nearly brushing the stiff wool of his coat. She angled her head to try to catch his eyes. “You wouldn’t have consented had we asked, would you?”
He was silent.
“You’re so self-sufficient.” She puffed a small laugh. “It’s daunting, because the rest of us aren’t. Your sisters and mother aren’t—”
“Stepmother.” His gaze slid toward hers, still unyielding, but at least he was listening.
“Stepmother, then,” she compromised. “But I know Mrs. St. John and she’s quite fond of you. All your family is. They hardly hear from you. Your letters are few and maddeningly uncommunicative. They worry for you.”
He grimaced in irritation. “There’s no need.”
“Isn’t there?”
He stared down at her, his face sagging into lines of weariness, and she abruptly understood that he’d learned to school his features into the mask of strict, unrelenting neutrality he usually wore.
“You know there is,” she whispered. “You know that those who love you have real cause for concern.”
“Margaret.”
She straightened. “So you should go back and apologize to your sister.”
He shot her a look of incredulous exasperation.
“She had no idea that was Clara’s room, and even if she did”—she threw up her hands helplessly—“what do you intend to do, keep it the way it is as a shrine to her death?”
He was suddenly too close, his head bent down, shoved in her face, and she felt herself go quite still.
“You,” he breathed very quietly, so close his lips almost brushed hers, “need to learn when not to overstep yourself.”
She swallowed. “Do I?”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. He was too near, his body tensed as if to do … something, and the tension seemed to communicate itself to her own body until she felt strung as tight as a violin string.
He muttered something foul under his breath and stepped back. “I’ll apologize to my sister later.”
And he spun and clattered down the stairs.
Megs inhaled and thoughtfully retraced her steps to Clara’s room. One look at Sarah’s face and Megs crossed to hug her. “Gentlemen can be so hardheaded.”
“No.” Sarah sniffed and pressed a lace handkerchief to her reddened nose. “Godric was quite correct—I ought to have asked him before rearranging this room.”
Megs pulled back. “But you had no idea this was Clara’s room.”
“I had a notion.” Sarah folded her handkerchief and gestured shakily to the massive bed in the center of the room. “Why else would that be there? Who else could’ve lived here?”
“Then why—”
“Because he can’t just keep the room as some kind of macabre shrine to Clara.”
“That’s what I told him.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”
Megs grimaced. “Well, he wasn’t best pleased.”
“Oh, Megs,” Sarah cried, “I’m so sorry you got drawn into this, but … come here.”
She darted away to one of the now-bare windows.
Megs followed more slowly. “What is it?”
“Look.” Sarah pointed to iron bars running on the outside of the window. Iron bars meant to keep the occupants of the room safe. “This was the nursery once upon a time. And … and I know you don’t have that kind of marriage with my brother, but I hoped with this trip to London, perhaps …” Sarah swallowed and grasped her hands together, whispering, “We’ve all worried for him so much.”
Megs nodded. “I know. And to be truthful, I’d hoped to become closer to Godric too.” She blushed but soldiered on. “It’s just … I’m not sure how. I’ve tried, but he’s stubborn. He loved Clara very much.”
“Yes, he did,” Sarah said, her voice grim. “But Clara’s dead and you’re here now. Don’t give up on him, Megs, please?”
Megs nodded, but even as she tried to smile in reassurance at Sarah, she wondered, how was she to help a man who’d given up on himself?
Chapter Five
Now, it’s rare for a mortal to be able to see the Hellequin, for being a thing of the night and death, he is usually invisible to all. But the young man’s beloved was a different matter. Her name was Faith, and she’d been born with the second sight. She knew who the Hellequin was—and moreover, she knew where he was bound. “My beloved has never hurt man nor beast in all his life,” she cried. “You cannot take his soul down to Hell to burn for eternity.” …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
“She’s going where?” Godric stopped in the act of pulling off his neck cloth that night and glanced at Moulder.
“A ball,” Moulder repeated. “They’re all going. Should’ve seen the maids running up and down the servants’ stairs. Seems to take quite a bit to