His head filled with static. He braced himself against his workbench and tried to remember that the situation was not yet dire. His enemy had infiltrated his pasture and coop, but there was one remaining source that was much harder to access.
The aviary.
It would be difficult to siphon only enough from his birds to sustain him while keeping them healthy, but the throbbing in his head and dryness of his throat told him he was running out of options. He exited his workshop and stumbled down the steps to a locked iron gate—thank God it was housed in the same tower—then shoved his hand in his pocket and removed a keyring. It took several painful seconds to force his unfeeling fingers to maneuver the correct key into the lock, but eventually, the latch made a reassuring click.
He turned the handle, shoved the rusty, metal gate open, and immediately knew something was wrong. The presence of a human should have elicited a riot of screeching, but it was unnaturally silent.
“No,” he whispered. “Please, no.”
Several more steps and the cause became clear. The cages were open and every bird, from the smallest dove to the largest eagle, had been torn apart. It was such a grisly scene that his first thought was that a wolf had somehow breached the castle, but that was absurd. The room had been locked, and the window was too high for any four-legged creature to reach.
He clenched his shirt over his heart. It felt like he was caught in the grip of an enormous, constricting snake. His animals were all that kept him from regressing into bloodlust and attacking his staff. If he couldn’t find a solution, the castle might become the scene of a slaughter worse than the one he’d caused in his village shortly after being turned. Smith, Gillanders, Mrs. Gillanders, and even Winifred would have no chance of stopping him. One after another, he would tear out their throats, drain them dry, and leave their limp, discarded bodies for his siblings to find when they next visited.
He crumpled to his knees onto a pile of rotten turnips and clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. The sense of doom that had him imagining violent, awful futures for the people under his protection was nothing more than a trick of his mind. The latest symptom of the affliction that had taken his freedom, independence, and pride. He rifled through his memories until he recalled Winifred’s calming voice during his attack in the music room.
“Breathe.”
He inhaled through his mouth until his lungs were full to bursting, then exhaled powerfully through his nose.
“Remember where you are.”
Inside the castle aviary, kneeling on a sticky floor.
The weight in his chest eased, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. Impending sunrise meant it was time for him toretire, but first, he would tell the groundskeeper to set snares and traps. The blood of a few rabbits or a dozen rats wouldn’t satisfy him for long, but it was preferable to starvation.
Chapter Eighteen
Winifred found Marcusstanding outside the closed doors to the dining room, staring at the carved mahogany panels as if they were the gates of hell and the handles were hissing cobras. Part of her wanted to demand to know if he’d taken a mistress. But that would likely only worsen his anxiety, and if she was going to figure out how to convince Uncle Ethan there was no feud and see Felicity again, she needed him able to leave the castle.
“I’m here,” she said. Then she removed a handkerchief from her pocket and tucked it between the thumb and index finger of his right fist.
“Thank you,” he said. Without looking at her, he dabbed the soft fabric against his skin. “I-I do not know if I can do this. When I get anxious, I can barely eat.”
“You can. We will say you are recovering from illness.”
If she’d thought him truly not ready, she would have sent him away and made up an excuse to placate her guests, which included the vicar, his wife, and their two young daughters. But Marcus had insisted an hour earlier that she not allow him to retreat. It was only a momentary burst of fear that had paralyzed him.
She still thought it odd that a man of science, an inventor, seemed incapable of conquering the metaphorical demon that plagued him. “You need not say much,” she said as a footman opened the door from the inside. “I will lead the conversation.”
The space was lit by several hanging chandeliers and a long tablewas set up in the middle of the room, where the guests were already sitting. The vicar, Mr. Charles Benton, was gesturing to the large windows. His wife, Winona Benton, nodded every few seconds, making the peacock feathers tucked in her silver-blonde hair bob. Their two daughters tilted their brown, curly heads together and whispered.
“Give me your arm,” Winifred whispered.
Marcus did so, and she placed her fingers on his sleeve. He led her to her seat, then took his, but when he sat, the table fell silent.
As if on cue, six servants filed in, carrying small, white plates containing grapefruit halves on trays.
“We were surprised to receive your invitation, my lady,” Mrs. Benton said. She spoke softly, but the intensity in her bright-blue eyes and the way she kept her back perfectly straight reminded Winifred of her mother. This was not a woman to be trifled with. She turned to Marcus. “Will you and the countess be having more events in the future, my lord?”
Winifred tensed. That was not a question they had practiced.
“That is up to my wife to decide,” Marcus said after only the slightest hesitation.
She forced her stiff shoulders to relax. He’d successfully navigated his first hurdle. The vicar and his wife were easy guests to entertain. They expected very little, and unlike proper society, would not notice or care if Marcus used the wrong spoon or rambled about a subject for far longer than necessary. It also helped that Mrs. Benton had raised her twin daughters to be both polite and kind. Over the next hour, Mrs. Benton made several comments that led Winifred to suspect she wanted Winifred to become friends with the girls. Likely to improve their social standing. Winifred was happy to do so, although she doubted association with her would hold much sway in the village.
Mr. Benton finished the last of his roast partridge, set down his fork, and patted his stomach. “That was magnificent.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Benton said. “I only wish you had invited us to your table sooner, my lord.”
