Page 10 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

The cold made white veils of my breath as I meandered to the gate, keeping watch for the gleam of a returning car.

Although late afternoon, the sun was already setting, winter urging it to an early rest and darkening the snow-filled sky.

I made my way along the overgrown sideroad, shivering in my city coat, insufficient against the oppressive wind of the coast. Wooded shoulders gave way to the open tumble of earth leading to the shoreline, and I paused, taking in the vista.

White waves crashed around crumbling docks and along the stretch of pebbled beach that would tempt tourists come summer.

My fingers tingled with the cold. I’d forgotten my gloves.

I turned toward town, apprehensive. Even from here, I could see the lights, hear the seething streets.

What had these people come for in this frozen wasteland of skeletal hills, cold water, and gray sky?

Nightglass offered nothing in this desolate season.

Even the prospect of a few upscale restaurants and novelty lounges would fade in the face of harsh snows already threatening to roll in.

The closest city was an hour’s train ride away, far more palatable, providing pampered warmth and a myriad of better entertainments to make the gnawing of winter bearable.

I followed the path from the outskirts to the cobbled road that led to the center of town.

I expected at least a few people coming and going from the houses here, but the doors were shut tight, the curtains drawn in every window, eerily quiet compared to the bustling avenue ahead, where lively people flowed like water bursting from a dam.

I emerged onto the main thoroughfare, no shortage of visitors milling around the sidewalks, wrapped in their expensive overcoats, hands tucked in suede gloves, shoes gleaming with a fresh shine; the women were the prizes on men’s arms in their silk, crepe, and fur.

They each walked as though every eye was on them, but in truth, no one was paying attention to anyone but themselves.

Still, I worried my sober brown coat and plain tweed skirt suit made me conspicuous, and though I’d applied red to my cheeks and lips, I wasn’t made up enough to blend in with this society.

I raised my chin and focused my eyes ahead as I neared the crossing that would take me through the four-lane street toward the marquee-lit entrance of the Vapors.

The road was congested with automobiles, all varying degrees of luxury, and even the taxis gleamed, black as summer beetles.

A small crowd waited for the traffic official to allow them across, and I joined them, feeling claustrophobic.

The aura and odor surrounding me was putrid as a spoiled rag drenched in perfumed oil: pungent, botanic, and lingering.

This wasn’t the natural scent of human bodies, but the psychic reek of magic gone wrong.

I couldn’t pinpoint its exact origin and was too cautious to lower my guard and investigate.

I repeated to myself in a slow, grounding rhythm: This town is not mine.

The traffic whistle blew, sharp and long, and I allowed the crowd to surge head, straggling back in search of fresher air.

A slender man in an unfussy black cap and twill work jacket approached from the opposite direction. Despite the ample space, he walked close, either too distracted to notice me in his way or too indifferent to care. I attempted to sidestep, but wasn’t quick enough, and our shoulders collided .

The discomfort of the impact wasn’t what halted me in my tracks or made me turn my head to glare into the eyes of the stranger. It was the tug of invisible, searching hands seeking signs of corruption to pull free.

“Get off,” I commanded, employing the same tone I’d once used with a fellow who’d become overly familiar with the hem of my skirt on a city streetcar.

If the stranger was surprised, it didn’t register beyond the slight narrowing of his eyes.

“Sorry, miss. Didn’t realize.” Grinning, he tipped his hat and continued on his way as if he hadn’t just tried to psychically assault me.

I watched him go, brow furrowed, until a car honked. I was still standing in the road.

“Move on!” the traffic officer shouted, and I completed crossing, regretting what I’d done to the cab driver. Though my intentions hadn’t been nefarious, the invasion was the same.

I proceeded more carefully, wary of brushing too close to anyone, and when I reached the walkway, I exited the persistent flow of people to get my bearings, pretending to pause and admire the display window of a men’s hat shop.

As I stood there, stalling, a car pulled up to the nearby curb, splashing slush onto the walkway and feet of those unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.

Several cries of dismay rose, quieting again as the door opened and a woman emerged from the passenger side.

Apologies were uttered, and foot traffic halted, creating a clear lane to the ornate golden doors of the lounge.

They swung wide and welcoming, pouring forth warm light and the sweet scent of jasmine.

While working at Galton’s, I’d grown accustomed to the fine costuming of the wealthy but was never immune to the sight of someone truly stunning.

The woman wore a coat as white as a fawn’s underbelly, her short hair styled in finger waves, two curls meticulously placed at her temple near the elegant arch of her brows.

Accentuated with powder and rouge, her umber skin sparkled like a diamond under a spotlight, smooth as glass.

The pillow of her lips were brushed with a generous coat of carmine, but her eyelids were bare of all makeup save for a dark, bold line along her lashes.

Aside from her elegance, it was the nimbus of hypnotic power she radiated that entranced the hovering crowd.

This woman was magic, the way people were before fear and gluttony had driven it away.

Displays of this kind of ability got people killed, but she wore it like a fine stole.

Onlookers leaned in her direction, shuffling their feet to inch closer without breaching the halo of her light, aware that doing so would invite a swift correction from the man who’d emerged from the driver’s side to stand as a sentry beside her.

It was the cab driver who’d brought me to the gate of Blackwicket House only a few short hours ago.

Although the boundary held firm, the crowd of spectators compressed, those at the back nudging others ahead in their eagerness for a better view.

“Ms. James! Ms. James!” they cried, vying for her attention.

I moved closer to the display glass, shrinking myself, preparing to slip away.

I spared a last glance, obscured as a man stepped in front of me, then moved on swiftly as he found an empty pocket ahead.

As he shifted out of my way, I found myself caught in the steady, hard stare of the glamorous creature, her dark eyes locked on mine with clear hostility.

The driver had been leaning in, whispering something only she could hear, and at length, turned his attention to me as well.

He’d told this woman who I was.

Disbelief furrowed my brows, and I ceased lingering on the walk, setting on my way with greater haste. If I could be sure of one thing, if I’d ever belonged here, I didn’t now.

There was something wrong in Nightglass, something unfamiliar and crooked. I yearned for my sister, wishing I could ask her about all that had happened to alter this town, turning it into a strange world that barely mimicked the home I’d once known, making it as foreign to me as the moon.

The crowd thinned the farther I ventured, and when I turned down the street along the western edge of the Nightglass estate, I became the only pedestrian.

I paused at the corner, contemplating the town jewel in its muted winter colors: white stone and brown gardens dusted with snow, dormant for the season.

These lawns extended to the rear of the house, where the banquet room was visible, its many windows reflecting the last rays of daylight.

Gray smoke billowed from the chimneys high above, and below, a bevy of stone balustrades and terraces, vines clinging like spiderwebs, bare of their greenery.

Although my view was limited, I noticed movement inside the glass-encased hall, the warm illumination of lights.

It was no business of mine what went on in that house, wrapped in its veneer of virtue, and I turned away.

The estate cast a shadow over this street, making the temperature nearly unbearable.

As I pulled the collar of my coat close to my cheeks, I continued down a lane lined with neglected municipal buildings overlooked during the town’s renovation: a modest city hall and post office, along with a small library wedged between them as a mere afterthought, deserted.

Past a narrow alley, partially obscured by the crooked trunk of an oak tree planted to create a sense of separation from sorrows, stood the Nightglass morgue.

I opened the modest door marked with simple gold lettering: “Farvem Funeral Home.” It seemed Mr. Farvem, the undertaker, still owned the place.

I recalled little of him, except that he had a grandson who’d thrown dirt in my eyes and called me a whore when I was eleven.

My instincts urged me to flinch away, but I stepped resolutely inside, enveloped by dim light and dark wood paneling.

A bell chimed, but the thick carpeting dampened the sound, leaving nothing but a faint echo of its ring in my ears.

The stillness was absolute, and in it, I was free to imagine the cries of children, mothers, lovers, and friends seeping from walls that had so dutifully collected them.

My vision narrowed, heartbeat hammering as though driving nails into a coffin.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?”