Page 12 of The Gods Time Forgot

Twelve

“What on earth are you doing?”

Rua’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Flossie’s high-pitched voice. Disoriented, she looked around her and at her nightdress, realizing she’d fallen asleep in the library, but not before her chambermaids had helped her into her nightclothes and gawked at her ruined gown.

When she remembered she’d left the Randalls’ without telling Flossie, she jumped off the settee. There was a large thud as the anthology on demons and witchcraft fell onto the floor.

The blood drained from her face as the anthology opened up to a page depicting a horned devil sitting cross-legged on the floor. She stepped forward just enough to cover it with her nightdress.

“The most serendipitous thing has just occurred.” Flossie was grinning like a cat.

“What is it?” Rua asked, trying not to look like she’d almost just been caught sleeping with a book about demons. She glanced at the clock; it was nearing midnight.

“The Madison Hotel has gone up in flames!” Rua was puzzled by how this excited Flossie. Reading her face, Flossie continued, “The Lord of Donore needs somewhere to stay. Fortunately, I was there when he discovered the news. He’ll be residing with us for the foreseeable future.”

Rua tried her best to kick the book under the settee before following Flossie out of the library. Foreseeable future?

“Is he here now?” Rua asked, moving her loose hair out of her face and smoothing out her skirt. She didn’t want to see him, of course. He’d left her waiting in his carriage for twenty minutes too long. But she didn’t not want to see him either. It was all very frustrating.

They continued down the hall toward Rua’s bedchamber.

“We left the Randalls’ together, seeing as you took his carriage for reasons I will not question. We were going to drop him at his door, but the road was blocked off because the whole building was on fire. He jumped out of the carriage to go help, the poor thing,” Flossie answered. “Now, make yourself scarce or clean yourself up. The Lord of Donore could arrive at any moment. This is a chance to secure an advantageous match for you, a chance I wasn’t sure we’d get. You will not mess this up.” And with that final threat, Flossie flew down the stairs, shouting about curtains.

Rua waited until she was sure Flossie was downstairs, then she turned back to the library. She had to return Emma’s books to their proper hiding places.

The entire house was abuzz, prepping for the lord’s arrival. Everyone from the cook to the footmen had been woken up. Servants were dusting things that had been dusted a hundred times before, polishing silverware that wouldn’t be used. It was a waste of time for all involved; Rua doubted the man would even notice.

The fuss was for Flossie alone, who apparently thrived in a constant state of agitation.

She wondered what business a lord had in putting out a hotel fire. What would prompt him to offer his assistance?

“Have you seen Mara?” Rua asked one of the passing chambermaids. She thought it strange that she still wasn’t back yet.

The maid ignored her. Rua cursed under her breath.

Flossie’s voice echoed through the marble foyer as Rua sneaked back into the library. She closed the doors behind her. The anthology was where she had left it, haphazardly shoved under the settee. She shut the text and put it back on the shelf.

Arms resting on her hips, she scanned the many shelves of the extensive library. Surely there had to be other books here on Irish mythology.

In no particular order, she began her search, bouncing from one shelf to the next, collecting anything that she thought might be of use and adding it to a growing pile in front of the fireplace.

When she finished, she assessed her findings. The majority of the books were unhelpful, even the one on Irish folklore, which was filled with tales of Ireland’s mighty warriors—Queen Medb, Fionn mac Chumaill, and C ú Chulainn, to name a few. There was even mention of the Morr í gan goddesses and their many conflicts but no real information.

At some point or another, the Morr í gan had interacted with all the folkloric heroes. But the encounters were always brief, glossed over, and nondescript. Three goddesses, wicked adversaries, and protectors of the land who transformed into hags or crows and decided the outcome of a battle or foretold someone’s doom.

She read the story about C ú Chulainn’s death with interest. Tricked into eating cursed meat by the Morr í gan disguised as three old women, he was immeasurably weakened. A sorry way to die. An unbeatable warrior, defender of the innocent, taken out by poisoned food.

Though it wouldn’t be fair to say it was the food that killed him. A spear ultimately finished him off, spilling his innards. Even so, he refused to die on the ground and tied himself upright to a stone to face his final foes. None would approach until a crow tripped over his entrails, signaling his demise. Only then did a man come and remove his head.

Fascinating as they were, these ancient fairy tales served no purpose. It was not information Rua could use to better understand her current situation.

That kind of information likely wouldn’t be found in the Harringtons’ library at all. She needed more books like the ones she’d found under Emma’s floorboard.

Rua threw herself on the chair, wondering where Emma had even gotten her hands on the anthology. Perhaps Flossie had given it to her in an attempt to offer her salvation. A book meant to scare her daughter away from the occult, not realizing it was her favorite maid who had introduced her to that world.

Rua sat up as another thought struck her.

Mara.

Already making her way downstairs, Rua hoped Mara hadn’t yet returned from wherever she’d gone. Though if she hadn’t, she would have to be returning soon; she’d been gone for several hours. But if Mara was a Morr í gan enthusiast the way Emma supposedly was, then maybe she too had some paraphernalia hidden in her room.

Rua didn’t think it wise to flat out ask Mara these questions about the Morr í gan. She’d shared her memory loss with her, and while Mara was more than understanding, it made Rua uneasy.

Rua used the back staircase, a regular staircase made of wood and lacquer that was reserved for the staff. Three flights down and Rua was outside the staff sleeping quarters. The walls were white and cold, the hall long and narrow. Apprehensive, Rua walked forward. She hadn’t a clue which room belonged to Mara. And there was no one to ask, because Flossie had all the servants upstairs doing needless tasks.

Rua’s footsteps echoed down the whitewashed hallway. The first room she checked was empty apart from a crucifix hanging between two beds and a slim dresser. She continued her search, quietly shuffling in and out of the servants’ rooms. All of the rooms were like the first, barren save for a few smaller personal items on the dressers. Most notable were the crucifixes, all visible from the door and always shared between two beds—except for one.

Rua walked inside. Above the cot on the left side hung the crucifix. The one on the right had no holy adornments whatsoever.

She thought about Mara’s quick lie about spending time praying with Rua when Flossie had caught her on the floor in her room. Blasphemous, really. None of these devout maids were going to lie about their god to protect Rua. Unless, of course, it wasn’t their god. And she knew Mara worshipped three.

Rua hurried over to the shared dresser, riffling through the limited personal effects. One Bible, a few letters, and one plain gown for each occupant. No Morr í gan accoutrements. There was nothing under the beds either.

Rua sat on what she assumed was Mara’s, thinking about where she could look next. The mattress was terribly thin; the bed frame pushed uncomfortably into the backs of her thighs. She didn’t know how anyone could sleep like this. Curious, she lifted the light mattress and found a journal.

Pulse racing, she took it from its hiding spot and set the mattress back down. She checked the hallway, listening for sounds of anyone coming, but it was silent.

Rua flipped through the pages and found more than half of them filled, scrawled with what she assumed was Mara’s handwriting. She shut the book, feeling like a terrible sneak, and tossed it on the bed.

She was going to put it back where she found it, she swore she was, but the journal landed open to a page with words she couldn’t unsee.

23 May 1870

The Mother was not there today. I have yet to understand her pattern. She comes as she pleases, but I will be there, always, ready to do as she asks. And so I will wait for her direction. She will be pleased to learn that Emma has come around to the idea. She struggles with her mother, her anger driving her away and into the Morrígan’s arms. I do not know what she wants with Emma, but her purpose will be revealed in due time.

Rua flipped over to the next page.

25 May 1870

I have no news from the Mother. I brought Emma to the hellmouth while Mrs. Harrington was away. She was amazed that such a place existed so close to her home. She’s taken her expulsion hard, mostly for the trouble it has caused with her mother. But she’s grown more faithful because of it.

Rua tried not to sensationalize what she’d just read in Mara’s diary, not to make more of something she didn’t understand, but as she reread the passages, she drew the same conclusion. Mara and the Morr í gan had lured Emma into the hellmouth, but why?

She tore through the numerous pages, urgently trying to find August.

31 July 1870

It happens tonight. She’s more excited than I am. Whatever the Mother has in store, our lives will be forever changed.

Rua turned to the next page. The handwriting was frenzied. Tearstains blotted the words.

1 August 1870

I waited for her as long as I could, but the house will be waking soon. I’m sick with worry. And the guilt! What have I done?

She went in good spirits. I don’t know what went wrong. We were able to communicate at first. She told me how dark it was, and cold, but she wasn’t afraid. Brave girl. And then she stopped talking. I called for her over and over, but only my own voice called back.

Oh, I fear I’ve made a grave error. It’s been hours. What have I done?

*

She’s back. She’s back! And unharmed. A little confused but physically unharmed. I should never have doubted the Mother’s intentions.

A door opened down the hall, letting out a long screech. Rua froze, heart pounding, as she listened to cabinet doors opening and closing. “If you can’t find it, Mrs. Smith’ll have you scrubbing the chamber pots.”

Time was up. Rua stuffed the diary back under Mara’s mattress where she’d found it. She could always find a way to sneak back down here, but she would never be able to explain it to Mara if it were caught in her possession.

Besides, she’d found out what she needed to know. All of this was Mara’s doing.

Rua fled down the hall, past the servants rummaging in the storage room, and back upstairs.