Melisande looked at him. “What—?”

“Shh.”

And then she heard. From deep inside the house there came a dull scraping, as if some subterranean creature had stirred.

Vale slammed his fist into the door, making Melisande start. “Oy! Come and let us in!”

A bolt shot back with a thump, and the door slowly creaked open. A short little man stood in the doorway. He was rather stout, and his graying ginger hair sprang out on either side of his head like the down on a dandelion. The top of his head was completely bald. He wore a long nightshirt and boots, and he scowled up at them.

“Wot?”

Vale smiled charmingly. “I am Viscount Vale, and this is my lady wife. We’ve come to stay with your master.”

“No, you ain’t,” the creature said, and began to swing shut the door.

Vale put out a hand and stopped the door. “Yes, we are.”

The little man strained against the door, trying to close it, but it wouldn’t budge. “No one’s tol’ me about no visitors. We ain’t got the rooms cleaned nor victuals stocked in. You’ll just have to go away again.”

By this time, Vale had lost his smile. “Let us in and we’ll settle the accommodations later.”

The little man opened his mouth, obviously quite prepared to do further battle, but at that moment, Mouse finally rejoined them. The terrier took one look a Sir Alistair’s servant and decided he was the enemy. He barked at the man so vigorously that all four legs bounced off the ground. The ginger-haired little man gave a high-pitched squeal and jumped back. That was all Vale needed. He slammed open the door and crowded in with Mr. Pynch by his side.

“Stay by the carriage until we’re ready,” Melisande instructed Suchlike, and then she entered the castle more sedately behind the men.

“You can’t! You can’t! You can’t!” the little man was shrieking.

“Where is Sir Alistair?” Vale demanded.

“Out! He’s gone out riding and might not be back for hours.”

“He rides in the dark?” Melisande asked, startled. The countryside they’d been driving through was rugged, rocky, and hilly. She wouldn’t have thought it safe to ride about alone and at night.

But the little man was scurrying ahead of them, down a wide hallway. They followed and stopped when he flung open a door. “You can wait in here, if you like. It makes no difference to me.”

He turned to leave, but Vale caught him by the collar. “Wait.” Vale looked at Melisande. “Can you stay here with Mouse while Pynch and I find bedrooms and some food?”

The room was dark and not at all welcoming, but Melisande lifted her chin. “Certainly.”

“Brave, my sweet wife.” Jasper brushed his lips across her cheek. “Pynch, light some candles for her ladyship, and then we’ll have this fine fellow give us a tour.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Pynch lit four candles—all the room held—from his lantern and the men left.

Melisande listened to their retreating footsteps and then shivered and looked around her. She was in a kind of sitting room, but it wasn’t very pleasant. Here and there were groupings of chairs—very old and very ugly. The carved wood ceiling was terribly high, and the candlelight didn’t entirely pierce the dark overhead. Melisande thought she saw wisps of old spiderwebs hanging down. The walls were also of dark, carved wood and had been decorated by stuffed animal heads—several moth-eaten deer, a badger, and a fox. Their glass eyes were eerie in the gloom.

Shaking herself, she walked determinedly to the great gray stone fireplace at the room’s far end. It was obviously very old—probably older than all the carved wood paneling—and entirely black inside. She found a box by the side containing a few sticks and one log, which she carefully placed inside the fireplace, trying not to think of spiders. Mouse came over to see what she was about, but he soon wandered off again to investigate the shadows.

Melisande stood and brushed off her hands. She searched the mantelpiece and finally found a jar of dusty tapers. She lit one from a candle and held it to the sticks, but the sticks wouldn’t catch, and the taper soon burned down. Melisande reached for ƒde ofanother taper and was just about to light it when Mouse barked.

She started and turned. A man stood behind her, tall and dark and lean, his shoulder-length hair hanging tangled about his face. He was looking at Mouse, standing at his feet, but at Melisande’s movement, he turned his head to her. The left side of his face was twisted with scars, lit awfully by the flickering candles, and the eye socket on that side was sunken and empty.

Melisande dropped the taper.

MUNROE’S MANSERVANT WAS telling them that he hadn’t any clean linens in the entire manor, and Jasper was about to shake the man in frustration when he heard Mouse bark. He looked at Pynch, and without a word, they turned and ran back down the dark, twisting stairs. Jasper cursed. He should never have left Melisande alone.

Outside the sitting room, Jasper paused to approach silently. Mouse hadn’t barked again since that first time. Jasper peered in the room. Melisande stood at the far end, her back to the fireplace. Mouse was in front of her, legs stiff, but he was silent. And facing both of them was a big man in leather gaiters and an old hunting coat.

Jasper stiffened.

Munroe turned and Jasper couldn’t help but flinch. When last he’d seen the man, his wounds were raw and bleeding. Time had healed the wounds that covered the left side of his face, scarred them over, but it hadn’t made them any prettier.

“Renshaw,” Munroe rasped. His voice had always been husky, but after Spinner’s Falls, it had taken on a broken quality, as if damaged by his screams. “But you’re Vale now, aren’t you? Lord Vale.”

“Yes.” Jasper moved into the room. “This is my lady wife, Melisande.”

Munroe nodded, though he didn’t turn back around to acknowledge her. “I believe I wrote you not to come.”

“I received no missive,” Jasper said honestly.

“Some might take that as an unwelcoming sign,” Munroe said dryly.

“Would they?” Jasper took a deep breath to control the anger surging in his breast. He owed Munroe much—things he could never repay—but this involved Munroe too. “But, then, the matter I come on is most pressing. We need to talk about Spinner’s Falls.”

Munroe’s head reared back as if he’d been hit in the face. He stared at Jasper, his light hazel eye hooded and unreadable.

Finally he nodded once. “Very well. But it’s late, and your lady is no doubt tired. Wiggins will show you some rooms. I do not promise comfort, but they can be made warm. In the morning we will talk. Then you can leave.”

“I have your word?” Jasper asked. He wouldn’t put it past Munroe to simply disappear and stay away until they were gone.

The side of Munroe’s mouth kicked up. “My word. I will talk to you on the morrow.”

Jasper nodded. “I am grateful.”

Munroe shrugged and walked out of the room. Thƒof "3"e little red-haired man—presumably Wiggins—had been lurking about the doorway, and now he said grudgingly, “I ’spose I can make th’ fire in your rooms.”

He turned and left without another word.

Jasper blew out a breath and looked at Pynch. “Can you look to settling the other servants? See if there’s anything to eat in the kitchens and find them rooms.”

“Yes, my lord,” Pynch said, and departed.

And that left Jasper with his lady wife. He turned reluctantly to look at her. She still stood in front of the fireplace. Any other woman might be in hysterics by now. Not Melisande.

She stared back at him levelly and said, “What happened at Spinner’s Falls?”

SALLY SUCHLIKE CAREFULLY spread the hot coals with a poker and then hung a kettle from the big hook in the fireplace. It was a huge fireplace, the biggest Sally had ever seen. Big enough for a grown man to walk into and stand upright. What anyone wanted with such a big fireplace, she didn’t know. It was harder to work with than a nice, normal-sized one.

The water in her kettle soon began to steam, and she dropped in the jointed rabbit Mr. Pynch had found in the pantry. A lady’s maid was a superior servant, and it wasn’t part of her duties to cook, but there wasn’t anyone else about to prepare their supper. No doubt Mr. Pynch knew how to make a rabbit stew—and a better one than she was attempting—but he was busy finding rooms for their mistress and master.

Sally threw some chopped carrots into the kettle. They were a little withered, but they’d have to do. She added some little round onions and stirred the whole thing. It looked a bit of a mess at the moment, but maybe it’d perk up once it had stewed a bit. She sighed and sat in a nearby chair, wrapping her shawl tightly about her shoulders. The fact was, she didn’t know much about cooking. When she’d been a scullery maid, she’d mostly washed dishes and cleaned. Mr. Pynch had given her the rabbit, carrots, and onions and told her to boil them, so she did. They’d had no help from that nasty red-haired man, Wiggins. He reminded Sally of a troll from a fairy tale, he did. And he’d disappeared the minute Mr. Pynch’s back was turned, leaving the Renshaw servants to stumble about in an unfamiliar house.

Sally got up and peered into the simmering pot. Perhaps she ought to add something else. Salt! That was it. Mr. Pynch would think her a ninny if she didn’t know enough to salt a stew. She went to a big cupboard standing in the corner and began to rummage. It was nearly empty, but she did manage to find the salt and some flour.

Ten minutes later, she was trying to knead a bowl of flour, salt, butter, and water, when Mr. Pynch walked into the kitchens. He set down his lantern and came to where she was battling the dough, then stood silently at her elbow looking into the bowl.

She glared up at him. “It’s dumplings for the stew. I tried to do it like I’ve seen Cook do, but I don’t know if I have, and for all I know, it may taste just like glue. I’m not a cook, you know. I’m a lady’s maid, and I’m not expected to know how to cook. You’ll just have to be content with what I can make, and if it turns out terrible, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“I’m not cƒ="3canomplaining,” Mr. Pynch said mildly.

“Well, don’t.”

“And I like dumplings.”

Sally blew a lock of hair out of her eyes, feeling suddenly shy. “You do?”

He nodded. “Yes, and those look perfectly fine. Shall I carry the bowl to the hearth so you can drop them into the stew?”

Sally straightened her shoulders and nodded. She rubbed her hands to get most of the dough off, and Mr. Pynch picked up the big crockery bowl. Together they went to the fireplace, where he held the bowl while she carefully dropped spoonfuls of dough into the stew. She covered the kettle with an iron lid so the dumplings would steam and turned to Mr. Pynch. She was conscious that her face was sweaty from the heat of the fire. Strands of her hair had come down and were sticking to her face, but she looked him in the eye and said, “There. How’s that?”

Mr. Pynch leaned close and said, “Perfect.”

And then he kissed her.

MELISANDE PILED BLANKETS on the floor and watched her husband pace the room. He was agitated tonight, as if at any moment his control would break and he’d leave the room and run. Was that what Sir Alistair had been doing, riding so late and in the dark? Was he trying to outrun demons as well?

Yet Vale stayed, and she was grateful for that. He hadn’t answered her question about Spinner’s Falls yet. He drank from a glass of whiskey and paced the room, but he stayed with her. There had to be some comfort in that.

“It was after Quebec, you see,” he said suddenly. Facing the window, he might not have even been talking to her, save for the fact that she was the only other person in the room. “It was September, and we’d been ordered to Fort Edward to spend the winter. We’d already lost over one hundred men in the battle and left another three dozen behind because they were too wounded to march. We were decimated but thought the worst was over. We’d won the battle —Quebec had fallen to us—and it was only a matter of time before the French would be forced to surrender entirely and the war would be ours. The tide had turned.”