Page 18 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

His gaze flicked from my face to my feet, perhaps sizing me up in case he needed to throw me in the trunk of his car, which was mysteriously absent.

“Your car isn’t in the drive,” I said, making it obvious I’d searched for it.

“I parked around back so as not to obstruct the view.” The answer was dry, but he couldn’t hide the sardonic bite.

“And what are you doing in here?” I demanded, unsettled by how pleasant it all appeared: the fire, the open curtains, the bookshelves lined with titles I’d read perhaps twice each.

But both the room and the man were more than they seemed.

Together, they brought to mind the yew berries thriving in the rambling overgrowth on the road to town. Beautiful and toxic.

I shocked myself with this thought, not because it was unjust, but because I’d unwittingly categorized Inspector Harrow as something beautiful.

“Getting my bearings,” he replied blithely, closing the book with a snap and replacing it on its shelf.

“This room is off-limits.”

“The most inviting room in this house is off-limits?” Though his tone was mild, the question had sharp edges. He tucked a hand into his pocket and advanced a few steps, stopping by the piano.

“There are family heirlooms here. I’d rather they continue to be untouched.” I was proud of myself for not giving ground.

“Understandable.” He brushed his fingers along the keys, playing a single note, crystal clear, the same as before.

I realized the instrument was tuned. When he regarded me again, there was an expression on his brow I’d come to recognize—a lock-jawed persistence to uncover the truth people kept hidden.

“This house truly is a marvel, Ms. Blackwicket. The size of it alone, in such a beautiful location, would demand a fortune to build and maintain, and there are so many remarkable pieces here. This piano, for one, is extraordinary.”

“Do you play?” I asked pointedly, knowing he didn’t. A man like Victor Harrow didn’t have hobbies aside from terrorizing his quarry.

He offered a controlled smile, a breath through his nose that mimicked the beginnings of a laugh, but ignored my question.

“Curse Eating must have been a lucrative business for your family to live in such luxury, despite the inn struggling for most of Isolde Blackwicket’s ownership of it.”

“We aren’t a shop for black-market magic,” I replied. “Curse Eating was a revered profession. People came to my family for healing, and they were grateful and generous. Many of the things here were gifts; the rest was paid for with the wealth accrued by my grandmother. She owned a port in town.”

“Hm. It’s such a pretty tale. Your family home, full of love and grateful people, warm and bright, and safe. A bit like something from one of those fairy stories on your shelf.” He motioned to them.

“You can believe what you’d like.”

“I prefer to believe what’s true,” he said. “So, where is this wealth now?”

“I don’t know and have no interest in knowing.”

“No interest in wealth?”

“No interest in staying long enough to go through my sister’s accounting books to see how little our wealth benefited her. ”

His regard remained steady, and with a jolt, I noticed he was standing on the deplorable spot that often led me to panic.

“Do you bake, Ms. Blackwicket?” the Inspector asked. When my response was to stare at him, he nodded in the general direction of the kitchen. “The jars.”

“Are you having a stroke, Inspector?” I replied, his abrupt change in subject unbalancing me.

A muscle tightened in his jaw, and I was pleased I’d annoyed him, but the movement came with a twitch of his lips. He was suppressing a smile.

“I take it you haven’t been through the house.” There was something in his voice, an amused tone he often adopted when he knew more than I did about something important.

“I haven’t,” I said flatly. “I keep getting interrupted by people who won’t mind their own damn business.

But I don’t enjoy the kitchen and avoid it, so if you’re mentioning it with hopes I’ll cook something for you, you’re out of luck.

You’ll have to go to town, you won’t be able to call for anything. ”

“Yes, I noticed the phone,” he said.

The phone. Damn. I wasn’t painting a stable picture of myself, a necessity to survive this ordeal.

My initial run in with the Authority had turned in my favor because they saw me as a plain woman, with plain hobbies, a boring but steady job, an uninteresting lover, and a small group of friends who had nothing to do with magic.

“Phone or not, no one will come here,” I said.

“Pity. They’re missing out on a gorgeous old place.”

“Gorgeous.” My echo sounded doubtful. I couldn’t determine if the word was sincere. The Inspector had limited ability to inflect emotion, unless it was menace.

“To be clear, I don’t need you to tend to me. I’m sure you’re busy with other things.”

He glanced to the ceiling, giving the impression he could see through to the secrets hidden in the beams. In a terrible moment of coincidence, the house creaked as if it were planning to walk itself into the sea. I felt a twinge of unwelcome fellowship with it.

If I continued to demand he avoid this room, he’d have all the more reason to snoop, a dangerous gamble considering the scar of the Narthex so near. Though it lingered undetectable to anyone who wasn’t looking for it, Inspector Harrow was someone who was always looking.

He started toward me and my hand twitched for the pocket where the pen was tucked. But he was coming nearer because I stood in the exit. I stepped aside to let him by.

“I’m going to see what I can dig up about all your sister was involved in these last few years.

” Rather than moving past me, he stopped, positioning himself in a way that reminded me I wouldn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell if I dared go toe to toe with him.

“People are on guard now that there’s a Blackwicket back in Nightglass and that’s already made my job harder, so stay here.

That’s not a request. Don’t leave this house. ”

A swarm of fury gathered in my spine as he entered the hall. “You can’t place me under house arrest.”

Uninterested in my outrage, he ignored me and I was forced to follow him.

“You have no cause!” I said.

I’d no previous intention of going anywhere until he’d stripped me of the choice, and I couldn’t tolerate it.

The Inspector stopped abruptly, and I narrowly avoided an impact with him.

He turned only enough to look at me, but I retreated a hasty step to keep our arms from brushing, knowing I looked like a startled cat.

“House arrest involves phone calls I can’t make and paperwork I don’t want to fill out,” he said, as if he were explaining something complex to a simpleton.

“If you’re dead set on debating this and forcing me to suffer the trouble, I’d prefer making an official arrest and taking you back to Devin, Ms. Blackwicket. ”

Indignation inspired violent impulses I couldn’t indulge in. Satisfied by my loss for words, he returned to retrieving his coat.

“You’re a goddamn bully, Harrow,” I grated.

“I use my faults to my advantage, something you’re quite good at doing yourself.” He snatched his overcoat from the rack and donned it with a sharp motion, the fabric snapping, betraying his calm exterior. He was irritated. Good. It was a small, meaningless victory, but a victory, nonetheless.

“I’ll be gone all day, well into the night,” he said. “Savor the privacy and rest easy knowing you’re free to enjoy in as many spontaneous wardrobe changes as you’d like.”

He’d seen me.

My flush was now muddled with something beyond rage as the Inspector left me to deal with my humiliation alone.