Page 20 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

The top drawers contained nothing of interest: newspaper clippings of town events, receipts for food and clothing.

I pulled open the bottom, revealing several stacks of letters folded neatly and bound with twine.

They were organized in a way indicating she cared for them, and I withdrew the top one.

The letter was romantic in nature, signed by William.

I read no more than the first few lines, then returned it to its envelope.

I wouldn’t pry. My sister’s romances were her own, and William was still alive and capable of being embarrassed by the contents.

But curiosity drove me to pull the remaining stack free, and check the dates on each.

All were over three years old, signaling an end to their romance.

I’d never been fond of William, less because of his own faults and more due to his stealing my sister’s attention from me when it had always been mine.

As I arranged them back in place, a second sheaf of letters caught my attention, the papers were mismatched, words written on bits of stationery from hotels and various postmasters. These were the letters I’d sent to Fiona over the years, all thoughtfully folded.

Here and there, I discovered half-written responses, never sent, full of affection and concern.

Some begged me not to write anymore, to move on and live, others were filled with requests that I come home.

These hurt the most. The last was dated a week before I’d sent my final plea for her to meet me in Devin .

Ellie, it’s pained me all this time to keep secrets, but the bowels of hell offer more gentle hands than Nightglass and I’m grateful you are anywhere but here.

This town is a wasteland of beautiful faces with terrible intentions, and I’ve never harbored such disgust for others, even during the worst times with Mother.

For a while, I bore it, believing I could do something for this place.

The Drudge send their regards; they’re peculiar as always but have been restless, making a nuisance of themselves. People are becoming wary of the house again, but it’s for the best, though William isn’t happy.

There are days I regret encouraging you to leave, and others, like today, when I’m grateful beyond measure you were never forced to live this imprisoned life.

Are you still in the apartment with the view of the bakery?

I’m happy knowing you think of me when you see it.

Please, tell me where I can meet you and I’ll be there. I promise.

Fiona

In the stillness of night, I thought I’d never cry another tear, but they came easily now, sliding down my chin and plinking onto the paper. I sat this way for so long that when I looked up again, the sunlight had turned to the faint golden yellow of late afternoon.

I collected the letters, deciding they’d be the only items I’d save from Blackwicket House.

As I closed the drawer, hollow hearted, light caught the edge of a miniature golden frame, hidden at the bottom.

The photo inside captured a candid moment on a lush green lawn.

My sister, mouth open mid-laugh, sat on a picnic blanket in a pink linen dress between two people.

William, whose cane rested close by, lounged to her left, his smile shy and genuine.

To her right was a beautiful woman whose red lips curled in bemused affection.

It was Ms. James, the Vapors headliner who’d glared at me with considerable hostility .

Fiona was touching them both, a hand on Ms. James’ arm, another on William’s knee, her joy seemingly genuine.

I turned the frame, removing the backing to reach the photo, when something tucked inside fluttered onto my lap: a small oval cut image, meant for a locket.

It was of Fiona, her hair unpinned, her cotton dress plain.

She stood barefoot on the rocky beach, a little boy in corduroy overalls clinging to her leg.

The corner of this picture was marred by a spill of ink, a black stain spreading over the boy’s pudgy toes.

Without thinking, I touched it with my thumb, and the stain shifted.

It was a curse—small in its bare beginnings, growing like mold in the dark.

The little effort it would take prompted me to bring the snapshot to my lips, as if placing a kiss on the faces there.

The curse rose with little resistance, and I took a minute to unravel the pitiful thing and release it again, white as frozen breath.

I examined the photo, hoping for a date, finding an inscription.

My son, Roark, age four.

Son.

The word burned my eyes. Or perhaps it was the horrible shock of discovering how deep our bond had been severed that she’d hide even this from me. My sister had been a mother.

But where was her child?

I stood from the desk so forcibly the chair overturned.

I left it and hastily pocketed the photos, forgetting the pen was there.

It nicked my fingertip, and I yanked my hand out, a dome of red welling on my finger.

The minor pain aided in clenching my decision.

Damning the Inspector and his orders to hell, I hurried into the foyer and grabbed my coat.

I was going to town to hunt down Ms. James.