Silent in the Sanctuary by DEANNA RAYBOURN

Author:DEANNA RAYBOURN
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2009-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.

—Hamlet

For the remainder of the night—what little there was of it—I slept as one dead. I do not know if it was due to the effects of Brisbane’s exotic smoke, or simply fatigue from a broken night’s rest, but I rose with a slight headache and heavy-lidded eyes. My first thought was of Aunt Hermia’s jewels. I had hidden the lumpy little bundle under my pillow for safekeeping. I felt a stab of guilt when I realised I had forgotten to show them to Brisbane. Then I remembered his occasionally high-handed behaviour and smothered it. It would give me great pleasure to present him with the jewels and a reason for their presence among Snow’s belongings.

I rose slowly, stretching and yawning widely enough to crack my jaws. Florence was lethargic as well, barely opening her eyes when Morag brought my morning tea. I waved scraps of buttered toast under the dog’s nose, but she turned away, burrowing into the fur tippet with a sad little moan.

“Morag, I think Florence is ailing. Ask Cook for some beef tea. If she drinks that, then an egg, softly cooked, or a bit of chicken and potato.”

Morag grumbled at the extra work, but dressed me quickly in a thick gown of black merino edged in velvet ribbon. When she turned back to the wardrobe, I tucked the bundle of Aunt Hermia’s jewels into my pocket.

“And my boots. I may step out after breakfast,” I told her, making up my mind then that I would accompany Brisbane when he called upon Uncle Fly to break the news of Snow’s death.

“You’ll not stir a foot outside,” Morag said roundly. She went to the draperies and flung them back, rattling the rings on the pole. I went to her side and gasped.

“Heavens, it must have snowed all night.”

“As near as. The moat is iced, but not solid enough to walk upon, and the gates are frozen shut. We’ll none of us be leaving the Abbey today, not even poor Mr. Snow,” she said, her expression mournful.

I stared out at the sullen winter landscape. I did not recognise the view at all. Rather than the sweep of lawns from the moat’s edge to the formal gardens and woods, and then to the rolling Downs beyond, there was only softly billowing white, like a great pale ermine mantle draped over the landscape. The distinctive architectural features of the grounds—the statues and staircases, gates and urns—were shapeless white lumps. Beyond the formal gardens, the trees were black against the bleak grey sky, their bare branches encased in ice, like so many gnarled skeleton fingers. Just below my window, the waters of the moat moved black and fathomless beneath a paper-thin sheet of ice. Morag was unfortunately and entirely correct. We were housebound at Bellmont Abbey.

And Morag, who loved nothing better than a good disaster, smiled.

As soon as I left Morag, I made my way to Hortense’s chamber.

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