Page 26 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

Morning came to spite me, and I awoke to a room that hadn’t changed or cleaned itself up during the night, erasing the evidence of the cruel work I’d done.

I opened my fingers to pinpricks of pain, blood rushing back to my hand, where angry indentations from my nails framed the crushed remains of the flower in my palm.

I didn’t know how to move on, surrounded by my grief, suffocating under the attention of the Brom who’d use me as a tool and the Authority, whose unchecked Inspector was digging too deep.

But time wouldn’t wait for me to catch my breath. It moved on with no remorse.

Maybe I could still escape this, return to a nameless existence that rolled on dull as dry hills, draped in the ill-suited skins of imaginary women, and shielded by a meager armor I’d forged in lies and abdication of power.

But another option had been whispering to me since I’d stepped over the threshold of this house.

I could settle into my own bones, painful as it was, and deal with the terrible consequences of being myself with dignity.

No matter my choice, death would catch me.

I was future nourishment for weeds and worms, regardless.

My grandmother, my mother, my sister, they’d all died young and tired - but they’d died as themselves. Blackwickets. Curse Eaters.

But not murderers.

A knit cardigan had survived the massacre, and I plucked it from the foot of the bed as I left the room, nothing but blind determination guiding my steps.

I bathed, dressed in the last of my clean clothes, then donned my sister’s sweater, the texture and color of a spring fawn’s soft belly.

When I glanced into the gold-framed mirror above the sink, I noticed my sister’s features echoed in mine.

I’d always believed we’d never favored each other, but we both possessed our mother’s cheeks, the same bow of our lip.

I gathered my courage, using it to approach the Inspector’s room.

It had been late when he’d left me to reel from what passed between us, the clashing of passionate and stony animosity, undermined by the way he’d enticed my magic to burn bright and hot, only for his to swallow a piece of it.

Inspector Harrow wanted to know my secrets, and I was becoming more and more interested in his.

Appealing to his humanity hadn’t worked, but perhaps a bargain would.

For a moment, I listened for familiar sounds—shuffling, breathing—but it was quiet. I rapped my knuckles against the door and waited, knocked again when there was no response. Pursing my lips, I chose to be Eleanora Blackwicket, grabbing the knob to pour in magical intention. The lock clicked.

I was unsure of how the Inspector kept himself in sleep, but his revolver was likely close, so I didn’t enter, merely called out, voice firm.

“Inspector Harrow - I need to speak to you.”

It remained quiet. Curious about the silence, I pushed the door open and was met with a sight I hadn’t expected.

I’d assumed the Inspector suffered in the squalor of a neglected room, bloated and warped by moisture and mold.

Admittedly, those thoughts had given me grim satisfaction, and I’d often pictured his regret over bullying me into letting him remain at Blackwicket House.

But the room I entered was tidy, entirely untouched by the ruin that had once characterized it .

There’d been renovations—broken glass panes, rotted wood beams, and misshapen floorboards were all replaced.

The moldering bed dressings were gone, exchanged for fresh linens, plain but new.

His bed was empty but slept in, sheets rumpled, pillows in a haphazard pile.

A pair of trousers and a white towel hung over the bedpost, suggesting he’d discovered the guest bath and made use of it.

The scene was so unexpectedly intimate, an unwanted flush crept into my cheeks.

I tried to withdraw from the far too personal intrusion I’d committed in the name of bravery, but was halted by the sight of something unusual.

Gouges marred the wood along the doorframe and adjacent wall, taller than I could reach, even on my toes.

The savage grooves were deep, carved by the repeated boring of something sharp, like the tines of a garden tool.

Upon inspection, the panel of the door boasted the same, as though a large animal had been attempting to find its exit, though nothing else in the room appeared damaged.

I fought the urge to touch the furrows, to feel them against my fingertips and judge their origin.

Instead, I returned to the hall, closing and relocking the door, wiping my palms on my skirt, unsettled.

Fionna’s time here in Blackwicket House became ever murkier.

I wondered what Inspector Harrow thought of the markings.

Regardless of the strange discovery, my unresolved conviction smoldered, and I ventured down the stairs to signs that the Inspector was in the house after all, exactly where I’d asked him not to go.

The curtains at the end of the hall were open again, the lights of the parlor mingling with the sunlight.

I found the Inspector standing at the window, observing the vista: the slope of the cliffside, the meager wood fence acting as a barrier between life and the sheer drop into crashing water below.

His severe presence was softened by the inviting surroundings and the lack of his typical uniform.

He’d forgone the stiff waistcoat and wore only a white button-up, collar open, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the powerful lines of his forearms. Though the revolver was present, the weapon was secured in a more discreet belt holster at his waist. I’d never seen him like this in the light of day, and I didn’t appreciate it.

He looked too much like a predator softening its snarl so prey would amble closer, and worse, it was effective.

“Miss Blackwicket.” He greeted me before turning his gaze from the window. It flicked from my face to the ensemble I wore. “You look at home in yourself today. Near-death experiences suit you.”

The impulse to retaliate with a volley of my own, or to demand why he was in the parlor when I’d asked him to stay away, was mitigated by an awareness that his influence was largely fed by my tendency to react. He needed me to remain unsteady, to lower my guard.

I lifted my chin, channeling whatever audacity my sister had wielded to survive in Nightglass.

“Inspector,” I said, with every ounce of authority as the sole heir to Blackwicket House. “You need to see something.”

Minutes later, we stood in my mother’s old room, the Inspector eying the debris of my frenzy from the night before.

His bulk was strange in the space, intrusive despite the invitation.

I should have corrected the mess, worried the image didn’t look good for my state of mind, but what I was going to reveal was far more damning a gamble.

I approached the wardrobe where my sister kept the gallery of children’s things, where the hoary Drudge made its nest in the shadows. The Inspector should know what this house was built for, what it required of my family.

“Was this room your sister’s?” Inspector Harrow asked, maintaining a respectful distance from me. Although he didn’t seem wary, his shoulders were tense, and his hands tucked in his pockets, likely to give him close access to the revolver.

“I don’t know for sure,” I answered honestly. “I assume it was her son’s.”

He guessed where I was guiding him.

“You believe the little boy in the photo was Fiona’s son?”

“If you’d bothered looking at it, you would have seen the inscription.” Nerves had made my patience brittle.

“Fiona was on the Authority’s radar for a long time. There was never any reason to suspect she had a child.”

“Maybe because he’s dead,” I spoke the fear, the horror of it softening the edges of my tone.

“What makes you think so?” he replied, with an overly-gentle indulgence, making it clear he was humoring me.

Nettled by his continued hardheartedness, I flung open the wardrobe doors, revealing its contents.

“Why would Fiona keep toys? Clothes? They vary in size and abruptly stop. She’s stored everything precisely. It’s a goddamn memorial.”

My tumultuous emotions were ascending to the surface, and I pressed my fingers into the hair at my temple, trying to restore my face to its mask of neutral assurance.

His interest finally engaged, the Inspector stepped forward, expression tight with what I hoped was embarrassment for not having taken my concerns more seriously.

He scanned each shelf, every hanger, as though categorizing the contents.

Evidence. This was evidence. He couldn’t doubt what I was telling him.

With this victory in my pocket, I prepared to bare the house’s soul.

He extended a hand, ready to start a closer inspection of the shelves, but I moved to stop him, uncomfortable with the idea of someone else handling these items.

“Please, don’t touch anything. ”

When my hand fell upon the bare skin of his forearm, a circuit closed, and the current of magic moved so swiftly that we both reacted.

While I hastily pulled away, he merely shifted his focus to the place my hand had been, expression unreadable.

The trail his gaze took back to my eyes idled, catching on my lips, which had parted in alarm, in apology .

My eagerness to assure him I wasn’t seeking to pilfer his magic sputtered, then died in brutal irritation.

My magic being agitated and difficult to bring to heel was a result of his obtuse, willful goading.

He was in my house, and I’d be damned if I apologized for any of this.

“Don’t touch anything,” I repeated. This time, the words were a command. The only crack in his usual impassive expression was the slight upward twitch of a brow.