'Don't look, Lillian. Never look into the eyes of a Sin-Eater, you will be as cursed as he is and will forever languish in darkness.'
Lillian Elmes remembers the warning her mother gave her about the town's Sin-Eater only too well.
How could she n...
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Papa calls to the horses, issuing a command to slow as he tugs on their reins, guiding them to take a gentle right turn into the entrance of Lutwyche Hall.
Lutwyche Hall, while not as grand as Shipton Hall or even Dudmaston for that matter, still manages to crush the breath from my body every time I set eyes upon it. It might have been owned by that insidious toad Mr. Hawkstone, but the owner had shed none of his lecherous aura onto the house, which is worthy of an artist's canvas.
Framed on either side by an orchard of cherry blossom which fan their blanket of delicate rose petals over the landscaped gardens, the red brick building stands proud in the summer glare, its large windows sparkling a welcome that raises a smile on my lips, despite the sombre reason for our visit. Lutwyche Hall truly is a thing of beauty. Even the death of Mr. Hawkstone has cast no shadow over the house, although if Mama's words about Mrs. Hawkstone are true, the inside might not have escaped the black shroud that only grief can conjure.
Papa brings the horses to halt at the end of the long driveway, where Mr. Leeke, the stable hand, waits to attend us. William jumps down first, offering his hand to Mama to help her off the trap, but his eyes are elsewhere instantly, and I know who he seeks. A funeral it might be, however to my darling younger brother, this is simply another opportunity for him to flirt shamelessly with Mr. Darborough's granddaughter, Jenny. He's been sweet on her since the Christmas Ball and now he's a raging inferno of lust and a mischievous streak a mile long.
Without bothering to help me down, he escorts Mama across the courtyard, leaving me to struggle on my own, muttering under my breath, until Papa appears to assist me, his eyes warm, but troubled with a touch of grief. My father has never been accustomed to public displays of emotion, and while Mr. Hawkstone had been an acquaintance of his for many years, I know it is not just the passing of his friend which has caused this melancholy.
'I grow weary of death, Lily dear,' he'd said, just two days before, as I'd knelt at his feet, after finding him alone in the parlour room, seated in his favourite armchair and looking smaller than the man I knew. Papa was always larger than life, both in size and in character. 'The more I hear of it, the more I am aware of the passing of time that comes to us all. Too many of my friends and loved ones have met theirs. A man cannot help but ponder when his time might also be at hand.'
'Nonsense, Papa,' I had exclaimed, alarmed, his words sending a chill through me. 'You are young yet. I'll not hear talk of death from you, thank you very much.'
Papa had smiled then, patting my hand in the way he had done since I was a little girl. 'My flower, Lily. I fear that when the day comes, and it will, for it comes to us all in time, you shall be standing with a poker in hand, ready to see off the Grim Reaper and wrap his knuckles with iron every time he dares to try and reach me with his deadly scythe.'
'I'll do more than wrap his knuckles, you see if I don't.' I grinned. 'I'll wrestle that scythe from his bony old hands and run him back to Hell from where he came.'
