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When he came into the bedroom, he found Hazel already abed and Evaine standing by the window staring out at the trees swaying in the gale. She turned when he came in. For a moment her eyes were two hollow sockets.

Lightning flashed, revealing her very-much-alive eyes.

“The medicine is on the nightstand,” she said, gesturing to it. “Help yourself.”

He wasn’t touching that stuff. Not tonight.

“Do you know how to use one of these?” he asked, holding out a pistol. “I found it in my father’s desk when we were searching it the other day. There is one bullet.” He didn’t want to think about why there had been a pistol with a single bullet inside his father’s desk drawer. It hardly seemed possible that his father might have felt remorse for his actions. But there weren’t many other possible explanations for it being kept there, either.

“No,” Evaine said, staring at it. Her nose wrinkled slightly.

“You aim by lining up your target with these notches—the sights—and pulling the trigger. Keep your finger away from it unless you intend to fire.” He placed it on the dresser in between the two dancing statues. She had moved them to opposite corners of the dresser.

“I didn’t move them,” she said tiredly, as if she could read his thoughts. “I put them together in the center, but someone keeps moving them apart.”

“I haven’t touched them,” Hazel said indignantly.

“No one accused you,” Evaine answered curtly. Things were still strained between the two women, then. She pointed at him and then the bed. “You. Sleep.”

Gareth began removing his clothes. She turned her back. Staring out at the trees again. He sighed inwardly. No time like the present to make matters worse.

“In the morning, both of you are to pack up your things. We are leaving. All of us. Together.”

“What about the north wing?” Evaine said at the same time that Hazel blurted, “You cannot kick us out. We have nowhere to go!”

Every single thing he did upset them. Curse women. He had to get away from them—or rather, them away from him. He had been a fool to contemplate the notion of forgiveness. Of love. Truly insane on his part.

He had stayed away from Wolfhaven for ten long years because he knew that coming back here to tear it apart might kill him, too. While he had stayed away there had still been a possibility of redemption, if only he could rid himself of his cursed heritage. Now he knew for certain that there was no path back to a normal world. Not for him. He was doomed to die here at his ancestral home. Just as his own father had. Which meant that he had to get rid of the women. Quickly. Tomorrow.

Then, he could return here and have his final confrontation with his father’s spirit. He did not have great hopes of winning. He could not speak these thoughts out loud. They would have him sent away to an asylum just like his mother.

“In the morning, you will pack up your belongings and put them into the cart,” he continued firmly. “Evaine and I will make a brief investigation of the north wing ruins. Then we will drive to the village, change horses, and I will take you to Leeds. I will put you on a train to any destination of your choosing. You are not to remain here.”

Both women were silent. He had mulled this all the way back from the village today. He couldn’t imagine either of them arguing against his plan, and a sign of relief gusted out of him when all Evaine said was, “Understood, Your Grace.”

Gareth pulled back the covers and got into the bed. The sheets smelled of Evaine. His heart ached. He lay back against her pillow and squeezed his eyes closed. Pain coursed through his body; from the ankle he had sprained to the soreness of his back from riding in that uncomfortable wagon to the throb in his temples.

A hand touched his arm. His eyes flew open. Evaine stood next to him holding a chipped teacup. “Medicine. Drink it. I mixed the chlorodyne in cooled chamomile tea with sugar.”

“Sounds disgusting.”

“It is. But it works,” Hazel muttered drowsily.

Despite his earlier insistence that he would not take the medicine; Gareth sat up and downed the concoction in three long swallows. Relief followed quickly. He sank into drugged oblivion.

Evaine

Time passed at a snail’s crawl. Shivering despite the warmth of her grandmother’s wool shawl wrapped around her torso, Evaine strode from the window to the edge of the dresser, did a visual inspection of the chair she had braced beneath the door’s handle, and returned to her post at the window to watch the trees swaying in the wind.

She imagined the great statues of Wulfric and Eardwulf stepping down from their pedestals and bounding through the night. A vicious gust howled against the glass.

Each pass she ignored the pistol on dresser. What was she going to do—shoot a ghost?

Her gaze went to her sleeping grandmother. Hazel lay slack-jawed and snoring softly. Evaine smiled faintly at that. Deeper in shadow, in the bed closest to the door, lay the duke. He did not snore. He lay so still. Sudden fear stabbed through her. Had she given him too much of Gran’s medicine and killed him?

The thought had her crossing the room in a swish of skirts to stand beside his bed. He shifted as she approached. Bedclothes rustled.

Gareth was fine. Sleeping soundly.