The Kingdom (20 page)

She straightened. “Sidra, don’t forget you’re locking up tomorrow.”

The girl’s gaze was on me. “I won’t.”

To me Luna said, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Amelia?”

“No, thank you,” I said a little too quickly. “Sidra has been kind enough to help me sort through the records.”

“Yes,” Luna said, “Sidra can be quite the helpful girl.” And with that, she turned and disappeared.

Sidra let out a breath. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Not mentioning Freya. I don’t like to make Luna angry.”

“Why would that make her angry? Regardless of what she and the others felt for Freya back then, the poor girl has been dead for years.”

“You don’t know Luna very well,” she murmured. Then she leaned in, her voice lowered to a whisper. “There’s something you need to see.”

“What is it?”

“Not now. Meet me here tomorrow after Luna leaves.”

“I don’t know if I can make it—”

“It’s about those hex signs,” she said. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll show you.”

Twenty-Four

W
hen I left the library a little while later, I found Wayne Van Zandt nosing around my car. He had his hands cupped to his face, peering in through the back window. When he heard my approach, his head came around, but his smirk told me he wasn’t unduly concerned that I’d caught him snooping.

“Are you looking for something?” I asked coolly. My gaze tried to stray to those scars, but I forced myself to focus on his eyes. Still, I couldn’t help but think of everything Thane had told me about the attack. Apparently Wayne had no recollection except that he’d gone to the falls to meet Luna.

I felt an odd tug and glanced over my shoulder, expecting to find Luna glaring at me. Instead, I saw Ivy standing in the shade of the clock tower staring at us. As our gazes collided, I felt a chill creep up my spine. Wayne noticed her, too, and muttered under his breath.

“Were you looking for something in my car?” I asked again.

“Just waiting for you,” he said.

“Why?”

“I thought you might be interested to know that I found a kennel up in the hills.”

“Did you make an arrest?” I asked anxiously.

He stroked a finger down one of the scars as if deliberately trying to bait my gaze. “No need to,” he said. “Someone was there before me. The dogs were all gone and the kennel was torched. The owner got himself roughed up, too. He wouldn’t talk, of course.” His eyes narrowed as he searched my face. “Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that incident.”

“Me?” I asked in surprise, even as I visualized the cut at Thane’s temple and the bruises on his knuckles. “How would I know anything about it?”

He turned his head to observe the street. “That stray still hanging around the Covey place?” His tone was casual, almost distracted, but I had the impression of a cold calculation behind the question.

If he meant to catch me off guard or provoke a reaction, he had no idea who he was dealing with—a woman who had been disciplined by the presence of ghosts since childhood. “I told you the other day, he’s probably long gone by now.”

“That is what you said,” he agreed.

“Wayne, what do you think you’re doing?” a voice demanded from the sidewalk. We both turned as Catrice Hawthorne stepped off the curb and headed toward us, her shabby attire a far cry from the elegant cocktail dress she’d worn to Asher House the other night. Her floppy hat and shapeless capris reminded me of the garb favored by the tourists who flocked to the Battery in the summer, the ones who avidly snapped pictures of the mansions and bartered for souvenirs at the Market.

Annoyed, Wayne said, “This is none of your business, Catrice. Go back to your vultures.”

Her eyes sparkled with good humor. “Vultures are scavengers. Hardly my area of expertise.”

“Maybe I wasn’t talking about birds,” he muttered.

She laughed as she turned to me. “I’m so glad I ran into you, Amelia. My car is on the fritz and I wonder if I could trouble you for a ride home. I’m right on your way.”

“Of course. No trouble at all.”

“You’re a lifesaver. And if you have time, I’ll give you that tour of the studio I promised.”

Her genuine warmth once again took me by surprise. She was so much more personable than either Bryn or Luna, or anyone else I’d met in Asher Falls, for that matter—with the possible exception of Thane.

She shook a finger at Wayne. “I know it’s asking a lot, but try to work on that attitude. You’ll give Amelia a bad impression, and we don’t want to scare her off.”

He merely glared as we climbed into the car, and I pulled away from the curb.

Catrice glanced back with a chuckle. “I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition.”

“Not at all.”

“I thought you looked as if you needed rescuing. Wayne can be a little overbearing at times, especially with strangers. He’s been through a lot, though, so we try to cut him some slack.”

“You’ve known him a long time, I take it?”

“We grew up together…all of us…Wayne, Luna, Bryn, Edward, Hugh and myself. We were thick as thieves as children.” She removed her hat and placed it on the console between us. Sunlight streaming in through the windshield set fire to her red hair as she ran fingers through it. “Then Hugh and Edward were shipped off to boarding school, Wayne’s family moved to Woodberry for a time and we three girls were left to our own devices.”

“You and Luna and Bryn?”

She smiled. “Blood sisters, we called ourselves. We were quite the explorers. There was a time when we knew these hills as well as our own backyards.”

“What about Freya Pattershaw?” I kept my gaze on the road, but from the corner of my eye, I saw Catrice turn to study me.

“How do you know about Freya?” she asked after a moment.

I’m being haunted by her ghost.
“I saw a picture of you and Bryn and Luna at Asher House. Freya was in the background.”

“How did you know who she was?”

“Thane told me.”

“How would
he
know?” I heard the frown in her voice. “She was dead long before he came here.”

“It’s a small town. I’m sure he’s heard of her. Maybe he’s even seen other pictures of her,” I said with a shrug.

She sighed and turned to stare out the window. “Poor Freya. She was always lurking in the background, always trying to fit in where she didn’t belong. I always suspected her insecurities came from not having a father.”

“What happened to him?”

“No one knows. Tilly was never married, you see. Her past is a little mysterious, to say the least, and she seems to like it that way. She’s always kept to herself, always been the eccentric. Freya was the exact opposite. She wanted more than anything to belong. She would have done anything to fit in.” Idly, Catrice studied her hands. “But for all her indiscretions, she had a way about her. An innocence. Men loved her, women hated her.”

“Did you hate her?”

She swung around. “Me? No, I liked her. As I said, she had a naive charm that I found endearing.”

“How old was she when she died?”

“Just seventeen.”

My chest tightened. “That young? I had no idea.”

“Yes. We were all still in high school. It happened the weekend of prom.
Our
prom. Not hers.”

“She went to a different school?”

“She attended the public school before it closed. I’m sure she would have transferred to Woodberry with all the others if she hadn’t—”

I flashed a glance. “What?”

“It was just so sad and tragic. Poor Tilly never got over it. She was always such an odd duck, but Freya’s death pushed her over the edge. I suppose one of these days she’ll have to be put in a home.”

I thought about the knife-wielding woman who had come to my rescue in the woods the other night. The same woman who had warned me away from Asher Falls. Mad she might be, but she was also very, very capable. “Freya died in a fire, didn’t she? That’s how Tilly burned her hands.”

“Yes.” Catrice massaged her own hands, as if in deep pain. “It still distresses me to think about it after all this time.”

“Were you there?”

“We were all there. We all saw what happened.” She turned back to the window, deliberately shutting me out, and I knew she wouldn’t say anything else. Thane was right, it seemed. People were reluctant to talk about Freya Pattershaw’s death, and I couldn’t help wondering why.

We drove in silence until Catrice said, “It’s just ahead. See that red mailbox? Turn there. I’m down the road a piece.”

Like the Covey house, her place was sequestered from the main road by the forest. She lived in a quaint cedar cabin with cane rocking chairs on the porch and a hammock strung between two oak trees in the front yard. I could imagine myself spending lazy summer afternoons in that hammock, watching the clouds. Waiting for twilight and the ghosts.

The studio was in a separate building at the back of the property, accessed by a well-worn footpath. As I followed Catrice along the rough trail, my gaze lifted now and then to a trio of hawks circling overhead, their piercing screams raising a chill even in broad daylight. The afternoon was cloudless, and the sun shimmering down through the evergreen boughs was warm on my face. But the deep shade of the woods pressed in on me, and the scent of the pines somehow seemed ominous. I was glad when the trail broke away from the trees, and we descended toward the studio.

The structure itself was inelegant, a large, mishmash of a building perched at the water’s edge, but inside the rustic charm of stone walls and floors complemented the magnificent view of lake, forest and mountain. An easel with a covered painting stood in front of the tall windows, while finished canvases were stacked at least a dozen deep against the back wall, as if they had been accumulating there for years. Most of them were wildlife and landscape scenes, but I noticed a few portraits that intrigued me.

“Have a look around,” Catrice invited. “I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thank you, but I wish you wouldn’t go to the trouble. I really can’t stay long.”

She smiled. “It’s no trouble. I won’t be a minute.”

After she was gone, I browsed through the paintings. The landscapes were beautiful, but I naturally gravitated to the portraits. She’d painted them all—Luna, Bryn, Hugh and a man I recognized as Edward. I thought they must have been done a long time ago because the subjects were very young and Catrice’s technique still crude. But even then she’d managed to tap into an uncanny essence in all of them—that feral quality in Luna, the ice maiden in Bryn and the almost perverted perfection of Hugh. But it was the portrait of Edward that fascinated me the most. His features were unmistakably Asher, but I thought there was a hint of the neurotic in his eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at him.

“Those are really old,” Catrice said as she came to stand beside me. “And not very good. I was still a novice back then.”

“No, you captured them beautifully,” I said. Eerily so. “Do you still paint portraits?”

“Now and then but only for fun. The landscapes are my bread and butter. I’m lucky they’ve done so well at the gallery.”

“I don’t think it’s luck. You’re very talented.”

She shrugged. “It’s a gift. I can’t take credit.”

“But you’ve developed that gift.”

“You have one, too,” she said, and for a moment I thought she meant my ability to see ghosts. “Your restorations are every bit as inspirational as my paintings. More so, perhaps.”

I lifted a brow in surprise. “You’ve seen my work?” Was
she
the anonymous donor?

“I mentioned the other night at dinner that I’ve been to your website. I browsed through your gallery and read your blog. I’m fascinated by what you do. You have a calling,” she said softly. “A purpose. We all do.”