House of Furies

  “Because I’m beginning to like you, and because you remind me of someone I knew once. You’re both bold as brass and stubborn to a fault. Not that I should be encouraging these things, but everyone has their weakness.” He stopped a hand’s width from me and pulled something from his cravat. It was a gold pin, shiny and perhaps the size of a shilling, and he offered it to me in his palm. “Or, of course, you could leave.”

  What?

  “You said I couldn’t! You said it was the book keeping me here!” My fingers itched to snatch the pin anyway. Even if this was a trick, I valued freedom more than I valued my dignity in that moment. And if it were true, if I could recover the books from under my bed and take them to trade . . . Only now he stood between me and my room, and the small fortune hiding under the mattress.

  “That’s still true. But these pins have always been used to navigate away from the binding ritual. Even those who bound themselves willingly occasionally needed to do work for us elsewhere, and this is what allows their passage.” He pinched the pin, holding it up, waiting for me to extend my hand.

  And I did. God help me, I did. I wanted to believe it was true, that I really wasn’t tied forever to a place of murder and darkness. Even without the books to sell, I might be free. Coin could come later. The pin fell into my palm, unnaturally warm and unnaturally heavy.

  “Careful; that warding pin belonged to Kit Marlowe. The Catholics didn’t much care for his work for the Unworld. Stabbed in a bar fight, my right foot. He liked to eat and blaspheme. My kind of gentleman.” Mr. Morningside cackled to himself, as if anything he had just said made a lick of sense. “The playwright,” he clarified, arching a brow. “Doctor Faustus? The Jew of Malta? Massacre at Paris? Good Lord, I thought they educated you at that girls’ school.”

  “I know who Christopher Marlowe is,” I muttered, staring at the gleaming pin in my hand. “I simply don’t believe you.”

  “Shall I show you the foot trick again?” He chuckled, watching my expression crumple. “Believe me, Louisa, the pin was his. That I own such a pin and you now hold it is the smallest absurdity and wonder of the Unworld.”

  “Unworld . . . I saw that word in your book,” I said, taking the pin and holding it close. “You’re part of it, and so is Poppy with her screams and Mary with her spells.”

  “Just so.”

  “And this . . .” It still felt ridiculous, but I rolled the pin in my palm, studying it, looking at the small characters stamped into the gold and the serpent emblem behind the phrase. “I am Wrath.”

  Mr. Morningside’s smile deepened, a faraway look misting his eyes. “That’s from Doctor Faustus. Quite proud of that speech—even let Marlowe use it for free. Well, for an ale, but that seems a cheap price, all told.”

  “You’re having me on,” I murmured, fastening the pin to my apron and feeling its weight more keenly. “You . . . You must be, yes? How old are you?”

  “Still so full of questions even as you hold the key to your freedom.” He sidestepped the question with a wink, eyes flitting to the door behind me and all that it symbolized. Then Mr. Morningside leaned in, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my chin. “But what will you do? I thought your new friend was innocent. Will you stay to prove as much or take this gift and never look back?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I ran. Hard. Fast. Testing my legs. Testing my strength. I am not proud of it, but God help me, I ran.

  In that moment I flew. I flew out the door, between the topiaries, over the paving stones, across the lawn. Books forgotten, murder forgotten, Lee forgotten. Running farther, harder, faster, ignoring the stitch in my side and the twinge in my wrist as I pumped my arms, abandoning all dignity for the chance to escape. And the rush of excitement carried me far—far beyond the drive and the fence. The fence! I ran right past it, feeling no pain at all. Nothing and no one stopped me.

  Nothing until I was perhaps a mile down the road, retracing the path I had taken to arrive at Coldthistle House just a scant few days ago. It felt like a lifetime had gone by, and more than that, it felt like so much had changed. I had changed. When the manse was simply a looming silhouette in the distance behind me, I slowed down and then walked, drinking deeply of the crisp, cool air.

  I thought your new friend was innocent.

  No . . . I had to push Henry Morningside’s words out of my head. In fact, I had to shove his entire existence and memory out of my mind. My fingers, still scarred from touching the book in the attic, brushed the cravat pin stuck to my apron. I didn’t dare remove it, afraid that without it the pain would come back. Must I wear it forever now? What would happen if it were stolen or lost?

  Such thoughts—such doubts—must be eradicated along with all remembrance of Coldthistle House. What I had seen, I had not really seen. What I had felt was just the work of an overly enthusiastic imagination. What I had read was silly falsehood, a collection of dark madness written by a lunatic. None of it was real. It couldn’t be. If it were, I would remember and I would hurt, and I would think of Lee’s kind face as he said, “I believe you.”

  The clouds hung low above me, the terrible winds of yesterday now just a gentle breeze that ruffled my skirts and the long grass beside the road. I would not turn back, not now, not when I had this one chance to go. I would be better. I would be good. I would find some way to travel to America and start fresh, where not even the shadow of this place could linger in my mind. Distance would do the trick.

  And so I walked. Midday came on, warming the fields. Nobody traveled the road, and the solitude felt wonderful. I wrapped my arms around myself and marched like a prisoner out of her cell.

  . . . He belongs here and he will meet his end here; that is all but woven into the tapestry of fate.

  I shut my eyes tightly, scolding myself for letting that monster’s words creep back into my skull. And if he was right? If Lee’s death was certain, then what could I do? How could I possibly prove what a crofter did or did not bake, or what nuts were or were not used with intent to kill? This was, firstly, none of my affair and, secondly, far outside my ability to settle.

  Yet you didn’t tell him everything, did you? You didn’t tell him he, too, was marked for death.

  None of my affair. Not my spill to clean up. I walked on, determined, trying to think instead of what I would do now that I had escaped. Food and shelter had to come first, but I was still a long way from Malton. I veered off into the fields, hopping the nearest fence, and followed the curve of the hill until it dipped back down into a shallow valley thick with violets. If I looked back I would see Coldthistle, and so I stubbornly turned my head away from it, traveling diagonally toward another rise in the landscape and what appeared to be a tiny cottage perched upon it.

  As I neared, I watched a giant herd of sheep roll in from the far side of the cottage. They swarmed the house, kept in a near perfect circle by a dog nipping at their perimeter. The barking and bleating were almost soothing, a sweet pastoral counterpoint to the nightmare I had been living.

  Then I saw the cloud.

  Never had I seen a cloud so dark and dense before, and I stilled, watching it gather speed and size as it roared above me, all but filling the sky. Unnatural and black, it headed directly for me, coming from the direction of Coldthistle. And as it lowered itself, diving down, furious with sound and falling feathers, I realized it was not a cloud at all but a horrible mass of crows. The noise was unbearable, thousands of shrieking, cawing creatures swooping toward my head. They gained speed, making one pass and circling over the cottage, turning, making a wide circle as they prepared to dive at me from behind.

  I ran again, just as hard this time, pelting toward the cottage, saying a desperate prayer under my breath, pleading with powers greater than beasts and birds for the strength to outrun this menace. Bits of black feather rained down on me as they took another pass, so near now that I felt the beating of their wings on my head as they dived. One pecked my hair, pulling out a few strands painfully.
Another stabbed at my ear, and I screamed, throwing my arms over my head, sobbing, knowing their next attempt would be the last.

  How would it feel to be killed by a thousand crows? Pecked and shredded to ribbons like carrion long dead on the road. . . .

  They were coming back around, but now I was so close to the cottage. The sheep dispersed in an explosion of woolly bodies, their bleats suddenly panicked as I charged through the herd. The dog yapped excitedly at my heels, then disappeared. As I careered toward the cottage door, I heard the beast turn and bark furiously at the birds.

  I slammed hard into the door. It was made of sturdy wood, but it creaked from the impact. Locked. My fists pounded and pounded, sweat pouring down my neck and forehead as I glanced behind one last time to see the crows descending, flattening into a black, murderous spear.

  “Let me in!”

  They were coming, so close, so focused . . .

  “Please, I beg of you! Let me in!”

  I braced, knowing the rip and tear of a hundred hungry beaks would be upon me. The sheep had scattered. The dog placed itself in front of me as if to take the blow. Then I was soaring backward, tumbling into something soft and warm before the door slammed shut, protecting me.

  The sound that came next was awful. I shook, listening to the birds not quick enough to change course crash into the wood. Some stuck like arrows in a target; others screamed before falling dead to the dirt.

  “Not your birds, I reckon?”

  Slowly, I picked myself up from the floor, still trembling and breathless. A snowy-haired man and a young woman watched me from the safety of a fire, their dog sniffing the door and then me curiously.

  “N-No, not mine. You saved my life,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  “Oh no, thank you, my dear. Our pot will be full with those meaty buggers for a week,” the old man said with a dark laugh. “Now sit, why don’t you, and have a spot of ale. Yes, you’ll sit and you’ll tell us who you are and what business you have bringing ill omens to our door.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The ale was strong and bitter and fortifying as it went down. I gulped it, perhaps greedily, both hands clamped tightly around the earthenware cup. All the while, I drew deeper inside myself, feeling crushed by the weight of their staring.

  “I’m so sorry to trouble you.” It was the third time in as many minutes that I had offered an apology. “I don’t . . . I don’t know how such a thing can happen.”

  Already I had told them my name but without telling them about the horrors of Coldthistle House, I could not tell them the truth and still expect to receive anything resembling hospitality.

  “Strange occurrences all the time ’round here,” the old man said. He hadn’t given his own name, but there was something in his voice and his demeanor that made me want to trust him; he looked the way a kindly grandfather ought to, round-faced and soft, with wrinkled eyelids from smiling often. And I could hardly think ill of a person who saved me from a dreadful fate. It was then, with his face lit in yellows and golds by the fire, that I could see the film over his eyes. Blind. The speckled, furry Shetland sheepdog had gone to sit at his master’s feet, and the man kept one hand always on the hound’s head as if for guidance.

  “Once the entire west field lay covered in those blasted crows. Couldn’t sleep for the bloody racket they made. Next morning there was only a circle of them left, and not a one of them living.”

  “He says you grow accustomed to it,” the girl said with a shrug. “But I don’t think I ever will.”

  Her name was Joanna. She had given me the ale and a moistened cloth to clean the blood off my ear from where the bird had pierced the skin. She now sat next to the old man—who I assumed was her father or grandfather—dressed in sensible flannels, a long skirt, and worn boots. A chunky shawl the color of porridge was draped around her narrow shoulders. Her straw-blonde hair was plaited neatly in one braid over her shoulder.

  “You’ve seen things like that before?” My ale was nearly gone, and I slowed down to savor the last few sips.

  The old man nodded. He was dressed in typical shepherd’s fashion, with a soft brimmed cap worn low over his eyes. “Strange omens, though we seem to get on all—”

  “They say the Devil himself lives at Coldthistle House!” Joanna blurted out. She shrank when the old man snorted. “What? Swinton to Wykeham they say it. Circles of crows in the west field, serpents bubbling up under your feet in the vegetable garden, and last autumn half the pasture was naught but nightshade!”

  The blind shepherd cleared his throat, turning his head toward the girl, and she fell quiet, looking down at her hands in her lap. “I only say it to warn her, Father. For no other reason.”

  “I know it, child, but she is already frightened enough. We aren’t yet acquainted, are we? Perhaps she is not in need of a warning.”

  “Oh . . . Oh, indeed, I see what you mean. Did you come from there?” Joanna hopped up, hurrying to the pantry and fetching the carafe of ale. She filled my cup and then poured one for herself, sitting closer. She didn’t seem to heed the little grunts of dissatisfaction her father gave. She propped her chin on her palm and leaned in, whispering, “Did you see him?”

  Him. The Devil. She of course meant Mr. Morningside. The ale did not go down so easily on my next swallow. Surely, I had seen him, but could he really be called the Devil? And given all his evil and strangeness, would I want to risk associating myself with him in front of my hosts? I managed a queasy smile, swirling the ale in my cup.

  “It’s . . . true I came from there, but I had no dealings with the proprietor.” What to say? And how much? “I went to take up employment as a maid, but I found the conditions untenable.”

  “They beat you?” the man asked. Some of the tension in his face had lifted, but his daughter remained the kinder of the two.

  “No, nothing like that,” I said. He could not see the bandage on my wrist, but surely his daughter could. Perhaps I could win their sympathy and subsequently their aid. It never hurt to be pitied. “I escaped such a place. A school, Pitney; perhaps you have heard of it? They favored mortification of the flesh as a means of punishment. I hoped never to return, but now I find myself utterly lost.”

  The blind man stood, and, hand still clutched in the dog’s fur, made his way to the fire to stoke it. “Will they come looking for you?”

  “Who?” I asked softly.

  “Take your pick, dear,” he said with a dark laugh. “The school or the folk at Coldthistle. You can stay the night and collect yourself, but I’ll not endanger Joanna nor my flock.”

  “Father, she is half dead with fright and injured! You will be in danger from me if you turn out this poor lamb now,” the girl said. She shot a cross look at his back.

  “I can make myself useful,” I murmured. “There is no need for charity.”

  “Nonsense! Of course there is a need!” Joanna jumped up again and hurried over to her father, touching a small hand to his shoulder. “He is a good man, my father, only he worries that people take advantage when you intervene in their lives. Indeed, he was softer once and can be again; it simply requires a nudge or two from me.”

  “That’s enough of your nudging,” he grumbled, but when he laughed it was lighter. Sweeter. I could not place their accents. Certainly they were not locals. A simple shepherd’s family would speak with a stronger Yorkshire lilt. “I can speak for myself, child, and speak I will.”

  Sighing, but only half seriously, he turned at the hip and looked in my direction. For a moment, it felt as if he could really see me sitting there. “You can stay, but I must wonder—are you really all alone in this world? Have you nowhere to go? No family? No friends?”

  Lee’s name stuck like a burr in my throat.

  I stared down into my ale again, and Joanna drifted from the fireside to my own, taking my good wrist lightly and squeezing. “There, now, no need to be shy. It was an honest question, and not meant in malice I’m sure.”

 
“My grandparents bought my place at that infernal school so they could be rid of me. There was . . . one person who was kind to me, I know not if I could call him a friend . . .” You could, but then the guilt would be too much. “But there is little he can do now, and I am on my own. I do not seek pity. It is a fact that does not frighten me.”

  “Oh, but it should.” The shepherd squinted at me, and I froze, aware suddenly that I was blindly trusting these folk when such mistakes in the past had cost me dearly. Had not Coldthistle seemed like a blessing at first, too? I pulled my hand from the girl’s grip, but the man simply smiled at us. “A sheep far from the flock is vulnerable. Should be brought back in where it’s safe. A solitary life is a meal for wolves.”

  “That is not our business, Father,” Joanna scolded softly. “And here, you cannot see, but she has a lovely gold pin! It could be bartered for passage, I’m sure. Surely it would get you as far as London and a modest room.”

  I reached instinctively for the pin, closing my fist around it. “No, this pin has . . . It . . . Well, you see, it has sentimental value. I cannot be parted from it.”

  “Joanna.” The man let go of the dog, turning and facing us directly. “Big Earl needs feeding. Take him out, will you? There’s a lamb’s knuckle in the smoking shed for him.”

  He was deliberately sending her away, and I braced, knowing whatever came next would not be good. I eyed the door, ready to bolt, watching as the young woman pursed her lips in frustration and whistled, the dog snapping to attention and following her out the door. After it closed, I could hear her kicking aside the corpses of dead birds.

  “I’ll go,” I volunteered, standing. “I’ve obviously trespassed on your kindness.”

  “The offer to stay the night still stands, dear,” he said. He took a few careful steps toward me, finding the table and holding it for balance. “But we’ve not the space or means for another child here. I took Joanna in after her mother met her God, and I would never call her a burden, but this is a humble trade with humble earnings.” Then he paused and lowered his head, and again it felt as if he could regard me clearly through his blindness. “She said you wear a gold pin . . .”