Page 50 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

I’d expected hell to return to Blackwicket House with haste, but it chose to wait in deadly silence, always just a breath away.

Inspector Harrow departed following our discussion in the hall, warning me he wouldn’t be present during the day, never explaining where he was going.

He returned each night before sunset, weary and evasive.

He’d ask tersely about the boy, then disappear into his room.

So, for three strange, peaceful days, my world revolved around Jack.

The boy remained weak, but on the third day, had enough energy for boredom.

Although he’d asked, I couldn’t show him my sister’s room upstairs, with the curse-burned rug and splintered wardrobe.

Instead, I took him to the parlor. The room, with all its grim history, felt brighter with Jack in it, and I enjoyed his enthusiasm for the books lining the cases flanking the fireplace.

“Oh, this one,” he said, reaching to grab a cherished edition. Its spine had loosened from the binding from all my childhood readings of it. I was pleased he’d chosen it.

“That was my favorite when I was your age.”

“I like it too.” With the ease of a boy moving within his own home, he settled in the high-backed chair near the fireplace, which I’d brought to life, and leafed through the pages, his touch respectful of their delicate state .

“You’ve read it?” I asked, sitting in the chair opposite, so as not to hover.

“Lots.” His reply was distant, his attention already on the pages in front of him.

We sat in silence, and I watched the flames dancing behind the bronze grate, marveling at how this moment reduced me to a ten-year-old girl again, sitting in this same chair next to my sister while our mother unwove curses at the window.

Jack began to hum absentmindedly, disjointed fragments of parting songs and ballads he’d encountered here and there.

At last he assembled one I recognized. I waited, expecting him to move on from it as he had with the others, but it lingered, and he kept repeating the first few seconds of the tune, drawing my childhood in too close.

“I know that song.”

The boy brightened, his book forgotten.

“Want to hear it? I’ve been practicing.”

I laughed, appreciating his exuberance, turning my palm up in invitation.

He closed the book, tucking it by his leg, sitting straight in preparation for his performance. Then, he sang, clear and confident, the high tenor of his boyish tone not yet robbed of him by age.

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

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

I didn’t have the heart to stop him, though my chest squeezed tight.

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

But call me back with your sorrows,

And in spirit, I’ll stay .

I’ll stay, I’ll stay, ‘till you meet me across

And discover in death that our love wasn’t lost

It was fickle time only that kept us apart

Until then, I’ll be near

In both dreams and your heart.

I hadn’t known there was a second verse, always singing the one in repetition like a prayer. When the song ended, his face was full of youthful pride, bright eyes, and a crooked smile, over a job he’d known he’d done well.

“Did Fiona teach you that?” I asked. Regardless of what she’d done, the deep well of love for my sister spilled over, and I was overcome with the agony of missing her.

“Yeah. She loved that song.” He collapsed onto the cushions, picking the book up again without opening it. “Eleanora, what’s a Narthex?”

The sudden change in topic startled me out of my grief, and I grew suspicious.

“What makes you interested in Narthex?”

“I just want to know what it is.”

“Well, there aren’t anymore. They’ve all been closed by the Authority.”

Understanding I wasn’t eager to talk about it, he quieted, but not for long.

“I think Mr. Nightglass wants one.”

I made a heroic effort to keep my expression neutral.

Of course, William was involved. His father, Grigori, had been urging my mother to build him a Narthex for most of my life, yet she’d rebuffed him repeatedly, arguing she didn’t know how.

He knew, or at least suspected, there was one in Blackwicket House, but he could never get inside.

Back then, the house was wary of everyone my mother invited across the threshold, protecting itself and its inhabitants.

We’d never needed to lock windows or doors like I’d been compelled to do last night.

I’d checked each latch and lock before going to sleep, a room away from Jack.

I found no reason to lie.

“A Narthex is a portal between here and Dark Hall, a sort of doorway only certain people have a key to.”

“Curse Eaters?”

“Yes.”

“What’d they do there?”

Steal children .

“A lot of things.” I avoided details because I was woefully uninformed.

By the time I’d been old enough to know about them, the halls were empty, doorways shut tight.

Curse Eating families no longer moved freely, and the original purpose of the hallways was lost, leaving me to experience it only through my mother and my lonely solo jaunts.

“Mostly, they used it to gain access to powerful magic. It helped repair the curses people brought to them.”

“How hard is it to make one?”

“Very,” I replied, cautious, knowing if I asked why he was so curious, he’d likely shut down, just as he did whenever I brought up the subject of other children in Blackwicket House. “It takes years, and a single person couldn’t do it alone.”

“Could you let Mr. Nightglass know that?” Jack asked, pretending to be half absorbed in the book. “When he comes to get me?”

“Why?” I couldn’t avoid being direct any longer.

“Cause I overheard him telling Coppe he wants me and Thea to build one. That’s why he’s been making me eat so many curses. Says it’ll make me stronger, so it’s easier for me. But maybe if you tell him how hard it is, how long it takes, he’ll change his mind.”

“Jack… ”

“Please? It’s like when I wanted to have a funeral for my bird, Pips. Mr. Nightglass was mad at me and didn’t want to do it, but he got convinced when Thea talked to him. He apologized and everything, and was nice for a while.”

I recalled the small box Jack had brought with him to the funeral home, how afraid he’d looked.

“Why was Mr. Nightglass angry with you?”

Jack’s fingers fanned the page corners of the book in his lap.

“He wanted me to practice pulling magic off something. You know, not curses but the fizzy stuff that’s inside everything. He told me to use Pips, but I was scared it would hurt him.” His eyes grew teary. “Mr. Nightglass said if I didn’t do it, he’d kill Pips anyway. So, I did.”

“And Pips died,” I said gently, and Jack dissolved into fresh tears. Inspector Harrow’s advice had done its job, because Jack didn’t resist them. I hurried to his side, kneeling to pull him against my shoulder, where he collapsed.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. It wasn’t your fault.” I rested my chin on his head.

I paid no mind to how long we remained like that, allowing myself to imagine how satisfying it would be to remove William’s eyes and shove them down his throat.

“Eleanora.”

I lifted my head to find Inspector Harrow in the parlor doorway, still wearing his coat, his quick nod toward the hall a signal that I should join him.

Jack had sat up to see who’d arrived, sniffing and drying his eyes.

“Be right back,” I assured him, but he rose with me.

“Actually, can I go to my room?” He asked.

“Of course.”

We walked together to where the Inspector waited, his expression somber as ever. An unsettling static energy radiated from him, tension permeating the hall. Jack noticed it too and slowed.

“Alright, Jack?” Inspector Harrow asked.

“Tired is all,” he replied, glancing at me and moving past the Inspector with a new trepidation, as though seeing the man clearly for the first time. We both watched his departure.

“Something’s gone sideways,” Inspector Harrow said when the boy was out of sight. He kept his voice quiet, an attempt to keep the news from carrying, “Cora’s dead.”

Cora. A double agent with reassuring words and a self-deprecating smile, who’d been so willing to step in and help others handle undue burdens at the risk of herself. Thea had touched her with gentleness, worried over her when she thought she’d been in danger.

“Did she void?” It seemed the most likely event, given the strain William was putting on the Brom.

The Inspector didn’t appear eager to tell me.

“Her throat was cut,” he replied. Bile climbed in my throat. “They found her at the Vapors this morning, behind the bar. I expect she’d been there since last night.”

“Thea?”

“I haven’t seen her, but I imagine she’s not in a good way. Her and Cora’s involvement was a poorly kept secret.” There was an unexpected tinge of sympathy in his tone.

“Since throat cutting is a tactic of the Veil, is there a chance they’re the ones responsible?” I asked.

“Or someone pretending to be the Veil. The victim pool is too varied. Patrick Farvem wasn’t their enemy, and Cora breaks the streak of murders tied to those who’ve done you wrong.

But beyond that, people have been going noticeably missing after visiting the Vapors.

It’s causing panic. Tourists are trying to leave in droves, but the station can’t accommodate everyone.

The cliff road out of town is frozen; passing is impossible. ”

“Maybe William’s involved.”

“He wouldn’t shoot himself in the mouth by scaring off his base.

He had some kind of showcase scheduled at the Vapors in place of High Tide on next month’s full moon.

Dramatic fuck,” Victor muttered, glancing toward the stairs.

“He moved it to tonight, and has Thea working double to calm everyone and entice people to stay.”

Poor Thea, shocked and grieving and forced to continue doing public relations for the Brom.