Chapter 13

Ivy watched as the first crimson blood drop forged a slow, steady path down the white porcelain sink.

Soon it was followed by a second, then a third, all converging like crooked streets on a London city map. It was the first nosebleed she'd had since coming here, yet she hadn't been surprised when she'd woken up to the metallic smell and the warm trickle of liquid. The air was cold here, sharp, and if there was indeed mold in the library, then it was little wonder nosebleeds would accompany the headaches. Pressing a cloth against her nose, she let the water run until the blood turned pink and thin, then disappeared down the drain completely.

It was still raining when Ivy ventured downstairs, and from the look of the soggy fields and battered trees, it had rained all night. What was there to do on a stormy day such as this with no company and nowhere to go? She had explored the house several times over, but some of the darker hallways and more remote rooms left her with an uneasy feeling, imagining footsteps following and eyes watching her.

She puttered about the house, inventorying previously unexplored rooms and marveling at the art tucked into every corner. As the home of generations of Hayworths, she kept expecting to find something, well, homey. But the abbey was more museum than anything else, everything more for display than for function.

Wind howled outside, rain smattering against the great arched windows. If ever there was a day meant to be spent in losing oneself in books, this was it. She made her way to the library and leisurely perused the shelves until she found something familiar and comforting to read. There was an edge of uneasiness in the air, but she couldn't think why, so with a contented sigh, she settled into her favorite plush upholstered chair with a beautifully illustrated edition of Oliver Twist.

She must have drifted off to sleep at some point, because she was awakened by the sound of voices and activity in the hall. Setting aside her book, Ivy cautiously padded out to see what was happening.

Ralph was stomping out his boots as Mrs. Hewitt hurried to take his wet coat and hat.

"How are the roads?" Mrs. Hewitt was asking.

"Terrible, as you might expect," he said, with a grunt. Water dripped from his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead. Another man might have looked like a drowned cat, but Ralph was irritatingly captivating with his shirt stuck to his chest, a rain droplet blazing a trail down the strong angle of his jaw. He caught Ivy's eye and quickly looked away.

Mrs. Hewitt clucked, shaking her head. "I told you we could fare without coal for a little longer until our delivery. You shouldn't have risked going into town."

"It's not just the rain and wind, it's unlike any storm I've ever seen. I..." Ralph looked lost for words, and a chill ran down Ivy's spine. Ralph didn't strike her as someone who feared much in the world, or had time for hyperbole of any kind. But he looked genuinely unsettled.

Mrs. Hewitt must have been thinking the same thing, because she paused in her fussing. "What is it?"

He shook his head, as if he could hardly believe what he was saying. "Bees."

Ivy and Mrs. Hewitt shared a puzzled look. "Bees? What do you mean?" Ivy asked.

"Mr. Bryson was stung, all over. Said that a swarm of bees chased him all the way from the barn to his front door. Big bees, the size of a half crown each."

Another look passed between Ivy and the housekeeper. "Surely not in this weather?" Mrs. Hewitt asked.

Ralph shrugged. "That's what he said, and he had the welts to prove it."

"Mr. Bryson," Ivy mused. "That name is familiar." She searched her memory, but couldn't place where she might have heard it before.

"Nasty business all around," Mrs. Hewitt said, but the worry in her eyes belied her easy tone. "Come, let's get you some hot tea." She led Ralph to the back stairs.

"Wait," Ivy said, suddenly. "Mrs. Hewitt, may I have a word with you first?"

Ralph shared a glance with the housekeeper before heading downstairs alone. Mrs. Hewitt looked at her expectantly, hands folded. "Yes, my lady? Is something not to your satisfaction?"

"No, it's not that. I was just wondering..." Ivy bit her lip, trying to find the right words. "Do I seem forgetful to you?"

She'd been working up the courage to ask, trying to find a way to come at the question without showing her hand. She didn't want Mrs. Hewitt to sense the alarm that was slowly building within her, but how else would Ivy be able to know if something truly was amiss with her memory?

There was a flicker in Mrs. Hewitt's eyes of something like surprise, or unease, but then she was shaking her head. "Forgetful? I don't believe so, my lady. Why do you ask?"

How much should she divulge to her housekeeper? How much did Ivy even know herself? All she had was Agnes's word, and even that was only in the form of a story. The last thing she needed was Mrs. Hewitt thinking she was mad. It hadn't been so long ago that women could simply be carted off to the workhouse or Bedlam on little more than the mere suggestion of madness.

"Have I ever had the same conversation with you multiple times? Or forgotten something I asked you, only to ask you again?"

"Of course not."

"It's only that Agnes told me that we've had the same conversation over and over again, and apparently I never remember it."

Mrs. Hewitt seemed to study a smudge on the banister before carefully erasing it with the pad of her thumb. "I'm sure that you're just overtaxed. There is much more that goes into running a great house such as this one than many people realize. I hope that I am able to ease some of the burden for you, but you must do your part too by attending to your ladyship's duties, and not wasting so much time in the library. I've never once seen you at church services in the village, nor, well, doing anything besides reading. Now if you'll excuse me, I must make Ralph his tea."

It was only when she'd returned to the library that Ivy remembered where she'd heard the name Bryson before: he was one of the men who had come to the lending library. With a niggling feeling in the back of her mind, Ivy took out her record book. Tracing her finger down the list, she stopped at Henry Bryson, then sucked in her breath.

The grandfather clock by the door ticked away. She read the entry over, and then over again. It had to be a coincidence. What else could it be? The title The Art and Adventure of Beekeeping stared back at her, stark in black and white.

Quickly continuing down the list, a knot of cold spread through her stomach. A Mr. Geoffrey Miller had borrowed The Monsoons of India.

Outside the wind howled and rain pelted against the windows. Blackwood was no stranger to rain and wind, but Ralph was right—this was no ordinary storm. It had all the force of a hurricane, and had hardly abated for two days. Snapping shut the ledger, Ivy jumped to her feet. Her head was throbbing. She had lent out dozens of books, ranging in subjects from agriculture to the history of the Russian empire. Edith had borrowed Swiss Family Robinson; was the village overrun with pirates? Of course not. It was just a coincidence, but all the same, she couldn't help the dark, foreboding feeling that had taken up residence in her chest, like the pressure building before a storm.