It was strange that he didn't remember actually killing her. There was nothing to it, not even passion. Afterward, he had covered up her death as he had Estelle's: the bodies dragged into the stall, the pistol fired by the stallion's head, the great horse dancing in fear on the wet bodies. Shooting his best horse was the only way out. No one had argued over it; everyone knew his temper and his grip on power. Case closed. He lived alone after that. It was better than living with a whore and a whore's worthless daughter.
Lord Godefroy put a withered hand over his face, as if to cover his eyes from a light. His pince-nez fell and dangled from their ghostly white chain.
There was something more. Something more had happened.
It would not come to him now.
He flung his hand down and in a rage stood up on the stairs. His mind was playing tricks on him. He was still lord of Gryphon Hill. He would be its lord forever. If Estelle wished to confront him, by the Mists of this cursed land, he would give her what she wished.
He had the Touch.
Perhaps it would work on the dead as well as the living. Perhaps he should find out. It might be worthwhile.
The master of Gryphon Hill set his pince-nez in place, then set out for the stables, teeth clenched. Let the little trollop frighten him now. She had started it all. She had looked at a stable hand, looked at him with undisguised lust. She had betrayed her lord and husband. The whore had started it all. Now her lord would finish it.
The halls passed. The kitchen. The drawing room on the right. The back entry hall. Candles lit at his approach. Damn those magical bastards, they had better move when he appeared. He was the lord of Mordentshire, the colossus of Gryphon Hill. He did not wait to open the door at the end of the hall. He strode right through it.
"Light!" he roared, entering the stables. Light sprang up from a lantern ahead of him, shedding a weak radiance over the remains of the stables. Gray wood stalls, dirt and rotting hay underfoot, bridles and ropes disintegrating on their pegs on the wall.
He saw the mattock against the wall, seized it, and swung it high with the strength of a young titan.
"Estelle!"
Quick echoes answered him. Scampering noises came from all directions. Only field rats.
"Estelle!" Louder now. The walls rang.
Nothing. No one.
"You dirty whore, come out! I command you as your lord and husband! Estelle, you crawling slut, come face me!"
The scampering faded. Nothing else was heard.
He whirled. No one appeared.
He held the mattock high over his head for several minutes more, until he slowly lowered it and held it in front of him.
Nothing came.
He kicked at the stall doors. Rotten hay. Dried manure. A hoofprint. Nothing.
Silence.
The mattock swung at his side, in one hand.
"Bitch," he said under his breath. It was just like her.
But. .
Maybe it hadn't been Estelle after all.
He considered this, standing by the dim lantern. There was no Estelle here, no Amanda, no trace of either of them. Had the letter been a trick itself? Had someone, another power in this land, made him a fool? Or was a darker motive in store — a power play? A takeover? Gryphon Hill was not undefended; the lord of Mordentshire was hardly weak.
He didn't know.
He would have to go back and look at the letter. He knew Estelle's handwriting. He'd been a fool and worse not to have checked it.
He hefted the mattock in his thin-boned fingers, looked around at the wreck of the stables, then set the tool aside where he'd found it. She wouldn't come back where the mattock was kept, anyway. She knew it all too well, much too well, he was sure.
Lord Godefroy drew himself up. He checked his shoes, even knowing it was unnecessary, then went back inside the house. He opened the door this time, too. Old habits.
In the stillness of the stables, the lantern's flame faded away. It grew very, very cold.
The candles came to life in the dining hall as he came through the doorway. He walked up to the table where the paper and envelope lay and reached down for them with a quick hand.
He froze. Ashes. The candle by the letter had fallen over as it had melted. The flame had consumed the paper, lightly scorching the tablecloth below. The letter was just ashes now.
He stared, then touched the ashes with a pale fingertip. They crumbled.
That was that, then. He'd never know. Still. .
He left the hall, walking thoughtfully toward his study. He knew what he had to do. As is given, so return. Repay a blow in equal coin. Look for a gift in the market where a giver found his gift for you. Lord Godefroy's study held dozens of papers and letters collected over the years of his new life at Gryphon Hill. It would be simple to find the guilty party with logic and deduction. It could be anyone. But he had the time for the hunt. He had lots of time.
He passed a window looking out over his estate, gave it a glance as he slowed. Moonlight fell across the grounds, the leafless trees lost in frigid autumn, the low hill not far away.
He looked at the hilltop. No sign of the cemetery. No trace of where Estelle and Amanda's coffins lay, their contents long devoured by worms, returned to the filth from which they'd been born. Not even the moon would shine there. All was right with the world.
He walked through the double doors to his study, knowing they were locked and lacking the patience just now to be proper. The lantern was lit. All was still. He walked to his desk and quickly began to shuffle through a sheaf of old papers he pulled from a drawer. He turned around with the papers in his hand and saw the history book on the tea table, fallen open.
Forgot to put it up, he thought, then remembered that he had.
He looked up at the bookshelf beyond in the lantern light. The space where he had placed the book was empty. But there had been the shadow, and he had not finished the job.
Something moved in the corner of his eye.
"What. . "he said, and spun on his heel to see if something had crept up behind him. With a mixture of rage and dread, his dark eyes searched the room. The papers were clutched to his breast like a shield.
It was nothing. The whore and her daughter were back, perhaps. But he was still the lord of his estate.
He put his papers aside and reached out for his book. His eyes fell on the open pages, looked down at the passage there.
. . Before he breathe last, the Squire speak of the great Screams that break the Darkness as the Daemons begin their work on the Lord, in the lonely Halls of his own Castle. And of these Screams the Squire hear no end, even in his Dreams. .
Something scratched at a windowpane behind him.
He whirled and saw the closed double doors.
The scratching came again, fainter now. From the hall beyond.
Lord Godefroy slowly closed the book, without looking down at it. He frowned in silence at the doors.
This had all happened before. More than once. It seemed that it was dreadfully important to him that he remember why it kept happening.
He left the book lying on the table by his chair. Adhering to tradition, he walked over, still staring at the doors. He carefully unlocked and opened them.
The dark hall beyond was empty. Moonlight crept in through the tall, old windows.
The scratching sound, from the same window as before.
It would seem that he hadn't finished the job of killing the briar. He was getting senile after all, even in this new sort of life that wasn't quite life, in a body that wasn't quite a body.