She shook her head, sorrow returning to her eyes. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t ever go back.”
But just as he was about to ask her what she meant, he was distracted by a great commotion—men coming out of the tavern, Goi Flint and his fellows.
Fiona froze, and staring in the direction of her guardian’s voice, she began slowly inching away from the village, away from Tom.
“Fiona, please,” he said, reaching for her. “We need to get back.”
She looked at him with those lost eyes of hers, and she shook her head, and then suddenly she was gone, running, through the trees and into the darkness of the forest beyond.
It took a moment for him to realize what she’d done, but shaking off his confusion, he sprinted after. He yelled her name as he ran, but his voice seemed to disappear, swallowed whole by the forest.
And then that noise again—a movement through the trees too large to be any animal, punctuated by a scream, a bright and staccato scream that pierced the night. And then a snap. And silence.
He stood there frozen, stunned.
“Fiona?” he yelled into the darkness, but there was no reply.
Pushing off as hard as he could, he raced deeper into the woods, darting through the moonlight-speckled trees. His legs burning, the snow slipped out from under him, and he slammed his arm against a tree, but he didn’t cry out in pain. He lifted himself up and pressed on. Ahead of him he saw a clearing, and he knew he needed to get there. He needed to see.
She lay in the snow, the moonlight illuminating the luscious pallor of her skin so that she almost looked like she wasn’t there at all. Her dress and cloak were spread around her in an arc, and her hair was fanned out like a pitch-black corona.
He approached slowly.
“Fiona,” he whispered, but still she didn’t move.
He saw her chest, and his stomach lurched. It had been opened up, hollowed out. Flesh and blood mingled in stringy derangement. He looked and he saw, but he didn’t really let himself see. He couldn’t. Instead, he stared at her face, more perfect in death even than it had been in life. Her dark eyes were wide and fixed on the stars above—stars that seemed to have come out simply to witness her death, clearing the clouds aside that the moonlight might make her lovely one last time.
He knelt beside her and stroked her hair.
“Shhh,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”
He pressed his lips to her cheek. It was still warm.
“Everything will be just fine,” he said.
He kissed her one last time, and then with fingers light as feathers, he closed her eyelids, and lay back in the snow waiting for it not to be true. Waiting to wake up from the dream.
Part Two
7. THE CHARIOT
WHEN ROWAN AWOKE the next morning, she could tell that something had changed. Somehow the world was different, and the thought of it caused a gnawing pain to grow in her stomach. She nearly doubled over with it as she climbed out of bed.
As she dressed, she noticed that her clothes felt unusually heavy, and when she stepped out of her room, she sensed she wasn’t alone. Turning, she saw a small figure sitting on the wooden bench at the end of the hall, down by Rowan’s mother’s old room—the room where her mother had died.
“Hello,” Rowan said, and the figure sat up straighter but made no move to stand. Rowan walked down the hall, trying to make out the child’s face. When she came into view, Rowan was surprised by how hard the little thing seemed. Plain, with straight brown hair that curved to her chin like an obedient dog, the girl held her lips pursed tightly, and she stared at Rowan with a decidedly frigid air.
“I’m Rowan,” she said, but the girl didn’t smile. She just stared at Rowan, and after a moment, she raised an eyebrow. Just when Rowan was about to speak again, a man stepped out of her mother’s room and smiled at her.
Emily had been right to describe the duke as beautiful, but she had neglected to mention how extremely young he was. Twenty-five at most, he was a tall, imposing man with dark green eyes and lips like bloodstains. He had a brightness to him that was immediately attractive. His chiseled face was smooth save for an odd scar he wore just below his left eye—three straight lines, almost like claw marks, that led down to one of his two disarming dimples.
Bowing her head and bending at the knee, Rowan curtsied, trying to hide how distracted she was by his beauty.
“My lord,” she said.
“None of that, now,” he said. On his left hand he wore an array of beautiful rings, and as he reached out to her, they glinted in the morning light. “I detest formality. While I am in your house, I am your guest and your friend but not your lord. Understand?”
He looked at her closely, his smile lighting up his dazzling eyes, and for a moment, she thought she might lose her footing. This man, she thought, was even more handsome than Jude, and much better behaved.
“Yes,” Rowan said, straining to find her voice. “I understand.”
“And this,” the duke said, indicating the girl beside him, “is my ward, Merrilee.”
A strange smile played on the girl’s lips as she stood and offered Rowan her hand. She wore a navy-blue dress that did not suit her, and black boots that appeared to cut in at the ankle.
“Nice to meet you,” she whistled, air passing through the large gap between her top two teeth. “I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends.”
“I’m sure we will,” Rowan said, decidedly disturbed by the girl.
“Rowan,” the duke said, placing his hand on her shoulder and looking at her with kind eyes. “I’m afraid something’s happened. Your father wants to speak with you. You’d best go find him.”
Anxiety flooded Rowan’s veins. She’d known something was wrong. She’d felt it upon waking. She only hoped her father was okay. “Thank you,” she said, excusing herself. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“We’ll have time to talk later, I’m sure.” He smiled.
The house was quiet when Rowan walked downstairs. The lights were off, and her father’s study door was slightly ajar, but she could smell the lingering ghost of his pipe smoke.
“Father?” she called.
“Come in,” he answered.
Slowly she pushed the door open the rest of the way. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of what she might see within. She had a brief vision of horrors, fires and blood, black smoke and silver-white teeth, but when she entered, there was nothing extraordinary about the scene. Her father sat at his desk, his hands fastened together beneath his chin, his brow tight with some indiscernible emotion.
He raised his eyebrows as if she’d awakened him from a particularly unpleasant dream. “I’ve just returned from Dr. Temper’s. It appears there has been another incident.”
Rowan felt her bones begin to chill, and a faint shiver ran along the nape of her neck. “What do you mean by ‘incident’? You don’t mean like what happened to the men on Beggar’s Drift, do you?”
“I’m afraid I do. There’s been another attack. Another death. Rowan, I’m going to tell you this because I don’t want you to hear it elsewhere. This attack was particularly gruesome. This time the victim’s heart … it was ripped from her chest. She appears to have died instantly.”
“She?” Rowan asked, her voice breaking.
“Yes. I’m afraid it was your cousin, Fiona Eira.”
Rowan felt the earth drop out from under her. Her forehead tingled with a shock that crawled over her skull and down her back. Suddenly she thought she might be sick. Gripping the chair, she stared at her father, trying to read his emotions, trying to understand where hers were coming from, and without speaking, she left the room. He didn’t call out to her, didn’t stop her, and she pushed herself to make it to the stairs, leaning against the railing as she mounted them.