The Wolf of Harrow Hall (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms Book 7) (12 page)

“Do not fret, my dear. I have no regrets…and I sincerely hope you do not, either.”

“None,” I told him.

He kissed me again, and his arms were around me as he lifted me and took me from that place, carrying me all the way up the stairs to my chamber. I wondered what would happen if Master Merryk should see us thus, but it seemed he was occupied elsewhere in the castle, and we reached the room that had become mine without encountering anyone at all.

Once we were inside, he shut the door and hastened to the fire so he might build it up, since it had burned down almost to embers during the time we were gone. “Come and sit by the fire, Bettany,” he said. “Warm yourself here, and I will go and summon your bath. And then….” He let the words trail off there, and watched me carefully as I limped over to the chair he had indicated and sat down.

“And then?” I echoed, wanting to hear what his response would be, yet somehow fearing it as much as I wished to know what it was.

“And then you will come and have dinner with me,” he said. “I will make sure a great fire is built for you, and you can amuse yourself by feeding Linsi and Doxen table scraps.”

His tone was light, and I knew I must take my cue from that. “Indeed? I cannot think that is something Master Merryk would much appreciate it.”

Perhaps Phelan guessed that I was not talking about the dogs, at least not entirely. His eyebrow lifted, and he said, “Damn Master Merryk,” just before he bent and kissed me again. It was over too swiftly, and then he offered a slight bow and was gone.

As for me…well, all I could do was sink down into the chair, and press my fingers to my lips.

Phelan Greymount had kissed me, and my world would never be the same again.

A
las
, I was not to have that dinner with the master of the castle. Even before the manservants arrived with my hot bath, I had begun to shiver and shake, chilled beyond measure, although I had stood before the fire the entire time, hoping its heat would penetrate my sodden garments and begin to warm me.

I took that bath, thinking surely soaking in the hot water would help to rid me of the cold that had sunk into every bone, every muscle, but it did very little. By the time I had climbed into a fresh chemise and drawn a shawl around me, my teeth were chattering, and my flesh had begun to break out into goosebumps. It seemed to take every ounce of strength I possessed to stumble over to the bed and climb beneath the covers.

Master Merryk found me thus, after I did not answer the knock at my door from the servants who had come to fetch the bath away. He took one look at me, laid a heavy hand on my forehead, then informed me I must stay in bed, that I was burning with a fever.

Burning? Instead it seemed as if all my limbs were encased in ice. Not that I had any true experience of what a fever was supposed to feel like, since this was the first time in my life I had ever fallen ill. The steward went and stirred up the fire, but to me it did not feel any warmer in the room. Still my teeth chattered, and his expression was grave as he said he would go to inform Lord Greymount of my condition, and would bring me some warming broth.

I wanted to protest, to say that I was supposed to have dinner with his lordship in his chambers, but the words did not seem able to force themselves past my trembling lips. All I could do was give a weak nod and pull the covers even further up my neck. Soon afterward, Master Merryk went away and I fell into a fitful doze, slipping into darkness, then awaking with a start, unsure as to where I was. At that point, I still retained enough of my faculties to recognize the carved mantel, the heavy draperies of dark blue velvet, but still I was nagged by a sense that I should be someplace else, that there was something I needed to do, although I could not recall in that moment what it was.

Eventually, the steward returned with a heavy stoneware bowl in his hands. Seeming to realize that I could not take the spoon myself, he was able to tip a few mouthfuls of broth between my lips before I shook my head at him. The taste of it nauseated me, although it had smelled savory enough when he entered the chamber.

Expression grave, he set the bowl down, then once again laid his hand on my head. After murmuring something about fetching a tincture of willowbark, he went away, and I closed my eyes again. More drifting in and out of sleep, before Master Merryk entered the chamber and contrived to slip a few spoonfuls of something quite nasty-tasting between my lips. I sputtered and coughed, although within the tincture — concocted with some kind of heavy liquor, I surmised — I could taste the bitterness of willowbark tea, which my grandmother had always used to treat my grandfather’s fevers and headaches. I had tried some of it once, wanting to know what it was that made my grandfather always screw up his face in distaste when he had to take it, and that was quite enough to cure me of ever wanting to drink it again.

After Master Merryk gave me the willowbark tincture, my world became quite black. I would have said that I merely slept, but the oblivion which claimed me seemed deeper than that. From time to time, I would claw my way to the surface, enough to see the firelight and the deep lines around Master Merryk’s eyes as he bent to force more of the tincture between my lips. Always afterward, though, I would slip away, not knowing how many hours or possibly even days had passed since the last time I had gained even an ounce of consciousness.

Once I thought I heard the deep tones of Phelan’s voice outside my door, as if he had some conversation with the steward regarding my condition, but I could not make out anything of what they said. And while I normally would have found the sound of his lordship’s voice comforting, now it seemed only to agitate me, as if to remind me of something I had lost, something I had tried to reach out for, only to have it ripped from my fingers just as they began to close around it.

In the darkness, I found myself running, my breath coming in heavy, labored gasps. It was cold, so very cold that I could not feel my hands or my feet, could barely tell that I still breathed. But no, of course I was breathing, for the world seemed to grow lighter, and I saw my breath rising in great white clouds all around me, even as the landscape became more clear.

These were not the rolling plain-lands that surrounded Harrow Hall, but the forests I had grown up in, the ones which surrounded my grandmother’s cottage. All the trees were thickly covered in snow, and snow fell around me as well, covering the trail of footprints I had left in my wake. How would I ever find my way back?

But no, that was a foolish thought, was it not? For even with its blanket of white, I recognized the woods I traversed now. If I kept walking, soon I would arrive at the cottage that was the only home I had ever known. Why on earth would I want to go back the way I had come, when my destination lay only a few minutes away?

For some reason, though, my heart sank at the thought that all traces of my passing might soon be gone. I realized then that I did not wish to go to the cottage. I wanted to turn and run back to Harrow Hall, and to the shelter of Phelan Greymount’s arms.

That choice appeared to be denied me, however, for in my dream my feet kept carrying me inexorably forward, along a path I had trodden so many times that I knew I could traverse it while blindfolded if need be. And there, through the rippling curtains of snow, I could see the cottage take form, dark and somehow squat, diminished in my eyes, perhaps, because I had now seen the grandeur of Harrow Hall.

But through the windows I spied the warmth of firelight, and I hastened forward, mindful now of the way my wet skirts slapped against my ankles, of the snow that clung to my woolen mantle. In that moment, all I could think of was a chance to be warm once again, to be away from this endless snow and biting cold.

As I approached the cottage, the front door swung open, and I saw my grandmother standing inside. She held a cup of some steaming liquid, and held it out as I entered and shut the door behind me.

“Some broth, my dear,” she said.

Something in her voice sounded altered, scratchy and hoarse, but perhaps she suffered from an ague, no strange thing in these days of cold and snow and damp. In that moment, I could only think of downing the hot cider, or perhaps warm broth, that the cup contained.

So I reached for the cup she held. As my fingers began to close around it — and to touch her fingers as well — I saw that her hand began to change, began to grow bristling grey fur, her fingernails stretching into claws. I jerked back in shock, but she dropped the cup and grasped my wrist with her clawed hand, keeping me from pulling away.

And her eyes — they were not the kindly blue I remembered, but amber-gold, glowing balefully into mine as her face somehow began to shift and distort and lengthen, nose becoming a snout, lips turning black and thin as they lifted to reveal sharp, gleaming teeth. A snarl emerged from her throat.

A scream burst from my own throat in that moment. Not caring how her claws might score my wrist, I wrenched my arm away, began to run for the door. I expected those same claws to bury themselves in my back, but for some reason I was able to grasp the doorknob and stumble outside, where my footprints had already disappeared. No matter. I would run and run and become lost in these woods before I would allow myself to be trapped here with this thing that was a counterfeit of my grandmother.

From within the trees I heard the howling of many wolves, howls that were answered by the creature inside the cottage that had once been my home. Where to run? No direction seemed safe, but I must go somewhere. I bolted to my right, as it sounded as if there were fewer wolf calls coming from that way.

More than ever my heavy skirts dragged in the snow, and I almost lost a boot in a particularly deep snow drift. But I knew I must keep running, that if I stopped, I would surely die. The howling grew ever closer, and I recalled the dream I had had some days earlier, when the wolves had chased me down in the snow and set upon me.

Was this a dream? It felt far too real, but then, so had the other. My thoughts chased around one another, circling me just as the wolves had begun to. I could see them now, shadowy shapes slipping in and out of the trees, elusive as mist but far more deadly. What they waited for, I did not know. Some signal shared only among them, I supposed.

My breath swirled around me like smoke as I struggled onward, knowing that there would be no escape, no way of surviving this encounter. The wolves toyed with me, no doubt, delighting in my fear, in the frenzied beating of my heart, the pounding of the blood in my veins.

Blood they would taste soon, unless I could find some way to awake from this nightmare.

And then they lunged, moving in from all sides. One of them seemed far larger than the others, and I realized it was the wolf that had once been my grandmother, for on one of her claws I saw the gleam of silver and knew it to be the wedding band my grandfather had placed on her finger so many years ago. I could only thank the gods that he had not lived to see what had come of her.

Their teeth caught the hem of my cloak first, pulling me to the ground, and then they were upon me, jaws closing on my arms and legs, blood spilling out onto the snow. I screamed, although I knew there was no hope of succor, no hope of anyone coming to my aid, not when there was no one else around for miles and miles.

Screaming, my throat raw…

…and then there were arms closing around me, warm, human arms, and his voice calling my name, bringing me back to myself.

“Bettany!
Bettany!
”

I blinked, and saw that I was in my borrowed bed, and it was Phelan who sat there next to me, his arms pulling me close, so warm, so safe. In that moment I did not think of the impropriety of him holding me so when I wore only a chemise, or that he should not have been in my chamber at all. I could only drink in deep breaths of the sweet clove-scent from his garments, and let myself feel warm again for the first time in days.

“Oh, Phelan,” I sobbed.

His arms tightened around me. “My dear, what was it? I could hear you screaming all the way to the staircase.”

At another time, I might have been mortified to make such a scene of myself. In that moment, however, I was only glad that he had been passing close enough to hear me. Was it possible to die of fright while trapped in a dream? One would think such a thing could not be possible, but I could feel how painfully my heart was thudding away in my chest, and such a notion did not seem as farfetched as it might once have.

“A nightmare,” I murmured. “That is all.”

He pushed a damp lock of hair away from my brow. “It must have been a very terrible nightmare. Do you wish to tell me of it?”

As much as I welcomed his comfort, I did not think that I cared to tell him of the horrible visions that had visited my sleep. “I — I don’t recall that much,” I replied, hoping the lie was not too terrible. “Something about running in the dark and the cold.”

“That does sound distressing.” He stroked my hair again, and I found my terror ebbing away, gone now that he was here. Then he touched a hand to my forehead and went on, sounding relieved, “I believe your fever has broken. That could have caused the nightmare, I suppose. Sometimes these things must peak before they can finish running their course.”

“Is my fever truly gone?” Now that I had had some time to regain my composure, I thought I did feel much improved, an improvement which could not be solely attributed to Phelan’s presence.

He laid his hand against my forehead once more. I had to fight to prevent myself from letting my eyes close at the bliss of his touch. “You are still warm, but nothing like you have been these past few days.”

“Days?” I repeated, aghast. How long had I lain here, slipping in and out of oblivion?

“Two days, two nights,” he replied. His hand slid down to my cheek, caressing, and a shiver went through me that had nothing to do with the fever I had suffered. “You were very ill. But Master Merryk kept dosing you with his willowbark tincture, and told me I should not worry too much, that overall you were strong and healthy and should pull through in time.” He paused then and smiled at me. “Which it seems you have. You still have some convalescing to do, though.”

“Is the storm still with us?” I asked, for I could see nothing through the thick velvet curtains which covered the windows.

The smile faded. “I fear it is. We have had a break or two, like the one when we went out to the courtyard, but they never last more than half an hour at most. The snow has quite covered those steps we descended.”

Which meant the drifts must have risen another two feet or so. I wondered how long we could possibly continue like this, whether the snow would go on and on until it buried the first-floor windows, and began to pile its way up to the second, and so on and so on until the entire castle had disappeared from view and we were all buried inside it.

What Phelan had seen in my expression, I could not say, but clearly I must have evinced some measure of dismay, for he took my hands in his and held them tight. “Bettany, I will not lie to you and say we are not concerned, but the situation is far from disastrous. We had a great store of food laid in, and we will be able to survive, even if this blizzard should last another fortnight. We all hope very much that it does not, but it is nothing to trouble yourself over. The very worst you have to fear is being confined here with only me for company.”

Those words elicited a chuckle from me, albeit a rather rusty-sounding one, and he raised my fingers to his mouth so he could kiss them one after the other, as if concerned that he might neglect even my pinky. The touch of his lips against my skin brought forth another delicious shiver, and I wished I had not been so very ill, that I might be able to kiss him as he had kissed me in the courtyard.