Moonless (23 page)

66

Promised

Patchy light spilled onto Alexia’s bed. She sighed and climbed out of the sheets, shedding her demolished vesture. The maid entered on cue and aided her in preparation for the new day. As she dressed, her breath caught in her throat. There were no bruises, no scrapes, no physical pain.

He
had
come. A shiver of longing shot through her.

No. She would not give into those feelings ever again. But why had he come, and more importantly, how had he known?

And why did she still have her memories? Didn’t he say they would be taken?

***

Alexia halted at the library door when she heard Father’s voice from within. She crept closer.

“Then we are agreed?” Roger asked.

 “A handsome settlement I should think.”

Her blood boiled—that Father should have any dealings with this monster made her want to shatter every piece of pottery within reach. She made a quick disappearance behind the door as the source of her ill-content exited.

“Father?” She slipped into the room. “What handsome agreement have you come to with Mister Whitaker?”

“My dear! What are you—?”

“I heard you talking!” That stopped him. “What arrangement have you made?”

He groaned. “It is not for you to know yet.”

Her muscles locked, every nerve at awareness. “And yet I am asking. Please?”

He watched her a moment before nodding. His eyes closed, hands coming together apologetically. “You are to be married.”

She had been struck by an invisible hammer, right in the center of her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.

“I—it was best. And he is a wealthy man. And he shall be able to provide for you all the wants and necessities of life. And it will be a blessing to our family.”

Her heart crumbled into coal. Roger would take what she wouldn’t willingly give, one way or the other. Had he threatened Father? They’d spoken of finances with regularity, confirming that Father’s investments were firmly in Roger’s hands.

And now she would be firmly in Roger’s hands.

Her fists balled.

Father’s brows lowered. “I have prolonged the inevitable for too long. We should have come to terms on this subject last year!” His fist slammed into a shelf, shaking a few book free. They thumped to the floor as he covered his face. “We will drag it out. We shall make the engagement last as long as possible.”

Roger had threatened him. Her life here was ended.

She steeled herself into flint and exited the room, leaving Father to wallow in his self-reproach.

It was time to say goodbye.

67

Confession

Charles summoned his daughter the next afternoon, and she reluctantly joined him for a private lunch, a quiet lunch. Afterwards they went for a walk through the yard, far enough from the house to communicate without interruption or eavesdropping. He scratched at his head, unable to stop the itch that was so much deeper than the skin.

He hated being vulnerable.

Hated Roger.

He swore Roger would suffer for pinning him to the proverbial bug board.

“I will not marry him,” Alexia said simply.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow, wishing such a declaration had never needed to escape her lips. “And why is that?”

“Because I am in love.”

His breath hitched. He studied her closely, recalling how she’d greeted him upon arrival, the tears that had been hidden behind her mask. “With whom?”
Rupert. Please say Rupert.

She hesitated. “It makes little difference, because I cannot have him either.”

“Who?” he repeated.

“You do not like him.”

He bit down, recalling Dana’s promise:
She will love him, and he will need her. Please, please do not keep her from him.
He exhaled slowly, diffusing the rage. “Right.”

Yellow grass crunched stiffly under their feet as he searched for the best way to express what she didn’t want to hear. “Marriage is not about love.”

Her head bobbed, lips pressed tight.

He was losing her. The determination in her jaw reminded him of Dana, and that’s when he knew: she was going to run away.
 

“He is not good for you.” He stopped and turned her to face him. “None of them are. They are not like us.”

Her chin dropped, eyes widening.

“Their lives are steeped in tragedy.” His cheek twitched, as he worked to hide the pain behind his words. “I tried to convince myself otherwise, but—” He let her go. “Your mother was better for me.”

“But you loved Dana!”

“I loved them both,” he disagreed. “Loved them differently.”

She turned away.

“You do not know much about him, but if you did—”

“I know enough.” She stomped back toward the house.

He exhaled. She was never meant to realize this, but perhaps it was the only intelligence that could win her over. “Dana is the reason your grandparents are dead.”

Alexia stopped. She turned back.

“She was so angry with my father.” He closed his eyes and lowered his head. That last night before he left for Cambridge, the way she’d shattered his window without going anywhere near it, that should have been a warning. He should have known better than to leave her behind. “They are not like us.”

“You cannot know that!” She returned a step.

“Can’t I?” he challenged. “Think about what you have seen. Think about the circumstances around which he appears. Think, Alexia.”

Her head shook, mouth clamped in a stubborn line. “It is all I do! I think about what waits out there, about the world Dana came from, about the memories I no longer possess. Why did they not make
you
forget?”

His knees gave way. He reached for support and finding none, stumbled back a step. “How do you know about that?”

Her lips pressed, brows low.

Charles forced the guilt down into the pit of his stomach and tried to suppress how much she must hate him. He groaned. “I could not see you suffer.”

“What?”

He turned away from her, pounding his forehead with a fist. He’d withheld the truth about Dana and nearly lost her. He would not take that risk again.

“You were ten when it happened.” He exhaled heavily. “I sent you out of the church because of your fit, and Sarah went with you.” He recalled how she leapt from the pew, scratching at his arms, drawing blood when he did not immediately release her—like a wild animal. He let her go and sent Sarah after her. Ten minutes later the preacher excused himself, calling on an assistant to fill his place. “When I joined you on the outer stoop, I found
him
, dragging the vicar’s lifeless body away. You could not be comforted, crying uncontrollably and screaming about red eyes. For days you carried on. Finally, out of my mind, I asked him to take the memory away.” He turned back toward her. “Forgive me, Alexia.”

She lifted thoughtful eyes to him.

“Just as then, I will not let you suffer. I am working on this.” He pounded a fist against his open palm. “Roger has influence. He could destroy our family—not just me, but Sarah as well. Give me time. I will figure this out.”

She exhaled shakily. “How long do we have?”

“You are to be married in three weeks.”

68

Foggy

Father left in search of solutions to this disaster, and Alexia hid away in her room, pondering his words. The Passionate were surrounded by tragedy, a fate from which he’d been trying to protect her, a terror she’d been unable to handle. Arik had rescued her then, taken away the fear, and left her with what? A false reality? Was it better to live in a delusion and feel safe, or see the world clearly?

“. . . know she is the one who has to do this.”

She sat up in bed, shaken by John’s voice in the hall. He’d been gone for days, worrying Sarah to no end.

Her aunt groaned. “I cannot ask it of her. It is too much of a risk. I must go.”

“Think of the hundreds—no, thousands—she would be helping.”

Alexia scooted to the edge of the bed, curious.

Sarah’s voice quieted. “We do not know for certain what the girl told me is true. This weapon, or the hidden estate, or the Master who possesses it may not even exist.”

“I have seen it in use. If it is where she says, I would rather seize it than have it fall into the hands of some lunatic child. It is more than a weapon—a balm, a miraculous source of power. With it we could cure any who have ever suffered the Soulless taint.”

Alexia tiptoed across the floor and pressed her ear to the door.

John’s bass lowered. “It would end the war.”

“But she would have to willfully infiltrate the household—and how—”

“As a victim of poor fortune,” John said, “separated from her party on a moonless night.”

Sarah sighed, loudly. “I cannot ask it of Alexia. I will go.”

“You are too well known.” He exhaled. “Which would
she
choose: this marriage, or a chance to seize her freedom?”

Freedom.
The word echoed through her head. Was there such a thing? Alexia hugged herself.
I could do it. I could be the instrument that saves thousands. I could be free . . .

***

“Sarah, send me.”

Her aunt started from her needlework. “Beg your pardon?”

Alexia flumped down on the couch next to her aunt. “I heard you and John talking. I know the risks, and I want to help.”

Her aunt’s face crinkled. “I will not ask you to leave your home, your family, everything you know and love.”

“Then do not ask.” She placed a hand over her aunt’s. “If I am able to obtain this weapon and end the war, you can be with John. Your happiness means my own, and if I fail, my reward will not be worse than what presently awaits.”

Sarah scowled. “I did not sacrifice joining the Passionate only to have you die in some grand scheme.”

Alexia closed her eyes. “Then I will be certain to live.”

Sarah cupped her cheek. “No, Alexia—”

“I am leaving either way.” She squared her jaw. “John was right. I do not have to stay here, and I will not marry that laggard.” She took her aunt’s hands. “If I am unsuccessful, I know where to find the secreted Passionate, and I will begin a new life away from here.”

Sarah’s eyes closed.

“Be comforted knowing this: the time for my death has not yet come.” Though she uttered the lie to give her aunt reassurance, Alexia prayed it was true.

***

The road was gray. Rightly so. It had been raining for three days, mirroring the tears in Alexia’s heart. Their plans had come together with regular protests from Sarah and much support from John.

Rain spattered the carriage window, adding to the growing dark as she and her aunt stared out the windows. Thick puddles muddied the road, pulling the carriage to a gradual halt.

The driver cracked the door open. “The wheel is stuck, my lady. We can’t move it with the weight.”

Alexia shuddered at the news.
All according to plan.

They climbed out of the buggy and sank ankle deep in muck. Only half the wheel appeared above the quagmire, the carriage still—like a giant, gluttonous donkey. Alexia’s breath came out in a cloud as she shivered.

“Push!” The whip snapped. Two servants shoved at the coach, horses straining against the bog.

Sarah’s fists balled, her teeth clenched.

Crack
! The coach bolted.

Half a wheel remained in the bog, ragged timber protruding through the grime. Sarah’s fingers loosened, neck muscles relaxing. Alexia wondered if it caused her aunt much pain to utilize her gift.

Sarah addressed the servants. “We have two horses, five of us and not much road left. Two will stay here to guard our property, and one of you will escort us while we ride the remaining distance.”

Alexia retrieved her stole from the carriage and they set out, she stealing glances at her aunt. Sarah closed her eyes, a sad smile turning just the corners of her mouth up. She nodded to Alexia. “Safe journey.”

Air blew colder without the carriage to shelter her. The horses plodded with difficulty through the sticky footing. Early morning fog overtook them, and such intense fog that Alexia could hardly see her hand at arms’ length. She tensed against the arctic wind, hugging herself, but it cut through her clothing. Ice crystals crept over her skin, leaching the warmth from her body.

She checked the compass Sarah had given her, veered her mount away, and kicked hard. The horse whinnied and jolted. She bent low against its neck, ignoring Sarah’s scream from behind her.
“Six miles north,”
her aunt had said.
“No matter what happens, no matter what you hear or see, ride north. You will know the manor by the angel fountain out front.”

The fog doubled. Whiteness engulfed her.

She glanced back, straining for sounds of pursuit. Pain flared in her cheek. She barely lifted her arm in time to protect her from another tree branch.

Alexia pulled the horse to a halt. Eerie silence clogged the air.

“Sarah?” No response. She called louder, “Sarah!”

Silence.

She slipped from the horse’s back and smacked into the ground. Her knees buckled. The horse reared and bolted, whinnying as it vanished between scraggly branches. She chased after it, but the beast escaped her.

Huffing and sick with panic, she stopped to check the compass. Even without a horse, she could get there, and she would. She ran at first, trying to flee the cold, frantic to meet some sign of civilization, but the trees caught her dress and tore it, exposing her skin. Limbs tripped her. She slowed.

Hours passed. Her mind ached with chill. She couldn’t feel her feet. Her fingers wouldn’t uncurl. She consulted the compass, barely able to bend her elbow. She must have passed the property. Surely she should have reached it by now.

The burning cold dimmed. She slowed, and at last cringed against a freezing tree, unable to battle the numbness.

Oh dear Sarah
, she thought,
have I failed you? Both of us?

She would probably die, but not the way her dream predicted. Ironic. Fitting really. She laughed sardonically, the chuckle barking out in a series of coughs.

Her eyes fell shut. Would Arik die too?