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It had been a frosty morning in Boston and a street trolley lost control on a patch of hidden ice, toppling and scarcely avoiding a young mother and the baby she pushed in its frilled carriage. The woman had shoved the carriage out of the way, and it tipped, spilling the baby out onto the street where it wailed in alarm. The mother and infant survived the incident suffering only from terror, but the near disaster played in my mind’s eye for days, distracting me and suspending me in a state of perpetual dread, as though death hadn’t been satisfied and would come looking for its stolen prize. The phantom sound of infants screaming often jolted me awake, robbing me of sleep—a misery that eventually faded.
My life was newly disarranged, and I was only suffering the same.
This logic slowed my heartbeat and relaxed the tense muscles in my neck. I’d found an explanation for everything, and my head was clearing. At a much more cautious pace, I picked my way down the new corridor I’d found, lined with lead glass windows, the half-moon offering its watery light in seeping, fractured beams. Shadows congregated along the wall where wallpaper hung down in strips. Debris littered the floor, an abandoned paint ladder and several rags discarded haphazardly on one side—more proof of forsaken renovations. In my dogged determination, I’d run pell-mell through the house, taking no notice of where I was going. Turning around to retrace my steps would have been an option if I remembered them. Instead, if I kept going and stuck to the exterior hallways, surely I’d find myself somewhere familiar. Soldiering on to the end of the hall, I rounded the corner and ran headlong into the barrier of a solid body.
I opened my mouth, prepared to scream, but stifled the noise against my palm when I laid eyes on the man who’d been on his own midnight walk.
A most bewitching man.
The single candle flickering in his hand cast a stark shadow into the hollows between the high bones of his cheeks and the square structure of his jaw, a day’s worth of stubble framing a wide, severe mouth, one that didn’t seem to be capable of smiling. The high bridge of his nose gave him an air of a classical warrior carved from stone, while the black hair that hung in curling disarray around his temples suggested a character of little reservation. His amber eyes gleamed in the candlelight, trapping me in a stasis of shock and something much more pleasant.
“Miss Foxboro,” he said, disapproving, the timbre of his voice smoky. I recognized it, mortification flooding me.
“Professor Hughes.” Embarrassment made my voice weak.
“Is it in your nature to break the rules as soon as they’re given to you?”
I was standing far too close to him, close enough that I was forced to tilt my head to see his face. I’d expected an older man, someone slipping quietly into their midlife. But by any guess, Professor Hughes was barely in his thirties. I took a hasty but sensible step back, regretting the decision when his gaze dipped to notice what I was wearing, which was nothing but a night slip.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked, bringing a hand to press against the bareness of my collarbones.
“Did Ms. Dillard not tell you to stay in your room at night?”
“She didn’t specifically say I couldn’t leave.”
This was a long stretch, but I couldn’t tell my employer I’d been chasing a waking nightmare through his home.
“Is that so?” he murmured. “And you decided to explore despite the knowledge of unsafe conditions in portions of this ghastly house. How brave.”
His tone made it clear it was not, in fact, brave.
With no other excuse, I simply lied.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
At my confession, he lifted his gaze from mine, searching the darksome landscape beyond the window as if he was expecting to find something there besides the obscurity of the night.
“I often can’t either,” he replied.
His expression was tense, tired. The professor was not only a stranger but my proprietor, yet this melancholy inspired my empathy. I nearly reached out to place a comforting touch on his arm as I’d often done with Mr. Helm when the missing of his grown children grew heavy. I stopped myself, but not before my hand had moved, catching his attention, and inviting his eyes to where I still clutched at the neck of my slip.
“Is that all you brought? It seems insufficient for winter nights.” One brow lifted slightly.
I tried to reclaim some dignity.
“I didn’t think I’d need any more than this. No one warned me that the house was in disrepair,” I said, snappish. “Besides, my room is boiling.”
To my fortune, he ignored my tone and gave a low hum of understanding.
“If you’ll open your window a quarter, it will balance the fire. As for your wardrobe, I’ll have Ms. Dillard acquire you a robe.”
His advice lacked condescension, and my tense shoulders relaxed. This exchange was possibly salvageable.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely.
My gratitude had a negative effect on the professor, his countenance falling stern again, his eyes stormy.
“That’s not an invitation to wander. There are dangers hiding where moonlight doesn’t reach.”
