Page 19 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

Still fuming, I marched to the kitchen, eager to find out what discovery the Inspector’s snooping led to. I sensed it would cut deeply, but still approached the guillotine with a determined disregard for my own emotional well-being.

The kitchen was tucked near the stair landing, marked by a door that swung in both directions to allow coming and going when arms were full.

In my furor, I pressed too hard, and the door flew inward, hitting a counter on the other side and clattering glassware.

Immediately, I could see what inspired Inspector Harrow’s question. It was impossible to miss.

Jars crowded every surface, filled to the brim with jam, black in the low glow of daylight bleeding through the single window’s muslin curtains.

I reached for the light switch without looking and flipped it on, the brass pendants coming to life overhead, uncovering the scope of the chaos.

Pots and pans filled the deep copper sink, covered in a gelatinous goo, reminding me too well of Ms. Rosley.

But instead of green, the mess shone with undertones of purpling red, deep as wine.

Fiona had been making blackberry jam, just as our mother had done.

Isolde Blackwicket had become a zealous baker in the years following my shameful mistake.

Using the spoils of our magic-fed garden, she’d gone through the motions of feeding guests we didn’t have.

Uneaten pies, cakes, and scones moldered on the counters, inviting flies and other unholy bugs to feast. But her favorite thing to make had been blackberry jam.

Fiona and I had taken to bringing the jam jars and porcelain baking dishes to the cliffside, dumping the contents onto the water-bullied rocks below.

We’d sneak them inside, wash and return them to the cabinets for our mother to use again.

She’d never commented on the disappearance of food or the reappearance of bakeware.

Entering felt as though I’d walked into a wall of spiderwebs, thick with winged creatures struggling to free themselves.

The buzzing energy snatched at my clothes and hair, an invisible swarm not yet compelled to take the forms that had plagued my childhood.

Ones that had hidden beneath beds, in gloomy corners, and behind wardrobe doors.

I knew the house had saved this particular display for me.

If the Inspector had experienced this thrum of tainted power, he’d have already done what he was so well known for—torn the magic free one horrible strip at a time.

I investigated the sink, crowded with the work Fiona had been doing before she’d died. The sweet, festering fragrance of fruit was revolting and explained the smell upstairs. The scent must have permeated the pipes.

The story I’d been told of a reclusive woman my sister had become was at odds with this scene, unless she’d too begun a slow descent into madness. These fragments of my sister’s life, the half-finished chores, the childhood confections arranged for some unknown purpose, weighed heavy on my heart.

I turned on the faucet, waited for steam to billow, then shoved my hands under the hot current.

The biting pain grounded me, and I closed my eyes against it.

When my senses adjusted, the sting decreasing, I scrubbed the pots clean with vicious intensity, rejecting my grief in favor of anger.

I was mad at Fiona for letting things get this far, angry at her stubborn will to hold on to this house with both fists.

Twice a year, I’d sent a letter with a set hour and destination, but she’d never shown.

Not until a month before her death when she’d arrived at my suggested meeting place, the cafe in Devin, and told me to leave her alone.

Fiona kept our room the same, displayed photos of us together. But she’d ignored me for years, then dismissed me as though I were an annoying dog yapping at her skirts for attention. Why was I here for a sister who hadn’t wanted me?

I lifted the pot I was washing and slammed it violently into the basin, then grabbed hold of the sink’s edge and screamed.

I screamed until my stomach muscles cramped, the effort tearless, meant to unburden me of the building strain of this nightmare.

The life I’d built for myself hadn’t been perfect.

In fact, it had been the barest of lives deprived of identity, honesty, and earnest love, but I’d been safe from all of this.

Inhaling raggedly, I watched the suds and berry residue wash away before shutting off the water. I pressed the back of my wet hand to my forehead, trying to calm my jack rabbiting heart, while admitting I was lying to myself.

I’d missed using my magic, detested hiding it, collecting curses only for them to suffer in perpetuity, me along with them.

All the while, I’d feigned enthusiasm for a mind-numbing occupation, a lukewarm lover, and a future of straining under the burden of my lies.

Fiona appeared to have lived her life just as she was.

And it killed her .

Sick of my thoughts, I made to abandon the kitchen, but was stopped in my tracks as I turned, my way blocked by a curse hanging inches from my face.

It was a tumorous thing, floating suspended on the stringy lines of its shadow that trailed to the ceiling.

Its miasma seeped outward, becoming scarlet mist. This Drudge was less formed than I’d expected something from Blackwicket House to be.

Once, I wouldn’t have been afraid, used to Drudge appearing with no apparent purpose other than to exist and to remind us to give to them.

But I’d been gone such a long time. Familiarity was no longer my shield, and the house and I were not getting along.

The Drudge’s countenance was underdeveloped, sagging pockets in place of features trying to form. The edges of its polluted magic rippled, the tendrils extending, patting my cheek, cold and fluttering. It didn’t appear to be searching for a meal, driven more by curiosity than hunger.

“I’m not her,” I whispered.

It reeled away, startled, grabbing hold of a thread of my magic as it went, plucking it away, resulting in more than physical pain.

I yelped and the Drudge dissolved, racing across the ceiling to descend the wall where it merged with a much larger monster peeking in from around the kitchen door.

Only a mere portion of it was visible—the top of a head, grim magic hanging lank as strands of hair around a humanoid .

As I laid eyes on it, the thing retreated as quick as a gasp.

Auntie .

This was a familiar Drudge, the oldest of them, present even before my mother was brought to the house.

It refused to leave, refused to be healed.

I’d spent my childhood falling asleep with her standing by our beds, silent and watching, dipping in and out of view as the clouds obscured the moon.

She’d never hurt us, just observed, waiting for something we weren’t quite sure of.

My mother began calling her Auntie when it became clear she was frightening us.

The familiar moniker did its job, and while she remained unsettling, she was merely another strange aspect of our lives no other soul was aware of.

Except for Thomas.

Not needing both my sister’s and Thomas’s ghosts haunting me, I spurned the memories and sprinted after the creature, seeking to verify it was truly her.

The hall was dimly lit, the glow of the foyer chandelier reduced in the presence of Auntie, and the vast energy it took for her to maintain form.

I couldn’t determine where she’d gone until a shift of light caught my eye, moving beneath the door of a storage room behind the check-in counter.

This space had been a ladies’ parlor, but its function was rejected by Blackwicket women who had no intention of squeezing themselves into such an isolated, quiet space.

Instead, it served as a safer storage alternative to the crumbling tower.

Another rotation of shadow encouraged me closer.

As I approached, I hummed a long-ago tune my mother had taught me. Her soft singing voice, far superior to mine, echoing in my ear with every step.

Oh, Moira, my love, I meant not to stray

But the sea it was calling that bright summer’s day

And the sea, as you know it, takes lovers away

But call me back with your sorrows,

And in spirit, I’ll stay.

She’d woven this ballad into our daily lives, asking me to sing as she did her curse eating work or whenever I was afraid of Auntie. During the times I was too scared to do it on my own, Fiona had chimed in, inserting my pet name.

‘Oh, Ellie, my love…’

I opened the door to the storage closet, finding it had been transformed into an office, feminine and delicate, with pink damask paper and a simple white desk, its single lamp shining.

The lamp’s yellowed fringe swung delicately from the vibration of my footsteps, interrupting the daylight streaming through the window. The space was deserted.

I furrowed my brow, frustrated I’d let myself be led on a wild goose chase.

As I stood in the doorway, I wondered what Fiona had been doing with a space like this.

What work had she been tending to? Needing a distraction, and with nothing else to occupy me, I took a seat and began rifling in the three desk drawers, none of them locked.

I wasn’t sure what I’d find or what I was looking for.

Perhaps a ledger, something to help me comprehend what Fiona had done with her life.

What friendships she’d formed, and hardships she’d faced, what had driven her to make such an absurd amount of blackberry jam.