A Heart Deceived (14 page)

He locked the door behind him and descended the first set of stairs. At the second, he leaned heavy to the right, brushing up against the wall. The risers didn’t creak nearly so loud on this side, a stealthy path he’d learned to take when wanting to avoid old Mrs. Spankum. The landlady was a shark, and no doubt circling the waters for his overdue rent.

For good measure, he held his breath. Squalling babies behind Fanny Bridges’s door masked any further noise from his footsteps. At the last set, he blew out a big sigh and trotted down the rest. Good thing he’d patted the elephant’s—

“Stop right there, Mr. Thorne.” Mrs. Spankum’s voice was as pleasant as a hack-noted harpsichord.

Nigel gritted his teeth. The old girl blocked the door. There’d be no escaping.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Spankum,” he said. “My, you look so lovely today.”

She frowned, and her chin protruded. White whiskers stood out in defiance. Nigel almost flipped her one of the few coins in his pocket to either find a good barber or buy her own straightedge.

“It’ll be good when you pay up, Thorne.” She held out a hand gnarled by years of work. “Where’s last month’s rent?”

“I—”

“And don’t make up another sob story.”

“Well, I—”

Her fingers closed into a fist. “You’re a leech, Mr. Thorne. A freeloader. A no-good bedbug that sucks the lifeblood from big-hearted people like me. Furthermore—”

Thorne leaned against the wall and waited. Once her insults began, nothing more could be done. The smartest move when caught in a cloudburst was to hunker down and ride out the storm.

She advanced, fist raised. This was new. Did she seriously think he’d let her pop him a good one? “Now, now, Mrs. Spankum, you can’t—”

“Oh, yes, I can, Thorne.” She veered left and pounded on a door. “Sonny!”

Behind it, monster footsteps vibrated the floorboards, way out into the hallway.

The door swung open, the resulting whoosh of air so severe it nearly sucked him in. Buck was a flea in comparison to the horker who filled the doorframe.

“Mr. Thorne, meet my son. He’s come home to help his old mum, ain’t ye, Sonny?”

Sonny’s thick lips smiled at his mother, then flattened at him.

Nigel loosened his collar and slunk for the safety of Mrs. Spankum’s side. He patted her wiry grey hair—what was left of it, anyway. Three pats.

“Dear Mrs. Spankum,” he said. “Happy to meet your, uh … little boy. I shall have that rent to you in no time at all. No time, whatsoever, as a matter of fact.”

“See that you do, Mr. Thorne, or Sonny here”—she reared back and hitched her thumb toward the man—“will help you move out.”

Her gesture opened up just enough space for him to scoot out the front door. Once outside, he drew in a gulp of fresh air and released a shudder. He’d been right about his luck changing.

But not about the direction.

15

Ethan paused just past the break where rectory grounds ambled into scrub brush. He lifted one hand and shielded his eyes, gauging the time. This morning, when he’d crawled out of the stream from his bath, the sun lay low on the opposite horizon. Now it hung well past its zenith. Had he really slept that long?

A leftover yawn stretched his jaw before he tousled his hair, shaking out the remaining bits of leaves he’d lain on. His stomach grumbled, and though he’d likely missed a visit from Miri, perhaps she’d left a plate of food.

But with the thunder of approaching hoofbeats, his hunger pangs faded. He looked up in time to see a black mane and tail streaming as a monstrous bay barreled around the corner of the sanctuary, straight at him.

He jumped aside moments before the riderless horse raced past. Clods of earth flew in the animal’s wake, one nicking him in the shin. At such an insane pace, the beast would run himself to death. A shame, for the raw power in his muscular hindquarters and his leggy gait smacked of thoroughbred ancestry.

Ethan broke into a run and trailed him. If he could keep the horse within sight, mayhap the animal would eventually tire, and he could snag a rein.

Right before forest swallowed field, the horse slowed enough to circle back and swing ’round again. After a few revolutions, the beast stopped. The animal looked to be sixteen or so hands tall and quite fearsome with his nostrils flaring. After a final snort, he dipped his long neck to nip at a patch of newborn shoots.

“Hey now. Easy fella.” Ethan held out his hands as he approached. The horse jerked up his head, twitching his ears but not flattening them. Mayhap this wasn’t such a wild monster after all.

Keeping his movements fluid, Ethan edged closer. He reached to stroke the animal’s neck, hot and slick from the jaunt. “There, now. You’re a fine beauty.”

The horse shied away, and Ethan continued his calm murmurings until he could grab the dangling rein. “Let’s find your master then, eh?”

He grasped the cheek piece of the headstall and led him off. The horse danced and snorted, dampening his shirt with a fine spray. Once past the church, Ethan tugged a little harder and increased his pace.

On the road, not far ahead, a man-sized lump lay like an overturned beetle. Ethan frowned. It would be folly indeed to turn his back on this horse. But neither could he ignore the fellow lying in the dirt. What to do?

He closed the distance and ended up trading headstall for rein in one hand, then extended the other, bracing himself to bear the man up. “You all right?”

After an excessive amount of grunting and gasping, the man stood, gripping Ethan’s arm until his own legs held him. “Many … many thanks … good … man.”

It was a wonder he spoke at all with such wheezing breaths. Ethan retreated to the animal’s side and patted the beast’s neck, allowing the fellow to regain his dignity and his hat. The horse leaned into him, zealous as a woman driven by passion, and he smirked at the sudden affection. “It’s a fine mount, you are.”

“Well …” It was more of a wheeze than a word. The man paused to catch his breath. “I see you’ve a grand touch with horseflesh.”

“Treat them all like ladies, and you’ll ne’er go wrong.” He flashed the man a smile.

“Hah! Truth indeed.” The man brushed dust and dirt from his breeches, then offered his hand. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Ethan complied, surprised at the softness of the fellow’s grip. No wonder he’d lost his mount. “Think naught of it.”

“No, no, I should have been in a sorry mess had you not come along. I am Bishop Fothergill, and you are?”

“Ethan Good—” Should he take the chance of giving his full name?

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Good. You live hereabouts?”

Name dilemma solved, this new question would require a careful answer. He glanced across the field to the shed and back. “I am staying in the area.”

“Oh? A traveler of sorts, then, eh? Lucky for you, your accent speaks well enough of your breeding, though your taste in clothing is …” The bishop stroked his chin, leastwise the fleshy bit that might have been a chin. His eyes skimmed from Ethan’s too-short sleeves to equally shortened breeches. “Unconventional.”

Ethan shrugged as he glanced at his attire. Though ill-fitting, the fabric was in better condition than his own set of clothes. “These are not my garments.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Pausing, the bishop cocked his head. “You offer no explanation?”

“No. None.” Ethan stared him down, a trait he’d perfected as a youth when confronted by his father.

The bishop coughed as if candor was a hair ball to be expelled. “My word, Mr. Good, you are a singular fellow.”

Ethan laughed. “I suppose I’ve been called worse.”

The bishop scratched his shorn head before finally reapplying his hat. “Might I ask if you have a permanent situation? Any commitments?”

Ethan shot him a wary glance. The man asked entirely too many questions. “Not currently.” He handed off the leather rein, deflecting the bishop with a question of his own. “Think you can manage?”

“Actually … no. This rectory is in sore need of management, and so …” Fothergill eyed him. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Good. If you are as useful with your hands as you are with Champion here—”

The horse whickered at the mention of his name, and Fothergill mimicked the way Ethan had patted him. “I would that you consider filling in for the rectory’s hired man, who is down with the rheum. I shall see to your room and board plus a stipend. What say you?”

Ethan’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. Exchange the garden shed for living beneath the same roof as Miri? He glanced at the cloudless sky and gave silent thanks for such an unexpected boon. God was more gracious than he deserved.

“I say yes.”

Miri awoke with a start, remnants of a horrible dream suffocating her. Witherskim. Wedding night. Pale flesh with blue veins. Skinny and cold and touching her in places that ought not be touched—at least by him. A shudder shook her. Breathing heavily, she focused on the pillowcase, which was wrinkled from thrashing about. She must have dozed off a good while ago, judging from the shadows that darkened her chamber. Rubbing her eyes, she calmed her breathing.

But the gasping sound did not stop.

She bolted upright.

Roland stood at the end of her bed, panting. No waistcoat. Shirt ripped. A dark stain spreading from the center of his chest. He held out his hands, fingers glistening in the dusky light—

Blood.

Miri recoiled. Fear, the locked-in-a-dirt-cellar kind, closed in on her, and she sucked in a breath. She reached behind her, feeling for the candlestick on the bedstand, and wrapped her fingers around the cold pewter. Who knew what madness whispered in her brother’s ear?

He sank, and even with the cushioning of a rug, his knees cracked hard against the floor. “Miri.”

Her grip loosened, undone by the use of her pet name. She’d not heard that tone since before the dark days. “Roland?”

He looked at her like a wounded animal. “Help … me.”

All sense of danger fled as her heart broke for the boy-man in front of her. She rushed to him, a flicker of hope gaining intensity that perhaps for once her prayers had been answered. “What happened?”

He opened his mouth, cavernous as if a scream from the pit of hell might emerge, but no sound surfaced.

Grasping his arm, she urged him up. Thankfully he submitted, though his stiff movement suggested rote compliance. She led him to the vanity and poured fresh water from a pitcher into the basin, then thrust in a cloth and wrung it out.

When she spread apart what was left of his shirt, her jaw dropped. Long scratches crisscrossed, layer upon layer, converging in the middle where not much flesh remained—only blood and muscle, raggedy, pooling, like a carcass picked apart by ravens.

Dizzying horror, unlike any she’d experienced, mixed with pity. Despite herself, she felt tears forming in her eyes. “Oh, Roland,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

He whimpered when she set the cloth to his skin, and she recanted of ever wishing him harm. The lump in her throat choked out the comforting trifles she wanted to speak. It was impossible to reconcile the pitiful man in front of her with the phantom recollections that yet haunted her memory. Was this the same man who’d shown off his vestures with such pride to their mother? Or, as a young boy, sat up late with their grandfather, passionately discussing verses?

She rinsed the cloth again and again, each dip further darkening the water. She needed a fresh basin, but dare she leave him? Setting down the cloth, she stepped away. “Sit and wait for me here. I—”

“No!” Roland grabbed her shoulders, forcing her face to him. His whole countenance sagged. “Do not leave, Miri. Please, never leave me. Promise.”

For the smallest of moments, he looked out through clear eyes, a gaze not hardened by the church or trapped behind a veil of insanity. This was the big brother she remembered—the one she and Will sought in the dead of the worst thunderstorms.

The one she’d once loved best.

And as quickly and surely as Will had slipped from her life, the look was gone. Roland released her and stepped back, the sheen of madness covering his features as a death shroud. “I cannot find it. I cannot. I look and look and …” His words faded to mumbling as he shook his head.

Miri covered her mouth, fighting back the tears aroused by that one fleeting glimpse of her brother. Somewhere deep inside he knew, he must know, what was happening to him. So vividly reminded of the brother she’d lost, she rested her hand on his arm and squeezed. “Roland?”

His strength snapped her hold, and he crushed her to him in an embrace. “Shh. Shh.” He stroked the back of her head, his heart beating erratic in his chest.

Fear barreled back, like a seven-fold spirit returning to a swept clean house. Roland could wring the life from her, and who would know? “Let me go.”

“We are powerless against this, Miriall.” His voice rumbled. “Powerless.”

She tried to push away, but his arms tightened.

And for once, she was tempted to agree with him.

16

Nigel positioned himself outside the hanaper’s office at the west end of the Chancery, strategically standing next to the clerk’s tall desk. Like curing a ripe bit of Stilton, a desirable outcome would be all in the timing. As the last of eight bells chimed from the clock on the wall, Nigel began unwrapping the package he held.