Alice, The Player (Serenity House Book 3) Page 4

  "I thought this would be more intimate. No need to shout at each other from the ridiculously large dining room table. It has quite the echo in there, too—frightful room, really." He grinned and claimed another piece of my heart.

  Seth was good company. We spoke about books we had read, the new talking pictures, and for once, never mentioned vermin or slaying. Warrens was a discreet third occupant of the library. He cleared dishes away silently and then waited by the door.

  After dessert, the duke rose from his chair and walked around the table. He pulled out my chair as I stood. I wasn't used to this treatment; in the course of an ordinary day I did everything for myself. Being waited on and courted could go to a girl's head. It made one feel special, as though spun glass lay underfoot and the stars floated overhead.

  If I reached for such heights, surely I would be thrown back to Earth and shatter on the hard ground?

  "What would you like to do now?" Seth asked.

  Hunger flared behind his eyes and goose bumps raced along my arms. He could devour me? No, that probably wasn't what polite company did for entertainment. Play the piano? Listen to records? Read poetry to each other?

  I stared at the ornate ceiling and an idea struck. "I want the haunted house tour."

  Seth laughed. "The haunted house tour? What is that?"

  For months during the war and then the pandemic, I worked at Serenity House, but I always trod the same path. From the kitchens to the ballroom and out to the laundry. Sometimes a few of us would try to explore farther, but some serious footman would shoo us away. Or Warrens would spot us and raise one eyebrow, and we knew the game was up. I wanted to see more of the house, to peer behind its panelling and find its secrets.

  "That's when we take a candelabra, prowl around the unused areas of the house, and you point out paintings of ancestors with scandalous pasts and where ghosts have been seen walking through the walls." Would he agree or would he find the idea of peering into long-sealed closets gauche?

  His eyes sparkled as he considered the idea. "Ghosts, you say? You'll need to stay very, very close then. So I can protect you on our great exploration."

  Bless the man for humouring me. Warrens lit a three-arm candelabrum and suggested starting in the north wing, which had lain unopened for some years. Seth led me back through the main part of the house and along a corridor. Then he paused and rested one hand on the panelled wall.

  "Ready to see one of Serenity House's secrets?"

  I wasn't sure why he stopped there to ask, but I nodded, eager for our ghost hunt to start.

  He leaned on the wall, and with a creak, a section of the panelling swung open.

  "Oh, I say," I whispered. Beyond appeared another stretch of hallway, but this one opened out to a staircase.

  He waved the candles through, throwing shadows before he followed. "I think my grandfather had the secret door installed. Out of sight, out of mind."

  Crikey. There must be some monster-sized skeletons rattling around in this closet if they occupied an entire wing. Seth led the way and the panelling closed with a whispered snap behind us. We were alone with his ancestors.

  And a rather insufficient amount of light.

  My fingers curled tighter against his.

  "Scared?" he whispered as he drew me closer to his side and the small circle of light thrown by the candles.

  "Of course not." Well, just a smidge, but Elizabeth and a vermin horde couldn't make me admit it.

  I pictured the women in enormous dresses who surely once glided up and down the wide, sweeping stairs. Ornately-carved balustrades ended with griffins, their wings folded back against their bodies. I rubbed the warm wood of one's head as we took the steps upward into the murk and gloom.

  "This is the original part of the house," Seth said as we walked along a seemingly-endless corridor. The candles only threw enough light to see a few feet around us, and the dark panelling on the walls seemed to absorb any flickers that touched its surface.

  "Built in the sixteenth century, I believe, and renovated and rebuilt a few times over the centuries, but has been untouched since Victoria came to the throne." He paused at a painting and held the candelabra up to show the dour face of a man wearing plain black clothes, like those of the puritans.

  "He looks rather grumpy." The man in the portrait had a long thin nose and a receding hairline. He glared as though he wished the painter would hurry up.

  "Some great uncle many times over who thought his brother, the then-duke, was rather profligate. So his portrait was banished to this part of the house."

  "Why is it closed up?" A chill washed over my skin. There was something eerie about the abandoned rooms and empty hall, perhaps the absence of cobwebs. If no one wandered this wing, who cleaned out all the spiders?

  "The staff have never liked this wing. Too many unexplained noises. I believe it was shut up last century by grandfather."

  We walked farther down the hall. Seth rattled a door handle, but the door was locked. My mind ran in numerous directions—was the door locked from the inside or the outside? Would we find Elizabeth in an empty suite, setting up her new empire?

  The next door he tried swung open to reveal a room full of ghostly shapes. Pale sheets covered the furniture, but yet again the floor and corners of the ceiling were clear of any spiders that should have lurked in the dark silence.

  "Who cleans the rooms?" I asked. What poor soul had to trek around here, feather duster in hand?

  "No one." He closed the door and we both seemed to walk on the balls of our feet, for we made not a sound. Seth paused at another painting, one that made me clutch his hand tighter.

  The woman in the painting seemed to be in her middle years, perhaps about forty. She had arresting features with angular cheekbones and jaw. From a high widow's peak tumbled pitch-black tresses. She seemed to have black eyes, with no distinction between iris and pupil. A dress of blood red velvet clung to her body, and on her outstretched hand sat a raven.

  "I didn't know you had witches in the family," I muttered.

  He chuckled. "Millicent deMage. The first Duchess of Leithfield, and yes, supposedly a witch. Imposing woman from what I understand, and the raven was a pet. The first duke built the house just for her in the late fifteen hundreds."

  "What do you mean just for her?"

  "He distinguished himself for Elizabeth I and was rewarded with the dukedom. He cast around for a suitably noble bride and decided on Millicent. The family story is that when he proposed, Millicent said she would only wed him if he built her a grand home. She led him to a particular spot and etched out lines in the grass, telling him that was to be her suite. He complied and they married when the house was completed in 1580." Seth's gaze remained fixed on the woman. Or did she capture his gaze and refuse to surrender it?

  And I thought Elizabeth and Louise were demanding. I couldn't imagine telling a bloke who fancied me he had to build a posh house before I would entertain his suit. But then, I found joy in far simpler things. Like a man who set out dinner in the library.

  "Is she why the staff won't venture in here to clean? Are they too afraid to pass her portrait in case she reaches out for them?" I only said the words in half-jest. The artist had captured a darkness in her eyes that, combined with soul piercing stare of the raven, made a shiver work down my spine. Millicent deMage looked like the sort of person I would never want to meet, but she'd probably make a fabulous friend for Elizabeth. Or the two women would tear each other apart, which would solve my current problem.

  "There is so much about my family and this house I don't understand. Perhaps it is Millicent, reaching out beyond the grave. Legend says she killed her husband by witchcraft once she bore him an heir. In this wing, things move when you are not looking, shapes appear and disappear on the walls, and knocking echoes in the halls. Staff blame Millicent. Over the years, many have investigated, and some believe where the house has been built is the problem."

  "How can the house's location cause s
uch things? Especially if Millicent picked the spot?" I wanted to walk away from Millicent, but strangely I was reluctant to either turn my back on her or move the light. Would she scuttle from the painting if the candle no longer lit her face? Whispers of witch ran over my skin and raised goose bumps.

  "Have you heard of fairy paths?" He broke eye contact with Millicent and turned to look at me.

  Before she died, mother would tell me the oral histories of England and the things that most people didn't understand. "Yes, they are the roads the fae take. They’re supposed to connect hilltops around the countryside."

  He nodded. "It was considered dangerous or, at least unwise, to walk on those paths during certain days because the wayward traveller might come upon a parade of fairies who would not take kindly to the human interruption."

  "Are you trying to tell me the little folk are upset because Millicent chose to build Serenity House on a fairy trail?"

  "Something like that, but it runs far deeper." The smiled dropped from his face and he stared at the painting. "There is another tradition, known as death roads. They were the paths that funerary processions took. There is talk in both the scientific and occult communities that the two concepts may be related in a thing known as spirit lines or ley lines. Spirit lines are invisible, and are viewed as 'tracks' or 'paths' for the movement of the spirits. Serenity House sits on a crossed point of two spirit lines."

  My feet froze and a part of my brain went into overload, Seth's words stirring up memories of fairytales my mother told. Something in his concept pulled at an ancient truth that may have been relevant to our current predicament.

  "Death roads." I whispered the words and the corridor shuddered, or so it seemed. Perhaps Millicent was a witch if she chose their intersection for her home. The idea was an itch in my mind that I needed to scratch. "What if the Turned tread the same paths as they follow their queen's call?"

  Seth stared at me for a moment as though I had gone insane, then he let out a low whistle that the old part of the house threw back as a soft moan and creak. "Your mind makes extraordinary leaps."

  At least the low light covered my blush. I didn't think it was extraordinary; vermin were always on my mind, and mention of death roads seemed to overlay my thoughts. "Is there any way to know where these death roads run?"

  "There are two men who have researched the concept. Alfred Watkins is an archaeologist and is connecting ancient monuments like Stonehenge. The other is Norman Lockyer, an astronomer, although he is very old and frail now."

  I wasn't the only one making leaps and grasping at concepts. "How do you know of these things?"

  "I don't just read a racing form or the cricket scores, you know. I have quite an interest in astrology, although my parents thought it no fit pursuit for a duke."

  I knew so little about this man, every turn held a surprise.

  "Let's head back to the library. I may have a book that will give us a starting point."

  Yes. Let's leave Millicent and her raven behind. But as we walked away, I had the distinct feeling she craned her neck to make sure we left.

  5

  That night, even as I settled under the blankets safe in my room, Millicent deMage's black gaze was etched into my mind. Whenever I closed my eyes she was there, staring, often with Elizabeth at her side. Two evil women whispered of secrets only they knew and taunted me with their superior knowledge. The idea of Millicent being a witch layered over my troubled thoughts as I tried to discern meaning in the war we fought.

  At least I had plenty to occupy my daylight hours. The grandfather clock marked off the hours that turned into days as I worked at Seth's side at Serenity House, while Henry and Alice kept the farm running. Father improved daily and now joined us for meals. I worked my way through the mountain of information being sent in from around Southeast England. Every small town, village, and parish had bundled up their sad history and sent it to us.

  But eating at me every day was the constant waiting, and inactivity seemed to have consumed my life.

  We waited for Elizabeth to turn.

  We waited for the new queen to establish her hive.

  We waited for the vermin to strike.

  I shut the journal I was reading and tossed it at the wall.

  "Steady on. What has the book done to you?" Seth looked up from his desk at the far end of the room, one eyebrow arched.

  "Sorry," I muttered. The book fell to the floor and lay there. Closed. It wasn't as if the binding had broken and I scattered loose pages everywhere. From Seth's reaction, you would think I lobbed a live grenade into the conservatory and splattered cactus around the walls.

  Reaching out one hand, I picked up the book and patted its cover, asking for its forgiveness for my grievous crime. "I'm not good at sitting around doing nothing while we simply wait for Elizabeth to pounce on us. How many lives will my stupidity cost?"

  There was what really gnawed at my insides. Although Seth painted it as a way to learn more about the vermin, every day she was out there meant the people of Somerset were at risk.

  "Oh, Ella." Seth rose from his desk and walked across to where I sat on the floor. He held out a hand to me, and I placed mine in his. "You need to stop blaming yourself."

  Seth dragged me up his body and a delicious shudder ran down my spine. Lieutenant Bain was out on patrol, so for once, I could steal a kiss in the duke's war room. His lips slid over mine and I sighed. My arms wrapped around his neck so I could press up into the kiss. The man made my knees go weak, and each time he touched me, the heat inside me built faster and burned hotter. The thought of giving myself to him wasn't causing the moral dilemma society said it should. Already condemned as the village slayer, I may as well add fallen woman to my sins and enjoy what time we had.

  But I held back. Was I ready to take that final step? What if I did it wrong? I wished Alice wouldn't play so coy on what she and Frank got up to. A girl needed intelligence to plan her actions.

  Seth broke the kiss and rested his forehead on mine. The simple fact of his arms around me dispelled some of the tension and worry running rampant through my body.

  "You're somewhat distracted," he said.

  "I'm hoping Elizabeth does something before the waiting drives me mad." My fingers played with short strands of hair at his nape. What would he look like with it longer? He'd be like one of those desperately romantic poets with sultry eyes, who were followed around by swooning women.

  He mimicked my actions and brushed a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. "We had to master waiting on the front. The enemy would rain shells on us while we were trapped in the trenches. Nobody was allowed to move until some officer, safe in his office in London, gave the order by telephone."

  Our poor lads. They battled an enemy for years and then when they came home for peace, a new enemy rose up from the ground. The Great War waged in Europe became the Grim War fought the world over. "I guess having you to kiss makes it slightly more bearable. How goes the research into ley lines?"

  He smiled and I could have sworn his eyes went misty. "I am having a fascinating correspondence with Norman Lockyer. I thought he might be too elderly to respond to my letters, but the investigation seems to have invigorated him."

  Seth walked to the table and flicked through the array of papers on the surface. He extracted a sheet with a map of Somerset on it. "He is drawing me a map of ley lines crossing England, based on his astrological observations. When it is complete, I will add it to our topographical map. Every little bit helps in trying to find where Elizabeth will form her hive."

  "What do you think of the newspaper articles linking Aleister Crowley and his Satanists as possible instigators of the Grim War?" I was curious what Seth made of the stories. He viewed the war from a different angle than I did and saw things I did not. Even before the war, Aleister Crowley had cast a sinister shadow across England with his dark rites.

  Seth scowled and then erased his disapproval by rubbing a hand over his face. "I’ve read of his
claims that the followers of his sect are protected from the pandemic. In the minds of some, their supposed immunity gives credence to the idea that the Turned are minions of Satan."

  "But do you give it any weight?" Could that man's Satanic beliefs have had a role to play in the war raging around the globe? What if the vermin plague had a supernatural origin, rather than a scientific one? I scoffed at the notion, but I still devoured newspaper articles on the subject. More and more people called for an explanation, wanting to know about the enemy we faced. A vocal and fervent sect believed the war was a test of our faith, that the Turned were demons sent to corrupt our souls. It was an academic question for me, since my soul was already sacrificed by the slaying I undertook.

  Seth huffed. "I think there will be a rational, scientific explanation to what animates the Turned, not superstition and nonsense. Doctors and scientists have worked to refute the evangelical claims and have shown how viruses and infection spread."

  "But no one has yet answered the fundamental questions—where did this plague spring from and how did it animate the dead? And here we are, researching fairy roads and ley lines. How do you reconcile the two view points?" Could you pick and choose what superstitious ideas you believed and which were mere fairytales?

  "They have a basis in history and astronomy. Things we can study and prove." Seth stroked the side of my face and worry lined his brow. "I think you have been staring at Millicent's portrait and exercising that enormous imagination of yours too much."

  I leaned into his palm. His touch soothed my manic thoughts. "I don't like co-incidences, and there are too many things that scratch at me to be connected."

  Perhaps overthinking was my problem; I itched to do something more physical than shuffle paper. To feel my muscles burn as I fought a horde of vermin, or to ride hard as we chased one across open fields. It wasn't just the waiting that made me fidget, but all the sitting around on my backside.