Page 30 of Mortdale

Henry watched me with a pair of amused, narrowed eyes. “I thought you quit smoking.”

Licking the back of my teeth, I set a cigarette between my lips. It didn’t exactly help with the blood cravings, but it helped mask it well enough. Following Willow with my eyes, I inhaled the smoke until my lungs burned. “Old habits die hard.”

I heard him snort under his breath, and mutter, “Someone’s dying hard, and it’s not the old habits.”

Arthur, confused as ever, glanced between the two of us. “Thinking of killing yer witch?”

Fucking Saints. “She’s not my witch.”

Liam was waiting for me when I got to the estate. Something he usually avoided doing, considering he despised filling me in on everything he did.

“I think she talks to the dead,” he said in a hushed voice, glancing around the foyer as if my ghost-talking wife would appear out of thin air. “I’m sure of it!” he hissed, pacing back and forth. “The first day, I thought she was just playing around, but it’s not even funny anymore. She’s having full conversations out of thin air.”

“I am aware,” I said, shedding my coat.

Liam paced back and forth rapidly, seeming shaken by the thought. “When we sat at the coffee house, she even ordered the ghost a cup of tea—” He stopped and gave me a wide-eyed stare. “You knew?”

I nodded, handing my coat to Christof. “Has she been eating?”

The old man blinked once. “Not very well, but she has.”

“Have Theodora talk to her and see if she can cook something that fits her appetite.”

Christof hesitated for a moment, something he rarely did. “She’s been spending her afternoons in the kitchens with Theodora. Mostly talking, but she did help with preparing the meals, too. According to what was said, the lady was very satisfied with the cooking. She must have a weak appetite.”

The vein in my temple throbbed, and I could feel the migraine coming alive. “This headache of a woman,” I muttered, loosening my tie. “You were under orders not to let her in the kitchen.” Near flames, knives, and Saints knew what.

“She said she was bored. And she’s in great spirits. All of the time.” He stared at me without blinking, entirely drained of colour. “Continuously. Constantly. It’s never ending, really, sire. She does not seem to present as a threat to herself, let alone anyone else for that matter. That and also adding the lack of any true mass of muscle, a weak grip that contributed to—” He checked his notepad “—four broken plates, one cup, and two saucers. Though she did manually break the second saucer because ‘you cannot break things in odd numbers.’” He set the pad back in his pocket. “The generous fear she has shown for pigeons every time they fly past the window also contributes to her being a considerable hazard rather than hazardous. However, I did ask for Rupert to stand in close proximity at all times. In case she sets a bigger fire in the kitchen next time.” He took a deep breath. “I suspect there will be a next time, sire. She seemed very enthusiastic about the prospect of burning more baked goods.”

Lowering my head, I ran a hand over my face in an attempt to wipe away my smile.

“There were a few things being said,” Christof went on, draping my coat over his forearm. “The lady kept questioning Theodora about if there are any doctors in service of her kind here in Mortdale.”

I slipped the cigarette tin back in my pocket, heading for the stairs. “Is she feeling sick?”

“Doesn’t seem like it, no,” he said, and I paused in the middle of the foyer, feeling my nerves prick the bottom of my fingertips. “It seemed to be a question in regard to her community. She wanted to know if her kind is being looked after here in Mortdale.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you are barbaric monsters with no care for anyone else but yourselves.” He blinked once. “I told her the truth, sire. That there is medical assistance provided to anyone in need of it.”

Perfect. Barely a week in and her fresh attitude was already rubbing off on my staff. How long before she had my soldiers organised in a coup against the entire nation?

I glanced up the stairs. “She is not in her room, is she?” Despite only knowing her for just a little over six days, I was very well aware of her curious, disobedient nature.

“No,” Christof answered, handing me a glass of whiskey. “Per her request, Rupert built her a swing in the apple tree out in the garden last night. She is there.”

A swing? How the Hell had she convinced one of my men to do that when I’d spent an entire week trying to get them to not sneeze at the mention of a witch? All of them were ordered to not speak to or engage with her in any manner and keep watch over her at all times.

“At this hour?” I asked, rushing to the back doors that lead to the gardens. This mansion was the safest place in the whole of Mortdale, but the scent of a witch could still attract a lunatic from miles away. Her blood would have some deprived creature of night thinking it was worth trespassing on my property. That was without accounting for the fact that many people were now aware of what she was and would look for any way to make the world a witch less.

I stopped midway down the rose garden.

There she was.

A blanket was draped around her shoulders, her head resting against one of the ropes as she gently swayed back and forth on the swing. Pale grey hair, loose and long, cascaded down her back and reflected so many shades of the moonlight.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” I said.