I stared at him, heart thumping like a rabbit’s foot. I remembered last night’s dream, and the wolf in my cup this morning. A voice inside me screamedGo.
He saved my life.I set my jaw. “I don’t believe you.”
My heart nearly bounded from my chest at the cold fury in his eyes. “You think I would say such a thing in jest?”
“I don’t knowwhyyou would say such a thing,” I said, growing exasperated. “What I do know is that I was injured on your estate, and you brought me here, into your home—which I know must have been uncomfortable for you—andcared for me.”
“‘Dangerous’ is what I said I am. Not ‘callous.’”
I sat up straighter and set my basket on the floor beside the chair. “I’m sorry, sir, but that makes no sense to me. And you should be careful saying such things, because it’s what people in the village already think. It’s what I came here to warn you about. Some of them believe that you had something to do with Mr. Roscoe’s death.”
His chest sank as he released a breath. In a slightly less frigid tone, he said, “I am grateful for your concern, but it was only a matter of time.”
I rubbed my lips together before venturing, “Because of the old stories, you mean.”
His gaze sharpened on my face, and I shifted uncomfortably. “What makes you think they’re wrong, these people in the village?” he said. “The fact that I helpedyoudoesn’t prove I didn’t kill Mr. Roscoe.”
My hands clasped tightly in my lap. “While I don’t know youwell, I know you better than they do.”
His expression flattened. “You don’t know me at all, Miss Penrose.”
For a long moment we simply stared at each other. The cold of the place seeped into my bones. I heard a sound like dripping coming from the upper floor, but otherwise the silence was complete. We were locked in a kind of dance that I didn’t understand. But I did, at last, begin to feel there was something dangerous about it. Ice crystals seemed to form along the back of my neck.
Finally I found the courage to ask the loudest question in my head. “Are you saying youdidkill Mr. Roscoe?”
His reply was low, but with something sharp behind it. “What I’m saying is I easily could have.”
He seemed to be trying to convince me that he was in fact some kind of monster. Butwhy? Frightened—but also frustrated and confused—I slowly shook my head.
Suddenly he stepped forward and took hold of my hand. I let out a squeal as he pulled me up from the chair.
“Let go!” I cried, trying to free myself.
But it was all I could do to stay on my feet as I hurried to keep up with his long strides. We reached the stone stairway and started up. Ihad the idea to allow myself to stumble with the hope of bringing him out of this strange fit, but what if he just continued to drag me? As we neared the upper floor, a dozen nightmares came to life inside my head.
In a voice breaking with fear, I said, “Mr. Tregarrick,please.”
At the top he released me abruptly. I fisted my hands at my sides, tears stinging my eyes.Only a fool ignoressomany warnings.
“Look around you, Miss Penrose.”
Taking a shuddering breath, I met his gaze. I was struck afresh by his eyes. Not only their color, but the expression in them—part angry, part sad, but more than halfwild.
“What kind of creature are you?” I whispered.
He winced, as if my words had traveled on a dart. In a softer tone, he said, “Now you’re asking the right questions. Look around you, please.”
I did this time, and it was not at all what I had imagined. I had assumed his bedchamber must be up here because it was the only place itcouldbe. But this space was mostly taken up by a long table covered with copper and glass vessels, iron instruments like tongs and pokers, and towers of books. One large copper vessel sat atop a kind of brick oven resting almost in the hearth. I could see a fire burning through its arched opening, and the heat released soft hisses and bubbling sounds.
Taking in the rest of the room, I saw there was indeed a narrow bed against one wall—beneath the stained glass window that faced the heath. In the pointed tip of the window was a rose design, and below that a scene from the Bible. Shelves against the back wall contained more books, clay jars, and at least a dozen bottles of wine, all with the same label, which had a kind of lettering I didn’t recognize. On one shelf my gaze paused on the neck of a fiddle; the rest of the instrument seemed to be resting in pieces beside it, broken strings poking out like strands of grizzled hair. Bunches of herbs had been hung to dry in the corners farthest from the hearth.
Next to the hearth a few pots and pans were stacked, and a teakettle hung from a hook over the fire. I understood why his meals were simple—thiswashis kitchen. Of course, I had cooked on a hearth fire for most of my life, but I wasn’t the master of an estate.
My gaze returned to the table with its collection of instruments. “These are for alchemy?”
“That’s right.”
“Are alchemists dangerous?”
