Page 36 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

Morning came, gray and dismal. The day of my sister’s funeral had finally dragged itself by its fingernails to the front door of Blackwicket House.

I’d slept terribly, waking with a cold, empty stomach, and a heaviness on my chest. It was the weight of dread at what I’d soon face—the final separation from my sister. Six feet under.

I emerged from the bedroom and noticed Inspector Harrow’s door ajar. Closer inspection revealed the room cleared and the bed neatly made. Skeptical of his departure, I checked the parlor, but it was dark. The car was missing, parked neither in the front nor back.

It appeared Harrow had left Blackwicket House for good.

Snow had fallen in the night, blanketing the ground in soft white, likely hindering the gravediggers as they prepared Fiona’s final resting place in the family plot.

I found myself eager for my father to arrive, but hadn’t talked to him since he’d invited to pay for my room in town.

I wondered whether he was still around. It would be typical of him to have second thoughts, hop on a train, and vanish, too cowardly to confront something this difficult head-on.

I attempted to convince myself I was being unfair.

Darren had, until now, done more for me than he’d ever done in his life, and I’d rebuffed him at every opportunity.

Maybe today was when I’d reach across the chasm he’d created and take his hand.

He was right. We were all we had. It wasn’t treasure, but was preferable to emptiness.

The house felt strangely inactive, listless, its steady hum a bare whisper.

I sat in the foyer, the space I’d often occupied as a child, allowing myself to be vulnerable and encouraging the house to connect with me.

Even Auntie lurking beneath the stairs would have been welcome, but there was nothing.

I was alone.

Wishing for the puddle of sunlight from so long ago, I lay on the floor and cried.

No one came to fetch me. An ancient car pulled to the gate and stopped, Mr. Farvem climbing from it. He was too weak to walk the hill, so I suspected he’d wait at the cemetery.

Darren hadn’t yet arrived, and it was already noon.

I dressed in a skirt of my own, but wore a vest of Fiona’s, spritzed her honeysuckle perfume in my hair, then wrapped myself in my old coat, proceeding to her graveside. The hole was open, the coffin already lowered in.

“Afternoon, Ms. Eleanora.”

Mr. Farvem greeted me with his usual gentleness. If Patrick were this man’s grandson, he had to be a black sheep. As I reached the bottom of the hill, Farvem took my hands in his, and this human contact was almost too much.

“Steady on,” he said with affection, offering a comforting squeeze and a tight smile. “I’m afraid I have unfortunate news.”

“At this point, Mr. Farvem, I’m immune to unfortunate news,” I replied, the words clotted in my throat.

“Well.” He paused, the wind bustling his white hair, the furrows of his age-worn skin deepening further as he frowned. “Only one man showed up to dig this morning. I’m old, you know, and can’t do such things anymore. Once it was done, he took off. Couldn’t convince him to stay.”

He sighed and glanced at the hill of dirt, two shovels stuck in, trowel first, like markers for the dead. There was no one to fill the hole, to pile the earth on my sister’s casket.

“I’ll see to it.” My reply was swallowed by the sudden gale. The undertaker and I braced ourselves, and when the air was calmer, he shook his head.

“No, Eleanora. The Brom aren’t trustworthy, but my people are, and I have someone who’ll come first thing tomorrow and tuck your sister in. Don’t worry yourself. We could do the service then, if you prefer.”

Spending another day waiting for the end of this ordeal was too excruciating to consider.

“Thank you, but I’d prefer it be done with.”

Mr. Farvem nodded, forever understanding. “Are you ready?”

I regarded the gate, the emptiness of the street. My father wasn’t coming.

“Yes,” I said.

The service was short, a reading of the typical rites, the spreading of herbs and dried flowers to dress the dead in peace and honor their transition from this world to the next, though I wasn’t sure such a place existed. All I knew for certain was that wherever Fiona was now, it wasn’t here.

I stepped to the graveside to drop a handful of dirt onto the casket, finding it black and shining, engraved with her name in burnished gold lettering and a flurry of embellished roses.

I hated it. Fiona belonged settled upon a bed of real flowers, set to sea on a cloudless summer day with a lily in her hand, not tucked in this cold winter earth inside a ludicrous box her tormentor had commissioned.

I let the dirt fall from my gloved fingers, mixing with the frost.

“Thank you,” I said in the end. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m not present for her covering tomorrow.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry it’s all worked out like this.” He wasn’t talking about the grave digging. He hesitated, adding, “I’ve heard through the grapevine you’ve decided to stay and re-open Blackwicket House.”

William was making efforts to ensure everyone believed I was here of my own free will.

“The grapevine is poisoned,” I responded. “I’m not opening Blackwicket House.”

“Ah, I apologize. I was informed a man from the Inn stopped by to assist in the digging. I shouldn’t have assumed he was a guest.”

My eyes lit upon the two shovels standing erect in the dirt. Two men working rather than one.

Inspector Harrow had helped dig my sister’s grave.

“An unwanted one,” I said, struggling to find this new information believable. “But he’s gone now.”

The sound of a car turning onto the street distracted us, and we watched as a long black sedan pulled through the gate. I didn’t recognize the man behind the wheel. My father must have bribed someone to bring him, so he wouldn’t have to brave a walk in the snow.

At least he was here, even if he was too late.

But Darren Rose didn’t climb out of the passenger seat. The gold tip of a snakewood cane emerged first, and William Nightglass followed stiffly, his golden hair in stark contrast against the black collar of his coat.

Mr. Farvem looked uneasy, knowing this violated my wishes, having no power to stop the Principe from doing whatever he decided pleased him.

I met William halfway, hoping my expression remained neutral.

“William, you weren’t invited. Let me bury my sister in peace.”

“This is the woman I loved.” His response was matter-of- fact, as though that were enough to excuse his part in whatever had put Fiona in the ground. “I’m here to pay my respects. Please don’t deny me my last chance to say goodbye to her.”

“Did you have Mr. Thatcher murdered because I tried to buy a ticket?” I asked sharply, choosing not to respond to his appeal to my sympathy.

William placed both hands, one over the other, on the arch of his cane handle, pale blue eyes settled on mine with a long-suffering patience.

“Thatcher’s death was a tragedy. I admit I instructed him not to sell you passage out of Nightglass, but nothing more. Whoever killed Thatcher remains, unfortunately, at large.” He sensed my doubt, adding, “Why would I kill one of my own for doing exactly what I instructed them to do?”

It was a logical argument. Thatcher had denied me a ticket, as he’d been told to. The glint of Patrick’s knife in the street gleamed in the corner of my memory, and the temperature of my blood dipped to match the winter sea.

Already tired and preferring to move on as quickly as possible from this meeting, I indicated the graveside and let him pass. He moved with proud, rigid grace. I didn’t follow. Mr. Farvem approached, and we both stood a healthy distance from William.

“I hate to go, but I have to return to the funeral home. My work feels never-ending these days.”

“Are so many people really dying here, Mr. Farvem?”

The old man urged me to stroll with him to his car so our conversation wouldn’t be easily overheard.

“Curse rot,” he said, keeping so quiet that I had to turn my head to hear him above the breeze as we walked.

“Victims are mostly Brom, but I have a few tourists in my care whose families are going to be asking questions. I expect the Authority will turn on William’s little experiment.

It’s all we can hope for. You can’t give in to him, Eleanora.

If you open the house, you’re giving them the freedom to keep this game going. ”

“I’ve been warned that if I don’t help, people will die.”

“I’m afraid that’s true, but if enough of them die, maybe that’s when this insanity ends.”

Mr. Farvem bid his farewells, and when I returned attention to my family’s modest cemetery, William was still at Fiona’s graveside. I couldn’t be sure from this distance, but he seemed to be wiping away tears.

I neither approached nor abandoned him, only waited for his departure. My nose was numb by the time he finished paying his respects, but instead of approaching his car, he walked in my direction. I regretted not going inside. If he wanted to talk to me, I’d lead the conversation.

“I want to leave Nightglass, William,” I said, ignoring the redness around the rim of his eyes. “You can’t keep me trapped here in this town. Eventually, I’ll find a way out.”

“And where will you go?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“It doesn’t matter. I demand the freedom.”

“That Inspector staying here, Harrow, I doubt he’d take kindly to you slipping through his fingers, after what happened in Devin.”

“That’s my concern, not yours.”

“But it is my concern.” His eyes narrowed. “When the Inspector’s not happy, he makes damn sure I’m not happy. He’s an Authority strongman. They send him here from time to time to prevent me from thinking I have them in my pocket, to show me they can still bite.”

He clacked his teeth together for emphasis, then scrutinized me.