Page 69 of A Gathering Storm

Pipp pressed his lips together and marched over to the tray. “You barely ate any breakfast either,” he accused.

“I’ll eat at dinner,” Ward said vaguely.

Pipp sniffed. “You’re getting too thin.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve got no appetite and you mope around all day. It’s about time—”

“I said I’m fine!”

Pipp sniffed again, unimpressed, but he lifted the tray and stalked out the room without another word. When the door closed behind him, Ward returned to staring out the window.

It had been a bad couple of weeks. Since his return from Truro, he’d been . . . melancholy. Melancholy in a way he couldn’t remember feeling before, unable to concentrate on his work at all, his mind filled with thoughts of what had happened in Truro, and of how Nicholas had looked at him just before he left the inn to catch the stagecoach.

Ward’s chest ached at the memory, every time.

He turned from the window. Whatever his inclination, he would have to work today. The great storm he’d been waiting for all these months was finally gathering.

He would go down the Hole. Get himself as close to the conditions he’d experienced on board theArchimedesas he possibly could. He was going to open himself up to George—reach out to his brother’s spirit with everything he had. He didn’t need anyone else to help him do that. Didn’t need Nicholas Hearn.

But, oh, how hewantedhim.

Ward sank into the chair behind his desk and closed his eyes. Every time he thought of his behaviour at the séance and later, at the inn, he was filled with self-loathing. Self-loathing and the despairing knowledge that he had alienated Nicholas forever. That Nicholas was finished with him.

“In your eyes, you are the master and I am the servant. That’s how things started between us, and nothing’s changed.”

That wasn’t true—itwasn’t—but over these last weeks he’d thought about that night, and everything that had gone before, and now he could see how high-handed and autocratic he’d been from the first. Hell, he’d even let Nicholas believe he was prepared to resort to blackmail to get what he wanted, so why should Nicholas think the best of him now, because it suited Ward for him to do so?

Outside, the sky was growing darker by the minute, and the air had an oddly still, yet threatening quality to it. The storm was coming—it was time he got going.

He rose from his chair and slowly began to pack his knapsack—he was all but ready when the first rumble of thunder came, with the low, threatening growl of a great beast. A few moments of quiet followed, then the rain came. Hard and fast. The sort of downpour that would drench someone in half a minute or less.

Hoisting his knapsack over his shoulder, he headed downstairs. He found Pipp and Mrs. Waddell in the kitchen, drinking tea at the scrubbed oak table.

“Pipp,” he said from the doorway. “I need my mackintosh and boots. I’m going down the Hole.”

Pipp startled at the sound of his voice, then looked over his shoulder at Ward and glared. “You’re not supposed to come in here, Master Edward,” he complained, getting to his feet. “You’re supposed to ring.”

“I’d get them myself, but I don’t know where you keep them,” Ward grumbled back.

Pipp disappeared into the boot room, emerging moments later with a long mackintosh coat, hat, boots, and an umbrella.

“You’re not really going down that bloody great cave in this weather, are you?” Pipp asked worriedly. “What if one of those platforms falls down?”

Ward shook his head and reached for the coat. “They won’t. They’re perfectly safe.”

“How can you be sure?” Pipp insisted while Ward began fastening the buttons. “Have you seen how bad the rain is? What if it washes all the mud and rocks away and loosens the fixings?”

“The platforms are all bolted securely into the bedrock,” Ward said calmly, pulling on the boots now. “None of them are going anywhere.”

Pipp continued to mutter unhappily about how ridiculous this all was, and how could Ward expect to take notes in these conditions anyway, but Ward just ignored him, and soon he was about as waterproofed as he could be, the mackintosh covering his body down to below his knees, the boots covering the rest of his legs, and an oilskin hat pulled low over his brow. He waved away the umbrella Pipp tried to press on him.

Another long rumble of thunder sounded. Pipp looked troubled.

“What if you’re struck by a lightning bolt?” he asked, frowning.

“There’s not even been any lightning yet,” Ward pointed out. “And besides, that’s what the lightning rods are for. They should draw any strikes well away from where I’ll be, inside the Hole.”