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"He does seem to have a knack for it," I admitted, shuffling my feet and trying to ignore Eliza's evil, beady eyes.
"He's getting some kind of help," Harry admitted, "but I'm pretty sure it's not God who's feeding him information. "
"Then who? Or what?"
He put his hands on his hips and stared up and down around the dining room. "Couldn't say. But right now, believe it or not, Malachi is not the worst of our worries. We've got to find that book. "
"Yeah—about that book—you said my life depends on us finding it. I don't suppose you'd mind elaborating on that point, would you?"
Harry quit scanning the walls and floor and met my eyes with what appeared to be genuine concern. "It's very hard to explain. And I don't want to frighten you. "
"Oh, good grief. Try me. You'd be surprised what I understand, and besides, when you mentioned my life was on the line you officially entitled me to an explanation. "
"Yes, you do deserve one," he agreed, but he wasn't ready to fill me in yet, so he didn't. "I've checked the servants' rooms quite thoroughly, and I'm almost certain she hasn't hidden anything in there. She'd be more likely to keep it closer to herself anyway, and the places that I haven't been able to search have been those she spends the most time in. Let's start in her bedroom, shall we?" He finally paused to acknowledge my narrowed eyes and firmly set lips, and then sighed. "And I promise, I'll tell you everything I can while we look. But the most important thing of all is that we find it, and quickly. "
I agreed to his terms and followed him up a flight of stairs into a hall. We passed several bedrooms that were furnished, but clearly unoccupied; and at the end of the row was Eliza's room. It looked much like I would have pictured it, had I bothered to give the subject any thought. Her bed was a giant four-poster canopy, and the vanity and dressers were made to match it. Old-style oil lamps were mounted on the walls, casting a flickering warmth across the maroon-and-ivory furnishings. Across the room on the far wall there was a window, but I couldn't imagine that it had been opened any time recently. The room was stuffy, smelling of medicine, dust, and dried flowers.
"This is where she lives?"
"Yes," Harry said. "And the book must be here someplace. "
But I heard the doubt in his voice. "You aren't certain?"
He rubbed at his forehead, then at his eyes. He was not old, not in comparison to Eliza, but he was older than the folks who'd raised me. I might have guessed he was a well-preserved sixty, and those decades showed, but he was not at all fragile. He'd handled himself as well as a younger man when Malachi had posed a threat. I wondered who he'd been and what he'd done before coming into Eliza's service.
I would have asked him directly, but in the course of the explanation that finally followed, he answered everything well enough.
"You're right. I'm not certain the book is here—or more accurately, I'm quite terrified that it's not. If it isn't, then I've come all this way and spent all this time for nothing. And it may have cost . . . a great deal. "
"How so?"
Harry reached for a corner of the bedspread and gave it a yank. Once the covers were off, he began to root around between the mattresses. I took his cue and started opening drawers, sifting through cream-colored girdles and stockings.
"I'm not sure how to begin," he said.
I insisted on the cliché. "Try the beginning. "
"Which one?" He threw up his hands. "Or whose? You already know of John Gray, it would seem, and that is the very beginning. Sort of. You know how he died?"
I shut one drawer and opened another. "I know he was hanged for witchcraft. "
"Yes, that's brief, but it's correct. On September twenty-nine, 1840, four priests from St. Augustine's church went out under cover of darkness. They carried with them rope, pistols, and the Word of God. John Gray had been waging a war against the clergymen, testing his powers even to the point of killing two of them, though it would have been impossible to prove. "
"Why?"
"Because he was using black magic. He'd first practiced on ordinary people—on people who'd angered or offended members of his community. But as he grew stronger he began to play games with the Church as well, sending his ghosts and his devils to haunt, to torment, and even to commit murder. It could not be tolerated, but it could not be stopped without putting a permanent end to Gray himself; so four brave men took on the danger and went after him. Two went into the camp and dragged him out, and the two others were waiting with a coach to spirit them away. They took him to the town square and hanged him before his followers had a chance to retrieve him.
"But then came another beginning. Gray's wife cut off his hand before he was buried, intending to raise him from the dead. "
"Juanita," I said.
"Yes, Juanita. She was a Spanish colonial woman who had fled her family to marry him a few years before. She took his hand and then they buried him, leaving his body to await the promised resurrection. When the priests learned of this, they dug him up and burned the rest of his remains, just to be on the safe side.
"I think they can hardly be blamed for their caution, for even once Gray was gone, his cult lived on. His followers became a pestilence to the community and were routinely run off or hung. Thankfully, none of them were so st
rong as their first martyr had been. At least, not at the time. "
He retrieved a bundle of papers from between the mattresses and paused, hoping he'd found something of import. But upon a quick examination, he dropped them onto the nightstand and continued his quest and his story. "Now, Eden, tell me—what do you know of Avery Dufresne?"
