The Path of Thorns E-Book

Angela Slatter

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A lush and twisted dark fairy tale suffused with witchcraft, dark secrets and bitter revenge from the award-winning author of All the Murmuring Bones. Exquisite, haunting and at times brutal, readers of Naomi Novik and Erin Morgenstern will be entranced. Asher Todd comes to live with the mysterious Morwood family as a governess to their children. Asher knows little about being a governess but she is skilled in botany and herbcraft, and perhaps more than that. And she has secrets of her own, dark and terrible – and Morwood is a house that eats secrets. With a monstrous revenge in mind, Asher plans to make it choke. However, she becomes fond of her charges, of the people of the Tarn, and she begins to wonder if she will be able to execute her plan – and who will suffer most if she does. But as the ghosts of her past become harder to control, Asher realises she has no choice. From the author of All the Murmuring Bones, dark magic, retribution and twisted family secrets combine to weave a bewitching and beautifully written gothic fairy tale.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Praise for A.G. Slatter's All the Murmuring Bones

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

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Author's Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

THE PATH OF THORNS

Asher Todd comes to live with the mysterious Morwood family as a governess to their children. Asher knows little about being a governess but she is skilled in botany and herbcraft, and perhaps more than that. And she has secrets of her own, dark and terrible – and Morwood is a house that eats secrets. With a monstrous revenge in mind, Asher plans to make it choke. However, she becomes fond of her charges, of the people of the Tarn, and she begins to wonder if she will be able to execute her plan – and who will suffer most if she does. But as the ghosts of her past become harder to control, Asher realises she has no choice.

From the author of All the Murmuring Bones, dark magic, retribution and twisted family secrets combine to weave a bewitching and beautifully written gothic fairy tale.

9781789094374 • 14 June 2022 • Paperback & Ebook US $15.95 • CA $21.95 • UK £8.99 • 384pp

US Press & Publicity: Katharine Caroll [email protected]

UK Press & Publicity: Sarah Mather [email protected]

These are uncorrected advance proofs bound for review purposes only. All cover art, trim sizes, page counts, months of publication and prices should be considered tentative and subject to change without notice. Please check publication information and any quotations against the bound copy of the book. We urge this for the sake of editorial accuracy as well as for your legal protection and ours.

PRAISE FOR A.G. SLATTER'SALL THE MURMURING BONES

‘A rich and satisfying novel about a young woman, born to be the last hope of a once powerful family, who resists an arranged marriage and won’t stop at murder or magic to survive in a world of abusive men and dangerous, supernatural creatures. Shifting between scenes of wonder and horror, a complex plot is gradually revealed, as well paced and gripping as a thriller.’The Guardian

‘Stunning gothic adventure...Anyone who likes gutsy heroines, beautiful language, and well-wrought worlds won’t want to miss this.’Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

‘This is a magnificently written, smashingly good read... Slatter’s prose is as lustrous as jet beads against black silk. Readers will savor every word.’Locus Magazine

‘Gorgeous, atmospheric gothic fantasy.’Buzzfeed

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The Path of Thorns

Print edition ISBN: 9781789094374

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789094381

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: June 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © A.G. Slatter 2022. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

All darkness is a gift, but you must find the light in it.

—Murcianus’Book of Oddities

1

At last, an ending.

Or a beginning.

Who can say?

My previous three weeks have featured a long series of carriages; conveyances of varied age, cleanliness and distinction, much like my fellow passengers. From Whitebarrow to Briarton, from Lelant’s Bridge to Angharad’s Breach, from decaying Lodellan where fires still smoulder to Cwen’s Ruin, from Bellsholm to Ceridwen’s Landing, and all the tiny loveless places in between. A circuitous route, certainly, but then I have my reasons. And this afternoon, the very last of those vehicles finally deposited me at my goal before trundling off to the village of Morwood Tarn with its few remaining travellers – three brittle blondes, sisters, with not a good thing to say about anyone, nor a word addressed to me in several hours – and despatches to deliver.

Or rather, at the gateway to my goal, and there now remains a rather longer walk than I would have wished at such a late hour and with such luggage as I have. Yet, having waited some considerable while with foolish hope for someone to come collect me, in the end I accept that I’ve no better choice than Shanks’s pony. My steamer case I push beneath bushes just inside the tall black iron gates with the curlicued M at their apex – as if anyone might wander past this remote spot and take it into their heads to rifle through my meagre possessions. The satchel with my notebooks is draped across my back, and the carpet bag with its precious cargo I carry by turns in one hand then the other, for it weighs more than is comfortable. I’m heartily sick of hefting it, but am careful as always, solicitous of the thing that has kept me going for the better part of two years.

The rough and rutted track leads off between trees, oak and yew and ash, so tall and old that they meet above me. I might have appreciated their beauty more had it been earlier in the day, had there been more light, had it been summer rather than autumn and my magenta coat been of thicker fabric, and had my nerves not already been frayed by the tasks before me. And certainly if I’d not, soon after setting off deeper into the estate, begun to hear noises in the undergrowth by the side of the drive.

I do not walk faster, though it almost kills me to maintain the same steady pace. I do not call out in dread, demanding to know who is there. I do, however, pat the deep right-hand pocket of my skirt to check for the long knife. I have walked sufficient darkened streets to know that fear will kill you faster than a blade to the gut or a garrotte to the throat because it will make you foolish, panicky.

Whatever it is has stealth, but somehow I sense it creates just enough noise on purpose that I might be aware of its presence. Occasional snuffles and wuffles that must seem quite benign, but which are not when their source is defiantly out of sight. Some moments I catch a scent on the breeze – a musky rich odour like an animal given to feeding on young meat and sleeping in dens – and that threatens to turn my belly to water. I lift my chin as if the sky beyond the branches is not darkening with storm clouds, as if I am not being stalked, as if my heart is not pounding so hard it almost drowns out the close-rolling thunder. But I keep my steady, steady pace.

Eventually, I step out from beneath the twisting, turning canopied road and get my first sight of the manor house spread out below. I pause and stare, despite the knowledge that something still lurks behind me. I take a deep breath, give a sigh I didn’t know was waiting in me. There is a tremble to it, a quaver I’d not want anyone else to hear.

Courage, Asher. There is no one else to have it for you.

It might have appeared quite simple, the structure, if approached from the front: almost slender-looking, two storeys of pale grey stone – silvery – and an attic, but I’m coming at it on an angle and can see that the building is deeper than it is wide. It digs back into the landscape and I wonder how many rooms there might be. In front are flowering tiered gardens, three, leading up to ten steps and a small porch, and thence to a door of honey-coloured wood set beneath a pointed stone arch. A duck pond lies to the left, and to the right flows a stream, too broad to jump but too narrow to count as a river. I wonder if it ever floods.

Lightning flashes, great white streaks of fire casting themselves across the vault of the world. The crack of it seems to echo in my chest. I blink hard to rid myself of the strange effect it has on my sight. The colours leached to black and white like an engraving in a book are discombobulating.

Behind the house itself is a smallish structure, dark wood and white plaster, of such a size as might contain four rooms. It has a tall chimney and a waterwheel is attached to the side, fed by the not-quite-stream-not-quite-river.

Once again, the lightning flashes, striking the ground in two places in front of me in quick succession and a third time hitting an old yew not far away. It stands, a lone sentinel by the side of the drive, and it burns so quickly that I’m astonished rather than afraid. I’d stay to watch, too, except the heavens open and thick angry drops fall hard and inescapable; they will extinguish the tree. In spite of everything, I smile. From the undergrowth behind me there comes a definite growl, all trace of sneakery and concealment gone.

Finally, I run.

I leave the path, which meanders back and forth down a gentle slope to the manor, and take the shortest route over the rolling lawn. The journey would be less fraught were I not concerned with twisting an ankle and clutching the carpet bag so tightly that my ribs bruise against its contents. I arrive at the entrance no less wet than if I’d simply strolled. My progress has obviously been noted as the door is pulled open before I set foot on the first step.

Inside that door, a blaze of light and a tall man waiting, attired in black, a long pale face, thinning blond hair scraped back over his scalp. For all his skeletal demeanour he wears a gentle smile and his eyes, deep-set, are kind. His hands are raised, gesturing for me to hurry, hurry.

Just before I pass beneath the archway, I glance over my shoulder, at the lawn and gardens across which I’ve come. Lightning flares once more and illuminates the grounds, silvering a strange, hunched silhouette back up on the curve of the drive, and I think of… something. Something large but of indeterminate shape, something I cannot quite place, nor does its colour even remain in my memory; there’s only the recollection of red eyes. Resolute though shivering with more than cold, I cross the threshold and the door is swiftly shut.

The entry hall is surprisingly small, not grand at all, but well-lit; a silken rug like a field of flowers takes up part of the floor space and I make a point not to step on it with my muddy boots. There are compact pieces of furniture: plain occasional tables, a single cherry-wood chair, an umbrella stand hollowed from a sparkling rock of some sort, a rosewood hallstand bearing scarves and a parasol, but little else. Closed doors with ornate brass knobs lead left and right. The burnished staircase to the upper levels is quite narrow; its carved newel posts are the heads of girls with nascent antlers on their foreheads; hind-girls. I wonder if they come by here on their migrations. On the landing partway up there are tall windows that show the dark grey of the clouds, the play of the lightning.

‘Miss Todd,’ says the man with certainty; no surprise, really, unless this place is frequented by random young women. Or not so young in my case; not old, but I’m certainly older than the last governess. His gaze travels up and down me – not in a sexual fashion, merely curious: I’m a little taller than he, broader across the shoulders. Statuesque, my mother said on good days; hefty on the bad ones. He waves his hands as if doing so might squeeze the moisture from my thin jacket and thick black skirt. I catch sight of my reflection in the enormous mirror that is the centrepiece of the hallstand; almost unrecognisable. The tiny green silk hat appears to have melted, and I can feel the extra weight of the rain in the tight braided bun of my mousy hair. It will take hours to dry. My face is pale and I appear ghostly, although I’ve never felt so solid in my life. I glance away before I can examine too closely the look in my eyes, and blink, hold it for a few moments to compose myself so the man cannot see inside me either.

‘Yes,’ I say and it feels not enough. ‘I’m Asher Todd.’

‘I am Burdon. We did not expect you until tomorrow, my dear Miss Todd.’ His hands clasp together like penitent wings. From behind the door to the left I hear cursing and scurrying but no one appears. ‘I do apologise; we’d have had Eli meet you with the caleche. Although given the current weather perhaps the caleche would not have offered much protection.’

‘Ah, the walk was refreshing, Mr Burdon; I’ve been trapped in coaches and carriages for days’ – weeks, but he does not need to know that − ‘the open air did me good.’ There’s a rose-gold mourning ring on the middle finger of my right hand; it’s slippery from the rain and I try to dab it dry with the least soaked part of my skirt for I cannot allow it to slip off.

‘Just Burdon, Miss Todd. Well, I hope you don’t take a chill; the family would not be best pleased were you to fall ill from our neglect.’ He gives a little bow, strangely sweet. ‘Come along, I shall take you to your room.’ He eyes the carpet bag clutched to my side, the satchel dripping noisily on the flagstones. ‘Is that everything?’

‘Oh no. My trunk.’ I frown. ‘I left it by the gate.’

Burdon looks over my shoulder and juts his chin. I turn to see a figure stoop to pass beneath the stone arch of the door, my steamer trunk nestled on a broad shoulder.

The figure gently puts the trunk on the fine rug as if it – and he – weren’t gushing with raindrops, then shakes himself like a dog. An oilskin cloak and a broad-brimmed hat are removed with a great cascade of droplets, and the shape resolves into a tall young man with black hair, blue eyes and stubbled chin. He glances at me, then away as if I hold no interest.

‘Eli Bligh,’ Mr Burdon says and at first I think it’s an introduction, but no: a reprimand. ‘Mrs Charlton’ll not be pleased at that.’ The butler nods meaningfully at the small lake that has collected on the floor, soaking into its covering.

Eli shrugs. ‘To the lilac room?’

‘If you please.’

Eli hefts my luggage once more, as if it contains nothing more burdensome than feathers, not books and boots, frocks and carefully wrapped bottles, as well as a basalt mortar and pestle blessed by the Witches of Whitebarrow. He turns and is gone up the polished staircase before Burdon and I even take a step to follow. As he passes I catch a scent of port-wine pipe smoke and something I cannot quite place. The butler touches my shoulder but lightly, to direct me upwards.

‘It’s a good thing you got to us before evening fell; the estate can be a dangerous place for those unfamiliar with the lay of the land. There’s a disused quarry you’d not want to discover by accident.’ He smiles to take away any suggestion of fearmongering. ‘I daresay you’ll learn our ways soon enough.’

‘Thank you, Burdon.’ Using a person’s last name thus, speaking as if I were his better, is not natural to me; in my life I’ve often sought refuge with servants. ‘And the family…?’

‘At a fete in Morwood Tarn,’ he says, then glances through the great windows as we step onto the landing. ‘Although I daresay they’ll have taken shelter somewhere to avoid the storm.’

‘Ah.’

‘Just between me and thee, Miss Todd, if I were you I would take the opportunity to rest this evening. You’ll be earning your coin soon enough with those three children, and you might be a day early, but you’ll be expected to begin work on the morrow.’ He smiles fondly to let me know they’re not entirely monsters, then the expression stales. ‘And I’ve no doubt the elder Mrs Morwood will put you through your paces as well.’

I look askance at him, but he merely smiles again and presses my elbow: Go left.

Along the first-floor corridor, to a pretty room (so, no servants’ hideaway in the attic for me). I don’t enter quite yet, but survey the space: a fire fresh in the grate but no sign of who set it; an armoire, dressing table and secretaire all in a pale, honey wood. By the hearth are an armchair and a small table with a tray on it: a bowl of steaming stew, a plate of bread, a single cake, and a glass of what looks like tokay await. My stomach rumbles. I can only assume my progress was noted well before Burdon went to the front door. The curtains are a washed-out purple, as are the draperies around the bed. On the bedside table with mother-of-pearl inlay there is a small crystal bowl of dried lilac, so the air is lightly scented. My trunk sits at the foot of the bed, and Eli is gone but for that hint of pipe smoke and a trail of wet footprints on the silk rug.

‘Are there other staff, Burdon? Apart from yourself and Mrs Charlton and Eli Bligh?’

He snorts a laugh. ‘I don’t think Eli would like to hear himself called “staff”. He’s got a cottage in the grounds; Enora Charlton’s the housekeeper, then there’s Luned, the maid – we three live in. There are twenty tenant families scattered across the estate; part of their contract is to pitch in to keep us running – Owen Reiver doubles as coachman and his boy Tew as footman when required. Tib Postlethwaite brings the milk every morning, and her eight sons work the fields. Two of the Binion girls come in to help clean once a week – it’s a big place – now, they’re twins, impossible to tell apart; don’t even bother. There’s the coppice-worker out in the woods. But I daresay we’re a bit different from grand houses in cities. We make do.’

I enter the room; Burdon does not follow. I face him and he bows, a courtly gesture.

‘I trust you will be comfortable here, and perhaps even happy with us.’ He smiles again. ‘Should you need anything, the cord by the fireplace will bring myself or Luned or Mrs Charlton. Sleep well, Miss Todd.’

‘Thank you, Burdon,’ I say, thinking I won’t retire for an age; then I glance out the windows and see that night has fallen whilst I paid no attention. I’m aware of the door closing as I stare at the rain throwing itself against the glass as if it would burst in. As I hear the click of the snib I’m overcome with exhaustion. I stumble to the armchair, tremors overtaking my entire body and I think I will be sick, right here in this pretty, pretty room. I let the carpet bag slide to the floor; there’s the gentle thud of the contents on the rug (not too much of a protest), the satchel follows it, and I slump.

After a while, the shaking subsides, as does the roar in my head, but my stomach is still all-at-sea, so I break off a piece of bread and stuff it into my mouth like I wasn’t brought up better than that. It’s salty and sweet, and soon I’ve eaten it all too quickly. Then the stew, which is delicious, meaty and rich with red wine. The tokay and the cake I leave for later so as not to make myself ill.

I’m drowsing in the chair, one side of me dried by the fire, the other still sodden and cold, when there’s a knock. I call out, ‘Yes?’ but receive no reply, so I heave myself upward and go to answer the door.

No one is there.

I step into the long, dimly lit corridor, and look around. To the right another door is open, partway along, so I tiptoe towards it. Inside there’s a bathtub, clawfooted, rose-scented steam rising from it. Two thick towels are folded neatly on the corner of a dark wood cabinet, a bar of soap perched on top.

But again, no sign of who drew it.

I shrug; I will take it.

Such a beginning is mine at Morwood Grange.

2

I know I’m dreaming but cannot shed the sensation that the moment is being lived yet again.

It’s the day my mother realised what I could do. The morning is cold, icy and we are in one of the small rented rooms that peppered my childhood. I’m five, no, six; we have not been here long. Mother’s made a deal for some firewood and bread with the landlord, whose wife doesn’t like her. We’re sitting in front of a tiny fire eating stale bread, she on the only seat in the place, me on the floor, cross-legged on one of the thick coats she managed to smuggle out of the last household we joined, however briefly. When night falls, we’ll spread it over the thin bed we share to keep the cold at bay.

There’s not much kindling and we must eke it out. The flames in the hearth are feeble, barely any heat coming from them, and hardly a gleam of light to spark off Heloise’s glorious red hair. I’m staring at the fingers of pallid orange with their occasional flicker of blue and I’m wishing, oh how I am wishing they were larger. Higher. Hotter. I don’t know when the fire grows, all I’m aware of is that I’m warmer, the flames are leaping.

‘Asher!’

I don’t know how long my mother is calling me, either, but I know when her fingers close over my shoulder. I’m still well-fed from the last house, there’s fat on me, but her nails dig in and hurt. ‘Mama! What did I do wrong?’

‘What did you do? What are you doing?’ Her face is so close, her eyes fair burning. ‘I’ve been watching you, watching that fire.’ She loosens her grip on me and I want to cry out with relief. ‘You can’t do that again, Asher.’

‘But, Mama, I only wished.’

And the look she gives me… I couldn’t recognise it then, but I would see it again in the years that followed. Oh, I could see fear. Fear for herself, for me. But I came to realise as I grew that there was also a sort of hope, a kind of ambition. The beginnings of a plan, even then.

Heloise kneels beside me, gathers me up and says, ‘My dove, you must not do such things. You must not ever let people see that. You can’t let them know you’re different. They’ll burn you, my heart, or drown you in the cold depths.’ She strokes my hair, crooning that I must learn to keep secrets, and I do not sleep that night for the terror sinks into my bones and makes me shiver.

I’ve never played with fire since.

* * *

I wake with a sudden weight on my stomach, painful, the violence of it at odds with the high giggling that accompanies it. For long moments I’m disoriented – as I have been every night and day for the past few weeks since leaving the house that is not mine in Whitebarrow – then I smell the lilac and remember where I am. Opening my eyes, I find two faces, small and round and pleasing, girls of about five and ten. The littlest is right on top of me, red-haired, blue-eyed, striking. The elder reclines beside me, brown curls tumbling, pale skin, eyes that match her sister’s. They both wear dresses of red plaid. I smile in spite of the discomfort and irritation at such an incursion. ‘Good morning. You will be Sarai and Albertine.’

I gently dislodge Sarai and sit up, prepared to play, but then I see the boy, who will be the nine-year-old Connell, in navy trews, a white shirt and a short jacket. He is by the dressing table and has the mouth of the carpet bag – which I’d carelessly left unhidden, thinking this room sacrosanct – in his hands, not quite open. A spear of anger rushes through me as if it’s fire and I give a formless cry. The boy startles and steps away – for a moment I think he will pull the bag and make it fall, but the receptacle remains safe.

I push Albertine and she rolls off the bed with a squeak. I follow, kicking her accidentally. The boy’s eyes as I lunge are huge; I grab his upper arm. I feel my mother’s rage shoot through me as if I’m the conduit for the worst of her. My fingers bite into the softness there and although part of me says No, I cannot quite stop. I tighten my grip and shout into his face.

‘How dare you?! How dare you?!’

And he begins to cry. Behind me his sisters set up a howling and I at last manage to leash my temper. I let him go, but he’s too afraid to move. Straightening, I take deep breaths, then touch his shoulder; he’s shuddering. I’m ashamed. This is not a good start.

In my fury, with my height, I must be a giant to him. I crouch so we’re eye-to-eye, loosening my hold.

‘Connell. I am sorry to have shouted, but you must not interfere with other people’s effects. This is mine, this is private. This chamber is my own space while I am here, so you will promise me now never to come in again without my permission. Connell?’

Tears spill with the jerky motion of his nod. Mine are not far behind, but I push them away.

‘You must speak it aloud, Connell, or it’s not a proper promise.’

‘I promise. I promise, Miss Todd.’ His voice trembles, but he sounds as sincere as he does fearful.

‘Good boy. Now,’ I gently tap him under the chin and smile, ‘we are friends, yes?’

‘Yes, Miss Todd.’ A shaky smile.

‘And because we are friends, you may call me Miss Asher,’ I say and he blinks in surprise. I turn to the girls, who’ve subsided, now sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘And you, misses both, do you solemnly promise never to enter uninvited?’

‘Yes, Miss Asher,’ they chorus.

‘Then all is well and forgiven. Now, I must prepare.’ I glance at the clock on the mantle – still early – I wonder who dressed them. ‘We shall meet downstairs in an hour and we shall begin afresh.’

When they are gone, I sink into the armchair, shaking. No matter what my very good reference letter says, I have little experience of children. But I know enough that such a fury will be all they remember of me. Yet I wanted them to like me.

Rising, I check on the carpet bag and its contents; nothing has been disturbed. I notice then that a fresh tray has replaced last night’s empty one: a bowl of porridge, a silver pot and cup, two pieces of bread, some jam and butter. So: someone else has entered while I slept so deeply. The lilac room is busy as a market square.

I must find a hiding place. There is a lock on my door, yet a locked room looks like there’s something to conceal. My trunk is another matter – a secured chest simply seems like a natural caution. Still, I will need somewhere else to store my secrets – locks can be picked all too easily.

* * *

A little less than an hour later, there is a tentative knock. I wear a deep green baize frock, a still-damp braid hangs down my back, the tiny seed pearl earrings that belonged to my mother nestle in my earlobes. The carpet bag is in the locked trunk for now. I pinch my cheeks and nip at my lips to add a little colour, but otherwise I am decidedly unadorned. A proper governess, with mud-water eyes and middling brown hair, nothing more, nothing less.

I open the door to find a young woman, perhaps eighteen – about ten years my junior – with blonde curls under a white mobcap, a pale blue frock with a pleated bodice, full skirts and a snowy apron over the top. She bobs a curtsey, somehow managing to make it look impertinent.

‘Miss Todd, would you come down? Master Luther and Mistress Jessamine will see you now.’

How sweetly phrased yet entirely unrefusable an invitation. I give a smile which she doesn’t return, just turns and clips off, assuming I’ll follow. I do so.

‘May I have your name or is it to remain a mystery?’ I ask, teasing. She doesn’t look back, but I hear, faintly, the word Luned.

‘Was it you who ran the bath for me last night, Luned?’

‘Aye, and left your dinner, lit the fire,’ she says as if it was a great effort and not simply her duty. ‘Mrs Charlton told me to. You weren’t expected so soon.’ Just in case I should doubt the inconvenience caused.

‘Thank you. It was very pleasant to find everything prepared after such a journey. Have you worked here long, Luned?’

‘Almost two years,’ she says, and throws a glance over her shoulder at last. Her glance is sly, narrowed. ‘Longer than the last governess.’

‘Indeed?’ I say as if untroubled, as if I know nothing about the situation. ‘And where did she go?’

‘Ah, back where she came from, miss. Didn’t find our climate to her liking; a little too fertile, what with all the rain.’ And there’s a sound that might be a sigh or a snigger, but certainly all nerves.

I tuck that noise away, and her edgy hostility, make a note to keep an eye on her. She might as easily be foe or friend, and anything may tip the balance. Down the stairs, into the small entry hall again, then through the left-hand door, now opened, and along a corridor brightly lit by the sunshine pouring in the row of windows, also to the left. Outside the gardens look fresh and damp and very green, but there’s not a flower still on its stem after the violence of the storm: they lie in a carpet on the lawn, brilliant points of colour like gems; red, purple, orange, yellow, pink and violet. She points and calls as we go: ‘Parlour, Master Luther’s office, Mistress’s music room, breakfast room, dining room.’

Luned stops abruptly and I almost run into her as she throws open a door, ‘Library,’ then moves back so I may enter.

‘Thank you, Luned. I hope your day passes well.’

She looks surprised as she leans in to close the door behind me.

The panelling is dark, three leather couches wait in a U-shape before the fireplace where a blaze crackles, and there’s small elaborately carved desk beneath the large window. Most of the walls are covered in shelving and I resist the urge to examine them before I do my new employers. I drag my gaze away from the tomes, fix a prim smile on my lips and peer at Luther and Jessamine Morwood.

I look at her first, sitting on one of the couches, embroidery in her lap. She is tiny, not much taller than her oldest child. Her fall of black hair seems to have had anxious fingers run through it more than once; eyes framed by long lashes, skin sallow. Her red silk dress is intricately made with bows and gold lace, ridiculous for everyday wear but the rich are a law unto themselves I have found. Around her throat is a ruby-encrusted choker, from her earlobes hang matching earrings, her fingers are heavy with rings, her wrists with bracelets. Surely she’s not dressed this way for my sake? But then she gives me a tremulous smile and I think that perhaps her husband’s the one who wants her to look like this: she’s a prize, a sign of his prosperity, an adorned wife.

In Whitebarrow, I heard tales of bejewelled cadavers kept in some churches decorated saints, trapped beneath by bonds of gold, silver and gems all held together by curses and hex-prayers. Jessamine Morwood makes me think of those. I look away from her, the thought of corpses not one I want in my mind.

‘Miss Todd,’ says Luther Morwood, drawing attention to himself as he stands by the hearth in an ensemble of various shades of charcoal. He offers his hand, which I take, noticing the neatly trimmed nails, the way his shirtsleeve protrudes a uniform inch from the deep grey of his frockcoat. A gold watch chain hangs from a pocket. He is rather tall; his short hair and neat goatee are ruddy. His expression tells me he has no time for my kind.

Then it occurs to me. They are rich and I must know how rich; I must know what a privilege it is for me to be here even though the estate is so very remote; they need no peers or fancy townhouses in Lodellan or Breakwater or any of the cities ruled by princes and bishops and other stripes of thief. They are very, very wealthy and as long as I realise that, all will be well.

‘Mr and Mrs Morwood, it is a delight to meet you both,’ I say and let his hand go as quickly as might be polite; his palm is cold and dry, the sensation somehow as unpleasant as one sweaty and hot.

‘Your letter of reference was excellent, Miss Todd,’ he says, and I simply nod. I know. ‘Although we hardly need you; my wife is more than capable of ensuring they know their letters and numbers. Next year Connell will be sent to a boarding school, but until then he requires supervision and some tutoring. The girls, whatever you choose to teach them will do well enough.’

A flush rises in my face. His message is clear: I’m not welcome. I note he does not mention the governess before me.

I flick a glance at his wife; she’s got a well-trained expression and it’s only because I’m paying attention that I see the tightening of her nostrils and lips, the loss of colour. How long have they been married? Ten years at least to have Albertine. Where did Jessamine come from? Is she a Lodellan lady? Or from another estate close by? Or St Sinwin’s Harbour or Bellsholm? I wonder what existence Jessamine expected from her marriage.

‘I have knowledge of many subjects, including mathematics and some medicine, botany and biology – would you like me to prepare Connell for those? I assume you will wish him to attend a university. It will give him an advantage.’ I lower my gaze. ‘Your mother, who hired me, was quite clear about that.’

Luther Morwood is silent for a long moment – perhaps it’s unwise to show my teeth so soon – before clearing his throat. ‘Whitebarrow is a fine town, a fine university. Was your father a doctor or a lecturer there?’

‘I did not know my father, sir; he was gone before I was old enough to recall him and my mother did not wish to speak of him. I believe she found it too painful.’ Let them make what they will of that, either that it’s truth or a lie. That perhaps my parents knew each other no more than a night as a business transaction. That I am yet another bastard left behind by roaming scholars or soldiers, medical students or doctor-professors. It matters not: the letter of recommendation from Mater Hardgrace’s Academy is of the highest order, not at all forged, speaking of my intelligence, resourcefulness and determination. It contains but a few small lies, including my attendance at that institution. What learning I do have will be more than sufficient to teach the Morwood children. ‘I was simply fortunate that my mother believed in the benefits of learning; she scrimped and saved so I might do better than she had in life.’

‘Your mother is also deceased?’

‘Yes, sir. Gone almost two years. Her existence had been hard and she was worn out. Glad to go, I daresay.’ Another lie.

‘I’m sure she’s resting in the bosom of the Lord,’ chimes Mrs Morwood, and I struggle to keep my expression under control. No god offered Heloise comfort or took her soul in, and no god-hound blessed her passing.

Still, I manage to say, ‘Thank you. That is a kind wish.’

‘What a lovely ring, Miss Todd, most unusual,’ continues Jessamine Morwood, as if jewellery is a safe subject on which women might converse.

Instinctively, I try to hide it, then force a smile, and touch the thing as if it was always my fond intent. It was made for another’s hand; a slight glass dome covers a braided lock of mouse-brown hair, the same shade as my own.

‘A memento mori,’ I say truthfully. ‘Tell me, please, Mr Morwood, when shall I meet the elder Mrs Morwood?’ The temperature changes, a distinct chill in the air. ‘Only she was the one to employ me and I should like to offer my gratitude in person.’

‘Was there a problem earlier?’ Luther ignores my question, asks one of his own in a low tone, grinning as if about to catch me out. I tilt my head and he continues: ‘I heard a raised voice as I took the stairs. I didn’t recognise it so assumed it was yours. Perhaps the children were causing trouble?’

‘No, sir,’ I say, not too quickly. ‘Merely a disturbance in my sleep. I have travelled a good many days, and was disoriented upon waking. I think perhaps I cried out. Tomorrow will be better. I shall endeavour not to break the peace of your house again.’

‘I have a tincture for sleeping, should you require it,’ Jessamine pipes up. Her husband glares at her.

‘Thank you so much, Mrs Morwood, that is tremendously kind. I shall let you know.’ I smile at them both. ‘And now if that is all, shall I attend to the children?’

Luther Morwood nods curtly. ‘My mother will wish to see you, Miss Todd, of course. She will call for you this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

I leave the library and hear a whisper in the corridor, a conspiracy of mice, and am careful to quickly close the door after me. Albertine, Connell and Sarai await; it’s clear from their expressions they were listening and heard me lie for them. I offer my hands: Albertine and Connell take them and Sarai moulds herself to my skirts in a hug.

3

The day passes in a rush of morning lessons: geography, mathematics, reading and comprehension, writing. Four subjects seemed enough, and it will take me a while to establish the limits of their learning to date, then after lunch we exercise in the gardens. They are, on this short acquaintance, pleasant children, polite and curious.

They will be, I believe, fine sources of information, but I do not ask them many questions, not today. Not so soon. It wouldn’t do for one of them to report back how inquisitive Miss Todd is. In the evening, I dine with the family and make polite conversation with Jessamine, answer Luther’s periodic questions – he is mostly disinterested in me, always contemptuous – and keep an eye on the children’s table manners. Mrs Morwood senior is not present and I have had no summons, but refrain from asking about her lest it provoke her son.

When the meal is done, I do not have to oversee either baths or bedtimes for Jessamine makes a point of doing that herself. I nod and smile when she tells me: these are the tiny memories children will hang onto in later life, the small tendernesses some mothers bestow. The sort of recollections that will keep one going, will keep one warm, will help one be kind to other children at some point. I have few such memories, but I do have them.

In my room, Luned has set the fire as she did the night before, but I doubt she’ll draw a bath for me again. I sit in the armchair, staring into the flames, yet careful not to wish for anything. There are matters to which I must attend, promises to keep, but I’m bone-tired and it takes a while before I heave myself upright. First, I roll back the rug, take a small prybar from the satchel, then make my way around the room, tapping at the wooden floorboards with a foot until one gives the right hollow sound, the right amount of shift. It’s a simple matter to lever up the board – it’s a short one, cut to fit close to the wall – then hold a candle over the void. I realise quickly that I’m not the first person to do this. There are a few cobwebs, some dust – but not a decade’s worth, nor a century’s, less than a year perhaps. The light washes over a small rectangular object at the bottom of the hole. I reach in, extract it.

It’s a bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon. Two letters to be precise so not quite a bundle, one thicker than the other. My first clue, then, for one of my tasks. I undo the ribbon, open the thinnest one first.

A single piece of paper, thick and white and written in a jagged, rather masculine hand I recognise. The second is the same paper, two sheets, but it’s wrapped around an image so carefully and intricately inked that I recognise the faces: Mater Hardgrace of the Academy and a young woman dressed in the plainest of attire that cannot hide how beautiful she is. I saw the large version of this very portrait in an office back in Whitebarrow, that day I made my promise to Mater Hardgrace. The letters are filled with nothing but businesslike chatter, details of weather, of decisions made at the Academy, and final wishes for the young woman to succeed, to remain steadfast and do her aunt proud. A fondness in the tone, yes, and no sense that these words would be the last between them. I take one last look at that glorious face, then put the letters back where their own secreted them.

The hollow is big enough for my secrets and theirs; but I shall pursue mine first.

I unlock the trunk, take the jar from the carpet bag, unwrap it and check the wax seal. Still intact. My sigh is equal parts despair and relief as I hold the bottle up to the light and peer at it. The contents seem to move, but that might just be the effect of the fluid it floats in. Once again I swaddle the container in the old shirt, then gently set it in the hidey-hole. I fish another two objects from the bag – my death’s assured if they’re discovered – and add them. The floorboard slots back in place, and the rug flops over the top. No one will notice, I’m sure.

Tonight, I feel I can sleep soundly without fear of any unexpected visitors finding anything untoward in my possession. Tomorrow evening, I will unpack properly, transfer my things to the armoire and duchesse; I’ll ask Burdon to have Eli store the trunk wherever it is such things are stored. Then I shall be settled, for however long is required.

Now, though, I find the silver flask in my satchel. I’ve not touched it in weeks and weeks, kept it, hoarded it like a miser. I check my reflection in the mirror – tidy, unremarkable – then make my way down to the kitchen.

It’s a cavernous space, vaulted ceiling so high it’s lost in shadows – unusual – with doorless rooms running off it, and stone stairs going down presumably to the cellar. A wide hearth with a fire blazing, sideboards filled with crockery, a large battered table with an assortment of chairs on one side, a bench on the other; a deep double stone sink, copper pots hanging from a ladder suspended from the roof. Flagged floors, warm with radiant heat from the fire.

Mrs Charlton’s hair is still quite black but for silver streaks running from each temple and twisted into her loose chignon. She’s spare, no fat on her, and large-boned. Her big hands look as if they could easily wring the neck of a chicken but hold instead a delicate piece of embroidery in a hoop frame. She’s sitting at the table, its surface scarred from the efforts of cleavers and knives, stained from the tints of food prepared there. Three lanterns are lit for her to see by. A steaming tin mug of tea is within reach. She says without looking up, ‘Good evening, Miss Todd.’

‘Good evening, Mrs Charlton.’ I’ve not seen her before this, though I’ve eaten meals prepared by her, noticed the signs of a well-run household. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

I don’t say at last or anything foolish like that.

‘What can I do for you, miss?’ Still she doesn’t look up, just keeps piercing the cambric with her needle, drawing bright crimson thread through to create roses.

‘What beautiful work, Mrs Charlton.’

‘Can you embroider, Miss Todd?’

‘I can barely darn a sock, indeed I’m so clumsy I’d likely pass out from blood loss,’ I say, and she snorts. ‘May I join you?’

She waves a hand: go ahead. ‘Would you like a tea? The pot’s fresh.’

I sit across from her, hold up the flask, shake it gently. ‘I thought perhaps you might like something a little stronger?’

She raises a brow, as if choosing whether to disapprove of me.

‘It’s a raspberry gin,’ I say, smiling. ‘I’ve been saving it until a good day.’

‘And that was today?’

‘The best one I’ve had in a while.’ Not a lie.

She puts her embroidery aside and rises. When she’s collected two fine-blown glasses from a sideboard, and a small plate of biscuits from a barrel, she returns. I’m generous with my pour, though it’s the last of this particular vintage I’m likely to lay hands on. Clinking our glasses, we toast, ‘To your health.’ The crystal rings sweetly. We sip and sigh.

‘Oh my, that’s nice.’ Mrs Charlton leans back in her chair.

‘A gift from an old friend,’ I say. Neither entirely true nor false.

‘Lovely.’

A few moments of silence, companionable. I’ll not ask too many questions. But here, this is gossip between women of the same house, a pleasure and a necessity. What better place than a kitchen? How to start though?

She saves me the trouble. ‘So, Miss Todd, this is a long way to come from anywhere.’

‘The Tarn is a decent size, I think. We seek employment where we may, Mrs Charlton.’

‘True, true.’

‘There were other positions in towns, bustling places,’ I say, ‘but this one’s remoteness appealed. I’ve lived in the city, in Whitebarrow, for a long while. Morwood is a nice change.’

‘Ah, well. You’ll find what you need in the Tarn; it’s a self-sufficient spot. You’re just far from most things and sometimes that chafes.’

‘You’re not from hereabouts, Mrs Charlton?’ I pour another measure of the gin for her, keep the last dregs for myself. The biscuits are cheese, sharp and crumbly, delicious.

She shakes her head. ‘Been here ten going on eleven years. I came with Miss Jessamine when she married.’

‘Ah.’

‘I was her nurse when she was little – motherless mite she was.’

‘And you couldn’t bear to leave her?’

‘There was nothing else for me to do in the house in Bellsholm − she’s an only child, you see − so I begged her father to send me with her. Called me a lady’s maid until the old housekeeper here died, and I just sort of fell into that.’

‘So you’re from Bellsholm then?’ I know it: a decent-sized port-city on the banks of the Bell River, a lot of merchant vessels and land caravans, an intersection where goods are traded and sent off in various directions. There’s a small theatre with a marvellous singing automaton that performs every Friday night; I have heard her. People make weekend plans to go and listen, stay for a few days afterwards. It’s become something of a spa town too, with pretty inns springing up to accommodate the tourists from near and far – with the usual warnings about not wandering too close to the bend in the river where the rusalky swim and try to lure the unwary into the waters with their arias.

‘No, no. Born in a tiny place called Tintern and married there for the briefest of times. He died during a plague, along with our newborn daughter; I survived. Made my way to Bellsholm and found work there − Miss Jessamine was a year old. It was like she was meant to be mine.’ She smiles fondly.

‘I believe I’ve heard of Tintern…’ I frown, trying to dredge the memory.

‘Ah, it’s tiny, not much of it left now. There was a dollmakers’ academy there in the old days.’

‘Didn’t they used to make toys with tiny pieces of anima inside?’ I ask.

‘They did! Sliced from their very own souls!’

It was just a semblance of life, but enough to make the things look real. Enough to make the Church disband the dollmakers’ guilds, and hunt down any artisans who persisted in their craft, burning them as witches. ‘Did you ever see it? The academy?’

‘It was destroyed long before I was born. My grandmother used to tell tales about the day it burned, about the men in their purple robes carrying torches and making sure everything was fed to the flames. That included the last dollmaker and all of her apprentices.’

Thinking of my mother’s warning about how those who are different are burned or drowned, I simply say, ‘A lost art.’

She lowers her voice. ‘Miss Jessamine had one of those moppets – it was ancient, passed down from an ever-so-many great grandmother.’

‘What happened to it?’ I ask. Folk were instructed to surrender them; god-hounds presided over pyres of dolls with tiny souls inside. I’ve often wondered if their makers felt that burning, wherever they were. If they yet lived.

Mrs Charlton pauses so long I think she will not answer. But then: ‘My miss threw it in the hearth. She became… afraid of it.’

So much fire.

‘Oh. Well, children can be fanciful,’ I say as if I don’t know better. As if I don’t know that much of the strangeness children see is real, that it peeks from the darkness because it knows adults don’t listen to young ones. I don’t tell her I’ve seen one of those dolls in a private collection in Whitebarrow, that it belonged to a dead woman, that I never touched it because it unnerved me. The Church calls them soul poppets, but once they were simply toys for the offspring of those rich enough to commission their making. They are rare to find even in university libraries or important museums.