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Margaret stumbled out of the room she shared with Della. Her hair hung over one shoulder in a long braid, and she knotted the tie of her corduroy dressing gown around her waist. “Where else might he be?” she asked.
Della glanced from me to Margaret and back again. “Martin must have him.”
Martin is dead, I wanted to shout. Controlling myself, I smiled in a way that I hoped would be comforting. “I’ll get dressed and help Margaret wind the light’s mechanism. After that, I’ll try to find the cavern Rafe made for Martin’s body.”
Della’s eyes widened. “You know where that is?”
“I do.” Although without Rafe to lead me, I stood a much better chance of getting lost in the woods than finding it again.
“Della and I can wind the light,” Margaret said. “You just look for Rafe.”
I agreed with her plan and closed my bedroom door. The memory of the Ferox Cor fighting its way into my body knocked the breath from me. Stifling the urge to scream, I put on the same trousers I’d taken off yesterday, figuring they were already soiled. My boots still had smudges of mud on the toes, but I put them on without bothering to clean them. I put on the same undershirt, forgoing even a clean collar.
And if my shirt still carried Rafe’s smoke and sage scent, I did not mind at all.
Once dressed, I donned my overcoat and hat and stepped outside. I didn’t see either Margaret or Della. They must still be winding the light mechanism. My watch said it was a little after nine am, and for once the clouds had scattered and a weak sunshine blessed us.
Rather than heading directly to the cavern, I stopped at the tower door. I caught the murmur of women’s voices, confirming their location. If Rafe was in the tower, there was no way they’d miss him.
From there I went to the door to Rafe’s workshop. Trying the handle, I found it unlocked. The snap of a spell hit me as soon as I stepped over the threshold and I backed out as fast as possible.
Nothing happened.
I ran a hand over my chest and shoulder, catching the faint vibration of magic. I felt fine, however. No pain, no sudden urge to collapse and die. Perhaps the spell was simply an alarm. If so, I wondered who now knew I’d been in the workshop.
“Might as well go ahead and take a look,” I said to myself and crossed the threshold again. This time nothing happened, so I kept going.
Shelves lined the wall directly across from the door, each shelf covered with Rafe’s tiny creations. The wall closest to the water had a small grate and the damped coals still gave off a little warmth. A mat lay in front of the fire, a thick blanket folded neatly on one end. A small pillow lay on top of the blanket, and briefly I allowed myself to enjoy the intimacy of the sight.
A pair of tables took up most of the floor space. One was covered with tools, laid out neatly. Rafe must need to know where he’d put something down to make it easy to pick up again.
The other table, though, required a closer inspection. One of the toys – or what was left of it – covered the tabletop. The splintered pieces looked as if someone had smashed the thing with a hammer, and at the center of the table was a pool of red paint. I looked closer.
Blood. At the center of the table was a small pool of blood.
I glanced over my shoulder at the trays filled with tools and found a small pair of pliers. Picked up the largest piece, the one in the pool of blood, and recognized the beak and head of a bird. A hawk, maybe? I set it back down.
Yes, there were two wings and over there was a bird’s foot with long claws. The obvious answer was that Rafe had destroyed the hawk in effigy in order to keep us safe. The blood must have been necessary to power the spell.
Unless this was evidence of a fight of some kind.
I put the pliers back in their assigned spot, wracking my brain for the name of someone who could have overcome Rafe. Fists on my hips, I scanned the room again. This time I caught a shadow in one corner. The shadow thickened, took shape.
Martin Gallagher took form, his jaw still held closed with a strip of linen and coins where his eyes should be.
Dread rooted me to the floor.
With no way of knowing what the specter was capable of, I reached for the closest thing to hand. The pliers. Centering myself with a breath, I turned them into a clear glass shield. With luck the shield would be impervious to magic, though fear had my heart beating so erratically that I might drop dead without the help of Martin’s ghost.
“Do you know where Rafe is?” I whispered. In response, the thing’s mouth opened wide despite the linen and a low, mournful sound filled the small room.
Slowly it raised one arm, the clawed hand even blacker than before. A tight sound escaped me, sure I was about to take some kind of magical blast. Instead, Martin’s ghost pointed at the door.
“Oh.” My feet finally gave up their lock on the floor and I took a step. “You want me to find him?”
Another groan, more pitiful than the first one. Then, before I could draw air into my lungs, the figure disappeared, a shredded shadow that simply drifted away. I snapped the shield out of existence and pocketed the pliers. Good that he didn’t turn into snakes this time. Small blessings.
Leaving the room with the shattered hawk behind, I walked along the beach, as far as possible until I reached the place where the forest met the ocean. From there, I followed the tree line behind the house to the trail leading into the forest.
