. Heart not viable. Heart not viable. Heart pledging ritual successful.

She read the last line of the last page again. April 18^th. Two days from now. What was Henry going to do to her in two days?

The clanging of the bell made Christabel jump out of her skin. Joyce. She must have received Kas's message.

Where to go now? The train station, or the dock? Christabel thought briefly and decided she would feel safer with the ocean between her and Henry. The dock, then.

She staggered to her feet. On second thoughts, she picked up the diary and took it with her. At the very least, it proved that Henry was not of sound mind. After blowing out the lamp and locking the attic door behind her, she went into her room to put on her coat and hat, and pick up her valise. Her eyes fell on her phonograph by the bedside table with the boxes of wax recordings underneath it, and a stab of pain went through her heart.

She realized she could not, would not leave Kas. If she escaped, she may be able to buy all the phonographs and recordings she wanted, but they wouldn't be the same.

She would have to find him and convince him to go with her. She could tell him the truth about his mother, then perhaps he would no longer feel bound to Henry. She still had time. If Henry's notes were to be trusted, she was not in immediate danger. Not yet. Chinatown was a confusing place, but she had a pretty good idea of where they had gone.

So she ran down the stairs, into the kitchen, where she found the sharpest steak knife in the drawer and put it in her reticule. Then she slammed the door shut and went down the drive without looking back. She never wanted to see Creel House again, as long as she lived.

The tides were in, but Christabel didn't hesitate. Glad to have something to do to take her mind off her impending doom, she launched the boat into the sea and rowed toward the shore, where Joyce and her wagon were waiting.

Seeing Christabel approach, the older woman jumped down and helped her off the boat.

"Kas sent me a message saying you need a ride to the train station and he can't take you," Joyce said as Christabel settled into the wagon seat next to her. "Is there some sort of emergency?"

"Yes," answered Christabel, for that was the easiest option. How could she explain that her husband had lost his mind and been poisoning her, and was planning some sort of sacrificial ritual that would certainly end in her death, all in his quest for immortality? People would think that she had lost her mind instead. "But I'm not going to the train station. Could you take me to Chinatown first, please?"

Joyce looked doubtful. "But Kas said—"

Christabel felt like screaming. "I know what he said!" she snapped. "Just—please, Joyce. Take me to Chinatown."

Joyce shrugged. Without another question, she shook the reins and clicked her tongue to set the horse walking.

Christabel found the shop on Dupont Street without much trouble. The black and white circle on its sign looked down at her like the baneful eye of a Cyclops or some ominous moon of another world. The door was locked, and there was no light on at any window that she could see. But Henry's car was parked outside, so she knew she'd come to the right place. After trying the door to no avail, Christabel returned to the wagon, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Well?" Joyce asked anxiously. "What do you want to do now?"

What she wanted was to find Kas and persuade him to leave with her, except she couldn't talk to him here or even wait for him to come out—he would be with Henry. She knew she should just go to the dock and ask Joyce to give Kas a message so he could find her later. But she couldn't stand the waiting. What if Henry intercepted the message? What if Kas didn't want to leave his master?

Then Christabel remembered the back alley—not the one where she'd been attacked, but the one where the mustached shop owner had thrown her out. Perhaps the door to the back of the shop would be unlocked. She told Joyce to take the wagon there and park at the mouth of the alley.

"I know I'm asking for a huge favor," she said, "but could you wait here for me, please? And—and if I don't come back in half an hour, call the police."

"Is it that dangerous?" Joyce asked, her eyes wide open with alarm in the yellow light of the streetlamps.

"... I don't know."

"I don't think you should go on your own, Mrs. Creel."

"I'm sorry, I already involved you too much as it is," Christabel said apologetically. Taking her valise and her reticule, she jumped off the wagon and ran down the length of the alley.

The back door was locked. There was a lattice window looking into the alley, but the lattice was covered with some opaque material that only let through the faintest hint of light and showed strange shapes moving behind it, like some sinister shadow play. Murmurs were coming from inside, and Christabel could make out Henry's voice, low and commanding.

She touched the window experimentally. Paper. The window was covered with soft, porous paper, and she discovered that by licking her finger, she could poke a hole through it without making a sound. This she did, and, with her heart hammering so hard it threatened to burst out of her chest, she put her eye to the opening.

She was looking into the workroom at the back of the shop, now cleaned of all the herbs and medicine, and all of the workers. There were only three men in the room, all bending over a table—Henry, Kas, and another with his back to her. By his long, salt-and-pepper braid, she assumed him to be the shop owner. She couldn't see what was on the table, because the shop owner's back was in the way.

"Now," Henry said, lifting a crate onto the table with great care, "stand back, both of you. This spider is no ordinary black widow. You have no idea the trouble I've gone through to acquire it." Acquire, like he'd acquired Patrick, Frederick, Maxine, and herself. "If it attacked either of you, I would not be held responsible."

Kas and the shop owner stepped away, finally giving Christabel a clear view of the table. Her heart stopped.

On the table was the old dwarf she'd seen sitting by the front door. He was tied to the table by stout ropes, though it may not be necessary—his limbs were inert, his eyes were closed, and his head lolled to one side. She couldn't tell if he was dead or merely unconscious.

Something was pushing at the top of the crate, eager to get out. Christabel glimpsed a spindly leg of mottled gray and heard a clicking sound. Then Henry opened the lid, and her body went cold.

Crawling out of the box was the biggest spider she'd ever seen. About the size of a dinner plate, its legs as big as her own fingers, with lichen marbling its white body, it could easily be mistaken for a rock. Milky, blind-looking eyes covered its head, and two blade-sized fangs extended from its mouth, dripping with sticky saliva. It turned this way and that, raising its head slightly like it was sniffing the air, and soon locked its attention on the dwarf.

It crawled on the victim, fangs clicking. However, it did not attack, perhaps because the dwarf was just lying there, doing nothing, and the spider kept wandering up and down his body until it got bored and turned toward Henry expectantly.

"Oh no, you don't," Henry growled. He prodded at the spider with a wire connected to a plug in the wall. There was a crackle of electricity, and the spider raised its front legs in a threatening gesture. Henry prodded at it again. The enraged spider turned toward the dwarf and sank its fangs into his neck.

The dwarf might have been unconscious before, but he was certainly conscious enough to feel the venom coursing through him. Though his eyes didn't open, his body twisted and convulsed violently as though controlled by several puppet masters at once, almost lifting away from the table at one point. If it hadn't been for the ropes tying him in place, he would have fallen to the floor.

Christabel gripped the window frame, horrified but could not tear her eyes away from the death throes of the dwarf—and he was dying, she was certain of it. Henry watched the grisly scene with a triumphant glint in his cold, cold eyes, while the shop owner stood by impassively, and Kas turned toward the wall, unable to look.

Finally, the dwarf's body stopped twitching and lay slumped on the tabletop. Henry threw a burlap sack over the spider and bundled it back into the crate. He then signaled to the shop owner, who took the dwarf's pulse and nodded. Apparently satisfied, Henry handed him a wad of money, and the man ducked through the cloth curtain and disappeared.

"Right, Kas, bleed him," said Henry, handing Kas a straight razor and a bucket.

Kas held back, hesitant. "Sir...?"

"For God's sake, man! Stop being squeamish and get a move on! One should think that you would be used to blood by now." Henry picked up a glass tube and held it under the spider's fangs. "Remember to get at least a pint."

While Henry prodded the spider again with the live wire so it would pump its venom into the tube, Kas reluctantly picked up the razor and bucket and approached the dead body. What was he going to do? Surely, he was not—not—

Kas slid the razor over the dwarf's throat in a quick, smooth movement. Blood spurted from the slash, staining Kas's face, the wall, and drops of blood even splattered across the paper window, making Christabel recoil.

Kas put the bucket under the body and watched the blood drip into it, his eyes dark and melancholy. With a sigh, he swiped a hand across his blood-splattered face, then brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them cleaned, like a child licking its fingers after eating sweets.

At the sight of that casual, gruesome gesture, Christabel fell away from the window with a strangled cry.

Henry's head whipped toward the widow. He barked out a command, which Christabel couldn't hear over the thrumming of pulse in her ears, like she was surrounded by a whole swarm of bees. She only saw the shop owner charge out of the back door, and before she knew it, he'd had her in an iron grip. Henry and Kas followed closely behind. Kas's eyes widened in shock as they landed on Christabel.

She struggled madly, but for all his reediness, the shop owner was too strong for her. She recovered her wits enough to scream, "Help!!! Somebody, help me!!!"

Joyce came running from the mouth of the alley, but Henry stepped up to meet her before she could reach Christabel. "If you don't want anything to befall your sons, Mrs. Byers, I would suggest that you turn around and go home now," he said mildly. "It would be a shame for young Jonathan and little Will to be met with an accident."

Joyce went pale. She threw Christabel a sorrowful glance before stepping back, back, back, until she disappeared down the alley.

Henry turned back to Christabel. "What an annoying little pest you are," he sneered. He then nodded at Kas, before striding back into the shop.

Kas approached Christabel, agony etched across his features. He looked at the man holding her, and back at the shop.

"Here!" Henry tossed something at him. Kas snatched it out of the air without even looking.

"Kas, please..." Christabel whispered.

Kas shook his head. Her world shattered. Not Kas... please, not Kas... not him too... But had she not just seen him licking blood off his fingers? Why should he be any different?

"I'm sorry," he said. It was the last thing she heard before a handkerchief was clamped over her face, and a pungent, nauseatingly sweet smell invaded her nose. It was either breathing it in or suffocating. She took a few gulping breaths, and everything was plunged into darkness.

Chapter 16: The Worker of These Harms

Chapter Text

She was nothing, literally. She had no body, no corporeal presence. Her only sensation was a damp chill, not so much on her skin or her body, for she had none; rather the chill was a part of her, or she was a part of it, she couldn't tell. She wasn't moving but was lightly floating in place, like a kite or perhaps a puff of smoke.

Yet somehow she was still able to see. She was floating amongst others just as insubstantial as she, all made out of fog and cold air. She recognized some of them. Frederick, Patrick, and Maxine. And the poor dwarf from Chinatown. And Luna, her pet horse. And behind these familiar figures, there were many, many more, wearing all manners of clothes dating back a hundred years or even more. There was a woman with Kas's brown curls and round brown eyes that might have been his mother, and another woman and a little girl with Henry's blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed like pilgrims. Most had wounds on their chests, some didn't. Christabel understood—they were all Henry's victims. And now she was one of them as well.

"Am I dead?" she asked no one in particular, in a voice that sounded like the wind blowing through the cypresses or over the waves outside her window. "Why am I here?" As usual, there was no answer. Christabel felt a prickle of irritation. "If you wish to warn me of my fate, it's a little late for that, isn't it?" That was when she knew she was still alive. She wouldn't have been irritated if she was dead. This wasn't real, it was a dream.

The moment she realized this, she was slammed back into her body. Pinpricks of pain spread from her wrists up her arms and shoulders and back, until her entire torso was one mass of ache. She couldn't feel her legs at first, and then she discovered they were folded under her and cramping badly. There was a sour smell in her nose, her tongue was furred, and light stabbed at her eyes behind her closed lids.

Slowly, gingerly, she opened her eyes. Her surroundings swam into focus. She was back in her room in Creel House, half-sitting, half-lying in an awkward position on the bed—awkward because her wrists were tied behind her to one of the bedposts. Her valise was tossed open at the foot of the bed, its content strewn about haphazardly, and her reticule was thrown on the bedside table. Her heart sank. All that effort, only to be right back where she started.

She soon discovered what the sour smell was. She must have thrown up over herself at some point, and although someone had taken her jacket off, some of the vomit had gotten encrusted on her blouse. How long had she been out? She remembered the last line in Henry's diary: Ritual: April 17^th - 18^th. How long did she have left?

She moved her hands and arms experimentally. The ropes were tight around her wrists, but the space between her back and the bedpost allowed her to move her arms a little. She tried to reach for the reticule on her bedside table. The chances of the steak knife still being inside were slim, but it was her only hope. The ropes were too short. She was trying to stretch her arms as far as she could, when the door creaked open and Henry walked in.

Christabel shrank back at the sight of him. She still didn't quite believe what she'd read in the diary, didn't understand what she'd seen in Chinatown, but she couldn't forget the triumphant way he'd watched the dwarf die on the table, the way he'd threatened Joyce, and the flinty look in his eyes when he called her an annoying little pest. Whoever Henry was, whatever he'd done, he was dangerous. And he meant her harm.

"Awake at last," Henry said. His voice was calm as usual, but now she could hear the coldness in it and see the cruelty on his face. Had it always been there and she'd simply been too blind to see it, or had his mask slipped at last? "I would've kept you sedated to avoid further unpleasantness," he continued, "but you and I have some unfinished business, darling."

He held up a pen and some sheets of paper. The transfer deed. He must've gone through her valise and found it. "I'm going to need you to sign this," he said.

So he was going to kill her and take her money after all. All that scheming and plotting was for naught.

Or was it? She glanced again at her reticule on her bedside table. Sunlight from the window fell on it, and she could see the outline of the knife inside. Luck, it seemed, was on her side for now, no matter how little of it, and no matter how briefly. Henry had searched her valise but neglected her reticule. Perhaps, if she could keep him talking, long enough to loosen her hands... She didn't need to get free, only to reach for the knife...

She started wriggling her wrists, trying not to wince as the ropes cut into her skin. "And what if I refuse?" she asked coldly.

Henry clicked his tongue. "Oh dear," he said with genuine regret. "In that case, I'm going to have to torture you, and I'd rather not."

"You're going to kill me anyway, so what difference does it make?"

"It gets quite tedious, you know. For you and me both."

Christabel shivered. "So it's all true then?" she said. "What you wrote in that diary?"

"Ah, yes, I saw that you've discovered my secret." His eyes darted to the valise on her bed. "I supposed you took the key when Kas spilled wine on me. A clever bit of work, I give you that." Did he suspect that Kas had helped her? She took a deep, steady breath. Keep him talking.

"I've read the diary, yes," she said. "But I don't understand. You haven't really done all those things, have you? For forty years?"

A smug smile spread across Henry's face. "Oh, but I have, darling. And for much longer than forty years."

"I don't believe it. The diary must have belonged to your father, and you're only adding to it—"

At the mention of his father, Henry's smile disappeared, and his features twisted in rage. "My father? My father was a fool! So was my mother. I would've let them join me in immortality, but they were too feeble-minded, too weak-willed. 'Tis against the laws of God and nature to live forever, they said. Ha! I ask you, if it is against the laws of God, then why is God himself allowed to be eternal?" Some of her confusion must be showing on her face, for Henry asked, "Shall I start from the beginning?"

She nodded. Trapped between her back and the headboard, her arms were getting warm. Sweat was dripping from her neck down her shoulders, from her shoulders down her wrists. Maybe it could act as a sort of lubricant to loosen up the ropes.

"I didn't lie to you when I said my family came from the area around Tuxedo Park," began Henry, as he put the transfer deed on her dressing table and settled into a chair across from her. "What I didn't tell you was that I was born there, in 1680. The cottage we found? That was my family's cottage."

For a moment, Christabel forgot to work at the ropes. 1680? More than two hundred years ago? No, it couldn't be... could it?

"My parents were farmers, of good, simple Puritan stock," Henry continued. "From the moment I was born, they could tell something was wrong with me. I didn't fit in with the other children. I was too quiet, too solitary, too preoccupied with death. In my defense, we were surrounded by death. It was a constant part of life. Not a week went by that there wasn't a burial. My mother gave birth seven times and only managed to raise two children. Our neighbor died of a toothache. A man in the village, a fit, healthy man, cut his toenail too deeply and died of blood poisoning. How absurd was that?!"

As he spoke, Henry became more and more agitated. His eyes turned bloodshot, and a vein popped out of his forehead as he gripped his head in his hands. "And as if it wasn't enough that the world was constantly trying to kill us, people came up with ways to kill each other as well. People were accused of witchcraft and hung and burned and drowned, they fought with the Indians and slaughtered them, or got slaughtered in return. Why? If life was truly precious, why were they so callous about stamping it out? What really got to me was that nobody seemed to care. They go through life pretending that death isn't just around the corner. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades. Each life a faded, lesser copy of the one before. Wake up, eat, work, sleep, reproduce, and die. Everyone is just waiting. Waiting for it all to be over. All while performing in a silly, terrible play, day after day. I could not do that. I could not close off my mind and join in the madness. I could not pretend."

While his attention was away from her, Christabel jerked hard at the ropes. Still too tight.

Then Henry lifted his head and seemed to calm himself down. "Soon, I realized I didn't have to. I could make my own rules."

She tilted her head. Keep him talking. "What do you mean?"

"You see, not all those people accused of witchcraft were innocent. Some truly knew witchcraft. I met an old woman in the woods, who recognized me for what I was and bestowed a secret upon me. You know those fairy tales of the witch who eats children? They are true, in a way. Some witches do eat children and young people. Not their flesh, but their hearts. That's the secret. If correctly harvested, prepared, and consumed, a heart can prolong one's life."

Harvested, prepared, and consumed... Christabel recalled all those people in her dreams, with their gaping, dripping wounds.

"You... eat the heart?" she asked shakily.

"Yes. Sounds macabre, doesn't it? But that's how it works. A life for a life." Henry's eyes turned hazy with memories. "The children in the village feared and shunned me, so my sister was the only young person I could get close enough to. She became my first victim. I was young and stupid and didn't think it through. Unfortunately, my mother discovered me, so she had to go as well."

Christabel shut her eyes as a sudden wave of nausea hit her. The blonde pilgrim woman and girl in her dream...

"My father was blamed for the death of my sister and mother. He was accused of consorting with the Devil and killing them for some dark ritual. I had to laugh at that. They had no idea how close they came to the truth. He was hanged for it. See, I wasn't lying when I said my parents both died when I was young." Henry actually looked proud, as though this one small truth could make up for all his lies and deception. "I left the village soon after and drifted from place to place, trying to perfect the magic. Eventually, I discovered that each heart I consumed would prolong my life, but only to a certain point. I still age. I can still be injured, and though I can't be killed, unless you completely destroy my body, I still become old and decrepit. I have to keep finding a new heart. And I can't just go for any heart. I made the mistake of going after some low-lives, criminals and alcoholics, thinking they wouldn't be missed, but their hearts were absolutely worthless. Such a hassle. And after a cannonball almost took my head off at Gettysburg—"

"Gettysburg?" Christabel said dully.

"Yes, Gettysburg," he replied breezily, as though she'd just asked if he'd been to Paris or London. "It wasn't my first war. I'd fought in the Revolution too, both for and against the British. I had no romantic notion of becoming a war hero, of course. It was simply easier to find hearts on the battlefields."

Christabel closed her eyes again, feeling dizzy.

Henry didn't take any notice of her shock. "But I digress," he continued. "Where was I? Ah yes. A cannonball almost took my head off, and I realized it was too much of a risk, this constant renewal of youth. I needed something more permanent. It took me more decades of searching before I discovered an ancient ritual that can make the effect of the heart everlasting, and even then, I had to go through several failed experiments."

Frederick, Patrick, and Maxine. He was talking about them. She remembered the cold, clinical lines in his diary. Subject died during construction of phylactery. Was she to be his first successful attempt?

"Now I've perfected it," Henry concluded. "And you—you and your heart—are the final piece in that ritual."

This couldn't be real. It didn't seem real that she was here, tied up in this room, listening to her husband recalling his quest for immortality as casually as chatting over the dinner table. He was speaking with such conviction too, but had any of those things really happened, or was he simply trying to frighten her? She no longer knew what to believe.

"You're insane," she croaked.

He smiled. It was so different from the bright smiles he'd often given her when they first met, so chilling in its utter lack of humanity that Christabel wondered how she could have ever fallen in love with him.

"I can assure you, darling, I am not."

"Stop calling me 'darling'," she snapped, trying to hold on to the last of her sanity. "You never mean it. You never mean any of it!"

For the briefest moment, Henry looked genuinely regretful. "I never wanted you to suffer, you know," he said. "If you'd only known your place and not bothered me with all that nonsense... I tried to put you out of your misery. When I hired those thugs in Chinatown—"

"What?" Christabel said, her voice coming out like a squeak.

"Ah, I didn't mean to tell you that." Henry picked at the chair's armrest rather irritably. "But yes, I hired those thugs."

"You tried to kill me?"

He seemed almost affronted. "No, of course not, where's the sense in that? No, I only wanted to frighten you a little, perhaps incapacitate you until it's time for the ritual. Only stupid Kas messed it up. I should've let him in on the plan, but one can never fully trust the servants."

Now he was sounding like her mother. Christabel sat in stunned silence, wondering what other obvious signs she might have missed, how she could have been so naïve and stupid. That trip to Chinatown hadn't been his attempt to apologize to her at all. He'd wanted to "put her out of her misery", just as he'd put the poor trapped hare out of its misery. The thought of the hare brought back another memory.

"You killed Dr. Brenner, didn't you?" she asked.

Henry scowled. "The old fool found out about my family when he looked into the history of the village. He didn't really suspect I was the same Henry Creel, of course, but he suspected something. The police had it right, you know. The poison was self-administered. What they couldn't prove is that I'd added a large amount of arsenic to his so-called elixir of life. Just as I've been adding it to your food."

Like a pugilist who had taken too many hits and could no longer register the blows his opponent was raining on him, Christabel barely felt any shock at his reveal. She only told herself, in sluggish thoughts as though she'd been drugged again, that this finally explained all her stomach cramps and vomiting up blood.

"But you've stopped eating that marmalade and stopped drinking the belladonna tincture I gave you, haven't you?" Henry said, sharp eyes boring into her. The marmalade. Kas knew. "But never mind. I can always give you the killing dose before the ritual."

"And here I thought you married me for my money," she said weakly.

The smile came back, smug, unctuous, repulsive. "Oh, but I did, darling. It's expensive, this search for immortality. Unicorns and wyverns and giant spiders cost money, you know. Every little bit helps. Speaking of which"—he got to his feet, went to her dressing table, and picked up the transfer deed—"that's enough talking now. Will you sign?"

She twisted her body, straining her arms out of the rope, and—at last!—managed to grasp the reticule's string. She pulled it toward her and hid it between her back and the headboard, just as Henry turned back, holding out the transfer deed and the pen.

Christabel fumbled behind her to open the reticule. She needed to keep Henry talking. "What's going to happen now?" she asked.

Henry hesitated, then shrugged. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in telling you," he said. "During the lunar eclipse tonight, I'm going to sacrifice your soul and cut out your heart for my elixir. Then I'm going to consume the elixir and become truly immortal."

He said all this lightly, like he was listing off a theatrical program, but Christabel wasn't listening. Her fingers found the handle of the steak knife in the reticule. Carefully, she slipped the knife out and put it under her.

"I guess I have nothing else to lose then," she said, trying to sound defeated. "Fine, I'll sign your damned paper. But you're going to have to untie me."

With a grin, Henry bent over her to untie the rope from around the bedposts.

The moment her wrists sprang free, Christabel snatched the knife up and lunged at him.

The knife embedded itself in his chest with a sickening crunch. She recoiled in disgust, gripping her right hand with her left, trying to shake off the horrible feeling that spread through her arm when steel made contact with flesh. Red bloomed around the blade.

To her horror, Henry didn't even flinch. He glanced at the knife handle sticking out of his chest with an exasperated look, and slowly pulled it out. The blade made a wet squelching sound that nearly turned Christabel's stomach, and blood dripped from it onto the floor.

"You don't listen, do you?" Henry said. He opened the shirt a little to show her the wound. In front of her very eyes, the edges started to knit together, until only the barest scratch remained on his skin, amongst the already-dried blood. "I told you, I cannot be killed."

Christabel shook her head, not wanting to believe what her eyes were showing her. "No..." she mumbled. "Not possible..." But then she remembered the incident on the train, how he'd survived a bullet to the chest, and she sank down on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible, trying to block out the waking nightmare she'd found herself in. No music could save her this time, for this was real. No one could save her.

"You know, I've had a mind to sedate you again so you wouldn't suffer through the ritual," Henry said, wiping the blood off the knife on his sleeve. "But then you had to go and do something stupid like this. Now I'm going to enjoy cutting your heart out. In fact"—he approached her, the knife held high in his arm—"let's give you a taste of that right now."

He brought the knife down. Christabel threw her hands up to shield herself, and felt the ice-cold burn of the blade slicing across one palm, followed by scorching heat as blood flowed from the cut and ran down her wrist.

She cried out from shock and pain, and tried to draw her hands back, but Henry seized them. He grabbed a glass from her dressing table and squeezed her cut, hard, ignoring her whimpers. Blood dripped from her hand into the glass, coating its inside in a red film.

"There," Henry said, when the bottom of the glass was covered in about half an inch of blood. "That ought to be enough. Now, sign." He pushed the paper and the pen toward her. Christabel picked up the pen with her uninjured hand and scrawled her name at the bottom of the page. It was as though she was signing her own death warrant.

This done, Henry yanked Christabel's arms behind her and tied the ropes around her wrists again, before going out, taking the transfer deed, the knife, and the blood with him.

She didn't know how long she sat on the bed, too terrified, too exhausted, and too despondent to even move. The bleeding on her hand had slowed, ironically thanks to the tight ropes around her wrists, though her palm still throbbed with a dull ache. She was terribly thirsty, but she couldn't reach the pitcher of water on the dresser. She wondered how long it would take her to die of thirst. Certainly longer than a few hours, she was sure.

Death was her only way out. She had to die before Henry could perform his ritual. Then she could at least escape the horrors and thwart his plan... until he found another naïve girl to trick and seduce. But she couldn't kill herself tied up like this.

Henry's explanation had illuminated so much. Now she understood why he was so irritated, so heartless toward her. To him, she wasn't a wife. She wasn't even human. She was just a means to an end. Imagine that you were raising a pig to be slaughtered for meat, and it kept coming up to you demanding that you love it and care for it and spend time with it. You would be quite annoyed as well.

And what of Kas? Henry had mentioned that he hadn't trusted Kas with much of his plan, which matched what Kas had told her. Did this mean that she could rely upon Kas? Where was he then? Why hadn't he come to her rescue? She remembered the way he'd slashed the dwarf's throat, the way he'd licked blood off his hand, and the way he'd put the handkerchief to her face, and her heart went cold again. Kas's feelings for her may be real, but he was also under Henry's thumb. Would he risk Henry's wrath for her?

She drifted in and out of a state of semi-unconsciousness that wasn't exactly sleep that left her more tired and disoriented every time she woke. There was nothing in this room to distract her, save for her own thoughts rattling about in her head like a panicking flock of wild birds in a cage. Even the ghosts had deserted her.

When she opened her eyes next, it was dark outside. Her room faced west, so she couldn't see if the moon had risen yet, but a faint silvery veil was being drawn over the sand and the cypress grove. Her time was running out.

A head appeared at her window.

She bit back a scream when she saw that it was Kas. Somehow he'd managed to climb the two floors to her window.

Conflicting emotions clashed against each other inside Christabel. Her heart soared at the sight of him, comforted as always by his presence, while her mind drew back suspiciously, wondering what he was going to do.

Putting a finger to his lips, he hauled himself over the sill, swung through the open window, landed heavily on the floor, and ran to her. In a few seconds, he had untied the ropes. Without the support of the bedpost, she slumped forward into his arms.

"Are you all right?" he asked, frantic. "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head and tried to say that Henry hadn't hurt her more than usual, but her throat was parched and refused to work. Kas brought the pitcher to her lips. She swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the cool, sweet water until the pitcher was empty, and let out a relieved sob.

"Where were you?" she choked. "I came back for you, and you—you just left me here!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, running his lips over her hair, her face, her hands. "He kept me working around the clock to prepare for the ritual, I couldn't get away until—"

At the mention of the ritual, she stiffened and pushed him away. "So you knew?" she asked, accusation in her voice. "You knew what he's going to do?"

Kas avoided her eyes. "I know he means to kill you, yes."

"And you didn't try to warn me? I thought you loved me!"

Kas pressed her hands to his chest, holding her close. "I did. I do." His hands were icy cold. "But I was afraid you wouldn't believe me. Or worse"—he hung his head, and even in the gloom, she could see pain and self-hatred etched across his features—"that you would believe me and see me for the monster that I am."

Christabel's anger and fear vanished, and love and compassion took their places. She gave birth to a male child. I took it and disposed of her. I've decided to call him Kas. It saves me from having to think of a name. Kas was a victim as much as she.

"No, Kas, you're not," she said, her voice softening.

"No?" he scoffed. "You've seen the blood in the icebox, right? That's for me. It's the only thing I can eat. I was born a monster, Christabel. I killed my mother when I came into the world. What did that make me, if not a monster?"

Now her fear of Henry was fading as well, to be replaced by rage. It wasn't enough for him to cut and maim and hurt them, he had to inflict wounds in their hearts and their souls as well. "Is that what he told you?" she asked.

Kas nodded grimly.

"He lied to you, Kas," she said. "I've read his diary. You didn't kill your mother. He did. You weren't born a monster. He turned you into one. It was all his doing."

Kas slowly lifted his head to stare at her, and the disbelief and pain on his face went through her heart like a knife. She drew him to her, putting his head on her shoulder, as he'd so often done for her. "I'm sorry," she said, inadequate words to show him how her heart was breaking for him. "I'm so sorry he did that to you—"

Now it was Kas's turn to shove her away. "So I may not be a monster for what I eat," he said. "But I'm still a monster for what I've done—or what I haven't done."

"What do you mean?"

He buried his head in his hands. "For twenty years, I've watched him kill all those people, and I did nothing."

"Frederick, Patrick, and Maxine?"

"Yes. I watched him torment and poison and kill them, and I turned away, because I only wanted to survive."

"You were a child, Kas. What else could you have done?"

"I guess that's true." He sounded unconvinced. "Anyway, I did the only thing I could. I made sure someone remembered them."

Understanding finally dawned in her mind. Of course. That was why the scratched initials had looked familiar. She had seen Kas's handwriting on the grocery list and later, in the carving on his guitar. She just hadn't connected them. "It was you, wasn't it?" she said. "You scratched those names on the wall and the glasses and the pocket watch. You left them for me to find."

"I didn't want them to be forgotten, like me." He turned briefly toward the cypress grove. Had he seen them out there as well? "But no more. I'm not turning away again. I won't let him kill you as well." He turned back to her, a new, steely look in his eyes. "He still doesn't know about us. He thought you stole the key on your own. It's the only advantage we have. He's busy preparing for the ritual in the attic. This is our chance. We have to go now."

Our chance. Us. We. Christabel's heart leaped at those words, but she still hung back, hesitant. After all, Kas had drugged her and brought her back here under Henry's order. How could she trust him this time?

Seeing the doubt on her face, Kas took her hands. "I know you may never trust me again," he said, "but please, please, believe me just this once. I swear to you—I swear on my mother—that I will get you out of here."

She looked into those eyes that she loved so much, remembering how fearful he'd looked when he saw her in Chinatown, how lovingly those eyes had turned toward her, always toward her, giving her strength and comfort. Finally, she nodded. "I'll follow you anywhere."

"We can't take the car, the sound will alert him," he said, urgency in his voice. "I've disabled it though, so that would give us some head start. Can you walk?"

She stumbled off the bed. Her legs were like two logs, but she could walk, just about. She hurriedly gathered up her things and stuffed them into her valise. The transfer deed was lost to her now, but she didn't care, as long as she escaped with her life.

"I think he's locked the door," she said to Kas. "You have the key?"

"We're not going through the door," he replied. "Do you trust me?"

"... Yes."

He scooped her up in his arms and climbed on the window sill. "Don't make a sound," he said, and, without warning, he leaped off the ledge.

A startled yelp rose from Christabel's throat, but it died away before it could become a full cry, for they had landed. She looked into Kas's eyes and suddenly remembered the night of her elopement, how she'd climbed out her window and fallen off the tree. He'd caught her then, and he'd caught her now. She knew she had been right to trust him.

Kas took a shaky breath, lowered her to the ground, and struggled to his feet. He staggered, and now it was Christabel that caught him. "Are you all right?" she asked, alarmed.

"I'm fine."

But he wasn't. She could feel how cold he was through his clothes, how clammy his skin was. Sweat was running down his pale, pale face, making his curls stuck to his forehead and neck, and his dark eyes were enormous. All the signs she was familiar with, and whose meaning she hadn't understood until now.

"When was the last time you—ate?" she asked, not sure if she should say "ate" or "drank".

"He hasn't fed me in a while," Kas admitted. "And he just bled me, for the ritual." That was when Christabel saw, under the silver moonlight, a long gash on his forearm, recently healed. Kas tried to stand up again and slumped down by the side of the house.

Christabel knelt by him. "You need blood," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I'll be all right," he said, pushing her away.

"You can't go far in this condition." She came to a decision. She offered Kas her palm, where the cut made by Henry was still dripping blood. "Here."

Kas stared at the cut, then at her. "You don't know what you're offering."

"Will it kill me?" she asked shakily.

"No. Unless I gorge myself and drink you dry."

"Then what's the harm? I trust you to control yourself. It's just a little blood."

Kas turned his head away. "No."

"Don't be stupid." She pushed her palm at him again, impatient. "You need your strength, to save both of us. Take it."

Kas's eyes glinted, and his throat bobbed nervously as he tried to suppress his hunger. "Are you sure?" he rasped.

"Yes."

"But I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

Hesitant, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. His cold breath wafted across her skin, making her shiver—with fear, or perhaps anticipation, she didn't know. He glanced up at her again, questioningly. She responded with a decisive nod.

She barely saw the fangs protrude from behind his lips before they tore her cut open once more.

A moan of pain escaped her. Kas's head snapped up in alarm. Christabel gritted her teeth and pushed her bleeding hand toward him. Some of the fire in her veins must be showing on her face, for he bent over her palm again. His mouth closed over the cut, and he started feeding. Blood welled at the corners of his lips. She drew a breath. Yes, it was painful, but after the shock wore off, the pain became a lot more bearable, pleasurable even, a steady throb that echoed the throb in her heart as it pumped blood to her hand, while his mouth and his fangs and his tongue worked at her, drawing something deeper than blood from within her.

After some time—could be seconds, could be minutes—Kas lifted his head again, though not before pressing his lips to her cut, which immediately started to heal. Colors were coming back to his face. The fangs retreated, and his eyes returned to their usual warm brown instead of the black, flat mirrors they had been before. Only a drop of blood lingering on the corner of his lips gave his sweet countenance a touch of darkness. Without thinking, Christabel reached up and wiped the blood away with her thumb. Kas took her hand, caressing it against his now warm cheek, and slowly, gently, sucked the blood off of her finger, savoring that last drop even more than he had the flow from her hand.

At the feel of his mouth on her finger, something inside Christabel erupted. Tugging at the hand he was holding, she pulled Kas against her and sealed her mouth over his.

The metallic sweetness of her blood on his tongue only flamed the fire inside her even higher, and she bit down on his lip until their blood mingled into one. When they parted, she kept her forehead pressed to his and wrapped her hands around his face, bringing him close until his eyes filled her vision and became her whole world.

"Heart bound to heart, soul bound to soul," she whispered. At that moment, she could think of no words more fitting to tell him how she felt. "I pledge to you my life and undying love. I'm yours, my body, my spirit, my being whole."

They stood together, hand in hand, and ran to the front of the house.

As they rounded the corner and neared the drive, Kas came to a sudden stop. Christabel crashed into his back.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He nodded silently toward the dock. It was high tides, and there, bobbing on the water, were two boats—one was theirs, the other a strange one. Someone was here.

Before Christabel could fully register what this might mean, there was a loud bang at the front door, like a gunshot, followed by shouting.

"Ballard! Creel! Whoever you are! Come out before I blast this cursed place to pieces!"

It was William Hargrove.