“If this is our nirvana, then I’ve died happy, Penrose.”

The world had turned inside out. She was staring at candles that burned under the water. They were a different kind of fire.

She looked up at Keat. He was a different kind of man. Not a dark twin to Carrick. And what if this really was her brief nirvana? What if this was the only happiness she could grasp? Wouldn’t Carrick want it for her? Of course he would. Carrick himself said, “Fire has no choice but grab its moment, whatever moment it’s given, and burn.”

A different century. A different kind of fire. A different man, one she couldn’t help but to burn for. Was this the moment she’d been given? It was. She turned to Keat and said, “Take me to bed now.”

“My pleasure,” he replied and reached down for her.

JEN CHRISTIE is a writer who has a passion for reading and writing Gothic romances. Jen lives in St. Augustine, Florida, with her husband and three daughters. She has a love of history and her secret desire is to stop and read every roadside historical marker she drives by.

House of Shadows

Jen Christie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I dedicate this book to my sister Penny, who taught me that life is full of second chances, and they are always worth taking.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part Two

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The grandfather clock tolled, echoing on and on. The sound reverberated in the tunnel until Penrose fell to the floor, covered her ears and buried her head in her skirts. The chimes came from everywhere at once, from all around her and even from within her own mind.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. She could only endure. Dust and plaster rained down and pelted her body. Please, she wished, let it be a dream. But she knew it wasn’t. A dream doesn’t hit you with plaster hard enough to hurt. Long, agonizing moments passed. It was as if time ceased.

Quietness returned slowly. The rumbling grew less ferocious until finally the ground was still, and the clock fell silent. Only then did she lift her head and take a breath. Dust filled her nostrils. Coughing, wiping her eyes and face, she called out in a panicked voice, “C.J.?”

He didn’t answer. The only sound was a lone splatter of plaster falling to the floor somewhere in the darkness. She must find C.J. and see if he was okay, but it was too dangerous to crawl around without light.

Remembering that there were candles in the hallway, she began inching toward the door. She planned to grab a candle and hopefully find Carrick so that they could hunt for C.J. together. When she reached the door, she fumbled with the latch until it opened. The house was dark and quiet. Still on all fours, she took a deep, shaky breath and called, “C.J.? Carrick, are you here?”

No answer. She crawled out, stood up and brushed herself off, making sure she wasn’t injured. Her hands traveled the length of her torso, but the lack of pain did nothing to reassure her that she was all right. She was not all right.

The air in the foyer was cold—too cold for August in Charleston. The house felt different. It smelled odd, of lemons and lavender. Something was wrong. She knew it in her bones.

“C.J.?” Desperation turned her voice harsh. “Carrick? Please! Answer me.”

Still nothing.

Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she saw the grandfather clock standing against the wall. Standing. Not toppled over as she’d witnessed moments before. She looked around wildly. The table that normally held the candles wasn’t there anymore. The chandelier hung still and straight as if it hadn’t even moved, let alone swung wildly while the earth shook.

But what took the breath right from her lungs were the paintings. They were different—with odd, angular images in them. The more she looked around, the more uneasy she became. Yes, something was very, very wrong.

“Carrick?” she called again, taking minute, untrusting steps toward the great room, her hands pressing the air in disbelief. “Carrick! C.J.? Please?” she kept repeating in a whiny, almost begging manner. She held a last bit of hope that the world would right itself, and she’d see the familiar features of Arundell. Her Arundell. Not this twisted imitation.

When she entered the large parlor, she saw moonlight and shadows dancing around the room, revealing a dark doppelgänger of the room she knew and loved. The cold air around her made it scarier and even less familiar.

Yes, the bones of the room were the same. The same lofty ceiling, the same shape of the windows, even the familiar gouges in the doorway that marked the heights of the Arundell boys. But the essence had changed.

Everything had changed. She tried to reconcile the two different versions of her home—one familiar and one not—but she couldn’t. It simply wasn’t Arundell Manor.

Yet it was.

She went to the window and looked out. The world outside glimmered bright and white beneath the moon.

Bright and white. Snow.

No peaceful pond with a lazy oak tree beside it. No familiar road winding through the Charleston countryside straight to the front doors of her home. Only bare land covered in white stretched all the way to the horizon. Stepping away from the window as if it burned her, she found herself gasping for breath. She wanted to scream, to wail and cry for help, but she had no voice.

She took fast, short steps and went from room to room on the first floor, seeing unbelievable and frightening items everywhere she turned. The house had always been extravagant, but now it seemed garish. Every room was crammed with shiny and bizarre objects, things she didn’t understand and was afraid to touch.

A huge mirror hung on the wall by the kitchen and her own shadowy form reflected back at her. Even she looked different. It was as if a ghost stared at her, coated in dust, hair wild and tumbling, the whites of its eyes glowing brightly. She had a horrible thought as she looked at herself. She’d died.

“I’m not dead,” she said loudly, voicing that horrible thought. A worse thought sprang up behind it. Perhaps she’d been trapped in a kind of purgatory. A place between life and death.

“No.” She shook her head wildly. So did the shadowy figure in the mirror. Leaning forward, she insisted to the image, “I’m alive. Alive.” But her image seemed to stare back at her with accusing eyes and Penrose backed away, shaking.

The kitchen was unrecognizable, with silver equipment that had blue flashing lights on the different pieces. She knew it was a kitchen because of the sink, the knives that hung from the wall and the bowl of fresh fruit sitting atop the counter. A piece of paper lay beside the bowl, and by the dim blue light she read:

Dear Keat,

Welcome back to Arundell. Everything should be in order. The kitchen is stocked. The robots have been delivered and set up. If you need anything, just call. Enjoy your time by yourself. Please, try to relax. Stop worrying. You do your best work that way.

—V

The note called this home Arundell, but unless the world had changed overnight, this was not Arundell. Not the Arundell she knew.

Part One

All in the dark we grope along,

And if we go amiss

We learn at least which path is wrong,

And there is gain in this.

—Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Chapter 1

Charleston, South Carolina

August 18, 1886

Penrose Heatherton stood at the window, her face lifted to the night sky, hoping for wind. But there was no wind to speak of. The skies were speckled with stars. The moon hung lazy and bright. It was a perfect Charleston summer evening and gave no hint of the troubles that lay ahead of her.

It was hot enough to boil water that night, and she wore her underthings in a futile effort to stay cool. The clothes clung to her damp skin and her black hair hung in sweaty strands. She fanned herself listlessly with the want ads from the newspaper. The effort only made her hotter. It didn’t help that she’d just returned from the kitchen downstairs where she’d washed dishes for hours to help reduce the amount of rent she had to pay.

Rent. A knot of worry twisted in her chest and she rested her head against the window frame. Rent was due in the morning, and, even at a reduced rate, she had no way of paying. Renting her room at The Winding Stair Inn & Pub had already taken all of her funds.

She turned her face to the moon, pleading for wind. Tattered clouds sailed across it, scattering silvery light on the ground. None reached her. “Please,” she whispered, hoping, waiting, for a gust to come and cool her down.

It seemed that, lately, she was always waiting. For a cool breeze or a hot meal, for a permanent job, for any sliver of relief, no matter how small, that would help fix the mess her life had become. She was tired, so very tired of waiting.

She tossed the want ads out of the window and watched as they fluttered to the ground. Worthless. If she’d learned one thing since her mother died six months earlier, it was that relief didn’t come easy. If it came at all. No, she was beginning to understand the bitter truth—that if you wanted relief you had to grab it for yourself.

But you can’t grab the wind, so she stood there sweating. Sighing, she went to the cot and lay down. If it got any hotter, even one degree, she would melt into a puddle. But right when she thought that was about to happen, there came a change.

A gust of wind slipped through the window and eddied in the small space. It was a strange wind. Wintery, cool and dry, with a touch of wildness to it. The breeze tossed about the room and swirled around Penrose like a cool promise. She sat up, feeling it slip and slide over her skin, and she had the sense that something, anything could happen.

Right at that exact moment, she heard the sound of boots walking down the hall. The footsteps belonged to Mrs. Capshaw, the landlady of The Winding Stair Inn & Pub. Her walk was distinctive. When it came your way you knew she wanted something, and sure enough, it was coming Penrose’s way.

Not a moment later, the door flew open as the landlady swept into the tiny room. There was barely space for her, but she didn’t seem to care. Mrs. Capshaw was an ample woman with frizzy red hair and a bosom that sat like a shelf over her stomach. She had sharp, assessing brown eyes, which right then took in the sight of Penrose lounging on the bed. She said in her tough-as-nails voice, “Look sharp, Penny. There’s an opportunity for you downstairs.”

Instantly, she had Penrose’s attention. “What opportunity?”

Mrs. Capshaw was an enterprising woman, always on the lookout for any venture that would be advantageous. Coming from her, an opportunity could mean a million different things, most of them dubious. But opportunities were rare, and Penrose was desperate.

Another cool gust of wind blasted into the room, slamming the door shut. The older woman yanked it open again and held it in her meaty fist. “If you’re clever,” she said, leaning over Penrose and staring at her hard, “and I know you are, you’ll listen carefully.”

“I’m listening,” said Penrose. She rubbed her arms as she listened. The temperature in the room must have dropped twenty degrees.

Mrs. Capshaw continued, “Right at this moment, there’s a woman sitting at a table downstairs. She reminds me of you so very much, young and full of distress. Another sad story, I’m sure. Except unlike you, she’s downright foolish. I think you might have a chance to secure a well-paying—” she looked at Penrose meaningfully “—and respectable job.”

Penrose jumped up. “Tell me. Is it a teaching position?”

“No. Better.” Mrs. Capshaw’s sharp brown eyes narrowed and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “The lady is on her way to a post that her agency secured for her. She needs a room while she travels.” She smiled, a small twist of the lips. “But she is sitting there downstairs right now, blabbing for all the world to hear about her doubts and fears over the position.”

That was interesting news. “Go on,” said Penrose.

“She’s to report the day after tomorrow. Seven a.m. sharp. But, she’s reluctant. In fact, she’s more than reluctant.”

“More than reluctant?”

“She’s terrified,” Mrs. Capshaw blurted out. “I’m telling you straight off to get it out of the way.” She shrugged as if it were of little consequence. “She’s heard rumors. It seems her agency was less than forthcoming about the post. Her employer is a troubled individual and the house might be haunted.”

For the first time, Penrose felt wary, but just a bit. It was a job, after all. She hedged. “How troubled? And what kind of hauntings? The rumors must be awful for her to reconsider.”

“Awful?” Mrs. Capshaw threw her hands into the air. “What can be awful about regular income and a roof over your head?” Her voice lowered an octave as she said, “And wages that would make your eyes pop right out of your head. And, truthfully, do you believe in ghosts?”

“No, I don’t.” Penrose felt breathy. For decent wages, she’d be blind to a lot of things. Including ghosts. And regular pay? Something she could barely imagine. But she wasn’t a babe in the woods. She was twenty-one. Old enough to know a thing or two. Something was wrong. “Still...why such high wages? Something doesn’t ring true. Maybe there’s truth to the rumors.”

Mrs. Capshaw huffed. “‘Still’ nothing. You’ve been here six months already. Six months since your mother died and no position to speak of. No prospects, either! I’ve watched your purse dwindle, your belongings dwindle. You’re all boiled down like soup left too long on the stove. Only scrapings left.” She wagged her hands in the air. “Penrose Heatherton, you are in debt to me. Not a small amount, either. And if you ask me, that’s what awful is.” She pursed her lips. “And, yes, the post seems...suspicious. But, if you listen closely, it also sounds like an opportunity.” She lifted a pearl comb from the nightstand. “This is the only thing of value you have left, isn’t it? And rent’s due tomorrow? Do you think I’d take a comb in payment? You’re a sweet girl, but you’re fooling yourself if you think you’ll find work as a schoolteacher. Not in this town. Not with your name.”

“But my mother had such a respectable finishing school—”

“No offense, but you are not your mother. She was a Northerner. Sent to the finest schools and from a well-regarded family. She had credentials, Penny. Credentials. The big families in this town adored her because she attended those fine finishing schools. Yes, she fell from grace, there was always that.”

“You don’t need to remind me that I was her downfall,” she snapped. Penrose always had trouble concealing her anger when the subject was brought to her attention.

“I’m not. A baby is a baby to the likes of me. But not to them. Not to those fancy folks. They never minded you as an assistant to her. But an illegitimate child as an assistant is one thing. As a teacher, it’s quite another. Plus, your name. Penrose.” She sighed. “Your mother did you such a disservice giving you your father’s surname as a first name. She thought she was clever giving you that name! Calling him out and exposing him as the father. Those were passionate times, I’ll give her that. But she was ignorant. The South doesn’t work that way and she was foolish to think she’d change it. Oh, those abolitionists had such grand ideas, didn’t they? No bigger name around here. Like a splinter in the eye of the most powerful family. You’ll have a tough road around here. Surely my words are no surprise to you.”

No, they weren’t a surprise. Penrose shook her head. “Just painful.”

“The truth hurts, Penny. It hurts.” Mrs. Capshaw leaned down and put her hand on the bed. It creaked under her weight. “Just like when that young man stopped calling on you and I told you he wasn’t coming back. I say it plain. You’ll never find work on your own here. No education other—”

“My mother educated me.” Heat burned her cheeks.

Mrs. Capshaw pushed down on the bed. “Let me finish, girl. I said no education other than from your mother. It may be a fine education, but there’s no stamp of a finishing school on your papers. In fact, you have no papers. Even worse, you’re now living in a pub by the wharf. Your stock is dropping by the minute...what’s left for a girl like you? Hmm?” She loomed over Penrose, her shadow falling across her.

Penrose stared out of the window. A sliver of the moon was visible and she focused on that. Her chest felt tight, as if a belt were strapped around it and someone was tugging. Was it anxiety? Or something more? She remembered the strange breeze from earlier and felt the odd, prickly sensation spread over her once again. Change was in the air. Perhaps she should welcome it. “I deserve a break, don’t I?” Her words came hot and fast. “Don’t I?” She looked at Mrs. Capshaw with a pleading, angry gaze.

“You said it, Penny. Right from your own mouth. You deserve a break. But if you think a break is going to waltz in here and lay itself in your lap, you’re mistaken.” She shook her head, her frizzy hair barely moving on her head. “Listen, some girls are tough to their bones. Others are soft. Those are the ones that wilt. Still others, and I think you’re one of these—are malleable, able to bend and sway. Adapt to changing conditions. You need to adapt. And I’m giving you an opportunity to do just that. What better than to work for a man who doesn’t give two shakes what society thinks?”

Mrs. Capshaw was right. Penrose nodded.

“Get off that bed. Stand up and listen to me. Listen to what the post entails and then make your choice.” She lifted her hand and stood straight.

Penrose slid from the bed and stood beside her landlady. “I’m listening.”

Mrs. Capshaw seemed to soften then. She blinked and nodded, and gave a halfhearted attempt at a smile. “I’m sorry, dear. Life did you wrong. But I’m not a charity. You have to act fast.”

“The post,” Penrose reminded her. “I need more details.”

“It’s a single man, a bachelor, and he needs someone to help him in his scientific studies. Someone who can write, who has a bright intellect and one who doesn’t mind...”

Everything sounded fine until Penrose heard those words. “Doesn’t mind what?”

Mrs. Capshaw spoke in a rush. “Working nights. He works at night, from sunset to sunrise. Though don’t worry, because it’s respectable. The little miss downstairs told me that the three ladies that walked off before her have never accused him of wrongdoing. He has an affliction, she says. It makes him unsightly, very unsightly, and causes trouble with his eyesight. The sun hurts his eyes and the night is the only time he can see untroubled. But it’s the strange rumors of the manor that scare her so. The hauntings. They whisper that he does odd things. Practices dark arts.” Then she added pointedly. “But those wages...” She named the sum, a figure so high that Penrose coughed.

No, she choked. An amount like that, well, it seemed almost sinful. Penrose floated in an odd place, willing to be tempted, letting her mind imagine the riches of such a sum but knowing that she should be suspicious. Those wages, though. Finally, she said. “Very well, I’m interested. Not committing, but interested. What is your plan?”

“Smart of you to consider it. Just hear me out. I always say don’t let the future toss you about. Sometimes you have to grab it.” She smoothed her frizzy hair down, a useless habit because it just popped right back up again. “My idea is that we’ll help the girl, make the decision easy for her. You’ll steal her post.” She watched Penrose.

“Steal it? Are you serious?”

Mrs. Capshaw nodded. “The girl doesn’t want the job. One look at her face and I knew the truth of it. She let the name of the manor slip...” Her voice trailed off in an odd way.

“I can’t steal her post!”

“Now you think to be ethical? Right now, when your whole future is blank—a black hole—and your present is nothing but hunger. Yes, life did you wrong. But you don’t even have money for the rent! I’ll have to move your room again, to the porch this time. And after that, who knows?” The threat hung in the room.

It would be easier to stand up and grab a future than to sit around The Winding Stair wallowing in the slim pickings that came her way. “I’ll do it.” She didn’t feel entirely convinced, but somehow the words came out sure and strong.

“Very well,” said the landlady. “The plan is simple enough. You only have to show up a day early. Let them know the agency sent you instead of her. Plead prudence on your early arrival. Better to be early than late. I’ll let the young lady downstairs know the bad news. Let her down easy, let her know it was for the best. By arriving early, there’s no mistaking the job is yours. I’ll break the news to the young lady.” Mrs. Capshaw looked away as she spoke.

“Ah, I get it now. I wondered why you were so generous with an opportunity,” Penrose said spitefully. “And once you tell the poor girl she’s been wronged, you’ll give her the good news that you have a room to rent her. That, strangely, one was just vacated...”

The woman laughed, short and bitter, and her belly heaved. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? Yes, I’ve seen her purse, and it’s heavier than yours. Don’t judge me. I have to survive. Just like you.”

The tight feeling in Penrose’s chest constricted even further. It became hard to breathe. “Mrs. Capshaw, I don’t know... It seems like such a scheme.”

“Well, you only have to listen to the girl to know I’m right. She’s downstairs right now, blabbing away to Charlie, telling my husband all her woes.” She plucked the heavy black gown from the peg on the wall and tossed it in Penrose’s direction. It sailed across the room like a dark ghost and covered Penrose in an embrace.

Mrs. Capshaw continued, “At the very least, come and hear her for yourself.”

The dress hung limply over Penrose. She felt small and uncertain all of a sudden.

“Don’t dally,” said Mrs. Capshaw, coming over and grabbing the dress, then holding open the bodice so that Penrose could step into it. “Here. Time’s wasting, always wasting. We have to hurry.”

Penrose stepped into the dress. The gown swallowed her. She had always been petite, but now she was thin—too thin.

Mrs. Capshaw didn’t seem to notice and she stood back, admiring Penrose. “That’s more like it. You’ll see. It will all work out. Turn around, dear,” she said.

Penrose turned, and the woman drew the gown tight and began buttoning it up. “This is your only dress?” she asked with concern. “The one you wore to your mother’s funeral?”

“I’m sorry. It’s all I have.” The rich black fabric had faded to gray at the elbows and the hem had turned to fringe. “I sold the others,” she whispered, hating the need to confess the small, shameful adjustments she’d had to make in the past few months.

Mrs. Capshaw sighed. “It’s so morose. I can only hope a somber look will work in your favor.” She tightened the final button and cinched the ribbon into a bow. “Now, where’s your bonnet?”

“I’ll get it. It’s at the window. I need to comb my hair, too.” In her heart she was still reluctant, her decision not yet made. But she went through the motions, fighting the comb through her inky hair. While she wrestled her hair into a tight bun, Mrs. Capshaw explained what she was to do.

“Charlie can drive you to the manor,” she said, referring to her husband and bartender. Even though Charlie was married to Mrs. Capshaw, he was no Mr. Capshaw. Simply Charlie. She continued, “You’ll have to sleep the night outside. We can’t risk you leaving tomorrow. She might catch on in the light of day. Anyhow, it shouldn’t be too hard. The gentleman’s name is Mr. Carrick Arundell. Remember, seven sharp. Very specific about that. Don’t worry about the little miss here, it’s all for the best.” She took Penrose by the hand. “Come now, let’s go down the stairs.”

When they reached the landing, Mrs. Capshaw put a hand on her shoulder. “Hold it,” she said. “Hmm. Can’t do to arrive without any belongings. It will make you look wanting. Needful.” She twisted her lips as she thought and then lifted a finger. “I’ve got it. Just a moment.” She left Penrose on the stairs.

Penrose heard her then. A breathy, feminine voice wafting up the stairwell. She couldn’t help herself and crept lower, down the winding staircase until she could see her—with the benefit of a wall that partially hid Penrose from view. The woman sat at the corner table. Even though the late crowd had begun to arrive, Penrose could still see her clearly.

No, this woman hadn’t sunk to the level that she had. Oh, certainly she oozed that refined look of genteel suffering, a bit worn at the edges. No doubt, there was even a small, graciously suffering smile on her lips. The kind of smile that Penrose couldn’t quite muster anymore.

The little blond head bobbed as she spoke. “It might not be worth the fear, the fright of living with such a man,” she drawled.

What could be so frightening about a mere man? Nothing, that’s what. But to make matters worse she continued, “I’m not so hungry that I will endure fright and intimidation. Not me. I can always stay with my sister. Perhaps another might endure such a thing, but I’m hesitant. Are things so bad that I must suffer for employment?”

Penrose’s eyes burned, and her fingers itched with the urge to strike out. Yes, they are, you silly woman. Yes, they are.

“But what about those wages?” Charlie asked.

The woman named the amount of pay, and a small choking noise escaped from Penrose’s lips. Both the woman and Charlie turned in her direction and she slunk back into the shadows.

“They say,” the woman continued in a grave voice, “that he must pay such a wild sum because of all the awful things that go on in that house. I’ve heard he’s wicked. I’ve heard he’s...dark.”

“The men talk, you know. I’ve heard the same.” Charlie stood leaning over the counter and wiping a whiskey glass with his rag. “And worse, too. Still, those wages. Any man would be proud to earn such a sum for a year’s labor.”

“Oh, that’s not a year of wages. That’s for a month.”

The shrill clink of the glass slipping from Charlie’s hand and hitting the counter rang out. Or maybe it was the sound of her conscience turning to ice. But whatever decency was left inside her hungry soul fled when she heard that sum. Right then and there, her mind turned rock-solid certain. The risks be damned. Dark arts meant nothing to her. That job would be hers. All she needed was one paycheck, just one, and she could recover. She could start again in a new city. She could open her own school with a new identity.

Distinctive footfalls came down the stairs. Penrose turned and saw Mrs. Capshaw standing on the rise above her. “Well?” she asked in a hearty whisper. “Heard enough?”

Penrose nodded. “Have you the bag?” she asked pointedly.

“Of course.” Mrs. Capshaw held it out. “I stuffed it with newspapers to look full.”

“It’s perfect,” said Penrose, taking the bag. It was dusty black and light as air. “I’ll go and wait outside for Charlie.”

“Of course. I’ll let him know.” The woman grabbed Penrose by the arm. “Penrose, you won’t regret this. Trust me.”

Trust was not a word she associated with Mrs. Capshaw, but the woman seemed sincere, and she nodded in reply. They descended the rest of the stairs together. Once on the ground floor, Penrose moved through the pub area swiftly, Mrs. Capshaw right behind her. Charlie looked up and smiled from behind the bar, but before he could say a single word to her, Penrose opened the door and stepped outside. Not once did she look at the woman. She couldn’t bear to. She didn’t want to risk developing a conscience and changing her mind.

Outside, she leaned against the wall of the inn and took deep breaths. What exactly was she doing? Mrs. Capshaw stood stoically beside her.

Penrose breathed a sigh of relief when Charlie emerged from the pub. “Are you okay, Penny?” he asked, taking a long look at her before turning to his wife. “What’s going on? Why did you pull me outside?”

“I need you to ready the buggy. There’s something you need to do.”

“Oh, no,” he said with a sigh. “What are you up to?” He shook his head. “I should’ve known—you had that look about you.” Turning to Penrose, he said, “Has she pulled you into some plan?”

“Well...” began Penrose.

Mrs. Capshaw practically pounced on the man. “Charlie,” she muttered, “leave be and don’t intrude. This is for the best. You’ll see. Don’t say another word of protest. Go and ready that buggy. Take Penny to the river road that leads to the mansions. Drop her off and come right back. She’s lucky enough to have a position waiting.”

He looked dubious, his white, bushy eyebrows drawing together. “All of a sudden like this?” Suddenly he leaned toward his wife and his voice grew accusing. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with our new guest, would it?”

A little huff of anger escaped the woman. “Of course it does. It has everything to do with our guest. But don’t say a word, Charlie. Not a word. My plans will work out this time.” Mrs. Capshaw spoke with authority. “You drive her to the river and return to me. Straightaway.”

“Answer me this first, wife. Where’s her position?”

“Arundell Manor.”

It was the first time Penrose heard the name. Arundell Manor. The words hung in the air like an echo from a bell. It pleased Penrose and a strange sense of calmness swelled within her.

Charlie did not have the same reaction, however. “Arundell Manor! You’re snatching that woman’s job! That’s no coup! Are you cruel? You’re sending her there?”

“Charlie,” said Mrs. Capshaw in something close to a growl.

“Arundell Manor? You must be three sheets to the wind! That man will kill her as surely as we stand here now. There’s something very wrong with that man, and all of Charleston knows it. He’s dangerous and wicked...and downright frightening. The stories I hear about that...that monster.”

Beneath the lamplight, Mrs. Capshaw looked at Charlie with a gaze of iron. “Charlie Capshaw, you will keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”

“I can’t in good conscience—” he sputtered.

“Stop,” said Penrose. She was strangely settled in her mind with the decision. The name of the manor struck a chord inside her as if fate had been summoned and there was no stopping it. She put her hand on Charlie’s arm. “Charlie, I’ve already accepted it, whatever may come,” she said with resolve.

Charlie looked at her a moment before shaking his head. “You don’t understand, child. I hear things in the pub. He’s trying to create a man. Think on that. It’s said that no woman will ever go near him. Ever. Some have even whispered dark magic is afoot in that house.”

“Charles Edgar Capshaw. There you go again! I’ve told you before...” Her voice trailed away to nothing. Mrs. Capshaw had never spoken quite so harshly before and they all turned quiet. She looked to Penrose. “Don’t listen, dear. Go, go to the position and see for yourself.” Then she turned to Charlie. “Get the buggy! And be quick about it!”

He backed away in small steps, shaking his head. “Mark my words,” he said in a low voice before turning and stomping off into the darkness.

“Don’t let Charlie scare you.”

“He doesn’t,” she replied, which was the truth. A future with no income scared her more than men’s tales when they were deep in their cups.

Charlie returned with the buggy and, after she was settled, he drove her through Charleston, past the harbor with its ships bobbing in the water and the fat moon flying high above them. Penrose smelled the sweet perfume of gladiolas heavy in the air. She felt oddly happy. Dark magic or no, the pay would take care of everything. She laughed.

“I wouldn’t take it so lightly,” said Charlie, glancing over at her, flicking the whip above the head of the horse. They passed through the gates of Charleston and traveled through the thick woods before reaching the stone gates of the manor. The iron gates were thrown wide open, heedless of any intruders. Charlie slowed the carriage to a stop, then turned to look at her. “Penny,” he said, patting her on the shoulder, “promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will. I promise. Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”

“I always worry when Mrs. Capshaw is scheming.”

She picked up the valise and climbed down. “This time, it will work out grand. You’ll see.”

“I hope so, dear. I hope so,” he said, snapping the whip in the air. With a neigh, the horse came to life and the carriage pulled away. It had gone a few paces when he called out to her. “Remember, Penny, you can always come back and start again if you’d like. Don’t think you’re trapped. You’re never trapped.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” she said, and watched as the carriage rode out of sight.

She set off down the manor road with nervous steps, unsure exactly what she had gotten herself into. Only one thing was certain. The choice had been her own, so she deserved whatever the future held for her.

Oak trees lined the bone-white road like sentinels, and she walked beneath them until the road spilled out onto a wide clearing of land. Some distance away, the house floated, eerie and ghostly white under the moonlight. She settled under one of the large oaks at the end of the path, her eyes trained on the ghostly house. Two windows were illuminated. They glowed like orange eyes and she saw the dark figure of a man cross in front of them. Her heart beat wildly. Was that him? Was that Carrick Arundell?

Once more the figure passed by the window, except this time he stopped and stood in front of it. Her skin pulled tight in gooseflesh. It seemed that he stared through the darkness and looked right at her. Her heart beat wildly, and her thoughts ran unchecked. Perhaps right now he was practicing his dark magic. Stop it, she chided herself. He was only a man. He couldn’t be that bad.

The light of day would bring answers. Tomorrow she would know everything. Tomorrow her future would become the present. In the meantime, she must sleep. But she couldn’t stop herself from watching the dark figure pace back and forth in the window. Back and forth, again and again. Endlessly.

Chapter 2

Penrose opened her eyes, her body stiff, the dew from the evening before settled on her skin and hair. Arundell Manor stood before her, no longer ghostly, but regal, and she couldn’t stop staring at the sight. The early sun poured pink rays of light over the white stone walls. The windows—and there were dozens of them—all glistened in a gold sheen. The rich green grasses that stretched before her were silvered in morning dew. A pond, invisible to her in the night, lay under a blanket of mist. The home slept in quiet splendor.

Her gown was damp. She stood, brushing away the pine needles and drops of dew before straightening her hair and bonnet and pinching her cheeks for color. Lifting the valise, she walked along the bone-white gravel path, each step of her boots a loud crunch in the still morning air. There were forty-four steps leading to the massive front doors, she thought as she climbed and counted each one. She was aware of every move as if someone was already watching her from behind the glittering windows. Penrose couldn’t shake the sensation.

Standing in front of the brass knocker, she took a deep, steadying breath. You can do this, she told herself. The rising sun warmed her backside and seemed almost to agree. Lifting the heavy knocker, she let it fall and listened as the hammer strike echoed on and on behind the door. She waited, then waited some more, but there was no answer, so she tried again.

Finally, there came a fumbling noise; a latch turned and the door swung open. Sunlight streamed past her and into the house, striking a crystal chandelier that hung low in the foyer. Glass orbs and shards grabbed the light and tossed about a brilliant rainbow of colors, blinding her. She flinched and stepped backward, her boot heel catching on the fabric of her skirt. Down she went, limbs akimbo, the piazza floor rising up fast to greet her. But as she fell, she caught a glimpse of a man—a dark outline of his tall frame. His features were invisible against the white stone of the house.

Then the ground slapped her hard enough to rattle her teeth. So much for a good first impression. The sunlight poured relentlessly on her. She shielded her eyes and looked up.

“You find me that offensive?” His voice was low and sleep-filled, tainted with anger. No, she realized, the voice wasn’t tainted with mere anger—it was laced with something close to rage. Or worse.

From beneath her hand, her eyes darted left and right, searching for the man who spoke with such venom. “I can’t see you,” she said, feeling foolish.

A face swung into view, inches from her own. “I’m easy to miss,” he said. Eyes the color of a thousand sunsets swept over her face in a harsh gaze. Reds and purples and blues shifted and swirled within the irises. She shrank from him and sucked air into her lungs like a dying woman. Her hand fell away from her brow, revealing the man in his entirety. Stupidly, she sat there, blinking, trying to fathom exactly what she was seeing.

He stood there in the bright sunlight, white as snow, clad in black sleeping trousers and a robe that lay open to his waist. His skin was powder white—white beyond fathoming—as if milk had been added to an already pale skin tone, bringing forth an unnatural brightness. To look at him was to look upon the facets of a diamond; it hurt the eye to take him in. His muscles were etched into hard lines on his torso and he had a winter’s blaze of white hair that crowned a youthful, vigorous-looking face. All that white hair and he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. She stared, openmouthed.

“At least have the courtesy to shut your mouth while you stare at me,” he said, each word scraping out exactly as her boots had on the walkway moments before. He held out a hand.

She hesitated, swallowed hard and then finally slipped her hand into his. His hand was warm and she couldn’t help but be surprised by this. She had half expected his touch to have the cold chill of death on it. He pulled her to her feet, yanked her right up, and she stood in his shadow—for he was very tall, indeed—panting, trying to collect her thoughts.

“Well?” he said, a sneer twisting his features. Was he handsome?

“I’m sorry,” she said, her brain scrambling for words. “The agency sent me, sir. I’m here for the position.” She chanced one more look—she couldn’t help it. His face was too young, too beautiful and too strong for that white hair. And those eyes. God help her, those eyes.

He said nothing, merely watched her as she watched him. He seemed determined to shock her, unconcerned as he was with his half-dressed state. “Have you seen enough?” he finally asked. A touch of sleep lingered in the drawl of his voice, giving him an almost casual arrogance.

“I apologize,” she said, busying herself by leaning down to pick up her valise. “I was surprised, and all the lights startled me.”

He sniffed and shook his head. “The agency sent you? And who exactly are you and why did you come to my door at this ungodly hour?”

“Heatherton.” She extended her hand. “Penrose Heatherton.”

He didn’t take it. His eyes held hers. She thought of the crystal rainbow from the chandelier; the colors shifting, changing. Finally, he said, “Tell me, Miss Heatherton—”

“Yes?” She held her hand extended for another moment, a bit too long, before pulling it back and wringing both hands together awkwardly.

“Miss Heatherton,” he repeated, his Southern drawl low and conspiratorial. “Why in the world are you knocking on my door at the break of dawn?”

“The agency told me to arrive at seven a.m.” This wasn’t going well, she realized. Not at all as she had imagined it. For a lot of different reasons.

“P.M.,” he said harshly. “Post meridiem. Or generally speaking...in the evening. I told the agency specifically that I needed the applicant to show up at seven p.m.”

“Oh,” she said foolishly, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks.

His gaze skipped over hers, lowered to her lips and returned once again to her eyes. “That’s right—p.m.,” he said slowly. “So, not only are you a full day early, you reported at the wrong time. I was asleep, and now you’ve woken me.”

“I’m so sorry.” The blush in her cheeks must be red as fire, because her face burned.

“I’m certain you’ve noticed my affliction. I am cursed with paleness. A lack of pigment. Albinism.” His chin jutted into the air defiantly. “It does not lend itself to sunlight. I keep night hours, and I’m very protective of them.” He sighed, and those unapologetic eyes didn’t look away from her. “But you’re here. Though I specifically requested someone who wasn’t attractive. Makes it easier.” Those eyes still rested on her. The heat on her face grew to volcanic levels. “I take it you can read and write?”

“Of course.”

“How’s your eyesight?”

“Perfect.”

He nodded. “And your hands? Can you can handle fine tools and small mechanical parts? Smaller than a fingernail?

“I’m very sure-handed.”

“You can work the night through? Adjust to my schedule?”

“Certainly.”

“Good. It’s what I value most. That, and discretion.” He stepped aside the slightest bit to make room for her, forcing her to brush against him as she entered. “Come in.”

She took in the interior of the house with a few quick glances: white marble floors, a high ceiling—two floors high—stairs that curled in an elegant arc to the second floor, archways that led to other rooms. A huge grandfather clock began to chime. Sheets covered the furniture and paintings as if the house were bedded down while its owners were away. Splatters of rainbow light still spun over everything.

He shut the door and the blinding rainbows disappeared. When she turned around, he was beside her, almost too close. Shocked at his willingness to invade her independent space, she pulled away from him. Her reaction was an odd mix of aversion and excitement. He seemed dangerous.

He stilled. “Forgive me. My eyesight is very poor, and I am used to stepping close in order to see something.” Then, with a lingering glance, he turned around, and she knew that a moment where they might have established a cordialness between them was lost. When he spoke, it was with a firm and cold voice. “I won’t give you a tour as you’ve already interrupted my sleep. I’m heading to bed. You will start tonight.” He turned and began to climb the stairs.

She followed, taking small, anxious steps. “I’m to work your hours, then?”

“How else do you expect to be my assistant?” His voice boomed in the open space. The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed, his black robe swirling in the air behind him.

“Of course, Mr. Arundell.”

Without turning around, he waved his hand angrily. “Don’t call me Mr. Arundell. My father was Mr. Arundell, and he’s dead now. Call me Carrick. You’ll be ready to work at dusk and you’ll be with me until dawn. The work is intense, requires a steady hand and a sharp mind. Are you certain that you’re up for the task?”

“I am.” She peered down the hall. “Is there anything you want me to accomplish before we start tonight?”

“The day is yours, Miss. Heatherton. But if I were you, I would sleep, for the night will be a long one.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You have the run of the house, except for the doors in the kitchen that lead down to the cellar. That is my workroom, and you only enter with me. The house has no staff. You’ll have to see to your own needs.” He was standing on the landing by then. “I’m sure your agency has warned you of my...disposition.”

“Yes. I’ve been warned.” Not enough, though, not enough, she thought. Or perhaps she should have listened to Charlie more closely. But, still, the pay would be worth it. She hoped.

“Good. Then I can dispense with pleasantries. You’ll find a small stairway in the second-floor hall that leads straight up to your room.”

“Fine, yes, then I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes. Tonight.” As he walked away, she was unable to tear her eyes away from his retreating form.

Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the entry hall. Or so she thought.

* * *

It was a testament to Penrose’s desperation that she stayed the day in that strange mansion. Forty-one rooms and she had walked through fourteen of them before her fear got the better of her and she went and sat in the front parlor, which was so large it was more of a great room. Not a person or servant had shown themselves, and yet the house looked well maintained and orderly. One thing drove her crazy—no matter where she went in the mansion, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking.

The front parlor had a large picture window that looked out over the front lawn. The view was like a fancy oil painting, with a serene pond and a large oak tree standing watch over it. It was easy to imagine a family gathering in this very room every evening, playing games and enjoying the twilight hours. But the eerie quiet of the house belied that image. It was a tomb. And even though the house was dead quiet, save for the clock, something else unsettled her even more. She was standing, staring out of the window and wondering exactly what it was, when the realization hit her.

It felt as if someone was watching her.

The sensation was similar to what she’d felt when she first arrived. But it didn’t seem like nonsense this time. It was very real, and she spun around, eyes darting left and right, skimming the room. What did she expect to find? This was silly. She had the sudden urge to be free of the house, to stand outside in the sun, where everything made sense. There was nothing scary with the wind in your hair and the sunshine on your cheeks.

Her mind was made up. She would go outside. As she walked from the room, she glanced at the door frame and something caught her eye. A growth chart had been carved into the frame. Names and dates were scratched into the wood, noting the heights of children as they grew. All the scratchings were muted and dulled with age.

The tallest carving was dated 1865 and inscribed with the name Carrick. Twenty-one years ago; the same year she was born. She guessed Carrick’s age at thirty-seven or so. Penrose ran her finger over the mark. He would have been too young to head off to war. She noticed other names, Carville and Sampson, that were almost as high as Carrick’s. Older brothers, she reasoned, though the last dates etched for them were 1861 and 1862.

Penrose almost missed the last marking. It was so very low on the frame. She had started to walk away when her gaze caught the raw color of the newly scratched wood. There was no date, but the scar was so fresh that it had to be recent. Only the initials C.J. were visible, carved crudely, angular and far too large.

On the other side of the door frame, there were other odd markings. Tally marks—single lines gouged in the wood, with a slash running diagonally through them. Someone was counting in blocks of five, and there were dozens and dozens of blocks. She didn’t know what to make of it and ran her fingers over the gouges, wondering.

She went outside the double doors at the rear of the house. There was a small flight of stairs that ended on a gravel path. Pecan trees dotted the rear lawn before they gave way to marshy grasses. The Ashley River flowed in the distance, dark as mud and slow as honey. Immediately, she felt better, walking along with the sweet aromas of the summer flowers perfuming the air. Honeybees flew lazy arcs around her head. She walked until the heat got the better of her.

It was getting late. She wanted to be well rested for work. When she turned around to head back inside the manor, what she saw stopped her cold. There was a stone cellar beneath the house, and in the window she saw two figures bent over as if working at a desk. For a long time, she stood there, hand on her hip, staring at the window.

They didn’t move. She walked forward, slow as molasses in winter, her eyes trained on the window. She was half expecting one of them to jump up and scare her silly just for their own amusement. But, no, they were dark and still shadows in the dull shine of the windows. Standing and staring at them, she almost wished they would jump out and scare her. At least she’d know they were real people, then.

They definitely weren’t real, or if they were, they were fantastic at posing perfectly still. There wasn’t anything human about them. The way their bodies slumped looked awkward, a position that no one could hold for very long. Resting her hand on the wall of the house, she bent over the railing and tried to get a better look.

She had to lean out quite a ways before the shine on the window disappeared and she saw them clearly. They were faceless and formless wooden beings, slumped over in their chairs. The wood was perfectly cut and shaped to form odd, rounded limbs, hands like paddles and oval-shaped heads. They had no features on their faces, only smooth, dark wood.

Much as she tried to muffle her thoughts, Charlie’s words about Carrick and voodoo spells kept popping up. What kind of man was he?

After backing away from the window, she turned and ran back into the house. She may have been desperate and the pay might have been high, but it might not be high enough to make her stay here.

She went to find her room, her skirts sweeping the floor as she walked. She climbed the stairs to the second floor, gripping the balustrade with one hand and her air-light valise in the other. A stretch of red carpet covered the hallway. Dust bunnies gathered at the edges of the baseboards.

There were so many doors. Which one was his? She slowed, listening at each door, goose bumps on her skin, afraid he would somehow know and yank open the door. But all was quiet. Finally, she found the small stairwell at the end of the hall. Grim narrow steps rose in a tight spiral, and she had to focus on her feet as she climbed. A single door welcomed her at the landing and she stepped inside a large and airy attic that had been converted into a room. Though sparsely appointed, it pleased her.

Certainly it was a huge improvement over the storage closet she’d slept in for the past six months. A bed and dresser were tucked in a corner and there was a closet against one wall. A circular window, the biggest she’d ever seen, looked out across the front lawn. She ran her hands over the sill. The ledge was big enough that she could crawl up onto the sill, curl up and survey at the grounds.

She undressed and stretched out on the bed, relaxing against the pillow. But that creeping sensation returned again, the feeling that someone was watching her. She crawled under the covers and pulled them to her chin. It helped a little bit. Dimly, she heard the grandfather clock toll eleven mellow chimes. It was still morning. It felt like a lifetime since she’d first arrived at the manor. The lids of her eyes felt heavy. She gave in to the urge and closed them.

A few moments later, a strange shuffling noise grabbed her attention. It was an odd, sliding, shifting sound, like a cotton sack being dragged along a floor. Rising and wiping the sleep from her eyes, she went to the door and looked down the stairs. They were empty. But the sound persisted. She went completely still to pay attention.

The walls. The sound was coming from within the walls. A tight wave of icy fear swept her body as she listened. What a fool she’d been to race over here and hop on the easy-money bandwagon. That scraping, swooshing noise just wouldn’t stop.

Penrose sighed. Better to know. It was always better to know.

In her white cotton underthings and with her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, she tiptoed to the wall. She pressed her ear to the wooden panels. Silence. But something or someone was there. Taking shallow breaths, she walked along slowly, swallowing often to keep the bile from her throat. Again. A scratching. Scraping. Following the noise, she traced her finger over the plaster, drawing closer to the source. When the sound increased suddenly, she knew she’d located it. The sound was low to the ground. Dropping to her knees, she pressed her head to the wall and closed her eyes. The noise was quite distinct and just on the other side.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, surprised by the sharpness in her voice.

Complete silence. Then, distantly, the sound dimmed, more scratching. Still as stone, she stood, her whole being focused on the sound as it drifted farther away until there was only the sharp, quick hiss of her own breathing. She returned to her bed shaken, convinced she’d never sleep again, let alone take an afternoon nap. But she was wrong and fell quickly asleep.

* * *

Carrick Arundell parted the thick curtains and looked out at the unfamiliar sight of the afternoon sun. He hated the day, hated that aching yellow ball inching its way across the sky. It did nothing but bruise his eyes and burn his skin. It was the night he lived for—for the long, dark hours when the world was asleep and he emerged to create his inventions.

On most mornings, the rising sun was easy to ignore. Except for today. He’d twisted and turned in bed, reluctantly watching a streak of sunlight stretch across the floor. Finally, he’d given in. There would be no sleep today.

It didn’t sit well with him. He needed his energy. A thousand small setbacks plagued his project, and every single one had to fall into place before the mechanical man took his first step.

Now he could add one more setback. An image that he couldn’t get out of his mind. His new assistant standing in the doorway, pure midnight from head to toe. Black dress, black bonnet, black hair and a winter-white face peering out at the world. Any man would be tempted. But he wasn’t any man. He couldn’t afford to be.

No, it was more than that. It wasn’t just the project. It was the sight of her stepping back, her lips curling in disdain. The poor girl could barely talk. Dropping the curtain, he went to his wardrobe and began to dress for the evening.

Maintaining focus was crucial. Every day, his eyesight grew even weaker.

There was no choice but to control his thoughts about her. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. Quite the opposite. It was that women didn’t like him. They stepped away, turned away, or looked down at their shoes when he approached. The only companionship he’d ever known, he’d paid for. Even then, the women turned their faces away from him.

Penrose had turned away, as well, but not before he caught a glimpse of her expression in the bright flash of the lightning. She’d looked up at him in a mixture of fear and horror. He’d grown immune to such looks. But coming from her it angered him.

Long ago, his heart had turned to iron. If he had his way, he would shun everyone. Keep the whole damn world out. But he needed the help of a steady hand and a good pair of eyes. Pretty blue eyes, a voice inside him added.

He went and looked for her, and when she couldn’t be found, he went up the small flight of stairs to the servant’s bedroom. The door to her room was ajar a few inches and he peered in and saw her sleeping on the bed. Toeing the door open, he stepped inside. Maybe he should have just knocked, but it happened before he knew his foot was moving, and then he was inside the room.

He watched her sleep. It seemed wicked, an indulgence more sinful than the women he paid to lift their skirts for him. Here he was, a man of thirty-six, and he’d never once seen the serene, soft expression of a woman lost in her dreams. Her features were soft now, not guarded like when he’d first met her.

The attic was warm that afternoon. She had two high spots of color on her cheeks. Her beauty was unusual, angular even. A sharp prettiness. The kind that could cut a man. But those two spots of color flaming away against all that tumbling black hair softened her looks. She sighed, and flung an arm out, revealing bare skin all the way to the strap of her undergarment. It was damn tempting.

He heard the clock chime the half hour. A half hour of prime working time lost just watching her sleep. Like a fool.

When he reached out to wake her, he shook her much harder than he intended to. Her eyes snapped open and met his gaze. For a brief second, she looked at him openly, her expression unafraid. He wanted to stop time, to linger in that tiny moment. But then the moment was gone.

Penrose’s eyes widened and her hands clutched at the covers, instinctively pulling them higher. She was like all the rest, he realized, as he felt the shutters on his heart slam shut.

Chapter 3

Penrose came to alertness from sleep in an odd rush, as if rising from a fog. Images still swirled in her brain—of Carrick looming above her, the chandelier spinning and spinning out of control, and the glittery windows of the manor watching her with their golden gaze. She knew if she opened her eyes, it would all prove true. So she lingered, stubbornly refusing to be roused. The grip turned harder still and shook her shoulders just firmly enough that she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Finally, she looked up and right into the kaleidoscope eyes of her new employer.

“You overslept.” It sounded like an accusation coming from him. The shadowy light of the afternoon made him appear deathly pale. Anger or some other emotion etched his face in a deep scowl.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice heavy with sleep. She was disoriented, staring hard at him before rubbing her eyes. It was difficult to know if she still slept and he was just a dream. “I must have been very tired,” she managed to say.

He nodded. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to get dressed. Meet me downstairs in the cellar.”

“Fine. I’ll hurry.”

He left. She jumped up and dressed quickly, blood pounding in her veins. She wasn’t sure if it was fear of him or guilt at oversleeping, but she ignored it and moved quickly. She went to the kitchen to take the stairs that led down to the cellar and was surprised to see Carrick standing at the counter, eating.

“Come. Eat,” he said, barely turning to look at her. She went and stood next to him. He held out a steaming cup of coffee for her and she grabbed it greedily and took a sip. He was eating johnnycakes. She lifted one from the basket, smeared it with butter and took a bite. It was warm and buttery.

“Tell me, Miss Heatherton,” he said, between bites, “how it is you came to the agency?”

Her stomach dropped when he mentioned the agency and she spoke quickly, trying to change the subject. “Please, my name is Penrose. But everyone calls me Penny. If you want me to call you Carrick, I’d like the same.”

“Penny it is, then,” he said, and took a swig of his coffee. “Penrose. A prominent name around here. How did you come by that as a given name?”

She froze, johnnycake in midair. She wanted to lie. It was right at the tip of her tongue, yet when she opened her mouth, the truth came tumbling out. “My father was a Penrose.”

“I see. Skeletons in the proverbial closet, then? Since the family name is your first name and not your last, I’ll ask how come he tossed over your mother?”

For some reason, his harsh tone didn’t bother her. Nobody spoke plainly about this subject. It was a refreshing change and she found that more truths came forward. “My mother was an abolitionist.”

He made a strange noise and spit coffee out of his mouth. He laughed, hunched over next to the counter. Finally he regained his composure. “A Penrose and an abolitionist? Now that’s funny. They are the most painfully backward family on God’s good planet Earth. So, was your mother able to sway him to her point of view?”

“No. Then he died in battle right before the end of the Civil War. Just before I was born.”

“Hearts and beliefs are the two hardest things to change. You were born at an interesting time. You were born before or after the Civil War ended?”

“More than that, I was born on the very last day of the war. At midnight, in fact. My mother said that they had to choose what day to pick as my birthday. Obviously, my mother chose after the war.”

He went completely still. “My, my, my. A midnight baby, and on the last day of the war? The very last minute? You’re doubly cursed, Penny. Can’t you see it? One foot on the bright side of freedom and one foot in the shameful past. A suspicious mind might say you’re destined to live two lives.”

There was something sinister about him standing there—easy as you please—talking about curses. “I wouldn’t dare believe in such nonsense. I’m a practical sort.” But her words sounded forced, a bit too high.

“Are you, now?”

She nodded and took a bite of the corn bread. Silence fell over the room.

A few minutes later, he spoke up. “Ready to work?”

They walked down the stairs. This house had so many stairways, she thought to herself. The foyer. The attic. The kitchen. It was as if the house intended for people to get lost in it. Cool air rising from the cellar swirled around her as she followed him the last few steps into the workshop, looked around and struggled to keep her chin from dropping to the floor.

She couldn’t take even one more step. Not one. The room was simply too much to absorb. She could only stand and stare dumbly. It wasn’t so much the space. Oh, it was impressive—cavernous, cool and dark, with high ceilings and a fireplace big enough to stand it. It was more the feel of the room. Expectation hung in the air, with the sharp smells of woodsmoke and oil. Every inch of the floor was crammed with odds and ends, books, piles of gleaming metal bits, cords, tubes, wires and tools. She felt as though she’d entered a deep and secret mine where magical things could be wrenched free.

Her entire life had been orderly. Downtrodden, perhaps, but orderly. Their little home had been converted to a humble finishing school, the kind the middle-class folks sent their daughters to. She grew up amid books that were neatly shelved and papers that were always stacked neatly. There was the feeling of possibility in the school, too—and it felt wonderfully familiar. But the school had provided an orderly process of discoveries. This room was chaos. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“It used to be the kitchen,” Carrick said, walking to the fireplace and tossing a handful of tinder into it. He struck a match and threw it onto the wood. A flame blazed to life. He fanned it, sending a hiss and spray of sparks into the air. “When my project outgrew the library, I moved the kitchen upstairs and took over this room.” He gathered some logs and fed them to the growing blaze. Even though it was high summer, the cellar was chilly, so she welcomed the heat.

Carrick walked about the room lighting lamps and candles. He handed a candle to Penrose, and she helped him with the rest. He continued, “The problem with this room is the lack of light. I have lamps on all the walls, but the large open space where I do my work needs even more light.”

A schematic of the human body hung on one wall. Another had a large calendar. And then she saw what had scared her silly earlier—the wooden beings slumped in their chairs. Her heart stopped, she swore it did, and she brought her hand to her chest to feel its beat before relaxing a bit. What did he do with them?

“Are you coming?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He continued, “Though lamplight is fine, the direct brightness affects my eyes. I prefer candles close by. You’ll be making candles for me. I require special ones.”

“I see,” she said, making a mental note to arrive early and have the workroom lit and ready for him.

He gestured toward the center of the room, where a huge work area made up of many tables pushed together formed a half circle. In the center of the tables, something large bulged from underneath a blanket. Whatever it was, it was larger than a man and twice as wide.

Approaching, she held the candle in the air. “What is it?” she asked, unable to hide the wonder in her voice.

Carrick stood behind her. She neither heard his approach nor felt his presence, so when he spoke, it startled her. He stood inches away. “That is the future. A mechanical man.” He held up his candle. “Go ahead, pull the blanket off.”

She bent down, yanked the blanket away, and the mechanical man stood before her. She blinked and looked up. He was tall, taller than Carrick, taller than any man she’d ever seen. He had a barrel chest, a boxy head and two small lanterns that served as eyes. Wide shoulders sat atop his torso and rivets ran up and down his body like buttons. He resembled a metallic boxer, stout and strong, his skin glistening silver-orange in the firelight.

“What does he do?” she asked in awe. “Can he even move?”

“Anything you want,” Carrick said with pride. “Within reason, of course.”

He seemed to burst with life. He seemed solid. Dependable. But there was something threatening about a heap of metal sculpted into the shape of a human. Some inner part of her recoiled. Not a big part, but enough of a part to steal her words for a few moments as she took in the sight of him. Him. Funny that she thought of it in such familiar terms already.

“Just like in those paperback novels,” she said. She’d once read a scary story about a man who built a steam-powered person and then attached him to a buggy. The man walked across the entire country step by step. When they reached Kansas, the steam-powered man went haywire and killed the man who had created him. That was fiction. She now stood before the real thing, and she wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse about it.

“Yes. Just like in those fanciful stories. Except this one is real.” She’d almost forgotten about Carrick. Almost. But the he stood close enough behind her that when he spoke she could feel the air from his breath on the back of her neck.

“How do you give him life?” she asked. “How do you do that?” It was the thousand-dollar question in her mind. She whispered the next word. “Magic?”

He laughed harshly. “Is that what you heard?”

“Perhaps.”

“And what do you think of the things you’ve heard?”

“You’re not paying me to think about what I’ve heard.” She turned, forcing her eyes to meet his and hold his gaze. “That’s what I think.”

“You’re either very clever or very hungry.”

“Or both.”

“Are you as prim and proper as you look?” The tone of his voice changed in that instant. It grew deep and mellow, almost dreamy. But not soothing. Not by a Georgia mile.

She stood stiff, aware of the length of his body right behind hers. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. She could feel the heat from his body as surely as she could from the fire in front of her. “Now, you tell me. Do you like to be judged by the way you look?”

“Touché, Miss Heatherton.”

“Penny. Call me Penny.”

His lips graced the tender spot behind her ear. “Penny,” he whispered, saying the name so low that it came not as a sound but as a rumble against her skin. Then he was gone, the hard strike of his boots ringing out on the stone. She was left with a wave of cool air. He strode in front of her to the mechanical man. “Does he scare you?”

“Yes. He makes me nervous. It’s a feeling I can’t describe. But I’m drawn to him,” she answered, unsure if she was referring to the mechanical man or to him.

He was quiet. “Some quake in their shoes when they see him,” he finally said.

“What’s his name?”

“Name?” He laughed, a mellow, rolling, velvety sound. “He doesn’t have one, of course.”

“But he has to have a name. How can you create something that looks so, well, humanlike—and not give it a name?”

“You can name him. It makes no difference to me.”

“Harris.” The name came to her instantly and once she spoke it, it fit nicely. “We’ll call him Harris.”

“Harris,” he said thoughtfully, walking to Harris and running a finger along his steely arm. “That sounds fine. And yes, to answer your question, he can move. When he’s functioning. But that’s part of the problem. Somewhere inside of him, a gear is tooled wrong. The timing is off, so he can’t walk. I’ve altered the design a million times. It seems there’s always a fatal flaw, and I always discover the flaw too late to correct it. Then I’m forced to destroy my creation and start again. I’m hoping that I’ve discovered the flaw in time.”

She looked up. “How do you know that all flaws are fatal? Perhaps you shouldn’t design them with one goal in mind but rather an open idea of their potential.”

He turned. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for, Penny.”

“Thank you.” She felt a rush of pleasure at his compliment.

The heat from the fire filled the room, making sweat break out on her forehead.

“You grasp the fundamental concept. One that I’m aware of. The earlier types I created were simply too crude. It’s been an agony just to get to this most basic creation. And even though I love doing it, I rue the day I first got the idea.” He sighed and went to the windows, opening them first before going to the doors and propping them open, too.

“My apologies. I get too wrapped up in it.” Sweet night air filled the room. A pleasant, earthy smell filled the room, carried up from the river by the wind.

He walked over to a wall where a poster of the human anatomy hung. Pencil marks and notes covered the simple drawing of the human being. “I have a question for you. What do you think is more important, form or function?”

Penrose thought for a moment about whether beauty or purpose should be held in higher regard. “Well, I think the function should be the guiding principle.”

“Agreed.”

“Whenever possible, the form should be pleasing, as well.”

His eyes moved from the picture to Penrose. “Very good. I’m pleased. Ideally there would be a balance between the two.”

He went to the wall and placed his hand over the image of the human hand. He was a big man, tall, and his hands eclipsed the one on the diagram. “The real key to designing a mechanical man is to decide where form and function join. Where they come together.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I need to reduce form to its barest minimum. Man will never be able to reproduce the complexity of the human body. It’s up to me to decide what’s essential and what I can leave out to save on engineering costs and time.” He looked back to the poster. “What is the most basic element of being human? If you can answer that, then my instinct says you’ll also have perfect form.”

He saw the confused look on her face and approached her. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold out your arm.”

She lifted her arm and held it straight out to the side. He put one hand on her waist. “May I?” he asked.

Nodding, she felt strangely giddy.

He lifted his other hand to her shoulder. Using two fingers, he traced a path down her extended arm. Fire followed his touch. She wrenched her lips closed to contain a gasp.

He whispered, “I need to decide what part of this arm is inconsequential. Of course, it’s all perfect in the flesh, but I eliminate what’s not necessary, and decide what is essential.”

His hand stretched out to grasp hers. He lifted her arm high above her head and stepped closer, bringing the scent of pinewood shavings with him. “The question is, what is it that allows you to raise your arm like this?”

“Muscles,” she replied in a whisper.

“Of course. And tendons, too. The delicate interplay between them, when to pull and when to push, that’s what matters most. That’s what fascinates me.” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “The real question, the one we’re not asking, is what gives the signal to these muscles, what tells them to move?”

He let go of her arm and tapped her temple. “This does. Right in here. That is something we’ll never, ever be able to replicate. But I want to.”

He was so close she could count his eyelashes. He kept speaking, but she heard nothing save for the pounding in her heart. Her nipples tightened, and the sensation unnerved her. Her cheeks burned, and she tried to step back to gather her wits. She felt fear and excitement, a potent combination. He was unlike any man she’d ever known and she wasn’t sure what to say.

He pulled away, a cold look settling over his features. “Did the agency tell you what your duties would be?”

“A little bit,” she said, turning away, trying to hide the flash of shame because there was no agency. Mrs. Capshaw would be the end of her, she just knew it.

He pointed out a simple desk, off to the side. “Part of the time, you’ll work there. Taking notes. Sketching for me. The rest of your time will be spent helping me tool the components. I struggle to see those small details, which is what caused the problem I have to begin with.”

“That sounds fine,” she said. She looked again at the wooden figures, remembering how mysterious and lifelike they looked from outside the window. There was no life in them now. They looked defeated, slumped. Ropes bound them to the chairs and held them upright. They had no faces, no features. The wood had been whittled and etched away to reveal the essence of a human body. Arms, legs, hands.

Yet they were beautiful. It was as if whittling them down hadn’t made them less—it made them more. It brought out their essence. She walked toward them and gingerly touched one on the shoulder, half expecting it to turn and look at her. “What are they?” she asked in a hushed tone, afraid of his answer, knowing full well how silly she was being. But there was definitely something curious about this man.

“Mannequins. My earliest attempts. I keep them because I have a fondness for them. They remind me that progress is possible. Why? Did you think I used them for another purpose?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

* * *

It was too hot. Carrick stood at the door, lingering and scraping his boot absentmindedly back and forth over the gravel. Her hands didn’t flutter. That was the first thing he noticed. Some of the others that came here stood trembling, their hands fluttering like trapped butterflies as they stared up at the mechanical man—Harris. Hell, even he thought of him as Harris now.

But her? He saw it. Interest. She looked afraid, yes. But for one brief instant, he saw the spark of wonder. Plus, she named him. That had to be a good sign. She might be the one to help him for the long, hard haul that he knew lay ahead.

Her gasp when she first saw the mechanical man was the single most heavenly sound he’d ever heard. They both saw the same thing in his invention—potential—he knew it in his bones. Of course, he’d become too excited, got too close and scared her. Scared her. Scaring people was something he was far too good at.

Even with that painful disappointment, his spirits were still riding high because she just might work out. Her intellect was apparent. Other assistants worked methodically but without vigor, and he felt the burden of constantly explaining task after task to someone who didn’t care to learn the concepts or take leaps of initiative. He held out hope that she might work out just fine.

“How long have you been designing the mechanical man?” she asked, turning to look at him with those blue, blue eyes, and he found himself struggling to pay attention to her words.

“Six years.”

“Six years?” Her perfect lips made an O of surprise. “That’s a long time to remain committed to something that still hasn’t born results.”

“The results? The end?” He laughed. “What’s that? Every morning when I go to bed, I have to restrain my mind from dwelling on my project. I would think of it all day, every single moment, if I could.”

* * *

Penrose returned to her desk and began working again, but the uneasy, flighty feeling in her chest lingered. The feeling was strange, excitement and fear mingled together. He was exciting to be around, but he was a volatile person. And mysterious. Her stomach twisted at the memory of his hand on her shoulder.

He paced the room while he spoke. She took notes. Scribbling furiously, she did her best to keep up with him. His ideas were explosions of brilliance, and as he spoke, she slipped into a kind of trance, channeling his words directly onto the paper.

He spoke of the function of the mechanical man, of ways to solve the dilemma with the gears, of the possible need to retool some of them and the supreme need for flexibility of design.

It was revealing to hear his thoughts aloud and easy to take measure of his mind. He had an organized way of thinking, linear and clear. His ideas were concise and simple to understand, and her pen flew across the paper. At times, he paced the floor or hesitated before speaking. She waited, pen in the air, and as soon as his words began to flow once again her scratchings on the paper renewed.

He came and stood behind her. After discussing the particularly difficult redesign of a gear, he put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Did that make sense? I think if we change the ratio, the output will be stronger.”

A twist of nervousness tightened within her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. The sight of him—tall and regal, with his white hair framing his handsome face—affected her, making her breath heavy.

“Yes,” she said, nodding as if she understood perfectly. But the only thing she understood was his hand and those long elegant fingers resting on her shoulder.

She couldn’t breathe. More than anything she wanted to rest her cheek on that hand, to feel it caress her skin. Never before had she reacted in such a way. Something strange was happening.

Somehow, her pen kept moving, danced across the paper and finished the last sentence. The realization that she wanted more of that touch made her hand shake and her script wobbly.

He had such passion. A singular-minded obsession. She wondered what it would it be like if he lavished that passion on her.

The thought flamed her cheeks, and she pulled away from him, turning her head. Instantly, his hand disappeared from her shoulder. She wanted to face him and say something, but what could she say? Nothing at all.

Stepping away, he continued speaking, pacing the floor. And she continued writing as if nothing had passed between them.

She wrote so much her fingers hurt, and the tips of them became stained with ink. It felt like an instant later the grandfather clock tolled the midnight hour. Time seemed to speed up when she was with him.

She stretched her tired, achy fingers, waiting for the chimes to stop and Carrick to start lecturing again. But as soon as the clock fell silent, another sound rang out.

It was the sound of crashing noises coming from outside, and the second she heard them, a terrible sense of foreboding settled over her.

* * *

As soon as Carrick heard the crashing sounds coming from outside the workshop he was up and out the door. He didn’t know what he was expecting—C.J. maybe, up to some antics—but when he went outside only the summer breeze greeted him. He looked around. Nothing.

He heard the faint sound of a woman’s gasp. It was light and breathy with an air of surprise and something else, something he couldn’t name.

He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing just outside the circle of light that came from the window. She wore all white and had a sheen of yellow hair that trailed just below her shoulders.

An angel. That was his first thought. She floated out there in the darkness, hovering with a strange look of fear and longing on her face. Such longing.

She couldn’t be a ghost. No such thing. “Hey,” said Carrick sharply. “What are you doing out here?”

Instead of replying, she shook her head slowly and began to back away.

“Hey!” he called again, louder now.

The woman began backing away, the shadows swallowing her. “Stop!” he said, “Don’t go. Tell me who you are.”

Penrose came and stood right behind him, her body pressed against his.

“What is it?” she asked, craning to see outside. “No!” she shouted, surprising him so much that he startled. “Go away!” The tone of her voice was frightened. More than frightened.

“Do you know that woman?” Carrick asked.

The woman turned to Penrose, and something passed between them. He felt it like a bolt of lightning.

The woman outside looked angry, beyond angry. Her posture was rigid. She lifted her hand and pointed at Penrose. For a moment, it looked as if the blonde were about to speak, but she shook her head again and, in a swirl of white skirts, turned and fled.

Some primal instinct flared inside of him, and he took off running after her. No one should be on the property. He didn’t know what she was up to, but he fully intended to find out.

“No, Carrick!” screamed Penrose. “Don’t follow her!”

He paid Penrose no attention. “Stop!” he shouted to the woman. It was dark. He had trouble enough seeing at night, let alone running through the trees.

He heard her crashing through the woods, and this made her easier to follow. He loped along behind her, his long legs closing the distance between them. Her crashing sounds were getting louder by the second. Once he caught her, he would get to the bottom of this little mystery.

* * *

A heavy, oppressive feeling settled in Penrose’s chest. As soon as she saw the woman, she knew her ruse was up. Her breath died in her chest at that moment. So did the little feeling of hope that finally she had started to feel. She should’ve known the scheme would end badly.

Anytime she tried to get ahead, something came along and set her back. Now Carrick was out there, chasing that woman, that beautiful, perfect woman who by all rights should be standing right where Penrose stood.

Now alone in the quiet workshop, feeling numb, Penrose looked around her. The budding hope that had begun to grow inside of her was already dying. She looked around, trying to memorize everything in the room because she knew she would be leaving. Carrick would show up any minute, yell at her and kick her out. She’d never see the workshop or Harris again. Or Carrick. Her reaction surprised her.

In one quick fix, she had thought she could solve her problems. But she’d only made them worse.

She noticed that her fingers were stained with ink, and she went to the table, picked up a rag and began wiping the stains away. Minutes dragged by, and when the clock gonged again—one in the morning—the door swung open.

Carrick filled the doorway. He looked wild. His white hair stood on edge.

Penrose’s hands stilled and fell to her side. The rag dropped to the floor.

He stared at her long and hard, his shoulders squared, and he took great, heaving breaths.

She wasn’t sure how to react. She was too afraid to say anything, to reveal anything at all. Perhaps he hadn’t caught up with her.

But one look at his face told her he had, indeed. More than caught up with her, she realized, noticing the angry set of his lips. He’d spoken with her.

In three strides, he crossed the room. She barely had time to gather her breath before he loomed over her, his beautiful, angry features hovering right above her face. “What trickery are you up to, Penny?”

He knew. It was over. A horrid wrenching twisted in her gut, but something else was there, too, some wild, fluttery, panicked sensation. A painful feeling of loss and shame. She didn’t want him to think badly of her. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I never intended...”

He shook his head slowly. “The conversation I just had with that woman,” he said, walking around her. “And the things I’ve learned about you.” He stopped, leaned forward and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look into his strange eyes. Angry eyes that seemed to swirl with dark colors. “It seems you weren’t honest with me, were you?”

“No,” she whispered, too flustered to come to any self-defense of her behavior. She felt the hole that she’d dug widening beneath her feet, and the blackness threatening to swallow her up. If only she could look away from his eyes, but his hand at her chin was no longer gentle. It held her tight.

“What game you play, I don’t know,” he said. “But you will not win it. This I guarantee you—you will not win it. You came and looked me in the eyes, and deceived me.” He leaned close. She smelled the woods on him and the scent of summer blooms. “I know your secret. And I wager there are even more to find out, and, trust me, I’ll find every single one.”

Penrose knew what he was talking about. He was talking about her. About the blonde. “Please, you’re scaring me,” she said. Her words came out too soft, too weak. “Where did she go?” she asked him.

His chest pressed against hers, and he made no accommodation for her at all. She was forced to hold her breath. He said, “Do you care where she went? Do you really care as long as she’s not here?” He stepped even closer, forcing her tighter against the table. “And why is she here, Penny? Do you know that?”

“I needed a job,” she whispered her confession. Her eyes met his, imploring him to have sympathy. “I was hungry. I didn’t know...” Her voice trailed off.

“She gave me the impression you knew a great many things, Penny. And that you weren’t so innocent, that you committed a crime against her, and now she suffers for it,” he said. “Her words, not mine.”

His demeanor was decidedly very, very different, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Mrs. Capshaw be damned to hell. “I’ll leave,” she whispered.

He chuckled, and the threat behind it gave her shivers. “You’ll do no such thing. You made your bed—now you’ll lie in it.” Lifting her chin higher, he leaned closer until his lips touched her ear. “Or you can lie in mine, if you prefer,” he said. “In fact, she mentioned something of the sort.”

Not one word came to her lips. Not one. She could only breathe, but even that was a struggle—little gasps that caused her breasts to push against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered.

“Are you?” With his other hand, he traced up the side of her torso. Higher and higher, skimming over her breast, her shoulders, until his long fingers caressed the back of her neck and edged into her upswept hair.

Yes, his demeanor had changed so very much. Whatever the woman had said, she unleashed a new man in Carrick.

Penrose closed her eyes, unsure if this was even real. But her body told her it was real, very real, for it throbbed with life and feeling.

With his other hand, he traced a thumb over her lips, and she whimpered.

“Perhaps she wasn’t lying.” His voice, now at her ear, smooth and cajoling, seemed to be speaking right into her soul. “Are you afraid of me?” His voice was so, so low.

With his thumb on her lips, she couldn’t speak. She shook her head no. But she was trapped and could only stand there, enduring the feel of him.

He removed his thumb. “Let me repeat my question. Are you afraid?”

She couldn’t keep lying to him. Oh, she wanted to, but her pounding heart wouldn’t let her think of an excuse. “Yes,” she said, nodding. It was everything about him. His sharp, strange beauty. His odd ways. The way he frightened her.

But it was too late to say anything. His fingers guided her to look at him and then his mouth descended onto hers, deceptively soft.

She stilled, hardly believing what was happening. But it was happening.

He drew her closer, enveloping her, holding her against him. His kiss turned hard and demanding. Anger lurked underneath. She knew it from the way his lips slashed, hot and accusing, over hers.

It wasn’t merely anger. It was more than that. Something almost dangerous. Seductive.

Sinking, melting, she surrendered to the feeling. He tugged at her lips, coaxing her mouth to open and then his tongue thrust inside, claiming her. Triumphant.

Heat spread between her legs. An odd sound escaped her mouth, and a shiver swept over her. Her whole body shook from it, surprising her.

Her reaction seemed to inflame Carrick. A rumble came from his throat, and his kiss grew bolder, hungrier. All night long, his touch had been measured and precise. Incremental. Now it turned wild. Uncontrolled. His hands swept up her skirt hungrily, grabbing fistfuls of fabric, digging for her body beneath. When he found it, he growled and pressed against her, and she felt his hardness through the folds of her skirt. It made a pulse of pleasure beat between her legs.

From deep inside, an unrestrained, breathy shudder swept over her body. She whimpered and pressed farther into his kiss, overwhelmed with wanting him.

He stilled. Through her dress, she felt his hands clench angrily. “Dammit,” he said harshly. “I can’t do this.” He stepped away from her. “I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding her gaze, already turning away from her. “It’s too damned complicated. More than that. God, it’s so much more than that.”

Reaching out and putting a hand on his chest, she leaned up and tried to kiss him. “Please.” She didn’t want it to stop.

“You are young and foolish,” he said in a measured voice.

Taken aback, she stared at him hard before she said, “And you have no heart.”

“Now you know the truth of it. My real affliction. Let’s get back to work and forget this ever happened.”

Chapter 4

Penrose went to bed agitated, filled with thoughts of his touch. Her lips were still numb from his kiss. Her body still betrayed her attraction to him. She lay on the bed, certain that she wouldn’t be able to sleep and that images and memories of Carrick would haunt her. She snuggled deep under the covers, trying to block out the sun.

She had finally settled in and let out a long sigh, when a sound came from behind the walls. The noise continued for a moment, and then it stilled, too, almost as if whoever or whatever made the noise realized she was listening.

A sharp zing of terror shot up her spine. She held her breath, not breathing, waiting for the sound to begin again. It did. Slow, halting little noises. Self-aware noises, as if the need to be quiet was paramount. No. This wouldn’t do. She simply had to find out what caused the sounds.

She sighed in an exaggerated manner and made rustling noises from the bed. She slipped quietly from the bed, her feet hitting the floor softer than a mouse’s, and then she padded with delicate footsteps to the wall. Leaning close, she pressed her ear to the wall. And that was when she saw it.

The morning sun slanted just right over the wood, illuminating all the imperfections and she saw a minute gap between two of the boards. Tracing her eyes along the gap, she saw hinges that were hidden so well in the pattern of the wood that she’d never have seen them if she weren’t looking for them. They were painted white to match. Once she found the hinges, the outline of the secret door was easy to spot.

She dug her fingernails into the gap and pulled. Nothing. Following a hunch, she placed her palms on the wood, and pressed quick and hard. She was rewarded with the sound of a click, and the door sprung open.

The pale face of a child appeared. Violet eyes, big as dinner plates, stared into her very soul. She careened backward, struck by a shock stronger than lightning. Down she went, landing in an awkward, crab-like position, gasping, staring into the wide and shocked amethyst eyes of a child.

Three or four breaths passed before the child broke her gaze, spun around and began to scurry into the tunnel.

Her heart pounded so hard that she should have fainted, but anger rose up hard. Swiftly, she dived forward, plunged her arm into the hold and grabbed the child by the ear. A yowl came from the tunnel, and she pulled with all her might until the body of the child—a boy—came tumbling out and lay on the floor. Wide eyes—he looked just as shocked as she felt—stared into hers. The boy lay panting. Eight years old, she guessed. Pale like Carrick, white hair and bright skin.

“Who are you?” She sounded possessed, her words strangled.

No answer. She twisted her grip on his ear. “Tell me, child.”

“C.J.,” he spit out. His little face twisted in anger. “Now leave off.”

“No. I’ll not leave off.” She said. “Who? What?” Her thoughts were tumbling as she struggled to understand exactly what she was seeing. “What in God’s name are you doing crawling around in the walls?”

“I live in there.” He threw the words out. Almost boastfully. “It’s where I belong.”

“No one belongs hidden in the walls. No one.” She let go of his ear. Her hands were shaking. “Who are you?”

“I told you my name is C.J. For Carrick, Junior. Son of the great inventor.” His tone was biting. “Only I’m not his son. No matter what my ma said.”

“Don’t be so hateful,” she hissed. “And what do you mean by your ma said?”

“I mean when she was alive. That’s what I mean. She died. Last summer. That’s why I came here to live.”

“I’m sorry she died. But this is madness! A child living in the walls!”

He looked away and slid his foot from side to side across the floor. “It happens. Life isn’t all roses.”

She agreed with him on that point. “No, C.J., it’s not. But how come...” She struggled for words. “Why aren’t you in a bedroom? In the house?” A horrible thought came to her. “Does he make you stay there?”

He laughed bitterly, a sound no child should ever make. “He didn’t make me go in there. But he sure doesn’t mind.”

“You shouldn’t be so hateful toward your father,” she said. “Surely he must care for you.” But she doubted her words even as she said them.

“That’s what you think.”

“Hey, now,” she said, trying to be friendly. She put her hand on his shoulder, and she noticed with some relief that it had finally stopped shaking.

“Stop!” He pushed her hand away, his entire body curling from her touch.

“Okay, okay,” she replied. “I’m sorry. Listen, it’s strange to crawl about in the walls. Maybe I should talk to Carrick. You need to be out of the walls. For your safety.”

His look turned sly and challenging. “Go right ahead. Miss Penny. Yes, I know your name.” His chest puffed up. “I’m none of his concern. I’m no one’s concern but my own. Least of all yours.” He darted away, quicker than a rifle shot, diving right back into the tunnel.

Though the thought of entering the dark space made her shudder, she dropped to her knees and raced behind him through the little door. Light shone from behind her and lit the way ahead. Once she crawled in, the space opened up, and she was able to stand, though just barely. The walls were tight at her shoulders. The space unnerved her, and she considered turning around but didn’t. “C.J?” she called out. “Come back. Please. I can help.” She wasn’t quite sure how, but she’d at least try. She crept forward until she saw a wall ahead, and just before the wall, the floor opened up into a hole.

Here she stopped, looked over and saw a wooden ladder fastened to the wall. Rough ridges were gouged into the floor. Markings, she realized, so that in the dark the child would know where the hole was, and he wouldn’t fall through it. Peering down the hole, she was afraid and yet mesmerized by it. She wouldn’t dare descend into those depths. Ever.

C.J. made rustling noises as he scooted around in the darkness.

“I’ll know if you come up here again!” she called to him. The movements stopped, and she took it to mean that he was listening. “The next time you come to my room, announce yourself by knocking.” She added, in a kinder tone, “And I’ll invite you in. I could use a friend, you know!” Her voice echoed in the hollow space before dying away.

She made her way back through the tunnel and crawled from the hole. Then she climbed into bed and lay, panting and coated in dust, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the bizarre events of the day until, finally, she slept.

Penrose slept all day. In the late afternoon, a shaft of sunlight bathed her bed and woke her. She stood, went to the window and looked outside. Charleston was glorious. It always was in the summertime, but there was something special about the light in the last days of summer. The colors were bright and rich, almost dreamlike. But she barely enjoyed the sight because she was so very angry at Carrick. A child in the walls. Sickening.

The grandfather clock began to chime, a distant, dim sound. It was time for work. Penrose tidied herself and went downstairs, her mind stewing.

He was waiting for her beneath the chandelier. The second she saw him, she flew down the stairs, rushed right up to him. “How come you didn’t tell me you had a son?” she asked, and then her voice turned shrill and accusing. “A son who lives in the walls? The walls!”

“I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask.” His eyes were a maddening swirl of colors as a sneer cracked his lips apart. “You said it yourself. You’re not paid to wonder or worry. So don’t. It’s none of your concern.”

“None of my concern!” Her hands flew up in the air. “He’s a child! Who is caring for him? He’s lost his mother. He needs parenting. If you’re letting him run loose in the walls, who feeds and clothes him? And why doesn’t he go to school?”

“He cares for himself. And if you spend some time with him, you’ll see that the last thing C.J. needs is schooling.” He looked at her sharply.

“He’s eight!”

“He’s ten. And raising myself worked out just fine for me. I spent countless years in those walls. I survived, so I imagine he’ll survive.”

“You lived in the walls?” She couldn’t hide the shock in her voice. “Why?”

His back grew rigid. “Sometimes it’s easier not to be seen. Even in your own family.” The last words came in almost a whisper. “Especially in your own family.”

She kept thinking of the little boy’s eyes. Those eyes that looked right into her soul. “But he’s your son!” she said passionately, following him through the hallway.

“I don’t even know if he’s my child. One day, right out of the blue, he just showed up. I found him inside the house. In the hallway. He told me the sheriff dropped him off and left him because he was my son.” A muscle by his eye twitched. “Clara—his mother and a...a woman of the evening—died of consumption. Because of his coloring they assumed he was mine.”

He turned suddenly and began to walk away, heading toward the kitchen. She followed hot on his heels as he sped through the kitchen, lit a candle and then disappeared into the stairwell that led to the workshop. “I don’t even know if these things are passed father to son. My father certainly didn’t have my coloring. And my mother sure as hell wouldn’t lie with a man who had even a single flaw, let alone a grand one like mine.

“Let’s go start our work, shall we?” He began descending the tight spiral staircase, holding the candle for light.

Her steps were quick and fervent as she followed him. “Why didn’t you just deny it?”

He stopped. She bumped into his back.

Slowly, he turned around. They were mere inches apart. Even though he stood a step beneath her, he still towered over her. His gaze roamed freely over her face. “Because I couldn’t deny it,” he said. “But I couldn’t confirm it, either.”

It took a moment for the implication to sink in. She sucked in her breath. “Oh.”

“Yes,” he said, “Oh. Take a good look at me, Penrose. It’ll be no shock to you that upstanding women don’t seek out my company.”

There was some truth in his words. She was ashamed to admit it, but before today, she might have felt the same. She looked at him with fresh eyes—the uncertainty over his coloring and features was welling up once more. She still feared him. But there was no denying his strong features and wide shoulders. Or that intense, driven gaze. There was something else, too. Something she couldn’t quite name. Even now, she wanted to reach out and touch him. But her fear of him held her back.

But all she could do was say quietly, “Just because you were raised like that doesn’t mean he has to be. I wager that you are his father. He favors you in more than coloring and looks. He favors you in attitude, and that is not exactly a compliment. Now he’ll walk in your footsteps for sure and learn to squirrel himself away from the world.” She didn’t mean for her last words to sound sharp, but they did, and there was no taking it back. Trying to make it better, she said, “You’re merely pale. It’s no reason to hide.”

“No,” he said in a steely voice. His gaze swept over her face before announcing, “You are ‘merely pale.’ I am colorless.” His face contorted in anger. “You would have me teach him the world is a kind place for people like us? You want me to send him out there?” He jabbed his finger in the direction of Charleston and ground out the next words. “I’ve been out there. And even if he weren’t my son, I wouldn’t torture the child like that.” He shook his head, turned around and kept moving down the stairs. Over his shoulder, he said, “You can’t understand what it’s like to not fit in. To stick out in a painful manner. We do okay by ourselves.” His sigh echoed in the stairwell. “Now, are you planning on working or not?”

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