Page 11 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

In the midst of my turmoil, an elderly man had materialized out of nowhere, or perhaps he’d been there all along and my panic had made me blind to him.

He was sturdy, with a low center of gravity, standing barely an inch taller than I.

There was a swath of thick silver hair at his temple, hardly thinning, and his face, softened by years and the wisdom his profession afforded him, was kindly, watery green eyes keen.

“Mr. Farvem?” I asked weakly, taken aback by how well the undertaker appeared for a man who must be in his ninth decade.

A pointless thought penetrated my mental fog, helping ground me: perhaps I’d misremembered him to be older than he was, my child mind viewing adulthood as one long stretch of old age.

“You’re pale, and I’m worried you’re going to take a tumble.

Please, have a seat.” He motioned to an overstuffed armchair.

Repulsion rose, strange and immediate, and I took a step away from it.

The spongy cushions looked too ready to welcome grievers, too eager for them to sink deep in their misery.

To distract myself from feeling woozy, I considered making a joke about how my pallid complexion was entirely natural, but my voice found a sticking place where tears gathered in my throat.

Still, the shift in thoughts did the trick, and the gray haze of panic lifted its hand an inch.

Fainting in the front hall of this funeral parlor wouldn’t do me any favors.

“I’ve come…” The words finally formed, though they were ta ttered at the edges, and I was forced to clear my throat. The genuine sympathy in Mr. Tarvem’s expression was making this difficult. “I’ve come to change arrangements for my sister.”

“Change arrangements?”

“Yes. I’m her only living family. Some decisions were made regarding her burial that would grieve her. I want to amend them.”

The undertaker nodded, understanding, prepared to do whatever was needed for those left behind by the dead in his care.

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your sister is laid to rest in a manner appropriate to the wishes of her family, but I apologize, I’m afraid I don’t recognize you. As much as it pains me to admit, I can’t recall who your sister might be.”

My breath stalled in my throat, and Mr. Farvem waited, likely believing he understood why I paused before saying my sister’s name.

“Fiona Blackwicket,” I said at last.

The anticipated horror didn’t materialize, though there was a slight jump in the muscle near his left eye.

“Blackwicket?” he repeated, slow, “Miss Fiona had no living family other than her father, I was told.”

“You were misinformed.”

“So,” he said, intrigued, an unusual reaction, “A Blackwicket. Are you, perhaps, Eleanora?”

A lie quivered on my tongue, instincts still inclined to conceal my identity. Instead, I nodded in silent affirmation, not yet ready to come back to myself aloud.

“I know this is very difficult for you,” he said, his approach delicate. “Please be assured everything is already taken care of. The details needn’t worry you.”

This was ground I could confidently tread, the reason I’d come.

“About that.” I pressed a finger briefly to my temple as if to hold the thoughts in place. “I want Fiona buried on Blackwicket property.”

“I can imagine it’s important to you that your sister be buried next to your mother, somewhere safe.” His gaze was steady, scrutinizing.

I tilted my head, perplexed. If there was a grave for my mother in the little cemetery at the bottom of the hill where the Blackwickets rested their bones, there was nothing in the casket.

The Fiend would have spared nothing of Isolde Blackwicket, body or soul. “Unfortunately, it’s quite impossible.”

“Why?” I asked, meeting his gentleness with abrasion. I hadn’t come all this way to be rebuffed by someone with no right to refuse me.

“The funeral arrangements for Fiona Blackwicket have already been generously paid for and set into motion.”

The door from the street opened and closed, and Mr. Farvem straightened, glancing over my shoulder. I didn’t budge. I wouldn’t be dismissed. My ordeal with the Authority had taught me several lessons, among them how to dig in my heels.

“Certainly not by Darren Rose?” I said. Darren never had more than a few dollars to his name at any given time.

I’d be shocked to learn he’d scrounged enough together to pay for a funeral or that he even cared enough to do it.

Mr. Farvem glanced behind me again, frustrating me with his attempts to excuse himself from our exchange.

“Who paid for it?” I demanded.

A firm baritone replied, “I’m the benefactor.”

“Mr. Nightglass.” The undertaker acknowledged the gentleman with a polite nod, and my stomach clenched in dread.

Grigori Nightglass. I’d earnestly hoped to avoid encountering him during my stay here, but my luck and this day were both awful. I shouldn’t have expected clemency from fate. With no other option, I turned to face the shining light of this town and the eternal tormentor of my family.

But I didn’t find the ancient, hardened Grigori studying me with mild interest; rather, a much younger man, a handful of years my senior.

His pale eyes were piercing, though not as cruel as the man he’d inherited them from, and he wore his flaxen hair long, swept back from his sharply featured face, ends brushing the collar of his navy topcoat.

Despite being no more than thirty, he leaned heavily on a familiar snakewood cane, its ornate brass handle curving like a scythe.

The dip of his shoulder diminished his otherwise tall frame, indicating a man whose body had been grievously abused by either sickness or injury.

I knew which.

“William?” I asked, barely managing audible words.

William Nightglass was the eldest son of Grigori, the city Principe, appointed by the Authority to govern the township by proxy.

In our youth, he’d been a gaunt, troubled boy with a devilish smile that had often caused Fiona to fall to pieces.

Now he appeared robust, stronger than I’d ever seen him, regardless of the heavy reliance on his cane, similar to the one his father used.

“Yes.” He studied my face. “Are you a friend of Fiona’s, Miss…?”

“Blackwicket,” Mr. Farvem interjected.

William’s expression converted to astonishment.

“Not Eleanora,” he said, taking a smooth step closer, cane tip thumping, the sound refusing to be swallowed by the space, unlike lesser noises.

He regarded me with such razor-sharp attention I blushed, turned bare beneath his dissecting gaze.

Aware of his intensity, he relaxed with some effort. “Forgive me, this is unexpected.”

“I’ve been away for a long time,” I conceded, still off-balance .

William shook his head, rejecting my acceptance of his reaction.

“Eleanora,” he said, tone grave. “Fiona told us your mother took you into Dark Hall that night. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve returned from the dead.”