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On the fourth day of silence without any sighting of Damen, I donned a grey wool peacoat and tall riding boots to venture outside. This time, the wardrobe consisted of a variety of clothing. The gowns and high heels, of course. But also plenty of warm, sensible clothing for the winter weather. Sweaters and warm leggings. Workout wear. Even a few random T-shirts perfect for sleeping in.
Unexpected, but appreciated.
Outside, I sucked in a big breath, the shock of the cool fresh air in my lungs welcomed. My look scanned the main courtyard where I could see most everything between the castle and the mountainside.
For as much as the castle had been recreated to its original imposing form, the grounds had been changed slightly.
The gravel sparring area was bigger than it had been, and it had been cleared of the snow that blanketed the mountain. The carriage house holding the collection of cars was now three levels high instead of two—more space for the guards, I presumed. The gardens were dormant, but had been replanted as far as I could tell.
Damen’s security detail still lined the edges of the grounds at their usual intervals, but I didn’t recognize any of the men.
At that, another pang cut through my chest.
More lives lost.
None of the guards even glanced my way, much less met my eyes. They knew I was there, but they wouldn’t talk to me. I’d already gotten that message loud and clear.
When I walked into the area where the labyrinth was, I realized right away it had been changed.
The growth of the evergreen walls was mature—the tall, thick shrubbery must have been hauled in and the hue of the green was different. More silvery green than the old growth dark green it had been.
But the entrance wasn’t where it used to be.
I walked along the outer edge of the maze, turning the corner and then finally finding the opening in the wall of greenery.
Stepping into the first row of the maze, I was sandwiched by the distinct smell of the sweet, woody scent of the yews cooking in the midday sun. Trudging over the snow that had been evenly packed down, I lost myself fairly quickly within the turns and dead ends. The whole of the maze more twisty than it had been. Meant to get one turned around and hopelessly lost.
Out of nowhere, sound.
Far across the labyrinth, a low voice—not Damen’s—part humming, part singing the old Irish tune, “Whisky in the Jar.”
Humming.
…I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was a’counting…
More humming.
The sound coming closer.
…Whack for the diddle o, whack for the diddle o, there’s whisky in the jar…
More humming. Closer.
…But the devil take the women for they never can be easy…
Humming. Closer still.
…And if he’d come and join me, we’d go roving in Kilkenny…
Humming.
I turned left around a corner of the maze and saw directly where the song was coming from.
A man—malefic, for how the skin on the back of my neck started tingling—a good twenty paces away from me.
He stopped when I appeared, his humming instantly ceasing.
I should have known. Though low, the voice had a certain pitch to it that I clearly recognized.
