Page 79 of John Eyre

It was a cold night, the mist drifting along the edges of the courtyard. As I watched him, he took a step toward it, and then another. And here I must catalog a strange phenomenon. I hardly know how to describe it. Indeed, I can’t be sure I saw it correctly. My eyes were tired, and I was scared and hungry. Who can guess what illusions might plague a woman in this condition? Nevertheless, I feel constrained to record what I saw. It was this: Edward lifted his hands as he walked into the courtyard, and the mist seemed to swirl about him in a very specific pattern, circling around his legs and arms, enshrouding his body.

I don’t mean to claim that my husband commanded the mist. It was something else. As if the mist were a part of him. An extension of his limbs. Of his very movement. It accompanied him across the courtyard, emanating from his person, a silvery vapor that thickened into a fog. I lost sight of him for a moment, and then, in the next instant he was gone, subsumed by the very fog he had seemed to create.

Gazing down at the empty courtyard, a sickening anxiety swelled in my breast. For the first time, I had cause to doubt my own sanity. If I could imagine this strange vision, what else might I have imagined?

I felt compelled to watch and wait for his return, if only to convince myself that I hadn’t been dreaming. Settling myself into a corner of the window embrasure, I rested my head against one of the iron bars. Down below, the howl of ravenous wolves rose from the woods that surrounded Nosht-Vŭlk. It wasn’t a landscape that was safe for walking. My husband may be able to navigate it somehow, but if I ever managed to escape, I would have to find a way to procure a horse and carriage.

On this thought, I must have drifted to sleep, for when I next woke it was to the sound of wailing. A pitiful noise. The cry of a child, quickly suppressed. By this time, it was well past midnight. Those early hours before dawn when the first glimmers of light begin to threaten. I sat up straight, leaning to peer out the window. I saw no one in the courtyard to whom I might attribute the sound, certainly not a child.

What I did see was the mist. It was there in abundance, blanketing the courtyard, and rising up along the walls of the fortress. It stretched its silvery fingers—up, up—toward my window. I drew back with a start, standing from the embrasure, and once again hiding my figure behind the mildewed curtains. But the mist remained, hovering there. I had the queerest sensation that it saw me.

24 April, later that morning. — The strange sights I beheld during the night convinced me that I’d too long deprived myself of adequate food and sleep. I slipped down to the kitchen again before sunrise and gathered what was left of the molded bread and cheese. There was a knife there as well—a dull instrument, good only for slicing cake. But it was better than nothing. I tucked it in with my food and returned to my room. There, I ate and then slept, attempting to conserve my strength for my journey into the secret corridor.

At sunrise, I was awakened by the sound of my husband’s key scraping in the lock. His bedroom door opened and closed. A long silence followed, during which I imagined he was creeping into the wardrobe and making his exit through its back. I bided my time.

When another hour had passed, I dressed in my warmest traveling gown and my sturdiest pair of boots, and packed a few necessities into a leather satchel—the knife, my travel documents, and what was left of my food. If the opportunity to walk out of Nosht-Vŭlk presented itself, I intended to be ready.

As an added ward against evil, before leaving my room, I retrieved my silver locket from my jewel case and fixed it around my neck. At my husband’s request, I hadn’t worn it since my wedding night. But now I couldn’t imagine proceeding without my parents’ portraits to guard me and give me courage.

Lighting an oil lamp, I entered Edward’s chamber through the connecting door. It was just as I’d left it, with no sign of where he’d been during the night—or where he was now. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought he’d simply disappeared. Climbing into the wardrobe, I pressed open the false door and entered the stone corridor. The same rank scent assailed me. It seemed stronger this morning, enough that I was obliged to raise my scarf up over my nose and mouth lest I choke on the stench.

I descended the stairway, lamp lifted to guide my steps. All was in darkness. There was no natural light at all. And the smell! It only increased as I reached the bottom—two or three flights down by my estimate. I was met by another passage—a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor with a heavy wooden door at the end of it.

My throat tightened on a cry of frustration, for I feared I had reached the end of the road. But when I tried the door, I found it unlocked. It opened easily on well-oiled hinges—a good sign, to be sure. However, beyond it was only darkness, the fragrance of decay so pronounced that I gagged.

I haven’t a fear of small places, thank God. If I had, I’d never have gone farther. The ceiling was low enough that I had to stoop as I walked. The stone slabs beneath my feet gave way to a dirt floor. The soil emitted a smell as foul as the smell of rot that had preceded it. Was it here that an animal had died? Somewhere in the darkness, curled up in a hidden corner?

This thought was at the forefront of my mind when I struck something hard with the toe of my boot. I leapt back, a jolt of terror nearly rending a scream from my lips. Shining the light at my feet, I was relieved to see that it was no animal carcass. It was nothing but an old suitcase, and next to it, a damp pile of faded clothing. Indeed, as I moved my lantern over the ground, I saw that there were many similar articles. Clothing and shoes. Even a lady’s hat, the velvet ribbons long-devoured by some insect.

It must be storage. Old clothes and luggage. The sort of thing usually found in an attic. Why on earth would it be stored here? Left to the vermin and the damp? Raising my lamp, I ventured on, rapidly losing hope that I’d find an exit from my prison. But there must be some way out. Where else would my husband go when he came this way? He didn’t remain down here in the darkness, surely. No human being would be foolish enough to do so. Not with all this stink and rot.

I advanced a little farther, my attention again arrested by the detritus in the dirt. There was nothing frightening about the remnants in and of themselves. Nevertheless, I found the sight of them to be exceedingly unnerving. Even more so, for as my gaze drifted over a piece of luggage, I was alarmed to find that I recognized it. It was a portmanteau of green morocco leather. The very kind my maid, Agnes, had been carrying when first we arrived here.

Crouching down, I opened it, expecting I knew not what. What I found was worse—far worse than I could have imagined. The clothing within had been hastily packed. Agnes’s clothes. A pile of petticoats, crumpled dresses, and the new pair of gloves I’d given her last Christmas. And thrown atop the carelessly discarded heap: my Nock percussion pistol.

A numbness settled in my veins. Mrs. Wren had said that Agnes had hired a calèche and departed for Varna. That she’d had enough of exotic climes. But I understood now—as, perhaps, I should have understood then—that my maid had not left Nosht-Vŭlk at all.

25 April, morning. — Having found Agnes’s belongings, I retreated back to my bedroom, too terrified to go farther. I cursed myself for being weak and afraid. Who knew what else the underground chamber might have held? If only I’d had the courage to continue on. But nothing is served by these recriminations. I must find a way to master my fear and carry on, lest I meet the same unfortunate fate as my maid.

At least I can congratulate myself on having the presence of mind to retrieve my still-loaded pistol. It houses only a single shot, which I’ve vowed not to waste. I’ve tucked it away in my wardrobe, along with what coin I have, my travel documents, letter of credit, and the two remaining vials of laudanum, leftover from Mr. Poole’s injury. Which leads me to wonder: was the injury he suffered on the way to Varna truly an accident? Or was it a failed attempt at getting rid of him, just as my husband and Mrs. Wren got rid of my maid?

I would that Mr. Poole was here now. I could use his strength. But I must believe that, when their first attempt at disposing of him failed, a second attempt was made. He’s likely as dead now as Agnes. Indeed, who is to say that their bodies aren’t hidden under Nosht-Vŭlk along with the other detritus? It would explain the godawful smell of decay.

These thoughts and worse have plagued my mind since ascending the hidden stairway and returning to my room. When Edward emerged from his own chamber at sunset, he came to me, looking as suave and unruffled as ever. One wouldn’t guess at the evil that lay beneath his elegant façade, but I sensed it now—emanating from him as surely as the mist had done.

I stood from my desk as he entered my room. Without a word, he approached, and sliding his arm around my waist in a lover’s embrace, he bent his head into the crook of my neck and inhaled deeply.

“You’ve been wandering, my dear,” he said.

My heart raced so I couldn’t tell where one beat ended and the other began.

“Haven’t I warned you that wandering is dangerous here?” As he spoke, his lips brushed my throat. They’d barely touched my skin before he recoiled back with a hiss. His fingers flew to his mouth, as if I’d done him an injury. “That necklace!” His eyes kindled with accusation. “I told you not to wear it.”

I lifted a protective hand to my locket. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Remove it at once.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”