Cusp of Night. Mae Clair
in a row of six with a broad view of the Chinkwe River.
Gathering her long skirts in one hand, Charlotte hastened up the stone steps to the front door. Lady Glass’s housemaid, Emma Dorsey, answered on the second knock.
“Hello, Emma.” Charlotte smiled at the older woman whom she’d come to know through her many visits. “I believe Lady Glass is expecting me.”
“I must apologize, Mrs. Hode. I have unfortunate news.” Emma moved aside, allowing her room to enter. A severe black frock and tightly pinned gray hair added to the gravity of her expression.
“I hope I’m not too late.” Stepping into the foyer, Charlotte closed her umbrella, conscious when it dribbled water onto the floor. The warmth of the small space surrounded her, banishing the damp of the outdoors. She inhaled the scent of lavender and sandalwood. “I had Frederick make the appointment for me, but we were slowed by the fog. I came as quickly as travel permitted.”
“I don’t doubt your sincerity.” Emma took the umbrella and placed it in a cylindrical stand to the right of the door. “Please come in and sit for a moment out of the chill.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Lady Glass is indisposed this evening.” Emma led her to a parlor where lanterns and tall candles kept the night at bay. It was common for Charlotte to wait there before being escorted to Lucinda’s séance room where the medium conversed with sitters from her spirit cabinet.
“Indisposed?” The word rolled from Charlotte’s lips with a tremor. She lowered the hood of her cloak. “But I had so looked forward to tonight’s session.” Sinking to the edge of a tufted chair, she tugged off her gloves. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak so inconsiderately. Is Lady Glass ill?”
“I’m afraid so. She asked me to make her apologies.” Emma folded her hands at waist-level, her long fingers crinkled like aged parchment. “Communicating with the spirit world commands a toll, especially for one as sensitive to Summerland as Lady Glass. I’m sure you understand.” Straightening her shoulders, she plucked a piece of lint from her skirt.
“Of course.”
“May I get you some tea? Something to ward off the chill?”
“No, thank you.” If she needed to venture back into the dreary night, Charlotte preferred to address the task sooner than later. The faster she and Frederick returned to the manor, the quicker she could banish the dampness. The quicker she could cradle little Reginald in her arms. “I’m not sure how soon I’ll be able to return, but I’ll send Frederick to arrange something when I have a better grasp. Mr. Hode has taken exception to my visits as of late.”
Emma’s mouth thinned as if she found the observation unpleasant. “That is unfortunate, but perhaps just as well. It is difficult to say how long this spell will last.” Taking Charlotte’s arm, she steered her toward the foyer, a trace of apprehension darkening her eyes. “A medium takes much upon herself, but Lady Glass carries a greater burden than most. Her gift is a costly one.”
Charlotte raised her hood and tightened the ribbons. “I didn’t realize the difficulty inherent with her abilities.” She felt foolish, even selfish, imagining her own sessions had contributed to the seer’s frail health. “Please give Lady Glass my best.”
“I will, dear.” Emma passed her the wet umbrella.
Within moments, Charlotte was outside in the dismal weather. The drizzle had steadied into a light rain, pattering in a ceaseless rhythm against the cobblestones. The gas lamp on the corner was barely visible through the thickening fog. It would be a rough ride back in the carriage, bordering on miserable, now that she’d lost the opportunity to communicate with her deceased mother and share the news of Reginald’s birth. Drawing the collar of her cloak about her throat, Charlotte hurried down Chicory toward the alley. How far to the carriage? The fog played tricks with the distance, shapes materializing from the mist with an abruptness that made her regret not taking the lamp Frederick offered. When a cat shot out in front of her, she gasped.
“Silly animal.” Pressing a hand to her heart, she breathed deeply. The feline darted across the alley, vanishing into the mist. Were those footsteps behind her?
She glanced over her shoulder, but it was impossible to see more than a few feet. Rain trickled from the edge of the umbrella and splattered onto her gloves. Quickening her pace, she scurried forward. She’d only managed a few steps when the footsteps echoed again.
Once more she looked over her shoulder. “Frederick.” Perhaps he’d left the carriage in search of her when the rain grew heavier. “Frederick?”
The footsteps quickened, lengthening into a fleet run. Hair prickled on the back of her neck. She hesitated, torn between fleeing and needing to see who followed. Within seconds, a painted face bobbed in front of her from the fog. The macabre mask hung disembodied, a leering devil with ice white eyes and cadaverous grin.
The Fiend! Dear God, the monster was real.
Charlotte screamed and tried to run, her long skirts twisting about her ankles. Stumbling, she dropped her umbrella. “Frederick!” Her frightened cry echoed through the night, swallowed by the fog. “Oh, Frederick, please help!”
Fingers fisted on the back of her cloak and yanked hard, wheeling her around and tugging, until she was pressed up against the hard body of the Fiend. Trapped mere inches from that demonic face and hateful gaze, she swooned. Her vision spun into a funnel curtained with fog and rain as if the night had blindfolded her. A stinging flare of heat ripped across her stomach, chased by something sticky and damp. She tried to find her breath and wheezed out a faint bubble. “Oh!”
Pain ruptured upward from her navel. Fire seared her voice and left her choking soundlessly on cold air. Her knees buckled. The Fiend released her, and she wilted to the cobblestones, conscious of a dark stain spreading beneath her.
Blood.
The stench of hot metal and damp wool clotted her nostrils. She choked on tears, overcome by the realization she would never cradle her baby again or see the husband who had given her such a precious gift. A foolish woman, she’d paid for her folly. Why hadn’t she heeded Henry and stayed safe at home? Blood plastered her bodice to her skin, sticky heat against the rain. She folded to the side—down to the damp press of cobblestones against her cheek, the thick gathering silt of the dead.
The Fiend stepped closer. Hunkered down near her head.
Charlotte forced herself to grip the hand that clutched the bloody knife. Twisting her neck, she stared up into the awful leering face. “Why? Please…tell me why.”
The slice of the blade across her throat paid her passage to Summerland.
* * * *
Present Day
“Yaaaayaa!”
Maya Sinclair was undecided if she should laugh or scream at the man’s silly howl. The fiend leaped in front of her, quickly dropping into a Quasimodo-type squat. It wasn’t every day she encountered a black-cloaked figure wearing a painted devil’s mask, but it was her third of the evening. She’d lost count of how many roamed the festival grounds. This one wasn’t as convincing as some, but his sudden appearance gave her a start.
“That’s pitiful, Graham. You sound like a cat in heat.” Her friend, Ivy McDowell, pinched the straw on her Diet Coke, sipping from a tall paper cup.
Straightening, the fiend lowered his hood. He tugged off the mask to reveal short blond hair tousled in a sweaty mop and heavy brows pinched into a vee. “How’d you know it was me?”
Ivy pointed to the half-moon tattoo on the back of his right hand. “Dead giveaway.”
“Oh.” He grinned sheepishly. “Not that it matters. I’m just here having fun, not competing in the contest.”
“This town takes its festivals seriously.” Of all the “fiends” Maya had seen threading between the food and craft