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He was beginning to regret the lack of liquor in the house.
Beth murmured, “I’ll take your plate.”
Merritt glanced up, though she’d been addressing Baptiste. Both he and the maid had finished their dinner. Merritt’s was growing cold and being slowly massacred by silver prongs.
Sighing, he set the weapon down. “I’m sorry, Baptiste. It’s nothing you’ve done. In truth, meat pies are my favorite food.”
Baptiste frowned. “I know.”
Merritt perked a little. “You do?” He couldn’t remember mentioning it.
The cook shifted an uneasy glance to Beth. “Er... the menu is Mrs.Larkin’s task. She chose it.”
Merritt wilted. “Oh.” So much for apathy. A bitter screw began twisting its way up his middle. He stared at the golden-brown crust before him. Picked up his fork and attacked it, but couldn’t bring himself to eat.
Perhaps tomorrow Baptiste would make soup so Merritt could drown himself in it. Though he really should eat something. He’d only feel worse if he didn’t. Lifting a tiny morsel to his lips, he chewed, barely registering the flavor.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Beth said, “I’ve some chamomile tea, if you’d like.”
Ah, chamomile. Calming, sleepy chamomile. “As strong as you can manage it, please. Thank you.”
Beth nodded and walked toward the kitchen, but came to a sudden halt after three steps. Turned back to Merritt—no, the window.
Merritt sat up. “What’s wrong?”
Beth pursed her lips. “I sense something. Something bad—”
The glass shattered, raining shards over Merritt’s head and back, blowing out half the candles.
Beth screamed.
“Get down!” Merritt shouted, dropping from his chair and slipping under the table. An earthquake? But the ground wasn’t moving—
The table jerked; a thick something slammed against the far wall, followed by a deep grunt. Heart in his throat, Merritt crawled under the table to see Baptiste slumped against the far wall, a streak of blood leading to his head.
“Baptiste!” Merritt dove for the man, but not before a giant, unseen hand wrapped around him, turning him about.
A shadowy figure stood in the dining room, a black cloak billowing around him, a high, white collar pressed against his face. He was a tall man, broad shouldered, with dark hair swept to one side. Long sideburns marked his cheeks.
And there was a dog, some sort of terrier, on a leash beside him, whimpering.
“Mr.Fernsby, we have not been properly introduced,” he said in an English accent.
Beth, standing from the ground, said, “You’re Silas Hogwood.”
Merritt’s stomach sank.
The Englishman growled. “And you are a pain in my side.”
The spell holding Merritt released, dropping him several feet to the ground. He landed sideways on his foot, which sent a sharp pain racingup his leg as he collapsed to the floorboards. The same spell took hold of Beth and pinned her to the ceiling.
The house shuddered, and the far wall came alive, jutting forward and slapping Silas in the back, nearly knocking him off his feet. He let go of the mongrel, who scurried into the reception hall with its tail between its legs.
“Oh don’t worry.” Silas scowled and planted his hand on the wall. “I’ve plans for you.”
Something sparked—Merritt tasted it on the back of his tongue—and the house went still.
“What do you want?” Merritt forced himself to stand, favoring his right leg. He glanced to Baptiste, whose head lolled to one side. His chest still moved, thank God. “She’s not here!”
