The wheels rattled quietly along the vaulted avenue of yews, the dour glow of the lamps doing little to chase the shadows from the road. In the branches overhead, the rooks took up their elegiac threnodies, calling to the dilatory dawn light. Emma turned to catch a last glance of the shrinking castle through the rear window of Winterly's carriage.
Mrs. Skinner's retreating silhouette was nigh indiscernible through the mournful fog. The old spider had dutifully conveyed the name and address of Winterly's solicitor, but London was not whither Emma was presently bound. Albeit, not yet. She had, that morning, finally received a letter from Mary, in which her cousin assured her Milli was "getting on quite well" but for the odd bout of blue devils which was only natural in the upheaval of changed circumstances; yet she also made mention of Milli's late night maundering at the window when everyone else was dead asleep. The last, Mary could not account for and begged Emma's council, for she feared Milli was not sleeping. But Emma knew why, and it was thence, to Hobkirk Priory, that she was now repairing. It was clear that Milli needed her as much she needed Milli.
A seat on the stagecoach had been arranged for her in York, seeing as Winterly's ghoulish coachman was indisposed to daylight, and unless she could conjure him a thick fog at will, she was resigned to public transport. After Durham she was to go by mail coach, however, she had never travelled the Great North Road alone. All too soon she was being handed, by her vampiric coachman, into the stagecoach with a brusque adieu. Her small portmanteau was transferred from the carriage to the coach shortly thereafter—the rest of her traps were to be sent to London—and a moment later the coach was underway.
It was at the Coaching Inn in Durham that Emma began to feel uneasy, having by degrees become aware of an uncanny sensation; specifically an intrusive suspicion that she was being closely observed. The Red Dragon Inn—a name that had quite rendered her dumb when first she'd disembarked—was seething with patrons, so there was little chance of Emma making out whose impertinent gaze she'd perceived. At length she gave the effort up and resumed her supper, brooding over a tapestry of a long red dragon hanging over the broad mantelshelf. At last, it was time to repair to the mail coach where Emma hoped she could find relief from her dogged spy.
As the smaller conveyance and its fresh team of horses set off with a jolt—whereupon she was thrown against the little gentleman beside her—she soon found herself unable to keep her lids open. Though her tears had all but dried up, her heart had sustained too hard blow, and it was not but a half hour north of Durham that she finally nodded over her book, insensible to the pain in her neck.
She was disturbed from her sleep an hour later, not by the deep ruts in the road or perilous jostling of the coach, but by that same impression of being watched. Dusk had fallen and the lamps were shedding some little light, but not enough to see beneath the hats and bonnets of her fellow passengers. Though, if her intuition was to be trusted, she was certain the feeling stemmed from the tall gentleman across from her. On further scrutiny, she found that it must indeed be him, for the rest of the passengers were all fast asleep. That observation made, she concentrated her glare in his direction, specifically at the chiseled jaw that smirked below the shadow of his brim.
Mindful of her sleeping companions, she leaned forward to deliver an angry whisper. "You, sir, had better tell me your name if you mean to continue staring at me all night."
"You wound me, Miss Lucas. I should hate to think I made no lasting impression on your memory."
Startled by his knowing her name, she sat back and tried to recall the voice. It was only a little familiar. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir."
"Forgive my impertinence, the hour is dark and our association too brief to warrant teasing." He lifted his hat from his head with a respectful nod. "Nicholas Hawksmoor."
Emma's shock was instantly displaced by keen mistrust. "Tell me, Lord Hawksmoor, is it more than happenstance that brought you to this of all coaches?"
"I believe you've already guessed that much."
"You're following me!"
"No, I have been assigned the task of protecting you."
"From what exactly? And by whom?"
"From vicious highwaymen and nocturnal bogeys, Miss Lucas. As to the latter query, I believe you have guessed that also."
"Lord Winterly." Who else indeed.
"Very Good, Miss Lucas."
She gave a stiff lift of her chin. "Why does he not come to protect me himself if he fears for my safety? I had no idea you were employed in his service."
"He did not say, madam, and I did not ask. As to my employment, I prefer to consider it fraternal allegiance."
This she dismissed with a brief quirk of one brow. "Where is he?"
"I regret that that too was not confided to me."
"Then," she said, sighing bitterly, "you mean to follow me to Scotland?"
"If you'll recall—" with a gallant flash of teeth "—I'm protecting you. And yes, I intend to do that all the way to Scotland."
"What if I'm averse to being protected?"
"Your aversion is regrettable," he answered, lowering his brim over his eyes and settling back in his seat, "and your permission unnecessary." He said no more.
Well, she thought, gritting her teeth, she could not very well accuse the man—vampyre, whatever he was—of impudence, for he'd been chivalrous, in the main, notwithstanding the trace of incorrigibility she'd detected in his smirks. And, to own the truth, she was glad of his company, for it meant that Winterly had not completely abandoned her; though he had broken her heart.
The last she must have said aloud, without being aware of her wayward tongue, for Hawk lifted his brim with an elegant finger and considered her from the shadows. Finally, he said, "He has broken his own heart as well, Miss Lucas." Down came the brim again, signaling the end of their strange discourse.
They were soon settled at the Hob's Inn and, after the journey's dust had been washed from Emma's face, the pair set off on foot for Hobkirk Priory at a pace that conveyed them thither in no more than a quarter hour.
The priory was discovered to be a large but unimposing brick cruciform with a crossing tower, bells and all, jutting from the nave and transepts, the top of which was swallowed by low clouds. Beyond the little copse on the north side, Emma could see what looked to be a rectangular dormitory. The whole of the property—the church, chapels, and outbuildings—stood hemmed behind a low stone wall with a rudimentary wooden gate, and it was this through which they entered. Along the path, they passed by a stooping willow with a decidedly melancholy aspect, its tresses hanging low in the fishpond nearby, its leaves falling like silent tears upon the ripples of preceding drops. Emma fancied she saw something of her own mood in its sepulchral demeanor. Distracted, she approached the modest west front without being in the least bit charmed by the thick vines mantling its facade with vibrant blue flowers that peeped out from the green foliage like shy little church bells.
"Our arrival has been noted," said Nicholas, suddenly recalling her attention and, with a nod of his head, steering her gaze up to the nave entrance.
Observing their progress from her post at the heavy pitted doors was a tall nun with a welcome smile. After devoirs were paid, and their business stated, she directed Emma and Nicholas to a parlor where she bade them wait, promising to return with Milli and Sister Mary.
It occurred to Emma suddenly that Nicholas appeared far too much at his ease amidst these hallowed walls. She observed him with a dubious countenance which he noticed and answered with a quirk of the mouth, his gaze askance.
"Forgive my presumption," said she, raising a mordant brow, "but should you not have burst into flames by now?"
He gave a bark of laughter. "How remiss of me. I should hate to think I've disappointed you."
"Only a little," she muttered, glancing up at the crucifix above Nicholas's head where a shrunken-bellied Christ was hanging from his iron nails, his head bowed as if in lorn contemplation of the strange creature below him. "But, in the spirit of inquiry, do consider the impertinence, instead, a concern for your safety."
"Well, then I am pleased to allay your concern on that score, for, you see, I am not and have never been a vampyre."
"Truly?!" Her eyes had flown quite as broad and wide as his dark smile.
"Truly."
"Well, you must be"—she leaned away from him, the better to disinter his secrets and discover what was so manifestly preternatural about him—"something other than mortal."
"And, indeed, I am." His prevailing silence thereafter, however, was attestation enough that he meant to withhold the nature of his physiology.
It was most provoking. "For Heaven's sake, what are you if not a vampyre?"
"Miss Lucas, it is rude to pry."
Before Emma could tell him what she thought of his perverse reticence, the door swung open to admit Sister Mary and a somber young woman who, despite possessing Milli's fine looks, lacked the warmth of spirit that was wont to imbue each beloved feature of the sister she remembered. Whatever reunion Emma had expected, it had not been the taciturn embrace of a young woman garbed in black.
Milli disengaged herself from Emma's arms, her glance falling instantly—and with manifest surprise—upon the gentleman standing beside Emma; a man upon whose dashing figure the Milli of old had so often feasted starving eyes.
"My dearest Milli"—Hawksmoor's eyes glittered with humor as he examined her severe attire—"you look positively divine."
Even the high neckline and furrowed brow was no detraction from the pretty hue of pink that suffused Milli's fresh cheeks. Determinedly, she ignored Hawksmoor's shameless familiarity, choosing, instead, to address the reason for the 'divine' attire that had also aroused Emma's curiosity. "You find me now a humble postulant, sister."
Notwithstanding the austerity of Milli's demeanor, Emma was so taken aback by the declaration that she stood by, limp and dumbstruck, as Sister Mary pressed a welcome kiss to her cheek. "A nun, Milli?! You cannot be serious!" Here, indeed, stood a contradictory dark twin; an imposter mirrored from the shadow world.
"Mary," said Milli to her cousin, "I must beg a private moment with my sister. I see I have shocked her."
"Of course." Mary favored the sisters with a smile of concern and a nod of her round face which the tall nun echoed. "You shall find the little bench beneath the willow quite secluded. Lord Hawksmoor will be quite safe in our custody."
To that, his lordship gave a tight smile and watched the sisters leave the parlor arm in arm.
When at last they were seated alone beneath the weeping tree, Emma found that she was lost for words. She was, however, relieved to see Winterly's bracelet hugging Milli's dainty wrist.
The sullen twin, meanwhile, searched Emma's face and then gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. "I don't wonder at your confusion, Emma, Lord knows I barely understand it all myself, but my sudden interest in the church is hardly arbitrary, considering all we now know of the world." The interruption of a lonely crow, as it circled the bell tower, squawking its sinister agreement, drew Milli's wary gaze. "You, pretty surely, of all people, must understand my need for answers—Deuce take me, Emma! That creature fed on me! Will I never escape the nightmares? Will I never feel clean again?! Just once I wish I could close my eyes and not see...those eyes." Terror dilated Milli's eyes as she stared, unfocused, over Emma's shoulders, lost in wakeful nightmares.
Gripping her face firmly, Emma directed her sister's gaze back to her. "It will be all right! God will not forsake you, sweet sister." She had to believe that, for Milli, at least, was the innocent in all this.
"Yes, I know." Milli's eyes cleared as she blinked them. "He has answered the foremost of my prayers and kept you safe."
The worried creases that seemed a permanent fixture on Emma's brow suddenly deepened with shame. "I am worthy neither of your prayers nor of His protection."
"Emma, do not say that!"
"Can you forgive me, Milli?" Emma lifted her sister's hands to her lips and pressed a fierce kiss upon cold knuckles. "I ought to have protected you better."
Milli pulled a hand free and cupped her sister's wan cheek. "You have ever been my watchful protector. Now, tell me, how did you escape him?"
"I didn't. He let me go."
Milli leaned away, surprised. "Why?"
"Perhaps"—Emma threw her arms up in dejection—"because my judgment was skewed by prejudice." She dropped her head into her hands, lest Milli see the shame written boldly over her face. "And because he had no recourse but to believe I tried to kill him."
"Faugh! You could never do such a thing!"
Her sister's indefatigable faith quelled a little of her anguish, and a tiny bubble of teary laughter was allowed to escape. "Oh, Milli, how I've missed you!"
"But you are free now. Why do you weep for him?"
"Because I love him, Milli, and I'd as rather die than have him hate me!"
"But he doesn't hate you!" She pulled her sister's hands back from her wet cheeks, thumbing away the tears from beneath each swollen eye.
"How can you know that?"
"Because he concerns himself with my safety. He came here this very morning to see me—" she lifted her wrist, gesturing to the bracelet "—and demanded again that I not remove his protection from my arm, for he had sensed Victoria close by. I doubt very much that his assiduities are accorded for any reason other than because he knows it would make you happy; because he loves you."
The pronouncement amazed Emma. Winterly had been here today? Perhaps under this very willow? But she could not speak of him just now, lest her voice become unsteady and her tears flow faster. "My dear, I confess I am a little astonished at your wealth of sagacity and composure." In fact she rather envied Milli her newfound equability, for she had great need of it herself. "I thought you might hate him for what he is; I thought you might judge me for what I feel."
"I cannot pretend I do not fear him, sister, or deny the horror that sometimes escapes me, but, truly, it is not my place to hate him, or to judge you. He has done nothing to incite my hate. He has set you free, besides. Upon my honor, Emma! Only a man who loves deeply may be governed by such a selfless act!" Milli's features softened as she patted her sister's hands. "What's that German proverb—I know how you love your German proverbs—about the dove and the crow?" She tapped her bottom lip, thoughtful. "A dove that nests with crows will come away with black feathers?"
"I don't think that's exactly how it goes, my dear." Emma gave a chuckle between snuffling.
Milli shook her head patiently. "My point is, dearest, that an old proverb may be translated and interpreted a hundred different ways! In this case, only you may decide the color of your feathers; but, I dare say, the color of your plumage signifies nothing as long as you are good and kind and faithful, and I have always found you to have those three qualities in abundance."
"Dear Milli—" with a tremulous smile "—how wise you have become in your nun's habit. I see your new feathers suit you pretty well."
"As to your feathers, Emma—you must try to accept them whatever the color; you are who God made you. Do not try to be something else."
"Heavens, Milli, it sounds as though you accept that I love a vampyre." Her mouth flattened. "But can God, in his mercy, be reconciled to such love? Lest we forget, He cast Markus from grace!"
"But does not every earthly creature deserve redemption? Is your vampyre's love for you not, in itself, his redemption?" Milli's finger paused contemplatively over her underlip. "I think it is not wise to judge or guess at God's motives, for good or bad. Ay, He cast him from heaven, but who are we to judge it a curse or a mercy—He cast his child out to live among the fallible creatures he could most identify with, did He not? Winterly belongs more to earth than to heaven, and it is here, among the rest of God's flock, that he found you, dearest Emma. Perhaps He loved His creation so much that He placed him here to find his heart's twin in you."
Even the crow, it seemed, had quietened to listen to Milli and the willow had stilled her ripples in the pond. Emma sat in awe of her young sister, aware that she had horribly underestimated Milli's character, and that somewhere during their separation, the girl had become a woman and come into her own. Emma felt a heart-fetched and painful remorse at realizing she had misjudged her poor sister who sat here, serene as an angel, her radiance unchallenged even by the low shadows of the welkin.
"Light feathers or dark feathers," Milli continued, "it doesn't matter—it doesn't make a nightingale any less beautiful because he sings to the night—the dark does not judge his drab plumage—nor is the moon less splendid because she thrives in the night; on the contrary, I say both are the more beautiful for their place in the darkness. I think you cannot have light without understanding the dark; it is natural to belong to both; it is human to be grey."
It was a long moment before Emma felt herself equal to speak through the lump welling in her throat. "I love you, Milli. I am truly honored to have you as a sister." She was reaching over to draw Milli into her arms, determined never to take her sister for granted again, when she became sharply aware of an uncanny rippling along her spine. She looked up at the crow. The sudden rush of wings, as it fled from the willow, only worsened her fright.
Even as the fear surfaced to rouse her heed, she heard Mill cry out in terror. At the same instant, she felt her ears explode with a burst of pain and sudden deafness as she was hurtled through the air. The willow bole received her with solid resistance, and a sickening snap of her ribs, before she crumpled to its base, deaf and blind but for the din of bells in her ears and the weltering darkness before her eyes. But as the fury of the bells died down, her sister's screams grew louder till they were all Emma could hear.
See, not the end! 😜 Are you still with me?