Moonless (24 page)

69

Softly 

Reddened flurries of light danced before her eyes. They batted back and forth, shrewd and gnarled. Alexia groaned and forced her eyes closed once more.

Wind tickled at her nose, musty and fetid. Heat grazed her sleeve. She pulled away hard, barely moving. Two forms huddled over her, gruesome faces silhouetted by the warming strains of dawn. One hissed.

Her blood froze.

A series of clicks erupted from the other.

Her heart thumped erratically. Blazing crimson eyes seared into her. She tried to move, but her body would not obey. A weak gasp hit her ears, her own. 

Crunching. Feet approaching over the forest floor . . .

Both shrouds turned.

Her head lolled the direction of the disturbance, bark cutting into her ear.

The shadow creatures rose.

A tunnel of mist whirled into view, not a person, not an animal, nothing but blanketing white. Everything was white.

***

Warmth, humming, the touch of a terry cloth rag . . .

She groaned.

“Hush, young one. Not a sound.” The low feminine voice whispered so kindly that she obeyed and slipped back into slumber. Days passed in and out of consciousness, but when at last she came fully to, Alexia knew an assuring hand wouldn’t be far.

Her eyes fell open to a simple earthy den with wood floors, a guarded fireplace, and very homely furniture. A knotted chair sat next to her, occupied by a porcelain water basin, and a crude table filled the other corner. She vaguely recalled someone coming and going through the two doors on opposite walls, and kneeling next to the mattress beneath her back.

A hinge creaked, and a slender person with braided white hair stepped in.

“My dear is awake!” The woman hurried past her to a kettle warming over the fire.

“Where am I?” Alexia’s voice barely registered. She gasped.

“Ah, none of that now. Eat, and get strong.” Her caretaker dished broth from the kettle and served it on a wooden spoon. Alexia sipped weakly.

If not for the color of her long hair, Alexia might have mistaken the woman’s age for between thirty and forty. Her mouth turned up naturally with full lips but no dimples or wrinkles. Her nose curved with petite grace, and her brows were thin above knowing dark eyes. She wore a finely knitted shawl of carnation pink, hiding a pastel yellow smock—little flowers embroidered so elegantly into the collar Alexia questioned whether queens wore clothing so fine.

“Where am I?” she managed with more volume than before.

“Safe.” Those insistent eyes harbored the truth.

“Who are you?”

“Most call me Ethel.” The woman took up a pair of trousers from a neatly folded stack beside the fire.

“Did you save me?”

Her caretaker paused, picked up a needle, a spool of thread, and lifted the breeches to reveal a tear down the seam. “Found you in the woods. Brought you here to recover.”

“How long?”

Ethel threaded the needle and began to sew with the same even strokes that ornamented her apparel. “Three days, and you have been plagued by the most horrendous fever until this morning.”

Three days! Father would be sick with worry, and Sarah—

No. This was part of the plan. Father was supposed to believe her gone, caught by wolves, and Sarah, if she’d escaped, would feed him the lie. She couldn’t stop her heart from aching for them.

Alexia propped an elbow beneath herself, trying to rise.

Ethel pushed her back on to the bed with no effort. “Rest now.”

“But—”

“I did not revive you to watch your health waste in overexertion.” The woman turned back to her task.

Alexia’s mind whirled. She should be dead now, or Soulless. Something happened in those woods, some miraculous protection—like when Arik saved her from the Soulless near home. He must still be watching over her. Had he intervened in her fate, diverted her course so she landed in the woods, then directed this kindly woman her way?

She groaned. He couldn’t have her dying—not with his own life linked to hers. Her fists tightened, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Why?” she asked. “Why did you save me?”

Ethel placed her own little crimson package in her hand. “Because someone loves you.”

Alexia stared at the puzzle box, grateful it had survived the horrendous journey, astonished it bore no evidence of mud, water or ice. Tears welled in her eyes. She rolled away, trying not to think of how it came to her and the hole in her heart. She would find this weapon and end the conflict. Sarah would have happiness where she could not.

“Do you have a name?” Ethel’s soft words lulled her back toward slumber.

“Christianne,” she murmured the childhood play name, fading into unconsciousness.

***

The days passed slowly on her way to recovery, gradually obtaining permission to sit, even more gradually earning Ethel’s trust to stand.

The woman lived a simple life, sewing for a living, holed up through the winter in her two-room shack. She’d found Alexia on a return trip from town, brought her home, tended to her, mended her ragged dress, fed her when she could eat, sang to her when she thrashed, and tenderly nursed her away from death. Alexia could know no kinder fate.

The hours to recovery went contentedly by, spent in pleasant conversation and consistent education. Ethel taught her how to cook, how to clean the house and clothes, how to mend—all the necessities of survival—laughing with her when she utterly failed at a task. She was the mother Alexia never had.

Ethel finally permitted her to venture a few steps beyond the door, and she gloried in the opportunity. Thick woods encompassed the cottage, an ill-used and frozen road cutting through them. A small well crouched next to the thoroughfare, and beyond that she could see no sign of civilization.

Alexia returned to the warmth of the cottage. “Are we all alone out here? How far away is this town where you obtain employment?”

Ethel smiled. “You should lie down.”

Alexia did.  “Ethel, do you have any family?”

The woman tucked a blanket up around the girl. “Not for a long time.”

“Is that why you helped me?”

Sadness flitted through the woman’s eyes.

Alexia wondered at that. “How long have you lived here alone?”

She laughed. “I am not alone, child,” patting Alexia’s hand, “and neither are you.”

***

A knock rattled off the door. Alexia quit trying to mimic Ethel’s perfect stitches as a gray-headed man peeked in.

“Mr. Hampton, how good of you to look in on us!” The lady of the cottage set her needlework aside.

“Mister Hampton?” Alexia echoed, struck by something familiar about him. The full head of hair maybe, the gentlemanly posture?

“Edward,” he corrected. “And what have we here?” He stepped into the room and closed out the winter chill. His coat fell away to reveal a thin torso, subtly aged skin and ink-stained fingers. He could not have traveled far, not dressed so finely. Alexia’s heart leapt. Had he come from an estate nearby? Perhaps
the
estate?

“She is awake at last! Is it not marvelous?” Ethel exclaimed.

“Aye.” He halted next to the caretaker, blue eyes dancing across the woman’s face. His finely spun sweater bore evidence of her loving skill, and Alexia questioned if he wasn’t more than just a customer.

He turned to her. “Welcome, Miss . . . ?”

“Christianne.”

“Christianne?” he quoted, brows squeezing. He had smiling eyes of a watery blue, a strong chin and creases that suggested frequent laughter. He would have been quite sought after in his prime, and was exceptionally handsome for a man of his age. “Where are you from, young lady?”

“Devonshire.” She grabbed the first location that came to mind, remembering the name of a town imprinted on one of Father’s receipts. “Chagford.”

“Devonshire?” His brows shot up. “What are you doing clear out here?”

“Moving on.” She looked away.

“Christianne of Chagford?” He muttered absently, brows furrowed in concentration. “Who is your nearest of kin?”

Ethel’s head shook.

“An orphan?”He exchanged looks with her caretaker, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “Then no one need be informed of your survival? Friends, an employer, uncle or distant cousin perhaps?”

“No.”

“Hm.” He tapped a thinking finger to his lips.

“Edward?” Ethel asked. “The drawer on my bureau has come loose once more. Could you . . . ?”

“Of course.” He stepped past her into the back chamber. Ethel followed and pulled the door closed, startling Alexia. The woman certainly knew how scandalous this appeared.

She hesitated against the inclination and rebuked herself for it, but tiptoed up to the panel.

“. . . not on any list I recall. This is troubling news indeed.”

“Edward, she is just a child.”

“Even so . . .” He cleared his throat, tone deepening. “Can I see you tonight?”

“Mister Hampton!”

“Tomorrow?”

“She will be healthy soon enough.”

Alexia abandoned her post and sat, gazing at the fire. Not on any list? What was he talking about?

***

Frequent visits, daily ones, ensued from her new friend. He proffered tales of feuding families, locals in jealous encounters, and—as she braced for it—the mystery of a missing lady.

“Caught by the wolves, they say.” His head shook. “Gone two months. They planned a funeral, but Charles Dumont—I have had the pleasure of meeting with him on occasion—does not want to go forward without a body.”

Edward had met her father?

The blood drained from her face. She’d recognized his full head of hair and excellent poise from her very own home. He was her mystery suitor.

Alexia wiped the shock from her face. “How tragic.”

“Yes indeed.” He nodded with a raised brow. “Though there is more. She was to marry a rich young man. A handsome match they say, but it seems his business has been suffering since her disappearance.”

Suppressing a grin, she covered her mouth. “That is terrible.”

“She disappeared about the time you came to us.” Edward smiled his indisputably kind grin, eyes flitting to Ethel. “Must have been several travelers lost in the fog that night.”

***

“Here you are, Christy.” Ethel handed her a basket. “Edward’s favorite. Off you go—east down the road, not far.”

Early afternoon warmed her as she stepped out to deliver Mister Hampton’s surprise. Swinging her basket gaily she sucked in the crisp air. Bright leafy sprouts dotted the trees. Baby birds chirped from their nests. Life pulsed about her, being born again by the seasons. She too was coming alive for the first time—hopeful even—after a winter of death in a new world.

She wondered if Arik was out there, if he watched over her now. She stopped. No. He was fighting a war, one that would not end until she obtained the tool to stop it. Not that it mattered. She would still never be able to with him.

She rounded a bend and gasped. Billowing trees full of pink and white blooms enshrouded the building. The structure curled around a circle drive, cobbled with an inactive fountain at the center. A stone angel knelt at the heart of the fountain, face and hands lifted toward the heavens in offering or prayer.

Her heart sped.

Whitewall meshed into glittering silver stone at the second story, accented by a dark angled roof and railed balconies. Grand mahogany doors waited. She stepped into their shadow, awed by the workmanship. Seraphim guarded the frame, one beginning where the last ended.

The entrance fell open and Edward greeted, “Welcome, Christy!”

A beautiful pattern of dark and lighter wood glistened up at her. A staircase of the same exceptional genius drew her eyes to the top where a stained glass window spilled brilliant pastels in a random pattern.

“But do come in and I will give you the full tour.” Edward winked and tickled the basket about her arm. “And what have we here?”

“What? Oh, this! Ethel sends muffins for you, fresh, or they were when I left.”

His mouth pulled up in a contagious smile. “She is always so considerate. Shall we have one while they are warm?”

He guided her down the left hall, past a study, a drawing room, dining room and into the kitchen. With each door she grew more impressed, not only for the furnishings—grand and simple in elegance, but the brilliant use of windows and light. The house felt cheerier and airier than any she’d entered.

“Meet Nelly. She is our cook, and the best to be sure.”

“Oh, Mister Edward!” The middle-aged woman waved a dismissive hand, dual dimples puncturing her wide cheeks. Red-brown hair plumed in a reserved bun while her small eyes glittered.

Alexia curtsied to the round-faced woman.

A door opened and a scarecrow hunched into the kitchen from outside, pausing in the doorframe. Edward motioned to him. “And this is Miles. He takes care of the barn mostly, but also does the odd jobs.”