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The road that became Main Street through Blankston connected the farmlands with the hilly forests. The farmlands stretched on for miles to the south. One could walk for hours, and see only wheat. To the north, the road split in two; west led through Braichlie Wood, east to Felltown. At the jointure of these smaller roads was Blank Manor. It sat on several acres of treed property, in the shadow of something too small to be a mountain, but a little too tall to be a hill.
A grand black iron gate led straight off the main road. Marigold ducked through the inset meant for pedestrians and conscientiously latched it behind her. It was a windy evening, though overcast. A few grey leaves flickered past her as she walked up the path to the house. She passed a large, well-tended garden; an abandoned horse shed and paddock; a similarly run-down well. The house itself was huge, at least three stories, though it was hard to say for sure as pieces had been added and taken out over the course of centuries. All of it was painted robin’s egg blue; this did nothing to hide the fact that some of it was brick, some wood, even some castle-like stone, it seemed, in one high corner.
The front doors were huge blocks of carved mahogany, almost black when compared to the pale blue. They were so polished she could see her movements in them as she reached for the bell pull. Marigold heard the jingle as if from miles away; the thickness of the doors blocked out most sound. That was why she jumped when one of them opened, having been unable to hear the footsteps behind it.
His lordship himself answered the door. She realized, as he stood before her in his housecoat, that she had never seen him without his hat on. In candlelit pubs, in moonlit barns, through a distant crowd, it was difficult to gauge the colour of his hair. She learned, now, that it was dark carroty orange. Down to his stubble. Down to his eyebrows, even. Down to his chest hair, she saw, peeking out of his pajama collar.
“Oh my, I-I’m sorry,” said Marigold. “I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.”
Sir Roger smiled at her, and opened the door wider.
“I wouldn’t have answered if I minded, my dear. Please, don’t stay out in the cold!”
She creeped in past him. He shut the door on the wind.
The front hall was huge and open, forming one gigantic space with the parlour beyond, which was framed by a wide arch. Marigold could have stood on her own shoulders twice again, and not been able to touch the roof. A massive chandelier hung precariously over the shining parquet floor.
“Please,” said Sir Roger, “this way.” She noticed that he kept one hand hovering near her waist as he showed her into the parlour. The massive fireplace, facing the door, was crackling merrily. There were chaises longues and armchairs scattered about, most in gaudy coloured patterns, spreading like a baroque fungus. One of the armchairs closest the fire had a steaming mug of something white and hot on its end table, next to an aggressively crystal candy dish. Roger took up this chair, and invited Marigold to its twin opposite. She sat at an angle to him, facing the fire as much as possible.
“May I offer you a drink, Marigold? Coffee, tea? Hot rum?”
“No, thank you. Not right now.”
She tried to look at him, but found she couldn’t sustain it. She looked down at her hands, instead. Sir Roger settled his piping hot mug into his lap.
“So,” he began, “I take it you’ve made up your mind?”
“In a way,” sighed Marigold. “I feel like I’ve had it made up for me. I’m not sure about anything in my life, right now, except that a tossed coin in hand is worth two in the air. So, if your offer is still good, I have to take it, I think.”
Sir Roger grimaced. “Please, Marigold, let’s not get too enthusiastic.”
She stared into the fire, eyes bright and shining.
“I don’t want you to feel forced,” he continued. “That was never my intention. I just thought it would be nice to offer you some stability, especially since you lost it through no fault of your own. But of course, if you want to find it yourself, I won’t think you strange.”
Marigold took another moment to gather her thoughts, wishing she had asked for tea.
“I don’t know, is the thing. I don’t know where I might find stability, or even what it looks like anymore. I don’t know if I can trust you or if it’s all some ruse to have me thrown in Seagate, and I don’t know how I could stop it if it is.”
Sir Roger opened his mouth to protest, caught her eye, and let her continue.
“I do know,” she sighed, “that you were right. I don’t like taking advantage of Mr. Arbroagh’s kindness. I know that there’s a job right here in front of me that needs doing, and if there’s one thing a witch does it’s the job in front of her. Even an apprentice,” she added modestly, studying her hands. When she looked up again, Sir Roger was gazing over her left shoulder, much as Mr. Arbroagh had studied him last night. His expression was hard to read. He looked back at Marigold in an instant. She turned to follow his line of sight; only a doorway.
“Well said,” he commended, attracting her attention once more. Sure that he had it, utterly and fully, he continued. “This is not a ruse, Marigold. If the inquisitors wanted you locked up, you would be already. This is simply a rich fool trying to make amends for the disruption of a young lady’s life and career.”
She knew it was true. The council did not waste time once they had the scent of someone even slightly resembling a witch. Either something had thrown them off her trail, or they’d never had it to begin with. Still sitting sideways, she narrowed her eyes at him.
“May I ask,” she began quietly, “what kind of amends you had in mind?”
Sir Roger nodded his approval. “The question that truly matters. Five guilders a week.”
Marigold kept her mouth from going slack, but she couldn’t stop her eyes widening.
“Five?” she breathed.
“Guilders a week,” he agreed. “Room and board included, of course.”
“Just for scullery?”
“I told you I was rich fool.”
It had been the voice’s idea, not his, and as a result he didn’t know what to do next. She’d eaten the stew, all of it, and was fast asleep on her cot. He stared at her through the bars, through the shadows.
“I still don’t understand,” he murmured.
Trust? came the reply. David didn’t, particularly, but he considered the question all the same. He’d already followed its orders without knowing who, or what, it was. That was some form of trust, wasn’t it?
His face twisted as the pain started to seep back into his brain, down his neck, into his chest. The voice had warmed him, even in that damp cold castle; as the tension returned, the temperature dropped.
Trust.
It was an order, this time. She had mouthed off. She was going to tell. There was no choice. David opened her cell door as quietly as he could. His keys, though he clamped them together with one hand while the other turned the ring, bonged softly in his palm. The lock squealed in time with the slow rotation. The hinges made similar protest as he opened the cell and slipped in. She would have woken at this, anyone would have, had they not had a hefty dose of St. Frida’s Wort. David stood in the open doorway, staring, listening to the painful pulse in his ears.
Patrols, reminded the voice. Hurry.
They’d been told to hurry, as much as was safe in that charred wasteland. Find any survivors and give a blast on the whistle when they did. Splitting up was insane with so many unknowns, he remembered thinking that much, but he was there to take orders, not to make them.
Dress.
Still in the dark, David stared.
Rip, supplied the voice. Pieces. Long.
The horse-drawn cart was in pieces. So was the horse. They had been the only things standing between the old man and the thing that had torn Steadney apart. Most of the wooden shrapnel had ended up standing between the man and his organs.
David leaned over her and began, quietly, slowly, to tear long strips off her cotton skirt, a few inches across and a few feet long. Leaning over that old man had been much worse. He was not only alive, but conscious, propped up with his back to a pile of rubble. His legs weren’t much more than strings of red, torn like the ill-fated dress. David had groped for the whistle hanging around his neck, but the old man’s hand had gotten there first, pawing at his chest. The pain in his eyes had turned David’s spine into a single long icicle.
“Kill me,” came the feeble plea.
“No, no, we don’t have to do that,” David had insisted. “We can help. Just hold on.”
The hand had tightened on his shirt, winching the whistle inside a shivering butterfly’s grip. David’s first thought had been to pull free, to bat it away; but how could he? It was only an old man.
“Don’t. I’m done. There are others to save.” Each shaky sentiment had been punctuated with a weak inhalation, rattling with fluid. “Kill m…”
The old man had coughed, spattering David’s nose and mouth with blood. The pain in his lungs had sent his head lolling, too weak to hold it up anymore. Frozen, the young constable had watched the old man’s face crinkle in the purest of agonies. David had known the end was coming, somewhere deep down. Hope had helped him ignore it, but hope only went so far.
He had pulled free, looked around the rock-strewn street. He’d selected a hefty chunk of stone, about the same size as the old man’s head.
He wove the strips of fabric together in a crude rope, and tested its strength with a quick outward pull.
Now.
Knotting one end around her neck, he pulled again, twisting the rope in his hands for a stronger grip. She gave a small gasp, the most her airway could allow, but her eyes did not open. David wrenched harder.
“You don’t threaten me,” he hissed, just as quietly. “No one threatens me. I’m keeping this job and that’s all there is to it. Bossard gets the same if he dare says a word.”
Was that his voice? He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t sure where he was or who this woman could possibly be. All he knew was that things had gone wrong and he was fixing them. The very thought filled him with euphoria. Who needed tonic at a time like this? He could finally set things right, like he’d set that old man right.
He wasn’t sure if she was dead, but she was certainly limp. He dragged her off the cot by her rapidly bruising neck, pulling her towards the bars of the cell.
Jacob had taken over the supervisory shift from Thomas just before midnight. All had been quiet, came the report, excepting a spot of rebellion from the Elite prisoner in their care. Jacob had promised to keep an eye on it, then promptly headed up the stairs off the lobby for a nap in the office. There were no hardened criminals at Seagate, only uppity women. If anything drastic happened, he’d hear it.
He was right about that much. The shouting began around two-thirty. He sat up straight fast enough to crack his neck, his feet falling to the floor from the desk with a loud thump, dragging a stack of receipts and accounts with them.
A half-dozen of David’s fellow guards came running from all corners of the castle, but Jacob got to him first. He paused for only a split second, to properly register what was happening. The Elite girl was hanging by her neck from the bars of her cell, just a few inches off the ground. By what didn’t matter at the moment. David had wrapped her waist in a full-body hug, lifting her as much as he could. He made eye contact with Jacob, frantic and scared.
“Help me, for god’s sake!” shouted David. “Cut her down!”
The split second was over. Jacob darted into the cell, jingling the keys left hurriedly in the lock. He seized her around the legs, below David’s arms, and lifted.
“I have her!” Jacob assured, breathless. David let go, exhausted, stumbling backwards out of the way. Jacob addressed the pair of guards that had already arrived from other wings of the prison, gathering nervously outside the cell.
“A knife!” he ordered. “Anything sharp! From the kitchens! Go!”
She was limp. Not cold yet, but utterly limp. Jacob felt no breathing, heard no heartbeat. Cutting her down at this point was not going to help, he knew, but it was all he could think to do.
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