Papa hesitated. “He wanted something I am not willing to give him,” Papa said, his voice rough, his mouth turning down, his shoulders slumping forward.
“One of your books?” That was the only possibility that made any sense at all. Papa was ferociously protective of his collection.
“The books are not—” His gaze flicked to hers, then away. He clutched the edge of the table as if to anchor himself. “Something more precious than that.”
The words sent a sharp, uneasy pang through her chest.
Papa grabbed Isabella’s hand. “If you see him again, do not speak to him, do not acknowledge him.” His grip grew uncomfortably tight. “Do you understand, Isabella?”
He sounded desperate and old and afraid.
Widening her eyes, she made her voice sincere. “I will not speak to that man. If I see him, if he approaches me, I will not engage. There, is that better?”
Even as she said the words, she knew them for the lies they were. If the stranger were before her now, she would not only speak to him, but she would demand answers.
Papa let go of her hand and stared at her in silence.
“What is it, Papa?” she asked gently. “What has distressed you so?”
He made a strangled sound and buried his fingers in the wiry, white hair that surrounded his head like a coronet, leaving the top of his scalp bare and shiny.
“Was it a mistake?” he whispered, his voice raw. “Did I make a mistake? I thought I did right. But now, I do not know. I do not know.”
Alarmed, Isabella jumped to her feet. She moved to stand at her father’s back, resting both hands on his shoulders.
“Papa, tell me what this is about.”
He turned his head and looked up at her over his shoulder. She was horrified to see there were tears in his eyes.
“The books…the secrets—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “You’re a good girl, Isa. Always a good girl,” he said, patting her hand. He held her gaze for a long moment. “But what if I was wrong?”
“Wrong about what?” Isabella asked with a flash of both fear and confusion. And then, recalling the moment when both Papa and the man had seemed to be talking about her, she whispered, “Wrong about me?”
Papa rose to his feet and enveloped her in a hug, the action so unexpected that she fell silent.
He smelled of tobacco and coffee and the tonic he used in a failed attempt to smooth the remaining strands of his unruly hair. She closed her eyes and hugged him back. His ribs beneath her hands were sharper than they had been a month ago. The weight of him, too little now, made her throat close.
After a moment, he released her and stepped away, offering a strained, exhausted smile.
“I love you, my girl. You know that. And if I made a mistake or two over the years, you know it came from a place of love, from my need to keep you safe?”
His voice cracked, brittle as old parchment, before dissolving into silence.
“Papa,” Isabella whispered. “Why are you saying these things? You are frightening me. Are you unwell? Shall I summon the doctor?” She rested the back of her hand against his forehead but found no indication of fever.
“No, no.” He shook his head, caught both her hands in his and gave them a light shake. “Not necessary. Just an old man being foolish.” He glanced at her abandoned toast then forced a smile. “Sit. Finish your breakfast, my dear. I insist.”
Befuddled, Isabella stood watching as her father left the room, muttering under his breath, snatches of his words carrying to her. “She was meant to be safe…It was never supposed to come to this… Maybe I should let her read them… I cannot… no, I must not…”
The sound of his footsteps grew softer, fading down the hall. And then a pause. She heard him draw a single, ragged breath before he whispered, “Forgive me,” so faint she thought she imagined it.
Almost did she chase after him, demand an explanation for his odd words and behavior. Almost. But he had already made it clear that he would not give her the answers she sought.
And so, she let him go, listening to his footsteps on the stairs then the sound of the door to his bedchamber closing.
She turned away from the doorway to find the woman in the corner watching her with hollow, burning eyes, fathomless dark pits in her translucent gray face. Those eyes conveyed both hunger and expectation.
A different sort of chill crept in slowly now, curling through Isabella’s limbs, crawling up her spine like icy fingers. The cold pressed in, claiming her space, her breath. A silence, absolute and unfamiliar, roared in her ears. The wraith’s smile widened.
