“Can you believe it? It’s . . . I don’t know if there’s a word for it, Mary; it’s outrageous!” I was storming back and forth across poor Mary’s room, complaining her ear off about the sudden appearance of Mr. Croydon Frost. “To come here without my consent! To send that ridiculous letter asking for my permission and then to totally ignore it! And to think, I was going to invite him, only to rob him of course, but still! I hate him, Mary, I hate him already!”
The tirade ended with me flopping next to her on the bed, where she was bundled up, back to the wall next to her window, a book opened on her lap. She looked much better, her cheeks fuller and red with health. It was such a good turn for her that I almost forgot the fury in my heart.
“Calm yourself,” she said, taking my hand and squeezing it. I could tell she was eating up all this gossip, however, green eyes sparkling with interest. “You have known the man five whole minutes; perhaps it is too soon to judge what might come of this.”
The only good thing that might come of it was a fortune to spend getting all of us away from the ugly perils of Coldthistle House. It would be a lonely life to fleece my father only to spend it in solitude with no friends to share in the wealth. I grinned at her and shook my head. “You’re too kind, Mary, nobody deserves you. Except perhaps Chijioke.” That glow in her cheeks redoubled and her face fell. “No, forget I said that! I’m sorry, truly, it isn’t my place to pry. . . .”
“He told you about the carving,” she said, looking away toward the window. “I wish he hadn’t.”
“I have no idea what was going on between you two and it isn’t my business. The only thing I will say is that he’s been a wonderful friend to me these past months. Lee has decided he despises me, which is his right, and I would have been terribly alone without Chijioke to keep me company,” I said. “Just . . . Well, here you are telling me to give things time, and now I will say the same to you.”
Mary nodded and patted my hand. “Then I will take my own wise advice.”
I left the bed and went to the window, pulling the half-drawn curtain aside. Mason and his father were in the yard having a talk, not a friendly one judging by the boy’s fevered gesturing. The casement had been left open, and there was a woodsy scent on the air.
“It seems no one here has good luck when it comes to family,” I said softly. “I should tell him to go. Hating him is exhausting.”
“You could try forgiveness,” Mary suggested.
“No,” I sighed. “That sounds exhausting, too. Besides, I don’t believe in forgiveness. A thing either bothers you or it doesn’t; forgiveness is for the other person, to make them feel better about being cruel or selfish.”
“And yet I’m sure you would like Lee to forgive you.”
I flinched. She was right. “That won’t happen, and it shouldn’t.”
Mary closed up her book and folded her hands over it. I could feel her staring at me, but I wouldn’t take my eyes away from Mason and his father. “Why are you so determined to suffer?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I wish I knew.”
Thunk.
“Hey!” I jumped back from the window. Someone had thrown a rock, narrowly missing the glass.
“What was that?” Mary asked, leaning out of bed.
I pulled the curtain completely aside and opened the window wider, letting in a gush of humid air and the sulfurous tinge from the nearby spring.
“Did you need something, sir?” I called down. The two Breens were the only people I could see on the lawn, and one of them must have thrown the rock.
Mason searched the windows for the source of the voice, then spotted me and shielded his eyes, frowning. “Hello up there. What did you say?”
“Did you need assistance, sir? I heard the rock you tossed this way. . . .”
“Rock?” He shook his head and glanced at his father, who looked equally confused. “You must be mistaken! Perhaps it was the house shifting or a bit of grit on the wind?”
House shifting indeed.
“My apologies for bothering you, sir,” I called back, leaning against the sill to watch them closely. If they tried to trick me again I would catch it.
“How odd,” Mary said, gazing over at me. “Do you think he’s fibbing?”
“Obviously,” I muttered. “There are two more men I wouldn’t mind asking to pack and go.”
Through the closed door to Mary’s room I heard Mrs. Haylam’s voice. She was calling, or rather shouting, my name. I slammed my head back against the wall, frustrated. Could I not have one moment of peace alone with Mary? Was that so much to ask?
“Duty calls,” she said sadly, reading my thoughts.
“As ever. Will you be terribly cross if I go? I promise to come to you again soon, friend. I’ve missed you so much, it lifts my spirits to see you getting better.”
Mary reached out her hand and I crossed to her, squeezing her warm little fingers and smiling. “I will only be cross if you stay away too long.”
“You’re an angel,” I said, turning to go. “Or . . . well, whatever the equivalent would be, you know, for us.”
Her amused laughter followed me out the door, and I tried to hold on to it, tried to wrap it around me like a shield. At least she was on the mend; everything else may have been odd and confusing, but her steadfastness gave me a drop of hope.
I took the steps quickly, aware of a strange emptiness in the house. Other than in my horrid dream, I had not seen a single Resident all day. They had been swarming Mary’s door previously, most likely to protect her from whomever killed Amelia, but now they were gone. Then I remembered my conversation with Mr. Morningside, and wondered if they had been sent to scour the grounds for the wolf monster. That made sense, considering they could cover far more ground than any of us on foot and blend inconspicuously into the shadows of the trees.
Mrs. Haylam waited, foot tapping, in the foyer. She looked haggard, tired, with noticeable smudges of purple under her eyes, her bun drawn up more tightly than usual. All bad signs.
“Have you seen to Mr. Breen’s room?” she asked without a word of greeting.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied obediently. I was in no mood for a fight, and neither, clearly, was she.
“And the washing from yesterday, you hung it up?”
“Yes, and the pantry is swept.” Half-heartedly, I added in my head.
Mrs. Haylam’s good eye swept over me as if it could detect deception. She nodded then and pointed to the green door behind me. “Mr. Morningside wants you back to work. You can socialize later.”
I gave her a polite curtsy and turned toward the door, then stopped and told her as she returned to the kitchens, “Thank you for giving my . . . For giving Croydon Frost a room.”
“Don’t thank me, girl. If it were up to me, he’d be sleeping in the barn.”
“No arguments there,” I said, and I heard her cackle before I opened the green door and let it swallow me up.