Page 59 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

She left Pauline in the carriage, resolving to take her into the house at some point when they found a suitably miserable corner to leave her in.

Eventually, they would have to do something with the woman, but for now, she had not answered as to how much money it would take to make her disappear.

Christine was beginning to worry it was an amount they couldn’t afford.

Or that she’d, again, demand something other than money.

Erik stood in the yard in the shadow of the main house. Maybe if Christine squinted, it would be beautiful. As it was, she wasn’t looking forward to sleeping there.

“It looks haunted,” Erik muttered as she came close. “It feels haunted.”

“Does it?”

Christine took a moment to extend her senses beyond what she could merely see (and smell, which was mainly mildew and weeds).

There was a heaviness to the house, like it was watching them and not quite empty.

It reminded her of the Opéra or other great buildings like it – this place had seen years of life, and perhaps death as well.

Whether there was some restless spirit inside the walls, Christine couldn’t say, but it certainly had a soul, this old manor at the edge of the world.

“You think we’ll sleep well here?” Erik asked. He was looking for a reason to leave.

Christine wouldn’t allow it, and if that meant sleeping among the spiders and rats and ghosts, then so be it. “No, but we’re going to try anyway.”

Erik opened his mouth to argue more, but thankfully, the woman from the tavern who had been attending to the old knight ran up the path to interrupt them at the perfect time.

“It’s better inside!” Siobhan cried, skidding to a halt before doubling over and panting. “The gardener, he’s been—”

“Dead for several years?” Erik muttered, and Christine elbowed him gently.

“ Be nice ,” Christine hissed in French. “ They aren’t to blame for this scheme .”

Erik gave Christine a look that she would have been happy to punish him for were it not for... everything.

“Show us in then,” Erik sighed to Siobhan. She continued to speak – quick and breathless – as she led them to the door and unlocked it. Christine didn’t try to understand it, only catching a few words – king, castle, family, walls. She was telling Erik about the house and its history.

As far as Christine was concerned, it spoke for itself when they entered.

Siobahn hadn’t been lying: it was better inside.

Christine had expected rot and rats, but, while the front hall was dusty, with cobwebs in the corners and the walls held on to a distinct chill, there was a different kind of warmth there.

Somewhere in the past, long ago, this place had been alive and loved.

It made Christine sad to see it now. It reminded her of the village of Coolaney, at least what she had seen of it. It was a place that once had been vital and vibrant and now sat almost forgotten. Beautiful in a way that activated her instinct to heal and repair it.

The main hall would have been grand in another life, with a proud staircase in the center leading to the upper floor.

Christine was impressed to see two full suits of armor gathering dust in alcoves.

Fitting for a knight. There were double doors to each side, one set leading to a drawing room that looked well-used.

It was stuffed with all sorts of furniture and books and papers.

There was even a bed, though it was more of a cot.

“Sir Edward has slept down here for a few years,” Siobhan was telling Erik as Christine made the connection. “Too hard to get up the stairs. Now, with the cold coming back and the fireplace...”

Christine drifted across the front hall as Siobhan continued, drawn to the other set of doors that remained closed. Her rational brain told her not to open them, with visions of bats streaming out of the room filling her head. But her curiosity was stronger.

No bats flew out when Christine opened the door, only a single disturbed moth. The room was dark: the shutters closed and curtains drawn, so it took Christine a few moments to focus. The walls were curiously textured. The smell was what made her understand and cleared her vision – paper and ink.

It was a library. Well, not just a library. It was a grand collection of books, waiting on their shelves like friends she had always known yet never met. And in the corner, under a sheet, was the unmistakable shape of a piano.

Christine smiled sadly, forcing herself not to imagine anything.

How could she not, though, when the sight was so familiar, like the green hills she had been among for days?

Not from her waking life, but from her dreams. She couldn’t be moved, she told herself.

She couldn’t see this place and know she was sent there because it was the last place Erik wanted to be.

It was hard though, especially when she sensed Erik beside her, looking into the shadows.

“This isn’t so bad,” he muttered. “Siobahn says there’s a clean bedroom upstairs, but no food in the kitchen.”

“It’s only for one night,” Christine sighed. “We’ll live.”

“Probably.”

“Is Siobhan gone?”

“Off to keep Sir Edward alive for another day,” Erik replied bitterly. “Do you think it will kill the poor man to discover no one will be taking this place?”

“That’s not true, is it though?” Christine better understood now. “Pauline was accelerating what would happen anyway. This manor will eventually go to some Englishman who will either keep neglecting it or suck this land dry.”

“Isn’t that a good reason to throw her in the stable and leave?” Erik asked, more sarcastic than hopeful. “I guess that won’t solve everything.”

“I offered her money,” Christine confessed at last. “I asked how much it would take for her to go away. She didn’t say no.”

“Even if she goes away, we still have Bidaut to deal with.” Christine hated that he was right. “You’re still in danger. If you let me—”

“That’s not an option. I’m going to see if she’s decided.

Maybe she can be of use if so,” Christine declared, and left Erik in the hall.

She felt like she was keeping him near her by the thinnest thread.

If she let go or said the wrong thing, he’d be gone forever, back to the dark, where she’d never find him again.

Pauline looked asleep when Christine opened the carriage door. Christine resented her finding a single moment of peace but kept herself from shaking her too hard to wake her. She also took care not to be bitten when she removed the gag.

“Have you made a decision?” Christine asked, trying to keep herself cold and aloof. “I’ll be feeding you no matter what you say, so don’t worry about that.”

For a second, Pauline looked relieved. Grateful even.

“It would cost quite a lot. To disappear and be of service,” Pauline said slowly, not smirking for once. She looked... sad. “Not that I want to help.”

“You couldn’t just leave? I guess we could drop you somewhere.”

Pauline looked up from her bonds at Christine, her customary smugness returning. “You should consider how much you’re willing to pay to make me and Bidaut go away. Because he’s coming.”

West of Dublin

A ll things considered , Monsieur Bidaut had been an accommodating hostage taker.

Shaya had been allowed to sleep, rest, and relieve himself, and had not been restrained.

The food had been a problem, as all Bidaut had on offer was salt pork and turnips cooked with it.

Nor had Shaya been able to turn towards Mecca and pray, but he had made a note of it in his mind and said his prayers to Allah in his heart.

He assumed his current predicament would earn some dispensation from the Merciful Almighty.

Bidaut had not been a particularly talkative host, which, at this point, Shaya found more boring than annoying. If he was to be hauled across two countries (was it two? He was always confused as to what the United Kingdom considered its own or a vassal), he wanted to learn something new.

They had been on the train for over an hour. Bidaut was absorbed in a paper in English next to Shaya. Nothing in it was worth reading.

“I don’t suppose you intend to tell me where we’re going?” Shaya asked, keeping his eyes on the scenery rolling by. He wondered if anyone would think it curious to hear the foreigner in their midst speak French.

“I’m sure you’re aware of Erik’s history in this part of the world, or his connections to it,” Bidaut replied without looking up.

“I am. But, I must know: how did you discover it?”

Bidaut gave him a sidelong look. “Professional curiosity?”

“Of course. I did hunt the man myself for quite a while.”

Bidaut considered him for a moment, then sighed and closed his paper. “Yes. I was made aware of your failures.”

Shaya scowled. “By Sabine de Chagny, whose brother, I’m sure, was talkative.”

“Sabine de Martiniac, if we are being precise,” Bidaut corrected, though there was a look on his face that said it was a convenient fiction.

“To your question, however: Erik, despite his best effort, has left some mark on the world. His mother’s origins were easy enough to discern when investigating his history with the Baron de Martiniac. Easy to exploit as well.”

“You lured him to Ireland?” Shaya was almost impressed. Erik was hard to manipulate.

“My assistant in these matters was useful in that respect. Her methods, however deluded and byzantine, are predictable.” Bidaut stopped talking and chuckled to himself. “She’ll be furious to see you in my power. All her work, reduced to a contingency.”

“You think I’ll be that useful to you?” Shaya scoffed back. “I wouldn’t think you’d underestimate Erik after he stabbed you. Yes, I know about that.”

“Impressive. Though Pomeroy let me know that you had to use – what was it? A ballet rat to do your spying. I guess it’s understandable. I had pickpockets doing mine.”