Chapter 12

In her room, she tidied the already tidy vanity, lining up the brushes, combs, and powder jars. She'd already written a letter to Susan, and she'd organized her books several times over. What did ladies do all day? This lady certainly didn't feel like spending time alone in a room where only an hour before something evil had lingered with her.

Perhaps the parlor would have been a better choice, with its easy access to the front hall, but she wanted to be surrounded by old friends, so Ivy made her way to the library. The simple act of running her fingers over book spines and breathing in the familiar scent of paper eased some of the tightness in her chest. She settled on The Importance of Being Earnest, and lowered herself into her favorite chair.

Somewhere in the house a clock struck the hour, and from the window came the comforting sound of Ralph pulling the auto around in the drive. Then something softer, closer. At first she thought it must have been Mrs. Hewitt, her feather duster softly skimming over books nearby, come to spy on her.

"Mrs. Hewitt? Are you in here?"

There was no answer. The swishing grew louder, until it was right behind the closest bookshelf. Glittering clouds of dust puffed up with every sweep of the sound, as if someone was taking long, deliberate steps in full skirts. The faint smell of incense curled around Ivy.

Setting aside the book, she slowly rose. The gooseflesh which had only just settled on her skin sprang to life again, her heart beating hard and painful. She had to see what was behind the shelf for herself. She couldn't keep running in her own home.

As soon as she stood, the dust settled, the footsteps stopped. Gathering a deep breath, Ivy closed her eyes, then peeked around the shelf.

There was no one there.

She looked down. The polished wooden floor gleamed, but there, so faint that she might have missed them, was a single set of dusty footprints. Slender and petite, they looked as if they had been made with a woman's slipper. It must have been Agnes, playing some sort of trick on her. Then, before she even had a chance to sigh a breath of relief, the footprints began again. Ivy's throat tightened, trapping a scream as disembodied tracks formed right in front of her eyes.

It was still here, and it was moving.

Whatever it was, was leading her somewhere. Ivy swayed, her feet rooted to the spot. Maybe if she followed it, saw what it wanted to show her, then it would stop. That was why spirits visited, wasn't it? To extend a message to the living? To settle unfinished business?

"I—I'm coming," she choked out in a dry whisper. Forcing her heavy feet to move, Ivy followed the swirling dust in the wake of the footsteps. The smell of incense grew thick and heavy, though under it she thought she could make out the sweet scent of flowers. From somewhere faraway yet disconcertingly close, a woman's low voice hummed a song in a minor key. The electricity flickered, throwing the marble busts into sinister shadows. It was so quiet that she could hear the rasp of her own uncertain breath, the tremble of her fingers against her wool skirt.

When the dust cloud had settled, Ivy found herself in front of an unremarkable shelf. This was what it had wanted to show her? Nothing looked out of place, the books the same as those on any other shelf. What if it was some sort of trap? Would the spirit materialize, pouncing on her and—

"There you are, my lady."

At the sound of the voice, Ivy jumped, her heart still furiously pounding. The electricity had restored itself, the smell of incense gone.

Mrs. Hewitt peered around her. "I thought I heard voices."

Ivy followed Mrs. Hewitt's gaze, expecting the housekeeper to recoil in surprise, but the footprints were gone, and the shimmering dust as well. "I must have been talking to myself."

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Will you take dinner in your room tonight or—"

"No," Ivy said, rather too sharply. "That is, I suppose I'll take it..." She trailed off. What she wanted to say was that she would eat in the kitchen downstairs with the staff, where there were other people and nice, cheery lights. But that wasn't the done thing, and she doubted Mrs. Hewitt would have allowed it. "Here is fine, I suppose."

Mrs. Hewitt was studying the shelf, and Ivy wondered if she could somehow sense that up until a moment ago there had been an otherworldly presence among them. But then the housekeeper turned her attention back to her. "Of course. If I may, my lady, are you quite all right?"

"Yes, quite all right," Ivy lied.

Mrs. Hewitt gave her one last assessing look, then clipped her way out of the library in a swish of skirts and jingle of key rings.

Returning to her chair, Ivy plopped down. No more clouds of shimmering dust, no more creaking floor, and no more cold drafts. She stared at the book in her hands until the words swam, her thoughts simultaneously cloudy and racing, her body fatigued with fear.

Agnes arrived with her dinner tray and set it down on one of the cluttered reading desks. "You're here late, aren't you?" Ivy asked.

"Yes, m'lady. Road is washed out on account of all the rain, so I'm staying here tonight."

Frowning, Ivy drew back the curtain and peeked outside at the driving rain. "Goodness. I didn't realize it was supposed to be so heavy."

"Ralph says he's never seen the likes of it before. Offered to drive me, but he didn't think even the auto could handle the mud."

"Well, I'm glad you'll be safe and snug here tonight. Tomorrow we'll figure out a way to get you home."

"Yes, m'lady," Agnes said, dropping a curtsy. No matter how many times Ivy insisted she call her by her name, her request seemed to go ignored.

"Before you go, may I ask you a question?" Agnes had at least learned by now to tolerate if not expect her employer's attempts at conversation, and she nodded.

"Will you have a seat? You shouldn't be working anyway," Ivy told her, nodding toward the dinner tray. "It's past your hours. So why not sit and have a chat? I'm curious about something, and thought you might be just the one to help me."

Agnes hesitated, then lowered herself onto the edge of a chair, careful not to wrinkle her dress. "What do you want to know?"

"I was curious about the ghost stories. You mentioned there being some rumor that the abbey was haunted." Ivy was spreading rarebit on a piece of toast. She was grateful that her meals were always prepared with familiar ingredients, not the rich, fancy foods she had anticipated she would have to endure as a lady. When Ivy realized it had been some moments and Agnes hadn't said anything, she looked up.

The maid was staring at her, mouth ajar. Ivy automatically dabbed at her lips. "Do I have something on my face? What? What is it?"

"You...you really don't remember, m'lady?"

"Remember what?" There was something unnerving about the way Agnes was watching her, as if the maid couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "What, Agnes?"

Agnes looked down at her tangled fingers in her lap. "You already asked me to tell you about the ghost stories here. Twice."

Ivy frowned. Had she? Agnes had mentioned the rumors the first time they met, but she was certain she would have remembered actually hearing the stories for herself; she loved ghost stories.

"That can't be true. I would have remembered."

"That's what you said last time. Said you would have remembered if I told thee, but when I did, it was like you were hearing it all for the first time."

A sudden slant in the room, and Ivy put her fingers to her forehead. Something tickled at the back of her mind, but it was slippery and she couldn't quite grasp it. Swallowing back a dry lump in her throat she forced a smile. "Well, tell me again," she said. "Maybe it will come back to me."

Agnes drummed her fingers on her knees, looking torn. But then she nodded, and said, "Well, I was telling thee the story of the Mad Monk. Everyone in Blackwood has grown up hearing it."

The familiar feeling grew stronger, but it was still fuzzy, and indistinct. Ivy nodded that Agnes should go on.

Outside the rain pelted against the windows in unforgiving sheets, the wind groaning. "It was in the days when Blackwood Abbey was a real abbey, a monastery, with monks and priests and the like living here. There was a monk—no one knows what his name was—that was obsessed with...what is it called? When metal turns into gold?"

"Alchemy," Ivy murmured.

"—that's it. Anyway, he began to take up darker interests. Things like life and death, and how it was that dead things could come back again. Said there was a fountain of youth, but instead of water springing from it, it was the blood of virgins. He did experiments, terrible experiments, and recorded everything in a great big book. There was girls that went missing from the town, and even though there was lots of accusations brought against him, nothing was ever proved. Some of the things that were said of him, well, I don't like to repeat."

Her imagination filled in the blank spaces in the story. Ivy could almost see the book, graphic illustrations documenting every horrible thing he had done, full of hellmouths and writhing piles of bodies. Flesh torn from bones, bodies drained of blood.

"When King Henry came 'round to burn all the monasteries, the monk disappeared. Some people say he was bricked up alive in the walls somewhere, but most people think that he ran off to Italy. The one thing everyone agrees on is that he hid the book somewhere in the abbey, and that his spirit haunts Blackwood, guarding his book and its power, hoping for someone to find it and release him from the bonds of death."

Ivy digested this. Agnes was a good storyteller, and the vivid details made it feel familiar. But it would have been quite a stretch to say that she'd heard this story before—twice.

"You really don't remember?" Agnes asked, looking at her askance.

Ivy shook her head. "Not a word of it."

Agnes was fidgeting in her seat, and Ivy realized she'd kept the girl there for some time. "Well, it's getting late. I suppose we both ought to be getting to bed. Do you have somewhere to sleep? All the things you need?"

"Yes, m'lady. Mrs. Hewitt prepared one of the old servants' rooms for me."

Nodding absently, Ivy bid her good-night. Back in her room, she scrounged about in her desk for a notebook. Hastily, she recorded everything Agnes had told her. The girl was unassuming and eager to please, yet was it possible she was playing some malicious trick on Ivy? Convincing her that her mind was slipping? But what had Agnes to gain from that? Worse than that would be that Ivy's memory really was sliding into decline, and if that were the case, then what else might she be forgetting? The late lord Hayworth had died from dementia—what if it was hereditary? But something told her that there was something else at play here, something darker and unexplainable by a simple diagnosis.