Page 5 of The Witching Hour
Had that only been four years ago? How had he and Sylvie lost each other so thoroughly in only four years? How could he have allowed his ambition to become more important than the woman he’d adored with all the delirious madness of first love?
Yet it had, until they’d become strangers to each other—
Crash!
The sudden, loud strike of a gloomy chord on the pianoforte echoed in his head, jerking him back to the present. The notes of Schubert’sDeath and the Maidenrang out, darker and more ominous, the playing angrier. The haunting strains swelled into his bedchamber, filling the space from the cold floorboards to the cavernous ceiling above him.
Or were they only swelling inside his head?
Aside from the music, the castle was silent. No one else was stirring. Was he the only one who could hear the music? And if so…if so…
How couldhehear it? The music room was two floors below his bedchamber and on the other side of the house. He shouldn’t be able to hear it from here, no matter how loudly she was playing—
She.
Sylvie? But no, it was impossible. He’d seen her himself, so small and still in her bed, with hardly a gasp of life left in her, her breathing so shallow her chest appeared frozen, unmoving, and yet, if it wasn’t Sylvie playing, then who was it? Aside from him, there was no one else in the castle other than Ada and Silas. All the other servants came only in the day, and hurried home before darkness fell.
He threw the coverlet off and leapt from the bed, his heart crowding into his throat as he tugged his trousers over his hips and shoved his arms into the sleeves of his banyan, shivering at the chill of the floorboards against the soles of his bare feet as he opened the door to his bedchamber and hurried down the hallway to the top of the staircase.
He paused there, every muscle tense, just for long enough to determine there was still no sound aside from the violent, moody notes of the first movement ofDeath and the Maidenfloating upwards from below. In the next breath he was running, down the stairs and across the cold marble entryway, into the corridor that led to the music room, past the study he never used, then the library, the melody still ringing in his ears.
He didn’t pause when he reached the end of the corridor, but burst inside, the door slamming into the wall behind it, the crystal droplets in the chandelier shivering with the force of the blow.
But all he found on the other side was a silent, empty room.
He stood there as the clock ticked down the minutes to the midnight hour, his mouth open and his gaze darting from one end of the room to the other, searching the shadows for any sign of a figure crouched in the darkness.
But there was no one. Sylvie wasn’t here.
From the looks of the room, no one had been here for months. Cobwebs lurked in every corner, the silvery gossamer threads stitched together like fine lace, the pervasive scent of mildew and rot making his nose twitch.
But the music? He took a step into the room, another, and let his fingers drift over the silent piano keys. The instrument was out of tune, and his fingertips came away coated with dust. The bench was dusty as well. If anyone had recently been seated there, they hadn’t left an imprint behind.
He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in the chill.
Dear God, what was happening to him? He must be going insane, to believe for an instant his unconscious wife could have been in this music room, playing the pianoforte.
It was just shock, of course. Shock, and the fatigue of several days of travel catching up to him. He sagged against the wall at his back and dragged a hand through his hair. Perhaps it would be best if he left Berry Pomeroy soon, once Sylvie…once she…
No, he couldn’t think it, but there was nothing here for him now, no reason to linger—
“What in the world?” He whirled around, his knuckles striking the piano keys with a crash of discordant notes. Behind him, in the looking glass on the opposite wall, he would have sworn he’d seen…something. “Who’s there?”
There was no answer, but the wind rose to a sudden howl, whipping against the castle walls and rattling the windows in their panes. Had he imagined it? He drew closer to the glass, close enough so his breath left a film of fog on the surface, but just as he reached up to clear it away a shadowy figure darted behind him, shapeless and faceless, more a blur of movement than a person.
He froze, his gaze fixed on the glass, somehow knowing if he turned, he’d find nothing there. Fear crawled from the pit of his belly into his throat. Was he seeing things? Imagining ghosts roaming these silent rooms?
Or was it merely the black crepe draped over the looking glass? It could be he’d mistaken that for—
No! There it was again, a flicker of movement so subtle he would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring at the glass, but once again, there was no one behind him, and neither breathing nor footsteps, only the sound of the wind tearing at the branches of the trees that lined the drive.
He crept closer, peering into the looking glass, shivers chasing each other down his spine, and waited…for what? He couldn’t say, nor could he say how long he stood there, unblinking, his eyes burning as he stared at his reflection.
He might have stayed there all night as the wind rose to a frenzy, chasing the dark clouds across the sky and cloaking the pale light of the moon, but at last the chiming of the grandfather clock on the second-floor landing tore him from his trance, and he looked around himself, dazed.
How long had he been standing here, staring at nothing? He reached into his trouser pocket for his pocket watch on instinct, before recalling he’d left it in his bedchamber, on the nightstand…
Or had he? He didn’t recall snatching it up, but somehow it was there in his pocket, the smooth face of it familiar against his fingertips. He drew it out, flipped the lid up, and stared down at the face.
