Page 58 of Mortdale

A spectre was only as violent as their death.

Whatever had happened to her, it had been painful, slow and agonising.

“Who is she?”

There was a little bit of hesitation before he answered, “His lordship’s mother. Lady Agatha Duncan.”

My feet slipped a small step back as his grandmother’s words came back to me. The woman in the portrait didn’t look like a loveless mother. She looked lost, terrified. The brush strokes bled with agony. Whoever had painted her had known her and her pains well.

But that night…she had warned me, she’d guided us to safety, she was part of the reason Piper and I were still alive. How could she be a loveless mother?

She’d also asked me to leave him—begged me to. Not to save me—it had been to save him from me. But if she’d wanted to hurt me like Cassandra, why had she helped me escape? To save Piper? Ugh. If I could gnaw through my own thumping brain, I would.

“Why is his mother’s portrait covered?”

Christof’s useless dusting had moved closer to me. “She had all her portraits burned sometime before she died. The children hid this one, and their father let them keep it after she died. His only condition was that it had to be covered.”

“He’s dead.”

“Logan respects the wishes of the dead.”

“The dead sometimes deserve some disrespect.”

“Something in your area of expertise, I assume.”

“No clue what you’re on about.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, brushing the duster over my head before moving to another vase.

“How did she die?”

“Better to ask your husband.”

With an annoyed sigh, I crouched down to the candles I'd been lighting for days under the painting. I took out the lighter I’d stolen from his office and lit each candle’s wick. When Christof was out of earshot, I murmured, “I hope whatever keeps you bound here sets you free.”

Some type of ruckus had gathered at the garden entrance, dragging my attention downstairs despite my severe persistence to avoid him at all costs. Each time I conjured his face, her face came up next.

Henry was pacing back and forth on the gravelled path while Logan and Arthur sat on the stairs side by side with their heads lowered between their knees. It was way too deep into the night to be this awake and distressed. The cicadas had already exhausted their song, and the moon hid behind a thicket of clouds.

“The Basilica can’t do the work of the royal guard,” Henry said. “It is absurd to think this Madness can evaporate by drowning the infected in saintly water. The parliament can’t just demote the royal guard to stand by and let this be handled by senile acolytes armed with water and salt!”

Arthur shook his lowered head. “This is just the exarch’s plan of paving his way into the parliament. They won’t fall for his crap. Right?” he asked, staring at my silent husband. “We can’t let them take control of the situation. The infection will spread again the moment we stop hunting it down. The clergy does not have the manpower to contain this, let alone take it down.”

They’d appointed the clergy to handle the infected?

Henry wouldn’t stop pacing. “Does Ulric even know what he’s done in voting for this? The exarch has been praying for the day worms will eat through his rotten heart since the moment Ulric sat on that throne three hundred years ago. Does he know that if the exarch succeeds in handling this he’ll be dethroned and his crown will be put on the exarch’s head?”

Arthur’s head fell even lower as he rubbed his temple. “He probably knows that the exarch will fail. Ulric’s waiting for the infected to run down our streets because he knows Logan would rather die than let it happen. He’s doing it to pressure Logan,” he sighed in defeat. “He knows the only way for Logan to step up and assume control of the Madness is if he accepts his deal to take the thro—”

“Yes, Willow?” my husband said, interrupting his friend.

Two pairs of metallic eyes found me standing by the garden entrance.

I’d not spoken to him since that night with Irena. When he’d come home, I’d left. When he’d seen me, I’d pretend not to notice him. When he’d called for me, I’d acted as if I’d not heard him.

“You should let me help.”

My husband finally turned to glance at me over his shoulder, his eyes falling down my lightly-clothed body before he got to his feet.