“Hang them, of course. I’ll chop my fingers off without proper lighting.” Which was the truth, but it also served as a good excuse to cover my fear of the dark. So far, I’d been able to manage my anxiety, but the ever oppressive shadows were eating away at me.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned deeply. “Have someone wake me when you need to use the ladder. I’m taking a nap until then.” He took a final look around the workshop and mumbled under his breath, “Bowen is going to lose his mind.”
The other servant followed him out of the room, leaving me alone in my freshly cleaned space. I groaned and stretched my arms overhead, my muscles screaming from the back-breaking work.
Since I arrived at the manor, my routine had consisted of eating, sleeping, and decluttering. There wasn’t time to evaluate my situation or the elusive man who’d hired me. I’d only seen him a handful of times—once, to sign a contract detailing the terms of my indentured servitude. He’d watched with a pensive stare while I signed my name then dusted the ink with powder. Our bargain sealed, he’d folded the parchment and stored the contract in his desk.
Now, I waited on pins and needles for him to come down and survey the changes to his workshop and deliver the plans for the commission. Waiting was the worst. The longer it took, the more anxious I became.
And the more curious.
I’d picked up bits and pieces of trivia about him from the servants, matching them with the stories I’d heard in the village. I’d even spent a few hours in the gallery marveling over the rare artifacts and one-of-a-kind weapons in his collection. I only touched a few things, and the petty acts of defiance were worth the risk of getting caught. In truth, I did it on purpose, eager to see if the act would cause the master of the house to appear out of the dark like a fabled creature of the night.
It didn’t, which only increased my raging curiosity.
The man was an enigma. A muscle-bound, brooding, striking enigma.
I shuffled toward the worktable, pressing my thumbs into my spine to relieve the tension. There were still piles of papers to sort through, and I hadn’t even opened the drawers. Who knew what nightmare lived in those? Inhaling an uneasy breath, I reached for the drawer pull, praying to the God of Cleanliness they’d be empty.
They were not.
Inside was a stack of leather-bound journals. Removing the top one from the pile, I unwound the leather strap holding it together and set the journal on the worktable. I moved a lantern closer as I flipped through the pages.
Watercolor drawings covered the parchment, illustrating a few of the artifacts I’d seen in the gallery. They were vividly painted by a skillful hand, and I noted the slash of a signature in the corner.
Bowen.
I turned to the next page, fascinated by the drawing of a jeweled dagger. The depth and the shading made the image jump off the parchment, almost as if I could wrap my hand around the hilt. To say Bowen was a talented artist didn’t do him justice. Slowly, I worked my way through the journal and on to the next one.
A twinge of guilt pinched my chest at the thought maybe I shouldn’t be going through his personal belongings, but the journals had essentially been forgotten, buried inside drawers that had nearly rusted shut. I kept turning pages until I came to a series of drawings that made me pause. I read aloud the caption beneath the image.
“Incantus.”
For some reason, the name sent an icy shiver down my back. The sketch was of a medallion with odd symbols carved into the surface. I didn’t recognize any of the markings, but they gave me a bad feeling, as if the symbols were cursed and anyone viewing them would take the curse back with them.
Closing the journal, I shook away the unexplained dread. It was only a drawing. It didn’t make any sense to be afraid of it.
Yet hours later, while I dined by candlelight alone in my room, I couldn’t help but think about Bowen’s beautiful sketches and the medallion that made me glad I wore a dagger on my hip.
Chapter 7
Bowen
Bitter coffee burned the roof of my mouth, scorching a fiery path down my throat. My mug landed on my desk, and dark liquid sloshed over the brim to stain the wood and papers beneath it. I blew out a breath and crossed to the window to stare out at the frozen landscape.
A light layer of snow had fallen during the night, dusting the ground in white powder. The icy chill penetrated the glass and sank into my bones. It was a perfect contradiction. Hot and cold. Two extremes that embodied my mood over the past few days since Liana arrived.
So far, things hadn’t gone to plan. According to my housekeeper, she’d taken one look at her workspace and insisted on cleaning. Cleaning! For three days. She refused to start work on the commission until everything was in order. She’d directed the servants, commanding them to move this and that. The noise was endless, the sounds echoing through the cavernous manor. It was as if the house itself had woken from an endless slumber.
I turned from the window and retrieved my mug. Steam wafted from the rim, but I downed it anyway. The pain was a moment’s distraction from a simple realization I’d been trying to avoid.
After three days, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Its usual tomblike atmosphere had never bothered me before. I preferred it. Reveled in it. But now, the silence grated. Liana’s entire presence was a whirlwind to the senses. From the second she walked through the door, there’d been some kind of disturbance.
So why was it so quiet?
