In which a ghost walks
Marigold
Marigold turned, staring into the vibrant night. Soon they saw a small black figure winging their way towards them. Yvette became human as she landed on a stone bench nearby, tossing her cloak round her shoulders and pulling it close, but not before Marigold had seen the pale shape of perfect curves.
Marigold raised her brows, while Wooten folded his arms.
Yvette, seeming to understand some explanation was required, said, “I wanted to have a closer look at the housekeeper’s belongings.”
“Oh?” said Wooten.
Yvette shrugged. “Just a curiosity I have.”
“You are rather full of curiosities,” observed Wooten.
“Indeed,” replied Yvette smoothly. “I have another one: why are we here in the maze?”
Marigold hesitated. They were both permitted to keep cards close to their bosoms. Especially if one had such lovely bosoms as Yvette. Yet perhaps if Marigold confided in her, Yvette would return the compliment.
“Do you know this plant?” Marigold gestured at the white flowers. “It was in the tea Mrs Froode served, implying it has some medicinal attributes. Yet I have never come across it before.”
Yvette glanced round. “It must be a healing herb. There is nothing unusual in that, is there? Humans are always consuming all manner of things to aid their constitutions.”
Marigold frowned. “As long as we are certain the plant is not poisonous. I find it curious that Lady Garvey’s cough seemed to worsen after she drank that concoction.”
Yvette quirked a brow. “Sometimes that is the way with medicines.”
Wooten spoke up. “Maybe we should continue our investigation of the house. We have yet to spy the butler, and I would like to see for myself his alleged incompetence.”
“Who says he is incompetent?” asked Yvette.
“My companion, Lady Judith Avely, told me he was rude and hostile,” explained Marigold. “You make a good point, Wooten: we haven’t seen the butler yet, but he wasn’t in his bed.”
She swung herself off the pommel, twisting into her bat form. Once she was certain that the other two both followed her this time, Marigold flapped slowly over the meandering walls of the maze, back towards the house.
Candlelight showed from the kitchen door, a faint luminescence around the servant’s entrance. Marigold was distracted by the glow, until Wooten gave a high-pitched whistle of warning behind her.
She spun in the air, searching.
A tall figure lumbered on the outside of the maze. The shape was masculine, and for a moment she wondered if it were Faske. However, this man was clad in gentleman’s clothes: a black tailcoat, dark breeches, elegant stockings, and shining boots. Furthermore, as he ambled along the hedge, Marigold saw that his evening dress was spoiled by a gaping, bleeding wound in his pale yellow waistcoat.
The black hole bled sluggishly, the liquid somehow managing to achieve a rusty red colour even in the washed-out moonlight.
Ah, here walked the ghost of Lord Garvey! Heartened by this development, Marigold flew towards the spectre with alacrity. Was it an Illusion, or was it Faske playing at charades? Or, indeed, both?
The ghost’s face was unfamiliar, swarthy and handsome, despite the slight puffiness and the vacant look upon it. Hatless, Lord Garvey’s blond hair gleamed in the moonlight, and he walked in an odd, lurching way. Reaching the corner of the maze, he heaved round and retraced his steps, almost as if he were a sentry keeping watch. Perhaps, in a way, he was.
As Marigold drew closer, she felt the distinctive vibration of magic. It was sharp against her bat senses: the echo of Musing.
The ghost was an Illusion then, cast by a Musor. It was just as they had all suspected. Yet was there a real person beneath the gruesome depiction of Lord Garvey?
Speeding closer, Marigold did not hesitate. As she drew in line with the apparition, she dived down. At the last moment, she tilted upwards, extending her tiny claws.
Aiming at the lank, blond locks, she was unsurprised when her grasp went through thin air. The phantom head vanished without a sound, and Marigold spun round in a victory twirl to have vanquished the ghost.
Yet even as she whirled round, she saw out of the corner of her eye that a figure still remained below her. As the Illusion of Lord Garvey disappeared, it revealed another shape beneath it, shorter and wider in proportion. Marigold recognised this man’s plump face and bushy, silver moustache.
It was Kenneth Garvey.
His lordship turned, scowling. He tucked his chin into his waistcoat, which was now unsullied, and marched rapidly towards the house.
Two Lord Garveys in one night, Marigold reflected. What was Kenneth up to? Then, belatedly, she realised she could still sense the vibration of Musing, emanating from the lord of the manor as he fled.
Was Kenneth an Illusion too? Or was he employing some other type of magic?
Marigold grinned with her tiny fangs, filled with the joy of the chase. Speeding after him, she lifted high again, ready to strike.
Vaguely, she was aware that Wooten gave another small shriek of warning, but she didn’t care. Whoever this Illusor was, they had caused Judith a great deal of anguish. Marigold need not remain polite. Claws could be employed without compunction.
She dived. Flashing through the night air with exhilaration, she extended her talons. As she reached her victim, she swiped them across Kenneth’s cheek.
This time, her claws met resistance. Lord Garvey shrieked, high pitched, and threw up his hands. His face, however, did not change, not even to show the mark of Marigold’s claws. The sense of Musing was now very strong. It seemed that he was maintaining the magic even in the face of attack.
Marigold swooped again. Her claws once more dug into soft flesh and she felt a satisfying sense of triumph. It blinded her from the quick, angry hand that flashed upwards and snatched her out of the sky.
Hard fingers grabbed her, gripping her wings to her body. Shattering pain shrieked through her left wing as bones snapped. Struggling, she tried to break free, but the hand that held her was ruthless, squeezing violently.
Her head swooned. The pressure round her chest and wing tightened. She could barely breathe, her wing in agony, as her vision began to darken.
Dimly, she was aware of two black shapes darting down. One flew viciously into her attacker’s face, clawing at his eyes, and the other stabbed at the hand that held her. It was Wooten and Yvette, flying to the rescue.
The inexorable hand loosened. With a startled grunt, her captor released Marigold. She dropped like a stone to the ground, unable to fly. Her body was wracked with pain. Through half-closed lids, she saw Kenneth turn and run towards the house. One bat gave chase, while the other landed beside Marigold.
It was Yvette, vaulting into her human form. She flung her cloak aside and knelt beside Marigold. “Oh, divine Nyx. Are you alright?”
Marigold was too wretched to become human. She gave a low grunt of pain. Through her lashes, she had the satisfaction of seeing Yvette’s face whiten further in the moonlight.
“What can I do?” Yvette asked, desperation tingeing her voice. “You will heal, you just have to endure it. You poor darling.”
Marigold was distantly pleased at being called a darling, even as the hurt intensified.
Yvette’s hands fluttered. “Shall I put your head on my lap?”
When Marigold managed a nod, the vampiri stretched her bare legs out. Folding her cloak across them, she lifted Marigold’s head to rest on the silky fabric, then brushed a hand down Marigold’s narrow bat cheek.
Marigold, still agonised, wished that she was in a fit state to appreciate her position, for Yvette’s beautiful face looked down with concern. Her violet eyes were wide and liquid.
Of course, Yvette was right. Marigold would heal, with the supernatural ability of vampiri to do so. It would just take time and fortitude. Wincing, she did her best to unfold her damaged wing. It would mend better if it wasn’t all scrunched up.
Pain swept over her like a wave, drowning her senses into blackness.
When she rose back into consciousness, she was still lying in Yvette’s lap. She felt immeasurably better. The agony had receded to a dull ache, and she found could breathe freely again. She took a deep, shuddering breath, and stared up at Yvette’s lovely countenance. How much, she wondered, did the vampiri know about healing times?
Yvette stared down, her brow peaked with worry, her full lip caught between white teeth. “Marigold? Are you waking?”
“Ohhh,” Marigold groaned. She was still a bat, and could not reply in words. Yvette’s thigh was a soft pillow beneath her head, and Marigold turned her cheek to rest upon it. “Mmmrghh,” she moaned. Yvette smelled of pine, moonlight, and lavender, and Marigold was determined to stay there as long as possible.
“You poor thing,” murmured Yvette. “Are you starting to feel better?”
“Mmmm.” Marigold moaned again, noting that ‘darling’ had been replaced by ‘thing’. Yet a gentle hand tucked her golden cloak closer. Her skin felt cold and shivery, and she turned her head restlessly. “Mmrgh?”
Wooten’s voice came from somewhere to her left, thick with disapproval. “Lord Kenneth Garvey - or the person appearing as such - ran off. I gave chase, but Faske let him into the house, and slammed the door before I could follow.”
“Hmm,” said Marigold, a bit woozily. Her wing still distracted her with occasional vicious stabs. She glanced over to see Wooten give a dire frown.
She gritted her teeth, then transformed into her human form with a lurch. Gingerly, she tested her arm, and it felt the better for it; as she had suspected, the transformation had helped to speed up the process of healing.
“Then what happened?” Her voice was croaky, and she settled her head back onto Yvette’s lap before she could move away. “Did you go through the window on the second floor and follow them?”
“Yes,” snapped Wooten, “but by the time I reached the anteroom, the humans were enclosed in the study.”
Yvette looked down with worry. “Never mind all that. Are you alright, Miss Cultor?”
Curse it. ‘Thing’ was now ‘Miss Cultor’.
“A bit tender.” Marigold tried for a cheeky smile. “Maybe we should search the house again, once I have recovered.”
“Nonsense,” said Yvette. “We must take you to safety, not pursue further risk, little one. You almost died. What possessed you to attack that man?”
“It was necessary,” said Marigold, admiring the curve of Yvette’s cheekbone. “We have to find out who dwelt beneath the Illusion.”
Wooten tutted. “It was rash, and furthermore you will give vampiri a bad name with such disgraceful behaviour. No wonder King George has introduced the Edicts, if this is how English vampiri behave.”
“It was special circumstances,” Marigold protested. “I wouldn’t ordinarily attack a human in broad moonlight.”
Yvette’s voice was velvety. “Mr Willoughby is right. You must be careful to respect the Edicts, Miss Cultor. The law will not heed your excuses.”
Marigold grinned, glad that Miss Mysterious seemed to care. “There is no one to witness my transgressions, except both of you. And I doubt you will report me to these new Beauchamp Fliers.”
“Hm.” Yvette’s expression became inscrutable, even as her fingers tightened on Marigold’s shoulder. “You don’t know who else is watching, little one. I would be more careful, if I were you.”