Текст книги "Sinner's Heart"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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Effectively dismissed, the mantua maker dropped into a curtsy then slipped away to help a dowager choose between black bombazine and black tabinet.
He ambled over to shelves holding more bolts of fabric, and feigned interest in studying their colors and patterns.
Is she here?Livia asked.
Toward the back. She’s the one in bronze jacquard.
I’ve no idea what jacquard is,was the tart reply. Clearly, you’ve learned much from undressing women.
It helps to know many languages.
Livia made a soft noise of scorn. Don’t tarry. Go to her.
Remember what I said before? Too much eagerness won’t yield results. We take our time, and reap the benefits of our patience.
The veteran seducer’s wisdom.
We know it has its uses.
He studied a bolt of pale blue sarcenet, lightly touching its lustrous surface. Despite Livia’s impatience, she hummed with feminine approval. Bram tucked his smile away. For all her forcefulness and imperious declarations, she was still a woman.
You approve?he asked.
The silk shines well enough, but the color is too mild.
This, I think, is more to your tastes.He ran his finger down a length of deep gold charmeuse. Her skin would feel the same, silken and lithe.
Oh,she breathed. That is ...Her words trailed away, and his mind suddenly filled with images of her, draped in a gold silk tunic. They were her own envisioning, yet they became his, and the vision made his mouth water. In her thoughts, she wasn’t a translucent form, but a woman of solid flesh, her skin olive-hued and burnished, the charmeuse embracing her curves like a lover.
There was silk, too, when I lived,she said, regaining her voice. It wasn’t half as fine. The wonders of this modern era.
They are abundant. But this modern era would be in awe of you.
He felt the warmth of her pleasure. Yet she said crisply, Your flattery isn’t necessary. There’s nothing to be gained by it.
A compliment needn’t serve a purpose. It can simply exist.
Ah.A long pause. Thank you.
Those were not words she seemed familiar with speaking, but they were sincere.
He moved slowly through the shop, smiling politely when an assistant or client tried to catch his eye. The assistants, barely more than girls, blushed and curtsied, though their shy smiles faltered when they espied his scar.
Does it pain you?Livia asked quietly.
It healed long ago.
Not the wound. But the response it engenders.
I used to hate it. Wore my stock so high it choked me, just to cover it. Then I deliberately left my neckcloths undone—flaunting it, I suppose.
Surely that brought you more than a few female admirers. Few things are as appealing to a woman than scars.
One of the customers, a nobleman’s young wife he dimly remembered from a card party, angled herself in his path. She wore an expectant smile.
He nodded, and stepped around her. The sound of her insulted huff bounced off his back.
I was a novelty. A tame monster. They wanted to boast to their friends about taking me to their beds and surviving.
Then everyone benefitted from the arrangement.
Was it a benefit? The single-minded way he hunted pleasure—from one bed to the next, one encounter following another—stripped it down to a basic, animal need, absent of true enjoyment. Barely had he risen from the tangled sheets, discarding the used lambskin sheaths he employed to keep himself in reasonably sound health, before he planned his subsequent conquests.
The grimness of this prospect looted any cheer from the shop. Bright silks dulled, and the curlicue voices of the women flattened into toneless drones.
I . . .Livia sounded oddly contrite. It wasn’t my intent to lower you.
I’ve been low,he answered. Dwelt there for years. Whether I can climb upward is yet to be determined.
He carefully maneuvered himself near his intended target. She idly toyed with a length of lace—Spanish, judging by the pattern. But her rouged lips were pressed tight, and she seemed little interested in the scrap of expensive fabric she fingered.
Something pressed upon Lady Maxwell’s mind.
Though Bram was the only man in the shop, it was a measure of her distractedness that she did not notice him until he stood beside her. Only when her maid coughed politely to gain her attention did Lady Maxwell glance up. She nearly looked twice, her lips making an O of surprise. Of all the people she must have considered meeting at a fashionable dressmaker’s shop, Bram must have been low on that list.
“Lord Rothwell.”
“Lady Maxwell.”
They offered each other decorous bows and curtsies.
“This is an unexpected delight,” he said. He had, in fact, followed her from her home in St. James, careful to keep his horse out of sight from her carriage.
“I was unaware that you patronized Madame De Jardin’s establishment.” She glanced past Bram’s shoulder. “You are here with . . .”
He watched her mentally run through the possibilities. He had no living female relations, and certainly no wife.
“. . . A friend?” she finished. Beneath her powder, her cheeks colored. Mistresses might well be accepted fact amongst the elite, but ladies seldom discussed them with gentlemen in mantua makers’ shops.
“I am alone,” Bram answered.
Except for the ghost,added Livia.
Can’t very well say that to her.
Lady Maxwell frowned in puzzlement. “This seems an odd place for you.”
He shrugged. “I own that such establishments are not my usual domain. Yet of late I find myself greatly missing feminine company. Thus my presence here.”
“Fie, Lord Rothwell.” Lady Maxwell tapped his sleeve with her fan. “You never want for female companionship.” Though she was some eight years his senior, Lady Maxwell was yet a handsome woman, well-maintained, and not above fashionable flirtation.
“Perhaps it is particular female companionship I seek.”
Her brows rose. “You are roguish, sir.” Yet she sounded breathless, intrigued. He knew that tone well.
“No offense was intended, ma’am.” He bowed, noting how her gaze lingered on his calf, then rose higher up his leg. “Might I apologize more profoundly—in private?” He tipped his chin toward the back of the shop, where curtained rooms awaited women for changing and fittings.
Lady Maxwell hesitated. She glanced at him, then at the other patrons. Her maid studiously looked blank.
Is she so corruptible?Livia asked.
Almost everyone is. Especially amongst our set.
Finally, Lady Maxwell said in a theatric tone, “I believe my garter needs retying. Do excuse me.” She hurried to one of the changing rooms, stepped inside, and then, with a pointed glance at Bram, drew the curtain.
She’s rather maladroit at this assignation business,Livia said.
Her usual lover is away on the Continent. She’s out of practice.
Fortunately, she has you as a tutor.
I’m here for a purpose.Bram slipped back toward the curtained room. And it is not Lady Maxwell’s charms, seasoned though they might be.
He stepped through the curtain, and the sounds of the shop grew muffled. The lady in question whirled around from readjusting the small velvet patch on her cheek in the mirror. She took a step toward him, then stopped and narrowed her eyes.
“You’ve never shown an interest before, Rothwell.”
“Always your affections had been engaged elsewhere. With Mr. Sedgwick absent, I thought I might press my advantage.” He narrowed the distance between them, and took her hand.
She gasped, whilst Livia snickered.
“Lady Maxwell. Mary. Expecting you to accept my sudden suit would be a gross insult. If any offense was taken, I beg forgiveness. ’Tis my hot blood, I fear, that makes me importunate.”
With her free hand, Lady Maxwell opened her fan and began to cool her face. “I might pardon you. Perhaps.”
“Let me come to you,” he continued, still clasping her hand. “Allow me to plead my case.”
“Where might you do such a thing?” Her pupils were wide, her breath quick. Mr. Sedgwick was twenty years older than Bram, and Lady Maxwell’s longtime lover. His heated protestations and avowals likely ended over a decade past.
A handsome young suitor such as you? What woman could remain indifferent?
No need for ridicule, Madam Ghost.
I’m not being sarcastic,was Livia’s intriguing reply.
Bram realized Lady Maxwell waited on his answer. “At your home. When your husband is out during the night. I’ll come to you then.”
“Lord Maxwell seldom attends evening amusements.”
“He’s a man of no little influence in Parliament. Surely he has meetings at night.”
A pleat of worry formed between Lady Maxwell’s brows. “He might . . . I don’t know . . .” Her gaze darted to the side, precisely the sort of movement Whit would call a tell.
“Mary.” Bram moved to catch her gaze, and he gave her a long, slow smile. “How can I come to you if I don’t know the particulars of his schedule? I’d hate to spoil our pleasures before they had even begun.” He stroked his thumb across her wrist, back and forth. “Tell me when and where his next political gathering is to be.”
At last, she said, “Tonight. A gathering at Camden House in Wimbledon.”
The country estate of the king’s advisor. Surely that meant that Maxwell and the others in the cabal planned on meeting there to discuss and strategize against John. Wimbledon lay ten miles from the heart of London.
Far away indeed for any sort of business. It had to be a secret council.
So secret that John won’t know of it?
He’ll know.
Having gained the information he sought, Bram wanted nothing more than to bolt from the little curtained room, out of the mantua maker’s, and out into action. But he had a role to perform, and so adhered to the script.
“Tonight, then.”
“But—”
He bowed over Lady Maxwell’s hand and pressed a kiss there. “Until then.”
Before she could say anything further, he strode from the dressing chamber. He gave just a hint of knowing smile response to the curious looks he received.
She might yet tell her husband that you asked about the meeting, Livia pointed out.
Donning his hat, he stepped out into the street. Though the day was at its height, the Strand remained eerily quiet, the numbers of men and women out shopping dramatically thinned. He paced quickly to where a crossing sweep held his horse and threw the boy a coin.
Swinging up into the saddle, he thought, She won’t. To do so would mean admitting to her husband that she was planning an assignation.He kicked his horse into motion.
For a soldier,Livia said, you’re quite adept at subterfuge.
There are many ways to win a war,he answered.
Locating John was their goal—and Lady Maxwell had been gracious enough in her infidelity to provide the details of where Bram would find her husband. Where Lord Maxwell was, John would be, as well. A gathering of his enemies made a perfect target.
John would act against them, though the how of it was yet unknown.
But we will be there to stop him,Bram thought, urging his horse to greater speed as he headed for Wimbledon.
Day faded to twilight, color leeching from the world as the sun dipped below the horizon. He crossed the river at Putney Bridge, and the Thames made a dark, slick shape beneath, empty of watermen ferrying passengers in their skiffs. The land felt emptied, derelict, as he pushed further south of London. Hardly any lights burned in the windows of scattered homes. The village of Putney was deserted, its streets dark, and so it went, the further Bram rode into the night, passing few people in the gloom of night.
Full darkness enveloped the countryside. At last, the stately form of Camden House appeared out of the shadows. It stood in the middle of a sprawling park. Crisply modern, it rose up two stories, proudly displaying rows of symmetrical windows in its brick and pale stone façade. In contrast to the darkness, lights blazed from the windows, an announcement that more than servants occupied the house.
Not especially discrete,Livia noted.
No one within believes they have anything to fear. Not tonight.
Where is John?
No bloody idea. But he’ll show.
Weary though his horse was, the mare responded to his urging for more speed. It galloped across the wide, open parkland. Camden House drew closer. Men’s sober voices drifted in muted waves across the park. No signs of disturbance or trouble.
He could be in hiding nearby,Livia said above the pounding hoof beats.
Movement in the darkness snared his attention. He turned his head, every sense on alert.
Bram,Livia cautioned.
Shapes detached from the shadows. Large forms, nearly the size of his horse. They moved with a loping shuffle, drawing nearer. They made hoarse, guttural sounds.
Something huge and heavy collided with Bram.
He flew off his horse, landing hard on the ground. He lost his breath and his head collided with the earth. But he couldn’t pause to catch his wind or settle his spinning head. A beast was on top of him, its skin reeking of sulfur, and as it shrieked, hot, rotten air poured over him.
Dimly, he heard his horse’s panicked whinny, and its hooves beating a retreat.
A cloud peeled away from the moon to reveal the creature.
It had eyes as huge as saucers, glassy and yellow, and slits for nostrils. Three mouths ringed its head, all of them full of serrated black teeth. Its humanoid body was covered in greasy amphibious skin that flung off slime.
Never had he beheld anything as foul. The other Hellraisers had talked of battling demons, and John had promised armies of them, yet this was the first Bram ever saw such a creature at such close range. Sickness coiled in his belly. If this thing was a harbinger of what was to come . . .
The beast recoiled suddenly, leaping off Bram and scuttling back. Slowly, cautiously, Bram got to his feet.
The demon stared at him and hunched low. Its posture reminded him of a dog ceding dominance, and when it whined at him, he understood.
It doesn’t know I’ve turned against the Devil. It thinks I’m still an ally.
The rest of them hesitate.
I still do not see John.
Bram glared into the darkness. Nor do I. He sent these creatures to do his filthy work.
Other demons massed, yet they hung back, watching him with vitreous eyes. The creature that had leapt upon Bram gazed at him, then at the house, tilting its head in question.
Even if John wasn’t there, at the least, Bram could try to avert an attack on the cabal.
“Go,” Bram commanded. He pointed away from Camden House.
The demon did not move.
“Away from this place!”
His commands were met only with more rasping sounds, and taloned feet shuffling in the dirt. The beast glanced toward the house and growled.
Cursed things won’t listen to me.
We’ll have to keep going. If John sent these things, then we must get to the men inside and protect them.
Bram took a step in the direction of Camden House. Then another.
The demon moved as he moved, keeping pace. It scraped out a questioning sound.
He kept walking, his stride lengthening. As he did, the other creatures loped along, keeping a distance between themselves and Bram. If demons could look baffled, these beasts did. They could not understand what he intended.
The creatures growled in agitation the closer he got to the house. Only a hundred feet to go.
He felt the demons’ rising anger. They snarled as he quickened his pace.
Time to run,Livia urged.
He did.
A demon attacked. It launched itself at him, throwing its arms around his torso and dragging him to the ground.
He grappled with the heavy beast, battling to keep its long claws from tearing open his face. Snarling, he gripped its wrists, and fought to wedge his boot against the thing’s abdomen. At last, he managed to plant his heel in the creature’s stomach, and, letting go of its wrists, shoved.
The monster stumbled back. Bram leapt to his feet and drew his sword with one motion. He didn’t give the demon a chance to rush him. He ran his sword straight through the beast’s throat. Its shriek turned to a wet gurgle as he pulled the blade free. Dark, sticky blood shot from the demon’s neck and into the dirt.
Bram waited just long enough to watch it fall to the ground before whirling around. A dozen of the creatures bounded toward the manor house.
He charged in pursuit.
Livia flickered into being beside him. She glared at the demons, then at her hands.
“I haven’t enough power to fight them. We’ll need to join magic so I can work spells.”
“Can’t really help you right now,” he said through gritted teeth. The demons were not very fast, and he shortened the distance between them. Less than a hundred feet stood between the creatures and the house.
“You can’t take those things on completely alone!”
“No choice but to try.”
The demons shrieked at his approach. With a burst of speed, he flung himself into battle.
Chapter 9
Livia seethed with frustration as she could only watch Bram throw himself into the fight. Her magic was barely a flicker within, and her body was aught but vapor. No threat to these minions of the Dark One. All she could do was dart in between the creatures, distracting them, as Bram launched his attack.
She struggled to do her part, but her attention continually turned to Bram. She had witnessed him practice and spar, had seen his memories of combat, but not until now did she truly behold him in the midst of battle.
He moved like lightning, like death and beauty. Swift and lethal. He spun and wove around the demons, his blade forming arcs of silver, whistling through the air and cleaving into the creatures’ flesh. His long coat flew out behind him like dark wings. No hesitation in his movement, no fear or moments of indecision. He was war itself.
The demons massed around him and fell back as he struck. They hissed in fury, eyes and claws gleaming in the moonlight.
Livia swirled herself around them, deflecting their attention. “Come and kill me, you toads,” she taunted in her own language.
She did not flinch as their talons raked through her, nor when they shrilled with frustration that she could not be wounded. These demons were not especially intelligent, but she knew them to be relentless. She continued her distraction, hoping to keep their awareness divided between her and Bram. Able soldier he might be, but he was one man, far outnumbered.
Yet, as Bram fought, she felt a strange energy gathering within her. An expanding brightness, as though her magic grew, coalescing into the form of the key. What was its origin? Its strength filled her in glimmering waves. She became stronger, potent, her translucent figure gaining in brilliance.
A demon rushed at her. She spun, throwing out one of her hands in the instinctive gesture of attack. White energy shot from her palm. The demon was thrown backward. It landed on its back, sprawled, a smoking crater in the center of its chest. Huge glassy eyes stared up at the night sky, unblinking. The beast was dead.
Livia stared at her hand. She had used the Lightning Strike of Jove—an attack she had employed countless times in the past. Her magic had been cleaved apart since she and Bram were bound together. Yet now she felt the full strength of it. How?
More gleaming light drew her attention. The demons? No—Bram. As he battled the creatures, energy gathered around him in a bright mantle. Each strike of his sword, each parry and counter-offensive, the energy glowed brighter. She stared in amazement.
His expertise as a warrior roused the magic within him, building it to greater strength. Its power surged in their shared connection. Like a tide of fire, it rose within her.
It had been centuries since she felt such power. A grin stretched her mouth. Oh, she would enjoy this.
Seeing one of their number fallen, two more demons broke away from Bram and charged her. She fired twin bolts of energy, one from each hand. One of the creatures took the hit right to the head, leaving its neck nothing but a smoldering stump. The other dodged the blow, but caught the edge of the energy across its thigh. It stumbled, but kept coming.
She held her position as the demon neared. It could do naught to harm her. Yet when its claw swiped along her shoulder, she hissed in pain and her energy flickered. She was stunned to feel pain for the first time in so long. It traveled in throbbing red waves through her.
How could it be? The demon had some magic of its own that allowed it to hurt a ghost. Or the charge of her power made her vulnerable to attack.
The reason for it did not matter. A change of strategy was needed. She could not fight as though invulnerable. Keeping herself as fleet as possible, she evaded more strikes from the demon, and threw hot flares of energy at the attacking beast.
One bolt of energy hit the demon in the stomach. It collapsed, shuddered, and went still.
“The hell?” Bram’s surprised voice sounded above the demons’ shrieks and the rush of his blade. Though his gaze was on her, he continued his attacks against the creatures.
“Don’t question it,” she threw back. “It strengthens both of us.”
Only then did he notice the incandescent energy surrounding him. He started, then gave a feral smile. “Damned useful.”
They plunged back into the fray, Bram felling demons with his sword, Livia cutting them down with her magic. The creatures seemed unprepared for such a show of aggression and resistance. They fought back, yet their numbers continued to thin. At last, only two of the demons remained. One of the pair shrieked at the other. They turned and fled into the darkness.
Both Livia and Bram attempted to pursue, but the demons abruptly disappeared. One moment, they scuttled across the field, and the next, they vanished, leaving behind the smell of sulfur.
“A portal,” Livia said. “How they arrived here.”
Sword in hand, panting, Bram said, “We give chase.”
She shook her head. “Vitalized as I am, I’ve not the power to open a portal once it has been shut. Even if I did, we’d face legions of demons on the other side.”
“I’m ready.” He bared his teeth, savage.
She stared at him. He’d taken a few cuts during the fight, a thin line of blood crossing his cheek, and there were tears in his coat. Yet he stood like a warrior born, fierce and literally shining with martial power, gripping his blood-streaked sword.
The thrumming that resounded within her came only partially from the battle she and Bram had just fought.
The swell of her strength began to fade, its brightness receding like a tide. She swayed.
He was beside her instantly. “Hurt?”
“The demon somehow managed to wound me.” She shook her head. “A minor injury.”
He cursed, his expression lethal. The brightness around him also began to dim, leaving behind afterimages. “Don’t know how to tend to a ghost’s wounds.”
“Truly, it will pass.”
His gaze gentled. “I’d no idea Roman priestesses could fight like Spartans.”
“I did not precisely follow the prescribed course of prayer and study.”
“ Prayingagainst an enemy is never an effective strategy.” He gave a crooked smile. “And I’m glad you weren’t an ideal priestess.”
During her lifetime, courting someone’s good opinion had not been her ambition. Her ruthlessness earned her more than a few enemies. It did not trouble her. Only one opinion mattered: her own.
Yet Bram’s words warmed her, far more than she thought a dead woman could feel.
She turned back toward the manor house. “You need to warn the men. There will be more attacks.”
After wiping his blade on the grass, he sheathed his sword. “That is going to be an interesting conversation. ‘Your political opponent is literally in league with the Devil. Time to invest in a few hundred bodyguards. Preferably ones with magic.’”
“They need to go into hiding—say whatever you must.” She glanced at the demon bodies strewn across the grass. Already, their corpses were liquefying, the process of decomposition working faster on creatures of the underworld. “There is one certainty, however.”
She gazed at Bram, the moonlight upon the breadth of his shoulders and ebony of his hair. Resonant energy turned his eyes to pale crystal, ringed with sapphire.
“John and the Dark One know, now. They know that you have chosen a side—and it isn’t theirs.”
Returning home was no longer an option. Livia was well aware of the consequences once a Hellraiser turned his back on the Dark One.
He’s threatened by you, she said as Bram rode toward the city. Which means he will try to destroy you.
He can try,Bram answered.
I haven’t the strength now to battle hordes of demons.
I’ll take them on myself.
She snorted. Arrogance gets men killed. Whilst your soul is in the Dark One’s grasp, we cannot take that chance. Have you someplace safe, someplace John doesn’t know about?
A small house in Spitalfields. My father bought it for his mistress. She died a few years after my brother inherited, and Arthur kept the place. Rented it out, but when I acceded to the title, I stopped taking tenants. It’s been empty ever since.
Go there. You can rest in safety, then we can plan how we can draw John out.
Yes, ma’am,he answered, his voice sardonic. Yet he did as she directed, and she thought of the tumultuous minutes after the battle.
Bram had gone to Camden House first. The men within had all exclaimed in shock when they had beheld him, bloody and disheveled. In terse words, Bram had told them they were the intended targets of assassins and needed to go into hiding immediately. Some of the men had protested—half had wanted proof of his allegations, the others had wanted to summon the law and bring official charges against John.
“The law cannot help you,” Bram had answered. “And I didn’t fabricate these wounds. All of you need to go. To your country estates. Abroad. It doesn’t sodding matter. If you value your lives and the lives of your families, you’ll do as I say. Now.”
The men had seen the hard blue fire of Bram’s gaze, and heard the steel of his voice, and had meekly obeyed.
Now she and Bram rode through the night-shrouded city, through quarters she little recognized. They passed mobs of men, some of whom lunged for Bram or the reins of his horse. Bram’s sword made fast appearances, and the assailants retreated. Thereafter, he kept one hand on the reins, the other around the hilt of his unsheathed sword.
At last, he slowed outside a narrow house, with a lower story and two floors. The surrounding homes were genteel, if a little shabby, their façades cracked like porcelain, an occasional weed sprouting up from crevices in the plaster. The streets here were dark and empty, not a single light in the windows. A thin dog trotted down the middle of the cobbles. It did not stop or look at them, its nails clicking on the stones as it passed, in search of food.
Bram dismounted and led his horse around to the mews. The stable behind the house held only rotten straw and a rusted trough. After securing his horse and cleaning out the stall, Bram slipped into a neighbor’s stable and gathered supplies—a bucket of water, some feed.
Don’t your commandments forbid you from stealing?
Requisitioning, I prefer to call it. That’s not a sin.
A large orange tabby cat ambled through the stable. Judging by the size of its belly, it had more than an ample supply of mice.
Bram tended to his horse. He murmured to the animal, patting its flank and nose. Briefly, he rubbed his cheek against the horse’s face as he stroked its sleek neck. The mare snorted with pleasure.
Livia discovered she was jealous of a horse.
Once the animal had been taken care of, Bram approached his house’s back door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He moved to a window and slipped off his coat. With one hand, he held the coat up to the glass, as the other drew back and curled into a fist.
Wait,she said. No need to break into your own house. Lend me some of your magic.
My way’s more satisfying.
And noisier. Even if you muffle the sound.
Grumbling, he donned his coat, then closed his eyes. She did the same, and felt the gleam of her power rising. His own magic reached toward hers, its heat filling her, sifting through her body. She ought to be used to the sensation by now, this intimate merging. Ought to be, but was not.
Once she had gathered enough power, she directed the energy toward the keyhole. She shaped it, guiding it to match the tumblers, seeking the perfect fit.
This reminds me of something,he said, wry.
She didn’t bother with a reply, though a different kind of heat suffused her. Instead, she made sure the key fit precisely, then turned it.
The door opened. Its hinges complained, but it was still quieter than smashing a window.
Bram stepped inside. As he did, Livia allowed herself to materialize just behind him. They moved through what appeared to be the kitchen. A cold, ash-strewn hearth was set into one wall, and a few earthenware bowls squatted on shelves. A desiccated lump of meat lay in the middle of the single table—once it must have been a roast. Now it was grayish brown stone.
“Don’t need to light a lamp.” Bram glanced at her. “You illuminate.”
“I always have important knowledge to convey.” She smiled, however, seeing how her ghostly radiance bathed the room. “Think of all the lamp oil that can be saved.”
“Very economical.”
They drifted from the kitchen, down a cramped corridor. An empty storeroom and an even more cramped closet lay off the passage. Judging by the cot and battered chest in the closet, it once served as a servant’s chamber. They ascended a staircase to the main floor. One room was empty of everything but a broken mirror leaning against the wall and a dented metal serving platter. At some point, the room might have served as a place for dining. Now, one would receive a mouthful of grime for a meal. The other, larger room still had furniture, but dust filmed everything. Bram discovered a nest of mice within a chair’s stuffing, a mother and her wriggling pink young. Pellets were scattered across the floor, evidence that other creatures called this place home, and spiders presided in the corners.
“The world goes wild so easily,” Bram murmured. To her surprise, he did not disturb the spiderwebs, nor toss out the mice. He left them as they were. At Livia’s questioning glance, he said, “I’d be a terrible landlord if I threw out the only occupants with nary a warning of eviction.”
She shook her head, and glided up the narrow stairs. He followed, the steps groaning beneath his weight. Shadows were thick here, scarcely pushed back by her glow. More cracks threaded up the plastered walls. Something scuttled across the floorboards as Bram reached the top of the stairs. Two doors led off the hallway.
