Mr. Morningside did not appear at all during the “light refreshment” on the lawn, and it was growing dark by the time Mrs. Haylam urged the visitors to move into the pavilion. She had timed it all perfectly—the shepherd and his friends disappeared into the big white tent just as Mason Breen, his father, and Samuel Potts returned from Derridon.
I was dispatched to serve them supper in the dining room while Chijioke and Lee tidied up the mess in the yard and put away the wicker furniture. It was all accomplished like the smoothest sleight of hand—one group disappearing before the other could notice them, everything still running more or less smoothly while we accommodated two separate parties.
As I brought cold ham and an array of salads to the dining room, I couldn’t help but wonder what was taking Mr. Morningside so long. Hadn’t he only gone to change his clothes? Was this some calculated trick to make the shepherd wait and establish his dominance? Whatever it was, it only made me hopeful that it would grow too late for the trial to begin that night. I had already worked a full day, and I wasn’t sure I had the presence of mind to outwit an Adjudicator when I longed so for bed.
The elder Breen and Samuel Potts stayed just for a moment, long enough to snatch up a few cuts of meat and wine before retiring, grumpy and mud-spattered, to their rooms. Out in the foyer, I heard Poppy hurrying to find wash clothes and a basin for them while I continued serving Mason Breen. He was quiet for a spell, chewing slowly, drinking his wine lazily and with aching, exhausted movements. It was like he was moving through sludge.
“I suppose we must go to Malton tomorrow,” he finally said, sighing into his ham. His sleek blond head was low over the plate as he poked at his food. “After everything we . . . After so much turmoil. I cannot believe Amelia would humiliate me this way. I always stood up for her. I always stood up for her.”
Please go to bed, please go to bed, please go to bed . . .
“Sir, if I may—”
“Of course,” he said with a snort. “Does it look like I have anyone else to talk to?”
I bustled over from the serving board and poured him a bit more wine. If he kept drinking that claret steadily enough, then it would get him upstairs and asleep all the faster. He grunted in thanks as I refilled his glass, and then immediately began sipping.
“I did not know Miss Canny well,” I began, taking a step back and cradling the decanter with my palm. “Not at all well—in fact we only spoke at any length once—but she struck me as a strong-willed young lady. We grew up not far from each other, and as she revealed to me, in poverty.”
Mason moved with more urgency at that, his head turning swiftly toward me. There was a small red wine stain on his lip. “Did you indeed?”
“Aye, sir, my accent is not what it was, but Dungarven and Waterford are not far apart,” I said. “Having all that new wealth, joining a great family like yours . . . I can only imagine it was—is—intimidating for her. I know for my part it would be hard to change so much; it would feel like maybe I was betraying my old family. My old friends. It’s like becoming a new person.”
Gradually, Mason smiled, a dimple creasing his cheek as he gazed a little drunkenly at me. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. My only fixation has been her hatred of my father, and one can hardly blame her. . . . He is an acquired taste. He only wants what is best for me, but he cannot see that Amelia wants me for me, not for my money. Or at least I think she does. Damn it all, why did she have to run like that?”
He swore under his breath and pushed the claret away, then reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out the locket I had seen him fussing with earlier. Snapping open the hinge, he sighed and cooed over the little piece of jewelry. At that distance I could see the thing better and noted that one side contained a tiny painting of Mason, and on the other side was a young woman. A young redheaded woman who did not in any way resemble Amelia.
Amelia’s rival, the one she had murdered to get to Mason.
“Who is she?” I asked lightly. When he glanced at me, I gave him the most dim-witted, vacant smile I could muster. “She is quite lovely.”
“Enid,” he breathed. The claret had put him on the verge of tears. “I adored her. Father adored her. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck at our country home. I found her when we came in from a hunt. It was the worst day of my life.”
I said nothing, watching as he downed his cup and then closed his fist around the locket. Darting forward, I poured a bit more claret for him, which he also guzzled.
“But then Amelia was there,” he slurred. Now he had two dimples as he gazed dreamily over at me. Poor sod. He was gone. “She was so constant, so understanding. I grieved Enid for months and months, but Amelia never wavered. Even after that ugly business in New South Wales, she stood by me. I liked that. She was never as pretty or accomplished as Enid, but she loved me with a kind of desperation that made me feel safe. Have you ever had that? Has anyone ever loved you that way?”
“No,” I said flatly. Did I want that? It sounded exhausting. “You are very fortunate to have found two such women.”
“By God, you’re right.” Mason tucked the necklace away and stood, unsteadily, grabbing the table for balance before stumbling a few steps toward the door. “I am lucky. Amelia will come back. That’s who she is—devoted. Utterly devoted. Thank you, this . . . I needed this. Is it a great bother if I take the rest of that claret up with me?”
I smiled and handed him the decanter. “Just be careful going up the stairs, sir, they are rather steep.”
“And I’m slaughtered, I know, you don’t have to tell me,” Mason said, hiccuping. He turned and fumbled his way toward the foyer, all of his limited concentration bent on keeping the wine upright. That he would make it back to his chambers completely upright was looking less and less likely.
It was a relief to be alone, and I took my time tidying the mess the men had left. The longer I took, the later it became, the greater the chance I could escape up to bed without being asked to do more chores. But I was not to be that lucky. As I extinguished the last of the candles and wiped away the wax, a shadow darkened the room. Mr. Morningside. He waited in the archway leading to the foyer, his tall, slim silhouette unmistakable.
“Louisa,” he said sharply. “Finish in here and then go to the pavilion. Do not go inside, do you understand me? Wait until you are summoned.”
My eyes were drooping with fatigue as I shuffled toward him, arms laden with dirty napkins and the tablecloth. “How long must I wait?”
“As long as it takes,” Mr. Morningside snapped. He vanished before I could reach him, though I had clearly seen him carrying my stack of translated papers. I spied nothing but the tail end of his coat as I made my way slowly from the dining room to the kitchens. Nobody but Bartholomew was there, the hound dozing on his back, all four paws curled in the air.
I gave him a scratch on the chin as I passed, dropping off the washing in the pantry and taking a fresh apron. It was an empty gesture, but just putting on something clean made me feel better and more awake. I ate one of the untouched meat pies on my way to the pavilion. Two blazing torches burned outside the tent, not bright enough to illuminate the entire yard, but enough to give me a clear destination. I welcomed the cooler air, the scent of fresh grass and pine bandied about by the light wind. Even without rain or frost, Coldthistle became something more sinister at dusk. Its slim parapets and slivers of windows became darker even than the night itself. The house was not its true self in the daylight and seemed almost to grow larger at night, as if it could drink the shadows to become strong.
I did not look back at the windows as I approached the tent, but I did hope that Mary was not alone in there. It concerned me that we did not yet know the identity of Amelia’s killer, and Mary, still recovering, would not be able to fend off an attacker. Poppy had gone to fetch bathwater for the men, and surely Mrs. Haylam would be smart enough to set the Residents to watch. Everything seemed piled on top of everything else—the Court, the guests, Mary’s return, the creatures in the woods, Amelia’s death, my deal with Mr. Morningside and the revenge that might come of it. No wonder I felt fit to fall over and collapse of exhaustion at any moment—it was enough to make anyone dizzy with distraction.
But my purpose in that moment was clear, or at least, it ought to be. I pictured Lee’s hopeful face as I mentioned a way to rid ourselves of the Adjudicators. He was already living—“living”—with so many changes, the least I could do was set him free of the pain their presence caused. And yet that would require lying, lying to Finch, who had already heard me say that Mr. Morningside had been wrong about Lee. There were rules here I still did not understand—was he supposed to be infallible? Of course that would be so. Chijioke and Poppy had such pure faith in his decisions. . . . Did they waver in their dedication now that they knew he had been mistaken once?
As I reached the pavilion, I shuddered, thinking of what I had read in Bennu’s journal. No doubt what he had witnessed were creatures like Finch and Sparrow using their powers to pass judgment. There were always three, Chijioke had said, and three were mentioned in Bennu’s account. If I lied, would one of them pull the truth out of me and my very life with it?
I hovered near one of the torches and waited, hands clutching one another nervously. There was nothing for it—I would have to lie, I owed that much to Lee, but I reserved the right to anticipate that moment with anxiety. Fidgeting. Pacing. I heard low voices in the pavilion and grew more and more curious about what they might be saying inside. At the same time, I grew aware of the darkness around me. The small island of light around the torch felt safe, but as the sun vanished on the horizon, I couldn’t bear to stray too far, watching for any signs of movement along the edge of the woods and the pasture to the east.
A strong wind came up from the west, rattling the leaves in the forest and making them shimmer louder and louder, the scent of distant wood smoke overwhelming my senses with childhood nostalgia. It smelled of home. Home. Or whatever occasional comforts I had experienced there, mostly alone or with my imaginary friend. I closed my eyes against the feeling. When I opened them again, the torch beside me roared, fighting the wind. Another sound, like the gale in the leaves but softer, whispered along the fringe of the forest. The nearness of the torch made it difficult to make out anything far away, and I moved out of the light for a moment, waiting for my sight to clear and then watching as the bushes and saplings deformed, shaking, moved by something traveling along the trees.
My skin prickled, whatever it was moving quickly, concealed by the darkness and the density of the brush but visibly coming closer. Nobody else was outside but me, and I huddled closer to the torch again. What if it was that wolf creature? I was vulnerable out in the open like that, and totally defenseless. I tiptoed toward the pavilion’s opening, preparing to dash inside the moment the monster showed itself.
The moon glowed softly, a sliver missing, the dense cloud coverage in front of it diminishing its light. No, I would have only the torch to protect me. I took the far torch out of its holder, brandishing it in front of me as I peered into the shadows, then began to advance. Whatever moved among the trees came closer, and closer still, the shivering of the leaves so loud now that I felt it echoing at the base of my spine, a trill of fear and danger rippling up toward my neck. The torch blazed but my skin was cold with fright. No squirrel could make trees bend that way. A shape no bigger than a man materialized out of the woods, running at speed toward me.
I panicked, gasping, retreating to the safety of the pavilion and holding the torch at the ready. Whoever it was ran with incredible ease and swiftness, with not the grace of a man but of a deer or fox. I knew the moment the figure saw me that they had the advantage, for I was almost blind with the torchlight so near to my face. They had seen me watching them and stopped, stooping as if to pounce, then turned and fled back to the safety of the forest.
I heard something soft thud in the grass. They had thrown something at me.
Perhaps foolishly, I hazarded a few steps out into danger. The voices in the tent grew softer as I padded along the grass, sweeping the torch this way and that, looking for whatever object might be hiding in the weeds. The leaves at the edge of the woods rattled again and I glanced up, freezing in place, but it was only the person plunging back into the bushes.
“Hello?” I called. “I see you! I see you hiding out there! Who are you? What do you want?”
Nothing. Just the crackling of the torch in my hand and the hoot of an owl.
“Announce yourself!” I cried again.
I stumbled forward, watching for movement in the forest. All was quiet, but I advanced anyway. I felt bolder now that I had chased them off. The toe of my boot collided with something in the grass and I knelt, running my palm over the ground until I felt a bump and my fingernails scraped over a huge, curled leaf.
The leaf had been bundled around something and knotted with a piece of long, dry grass. Standing, I held the strange parcel up to the torchlight, pulling away the tie and unwrapping the leaf. I almost dropped the thing in surprise.
A spoon. My spoon. It was mangled and bent at odd angles, as if a giant had tried using it. Obviously someone had tried to work out the kinks, but to no avail. The necklace chain dangled from the loop at the end of the spoon, broken. I pocketed the spoon, mystified, and turned back toward the pavilion, nearly missing the design in mud on the leaf.
I unrolled the leaf, pressing it to my thigh to keep it from snapping shut again. Whoever had found and returned the spoon had tried to write a message on the veined, rough surface of the leaf. It was done in shaky, childlike smears of mud and read:
SO RY.
Sorry. I gazed up from the leaf to the woods, dumbfounded.
“Hello?” I called once more, wondering if just one more try might get me a response.
“Louisa! There you are!”
I shoved the leaf message in the pocket with the spoon and whirled, trotting toward Mr. Morningside as he took loping strides toward me. He had come from the pavilion, and he looked to be in good spirits. He squinted and inspected the forest behind me, then laughed.
“What are you doing out here? Mrs. Haylam doesn’t want you wondering around after that shock you had in the woods, and neither do I. It isn’t safe here right now, you know that.” He took me by the shoulder and guided me back toward the pavilion. “Don’t tell me you were thinking of running away.”
“No . . . No, I just thought I saw something,” I mumbled.
“Were you startled? Shall I give you a moment before we go in?”
“I should be all right. But what am I expected to do?” I asked. We had returned to the opening of the pavilion. The pennants above us snapped in the wind while I put the torch back in its place.
Now in the light, I saw that Mr. Morningside had dressed exquisitely for the occasion, his suit pinstriped with iridescent silver and red, his ebony silk cravat studded with a ruby-encrusted broach in the shape of a bird’s skull. I felt woefully drab by contrast, my fresh apron now stained with soot and grease from the torch. He walked me to the flap in the pavilion and held me at arm’s length, seemingly unaware of how underdressed I felt.
“It shan’t go on much longer this evening, Louisa. I know you’re tired.” He ducked inside first, then waited for me to join. “You only need answer a few short questions, mostly about the nature of the translations you’ve been doing for me. If you get nervous or afraid, just say you need more time to think.”
“Wait,” I whispered, and he hesitated with the canvas in his hand, his head lowered to clear the short door. “Should I tell the truth? What if I say the wrong thing?”
Mr. Morningside gave me one of his big white smiles and shook his head. “You just say whatever you think is . . . Well, your version of the truth. One man’s truth is another man’s lie, what you see is not necessarily what I see, and what I believe is not what you believe. Does that make things more clear?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “Not at all.”
His chuckle vanished into the pavilion with him, and I took a deep breath, stepping forward. That single step into the tent felt like walking off a cliff, and that was apt, because what I found inside would leave me stunned and reeling.