Neferet's Curse: A House of Night Novella by P. C. Cast & Kristin Cast

Author:P. C. Cast & Kristin Cast
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781250000255
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
Published: 2013-02-19T05:00:00+00:00

May 1st, 1893

Emily Wheiler’s Journal

Tonight, Monday, May first, in the year 1893, my life has irrevocably changed. No, not simply my life, but my world. It seems to me as if I have died and been resurrected anew. Truly that analogy could not be more apt. Tonight my innocence was murdered, and my body, my past, my life, did die. Yet, like a phoenix, I have risen from the ashes of pain and despair and heartbreak. I soar!

I shall record the terrible, wonderful events in their entirety, even though I believe that I must end this recording and destroy this journal. I must leave no evidence. I must show no weakness. I must be in complete control of this new life of mine.

But for now the retelling of my story soothes me, almost as much as the concealing shadows of my garden, beneath my willow, once soothed me.

I already miss them, though. I cannot ever return to my garden and my faithful shadows, so this journal is all that is left to comfort me. And, comfort me it does. Though I have walked through the fires of Hell and looked its demons in the eyes, my hands do not shake. My words do not falter.

Let me begin when I awoke mid-morning on this fateful day. It was a wrenching cough that had me sitting up in bed, gasping for air. Mary came to me quickly, clucking with worry.

“Lass! I knew the look of ye yesterday boded ill. I can foretell a fever better than most. Let me summon the doctor,” she’d said, plumping the pillows around me.

“No!” I’d coughed again, but tried to stifle it with my hand. “I cannot disappoint Father. If he believes I am truly ill, that I will not be able to accompany him tonight, he will be angry.”

“But lass, ye cannot—”

“If I do not go with him he will attend the Exposition opening alone, as well as the dinner at the University Club. He will return home drunk and angry. You must know how terrible he can be. Don’t make me say more, Mary.”

Mary had bowed her head and sighed. “Aye, lass. I know he isn’t himself when he’s in his cups. And he has been countin’ on your support today.”

“The great Ladies of Chicago have demanded it,” I’d reminded her.

She’d nodded somberly. “That they have. Well, then, there is only one thing to do. I’ll make ye my grandma’s herbal tea with lemon, honey, and a spoonful of Irish whiskey. As she used to say, if it doesna fix ye up, it will get ye through.”

I’d smiled at her purposefully thickened accent and managed not to cough again until she’d left my bedchamber. I’d told myself her tea would help. After all, I couldn’t be ill—I was never ill. I’d wondered if I had, over the past three days, spent too much time resting—and thereby avoiding Father as well as Arthur—and from feigning illness brought illness upon me.

No. That was a fantastical assumption. I was a bit unwell, probably from my frazzled nerves.

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