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“But thosedosound like the words of someone deflecting blame from themselves,” I added.
“There’s the Mina I love,” Morrie grinned.
“Charlie did remind me that we’re missing Heathcliff.”
Morrie stood up and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll find him.”
Jonathan moved to block the door. “I said, you’re not to leave this room.”
“You have one guest not accounted for,” Morrie said. “I’m going to find him. You’re welcome to come with me if you wish, but that will leave the room of would-be murderers unguarded. Is that what you want?”
Jonathan thought for a moment, then tossed Morrie his lamp. “Report back here in fifteen minutes whether you find him or nay, or I will lock them all in this room and come after you.”
He looked ferocious. This must be awful for him. Jonathan loved Meddleworth. This castle had been his home his entire life. I think it hurt him to know that someone was murdered here, as if something beautiful and sacred had been sullied.
Morrie took the lantern from Jonathan and disappeared down the hallway. Quoth snuggled up to me. He smelled of smoke.
“Is there a fire in the studio?” I asked. “That must be so cozy.”
“The studio?”
“The art studio. You smell like you’ve been near a fire.” I sniffed his hair.
“Oh. Er…yes. There’s a little stove in the corner. It’s toasty warm in there. I was so involved in my work that it took me a while to realize that the power had gone off.”
Even in his human form, Quoth’s raven eyes meant he could see much better in the dark. So he probably could have kept painting even without power.
“I’ve found him!” Morrie returned with a glowering Heathcliff behind him, wearing…
…a fluffy white robe?
I throw my arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Okay? Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m better than okay – I’ve just had the toxins sucked from my body—”
“You…what?”
Nothing coming out of his mouth made any sense.
“I found him in the spa’s contemplation room,” Morrie said. “He was lying on a massage bed, covered in cucumber slices and scented oils, sound asleep.”
“This is a lovely robe.” I fingered the fluffy hem. “And…Heathcliff, are you wearing slippers?”
“They said I had to,” he muttered as he plonked himself into the chair beside me.
“Who said?”
“The woman who rubbed me down with oils.” Heathcliff leaned back and crossed his feet on the table, fluffy slippers and all. “Is there any whisky?”
“Whoareyou and what have you done with Heathcliff Earnshaw? I’ve never even seen you in a robe. And you slept through the storm of the century and a murder—”
Heathcliff bolted upright. “Murder? Are you okay? Is Quoth—”
“I’m fine,” Quoth said.
“We’re all fine. But Hugh Briston isn’t fine. Someone stabbed him with his lucky pen.”
“Can’t say I’m all that cut up about it. That man wouldn’t know a real writer if they stabbed him in the throat.”
