Page 78 of Hawk & Sparrow

Vesper had had real reservations about staying at Kite Manor.

But by the time Mrs. Cauble showed her to a bedroom where she could change out of her rain-soaked clothes and into a warm bathrobe with an embroidered letter K, a great deal of those reservations had abated. She hadn’t seen a clock in hours, but she gathered that it was now well past ten. Outside, the storm was still raging, but it was muted within the walls of Kite Manor.

“You’ll have to excuse my lapse in manners earlier, Miss Evans,” said Mrs. Cauble as they walked together down the hall. “Mr. Kite doesn’t usually bring guests here. But don’t you worry, we have everything prepared for you now. I took the liberty of drawing you a hot bath.”

“Thank you,” said Vesper. She paused, then: “How long have you worked for Mr. Kite?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Cauble looked thoughtful. She counted on several fingers before she answered. “Goodness, it’s been nearly twenty years, I think. I was hired when Mr. Kite was just a baby, and stayed on after his parents … well, I’m sure you know.”

“I don’t, actually,” said Vesper. “What happened to them?”

She gave Vesper an apologetic look. “I think it’s best if you hear it from Mr. Kite.”

Vesper didn’t ask any more questions, and a few minutes later, they reached their destination. Mrs. Cauble pushed open a door, and Vesper found herself standing in a bathroom furnished with a freestanding claw-foot bathtub in its center; an entire wall was covered in a stained glass window illuminated by flickering white candles. At the look on Vesper’s face, Mrs. Cauble chuckled.

“It is quite exquisite,” she conceded. “Mrs. Kite, Maximilian’s mother, designed it herself many years ago, so it has all the comforts a young woman might want.” She pointed. “All the linens are over there, and there’s a selection of soaps, conditioners, and shampoos on that rack next to the tub. I’m afraid we didn’t have much in the way of nightclothes for young women.” Her cheeks pinked. “Mr. Kite suggested I lend you some of his.”

Vesper turned to her and nodded. “Thank you again, Mrs. Cauble.”

The woman bade her good night, and then Vesper found, for the first time in hours, that she was alone. She’d thought that she’d relish having peace and quiet at last, but as she stood there, surrounded by the bathroom’s finery, she found that the growing silence unnerved her. She shook her head, then slipped off her robe and approached the bathtub. There was no running water at the Globe. She had to carry it up the stairs and heat it over the woodstove before pouring it into a basin to wash. She tipped a hand into this tub, then watched a line of steam coil around her wrist. She braced herself, then stepped into the tub and sank into the water. Waves of pleasant heat washed over her instantly, and a small sigh escaped her unbidden. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

Then the images began seeping into her mind.

The burning factory came first, the red-faced men shouting, and then burn victims being carried out by firefighters. Scenes from the brawl on Pierce Street replayed in her head, growing more and more distorted with each iteration. She heard the sinister crackle of burning wood, heard the flames’ roar, and the sharp crack of gunshots. The smell of smoke made her tense, and in the back of her mind, she heard a terrible new voice.

Vesper?

Vesper clapped her hands over her ears. The voice wasn’t real, she knew that, but her sister’s voice sounded real enough in her head. She drew her knees up to her chest in the tub, screwed her eyes shut as she tried to block that voice out. Ethel’s voice found her anyway.

Vesper, why did you leave?

Vesper began to rock. Water splashed around her, no doubt spilling everywhere, but she couldn’t stop. She saw her sister’s face, then her parents’ faces. They were standing in a room filled with flames, their clothes catching on the embers. They were burning.

You left us, said Ethel’s voice. We loved you, and you left us.

“Forgive me.” Tears slicked both of Vesper’s cheeks. “Please. Please forgive me.”

She sat like that, curled up in the tub, until the voice abated and the ghosts from her past were gone again.

By the time Vesper was finished with her bath, her skin was warm and her fingertips were pleasantly wrinkled. She wandered down the hall until she found the bedroom Mrs. Cauble had made up for her. Everything inside of it—from its walls and curtains, to its plush rug, to its opulent silk bedding—was a deep, rose red. Vesper stepped inside and closed the door behind her, then immediately noticed a folded white nightshirt on the bed’s edge. She crossed the room and held it up. As soon as she touched it, she knew it was expensive, the cotton impossibly soft. She brought it to her nose, and detected Maximilian’s piney cologne. She dried herself off, and slipped it over her body, relishing its feel against her skin.

The small golden clock on the nightstand told her that it was past eleven now. Vesper started to crawl into bed, but something stopped her. If she got into bed now, she knew that she would only lie there staring at the ceiling, picturing everything that had happened on Pierce Street. She slipped a red bed robe off a hook on the wall, and headed out the door again.

Most of the lights were dimmed as Vesper padded down the hall. It seemed Mrs. Cauble, Bexley, and the other members of the household’s staff had gone to bed, and Vesper was grateful for it. She wasn’t really sure where she was heading, or even if she was heading anywhere at all, but she found that it felt good to stretch her legs, to breathe in clean air. The storm was still roaring outside. Rain lashed against the windows, and occasionally thunder rumbled in the distance. She made her way down the polished hardwood stairs to the main floor. Its walls were decorated with portraits of regally dressed men and women who had to be Maximilian’s ancestors. She stopped before a particularly grand oil portrait of an old man wearing a black suit and a severe frown. The cuff links on his sleeves were the same as the ones she’d seen Maximilian wear. Her eyes dropped to the golden plaque affixed to the bottom of the portrait.

V. IGNATIUS KITE

The founder of Basalton Coal. Vesper studied the portrait. Despite the fact that Maximilian shared a name with him, they bore little resemblance. She kept walking. Only a few candles were lit, spots of light in the darkness. Her eyes caught on a framed black-and-white photo mounted on the wall near the start of one of the hallways. The photo was only the size of a postcard, and featured three people—a man, woman, and small child sitting on a picnic blanket. Unlike Ignatius, this man resembled Maximilian quite a bit, and Vesper guessed that this was his father. The woman had a sweet, heart-shaped face, full lips, and a pointed chin, but her hair was long, curly, and dark like Maximilian’s. She was looking directly at the camera, and there was a small smirk on her face so like the sorcerer’s that Vesper’s breath caught. She had to be his mother. That meant there was only one person the little boy in the picture could be. Maximilian might have been four or five when this photo was taken. His dark hair was already long, but his cheeks were still fat and round. He was waving at whoever was taking the photograph, grinning, and there was a light in his eyes that Vesper realized she’d never seen on the sorcerer’s face. She found herself wondering when he’d lost that light, when he’d buried it. Maybe it’d been doused when his parents died, or maybe it had simply faded the way most people’s did as they got older. She thought again of what Mrs. Cauble had said when she’d asked about Mr. and Mrs. Kite.

I think it’s best if you hear it from Mr. Kite.

What had happened to them? And why was it so bad that Mrs. Cauble hadn’t wanted to tell her? She looked away from the photograph, and noticed for the first time that, farther down the hallway, there was a sliver of buttery light. It was coming through an open door. Vesper hesitated, then approached.

The den was cozy, with one of its walls featuring a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf while the other was taken up by a large arched window. There were two plush blue armchairs angled toward a large roaring fireplace on the back wall, but that wasn’t what made Vesper’s blood run cold. It was what she saw right in front of the fireplace, illuminated by its red-gold light.

Maximilian was sprawled on the rug, writhing in agony.

TWENTY-SIX