Page 43 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

I bathed, finding that while my body was exhausted, my magic was anything but. It had been used. I wouldn’t be able to produce another surge of considerable power anytime soon, but the bright, cool energy stretched inside me, liberated.

I refrained from lingering, worried about what the Inspector was doing and eager to know how he was handling Mr. Farvem’s remains.

For a moment, I let myself mourn a world that diligently chose to move toward its bleakest future.

Patrick hadn’t been so different from his grandfather after all, and there must be others with the same ideology.

With this grim thought in mind, I gathered myself from the embrace of the hot water and prepared to face the fallout downstairs.

The kitchen door hung crooked on its hinges, and I walked just close enough to ensure the body was gone, although the terrible mess was not.

Through the front foyer window, I spotted the remnants of the car, still smoldering, billowing its noxious black smoke in the winter sky.

The bomb had detonated by the gate, reducing the left portion to a pile of charred bricks, with the once sturdy iron gatepost lying across the road.

There were people milling around—half a dozen.

Inspector Harrow was easy to spot among them, the tallest of a small group who were gesticulating wildly, calling to others on their way up the road, some dressed in evening finery, tourists and townspeople both crossing the border of the Blackwicket property.

A few yards from the wreckage, a figure lay on the ground, someone’s long coat draped over it in a makeshift shroud.

I expected the scene would eventually make sense.

Something plucked at my senses, a presence reaching for my magic, like tiny hands searching for sweets. I averted my attention to the source, a figure lurking at the top of the stairs. A Drudge clung to the banister with primate-like fingers, observing me, its face long and doughy as soft wax.

“Would you have eaten me?” I asked.

In response, it released the railing and slunk away, unhurried.

Of course, it would have. Drudge didn’t mourn, nor form attachments.

They existed to look for ways to return to the state they deserved to be in, free of the horrors handed to them.

They preferred me in my living condition because it offered a consistent source of magic, no matter how weak.

But if I were to die, they wouldn’t waste me. I couldn’t fault them for it.

Needing to make use of myself, I shed the squeamishness and returned to the kitchen to clean the foul muck of jam, blood, and glass.

The blood was plentiful, and the room smelled of iron and sweet syrup, inducing me to gag.

I saved myself the ghastly trouble of touching the offal of Mr. Farvem’s brutal end and called on my magic.

Long ago, Isolde Blackwicket had used hers to soak up the blood and bile from a young boy who I’d loved dearly.

Instead of burying the thought of him, I held Thomas’ memory close as I cleaned, wondering if he would have grown to be like his brother, become a man who manipulated and intimidated all to maintain power for the Brom.

A man who’d do anything for the empire his father built on the backs of townspeople cut off from their livelihoods.

These thoughts troubled me more than gathering the blood into a puddle and coaxing it in an unnatural direction, up the iron legs of the kitchen basin, and into the drain, where the house drank it hungrily down.

I did the rest by hand until I heard the front door creak.

Inspector Harrow returned haggard, with the weary look of a man who’d survived many ordeals and was no longer surprised by them.

“Mr. Farvem was the unfortunate victim of the car bomb,” he said.

“While he was on his way to the house, he got caught in the blast that I barely escaped. The story was corroborated by a few witnesses who’d seen him walking this direction earlier.

His assistant from the funeral home has already collected his body. ”

“Who were all the people at the gate?”

“They heard the explosion. Came to help.”

“I’m shocked.”

Inspector Harrow, by now, was well aware of how the citizens of Nightglass viewed my family and our house on the cliffs.

“You shouldn’t be. People always discover a great deal of goodwill in themselves when violence is no longer politely ignorable,” he said, starting toward the stairs, an unspoken signal he was planning to stay. I couldn’t admit out loud that this was a comfort.

“Do you need anything?” I asked, unsure how to repay the unexpected kindness he’d shown me by saving my life and tending to my injuries.

He paused, foot on the first step, holding my gaze for so long, an unknown feeling twisted in my chest. At length, he continued his ascent, saying low as he went,“Yes, Ms. Blackwicket. I need the hand of god to drown this whole goddamn town in the sea.”

Late in the evening, when I’d finally corrected the kitchen and there was no more cleaning to occupy my mind, I went to bed. But as I passed the Inspector’s room, there came a muffled grunt, a sound of pain. I’d intended to leave him be, but then there was another rumble of agony.

Worried, I knocked.

“Inspector?”

“I’m well, Ms. Blackwicket.” His reply was curt.

“I noticed…” I shouldn’t be hesitant. The man was hurt, and the location of the wound made parts of it inaccessible to treatment if he were mending it alone. “I noticed you were injured. I’m not a nurse, but I’m probably a better option than whatever you’re trying to do in there.”

“Your concern is noted. Goodnight.”

Dismissed, I retired to my room, but couldn’t sleep.

I tossed in the dark, formulating nonsensical plans and half-formed ideas regarding the secret politics of Nightglass before finally throwing off the blankets.

Dropping to my knees, I reached beneath the bed to pull forth the carpet bags I still hadn’t unpacked.

I maintained no further illusions about the possibility of escaping from this house, so I might as well settle in.

In the dull glow of the nightstand lamp, I emptied the bags and tidied things away. At last, I came to the wooden box with its cursed treasures. It was time to let go of my former lives.

I opened the box, the curses vibrating with anticipation, and noticed right away that something very important was missing. The bracelet.

I rummaged through, moving aside the vessels I’d collected: coins, hair ribbons, a small hand mirror, a figurine of a ballerina with her feet missing.

It wasn’t there. The only people who’d handled my bags had been Thea’s driver Ramsey, briefly upon delivering me to Blackwicket House, and Darren. The most likely candidate was obvious.

Sitting in silence, I waited for the tears to come, but there weren’t any left for Darren Rose. I’d cried them all while he was alive. I came to terms with the fact that my father would never take anything from me again, then, one by one, I unraveled the curses.

The grounding work encouraged my newly invigorated power to confirm itself, and I forged on, returning each empty vessel to the box as the gossamer strands of healed magic gathered above me. It remained unsure, unprepared to dissipate into the ether. It was a shame there wasn’t a Narthex.

I reached into the cool, ephemeral clouds of energy as an idea took hold. A highly illegal one, dangerous with the Inspector so near, but I had little left to lose, and the untangled magic would find peace in returning home. Unlike myself.

It seemed a fair way to balance things.

It had been a decade since my last attempt to open a portal, and it would be challenging work, like bailing water from a sinking boat. A doorway not etched by years and constant use tended to snap shut and was difficult to open any wider than a porthole.

The truth was, this world didn’t want to touch Dark Hall anymore. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

I crawled across the floor to the space of wall between my bed and Fiona’s.

I pressed my fingers to the wallpaper, scraped and peeling by the baseboard, letting my magic do the searching, brushing the contours, seeking weak spots between the borderline of here and there.

The wall was solid, nothing more than plaster and lath.

But then a point gave way and my fingers sank in.

Elated, I parted space and substance, the effort making my chest burn, and cycled magic to and fro, shoveling bits of reality away to create an opening large enough for my hand.

The air chilled, and my grip slipped as the portal breathed, uncomfortable with its own existence.

I yearned to look inside, to glimpse a place I once cherished, but I was already losing my hold.

Knowing home was close, the lingering magic brushed past me, retreating to a realm that would never harm it.

Even after it faded, and despite the strenuous effort, I tried to hold the portal open, to feel Dark Hall.

But I wasn’t strong enough, and the portal snapped shut with the sound of a bulb filament popping.

My magic quivered, mournful, conscious of the loss of connection.

More restless than ever, and with sleep too distant to even attempt, I donned my sister’s only remaining wool coat over my nightdress, shoes hanging from my fingers. My momentary connection with Dark Hall had encouraged nostalgia, and I wanted to be near the sea.

My stockinged feet produced no noise on the stairs. The winter moonlight was pleasant, and the house uncharacteristically idle, satiated by its earlier banquet of magic.

By mid-stair, I could see the parlor lights were on, and had no doubt about who was responsible.

My plans to walk along the cliffside and watch the winter sky change as the sun rose were derailed by my curiosity.

As expected, I found Inspector Harrow. He’d opened the parlor windows to invite in the scent of salt and snow and stood awash in the night and the calming lullaby of waves.

His shirt and trousers were rumpled, collar unbuttoned, and for the first time since I’d known him, his gun was absent.

“My mother used to say the song of the sea soothed the curses,” I said, letting him know I was there, maintaining a respectful distance, “because it sounds like the place magic was born.”

His gaze migrated from the moon-bright water to settle on me.

He seemed human in this setting, in the late hours before night tipped into dawn.

His presence was an assurance, if not exactly a comfort, and my interest in solitude waned.

He monitored my approach, taking in my coat, the shoes still clasped loosely in my hands.

“Going somewhere?” he asked .

“To walk the cliffs.”

“It’s freezing.”

I eyed the windows, the frigid air bracing, fighting with the heat of the fire he’d tempted to life in the fireplace. He didn’t backtrack or elaborate.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I deposited my shoes on the windowsill, signaling my decision to linger and enjoy the same view. “Neither could you, I see. I bet this isn’t how you imagined things to turn out when you followed me here.”

“Actually, it’s right on par with how I expected things to go.”

“And now I’m sure you wish you were still in Devin.”

It was a friendly jest, but I regretted it. I no longer knew what the Inspector and I were, but it certainly wasn’t friends.

He trained his eyes on the sparkle of the water and said dryly, “I’m where I’m meant to be.”

I was bad at this. We’d never encountered each other as anything more than mutual enemies. The new ground I was attempting to walk, with no logic of why, was not just unfamiliar, it was unreciprocated. I grabbed my shoes.

“I hope you can get some rest,” I said in parting, flustered by briefly feeling less alone, only for the moment to cave in at my touch.

“It’s not a smart idea for you to leave the house, Ms. Blackwicket.”

“Talking about house arrest again? Well, if you or anyone else wants to keep me in here, you’ll have to…” My impertinent rebuttal tapered as I caught sight of the spot of red at the horizon of his shoulder.

“Do continue. I’m very interested in your next words.” Inspector Harrow’s tone implied he wasn’t in the mood to be patient with me.

“Are you bleeding? ”

I marched to him, taking hold of his upper arm, urging him to turn enough that I could inspect his back. He permitted it.

There was a bloom of red spreading from his injury, with no other signs of smoke or oil, and no tear in the fabric. This wasn’t the shirt he’d been wearing earlier. The blood was fresh.

“Bang-up job patching your own wounds, Inspector.” I said.

“Are you scolding me?” There was an air of disbelief in his tone, like a storm surprised by the admonishments of a thistle.

“You’re being stubborn by rejecting help when you honestly need it.”

With some annoyance, he turned to face me, and I retreated a step to save myself from having to tilt my head quite so far to see his face.

“I find some irony in you daring to call someone else stubborn.”

“You’d honestly choose an infection over allowing me to tend to you, Inspector?” I asked, pointing out his obstinacy.

There was a tense beat of silence before Inspector Harrow began to unbutton his shirt, gaze steady on me. The action took me by surprise, and I glanced aside.

“Shy?” He untucked the hem, making discomfort my punishment for chiding. “How do you expect to tend to me if you can’t even get to the wound?”

He wore no undershirt, avoiding fabric that would chafe against the raw edges of the laceration, and the olive-toned skin of his chest was exposed, showcasing the well-defined contours of his abdomen, marked by scars of varying sizes and colors, resembling notches in driftwood.

But more than these, the prominent token of violence on his cheek trailed beyond his collarbone, to the center of his sternum.

“Just sit,” I said, agitated, motioning to the piano bench as I made to leave. “I’ll be back with a bandage.”