Page 53 of Dearest Beast
Lopez cleared his throat. “Withoutmuchassistance.”
Roger glanced at the man again. They needed to have a discussion. Later. First they needed to find his daughter. “Are there any usual places?”
“Do you really believe they haven’t looked there?” Miss Adler interjected.
Probably. Though he was not going to admit that out loud.
“Have you?” he asked the others.
Both Marguarite and Lopez nodded in the affirmative.
“I guess there’s only one thing for us to do now,” Miss Adler said,wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing crossing the room and rummaging in a cupboard.
“What is that?” Roger asked as she returned with four objects, handing one to each of them. He glanced down and found himself holding an unlit torch.
“Start searching.” She lit hers on the stove.
“You’re going to assist?” Unbidden gratitude rushed through him, despite the panic still gripping his senses.
“I enjoy being useful.” She shrugged. “Besides, I can do it with one hand,” she added, turning toward the staircase and walking into the main house. Helping, apparently. Without a word, Marguarite and Lopez followed behind, with him bringing up the rear.
Given the fact that she was the least familiar with the layout of the house and still forbidden from risking a fall on snow and ice, Rebecca decided to first search her own bedchamber, particularly the space beneath the bed, the spot the dratted cat seemed to favor.
Sure enough, the animal was there, slumbering, only to briefly open its eyes into slits and give Rebecca an ominous hiss. Replacing the coverlet, she rose and backed out of the room, away from the Berab she had the smallest desire to poke and prod.
Even if Fannie herself bit when provoked. Grimacing at the memory Rebecca moved down the hall, peeking into darkened rooms along the corridor as she went.
Glancing out the window at snowflakes swirling through the dark gray night sky, Rebecca shivered at the thought of the girl out there alone.
Though, while Fannie was quite young and thus most assuredly impulsive, in addition to being spoiled and unruly, she at leastseemed to possess the keen sense of self-preservation that kept most of their ancestors alive. With any luck.
With the rest of the search party—based on the footfalls above—concentrating on the upper floors, Rebecca found herself wandering to the place she’d not been since the first night she arrived—the hothouse off the main floor. Stepping into the room, she was once again struck by the pleasing, moist warmth coming from the ingenious piping system.
Impressive, really. Something she was not afraid to admit. Same with the fact that the roses themselves were indeed beautiful both in form and in scent. Really, the room was quite enchanting—
Rebecca’s mouth fell open as she scanned the northmost side.
The shelf where the pots should be now lay on the tiled ground, dirt and shards of pottery mixing with bent, newly grown sprouts and roots. Rebecca stared at the scene for a moment, unsure precisely what to make of matters as a small sound redirected her attention. One that resembled soft crying.
Bending a little, she scanned the area until she came upon a small form in a night shift, curled beneath the table, knees to her chest. Her head was down, her long, honey-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders in thick, messy waves.
Someone had been quite angry.
Almost certainly still was.
At whom or what was anyone’s guess and not something she had any desire to probe. Often, she made such matters worse. She shuddered at the memory of one particular dispute with an expectant father. A man whose emotions got in the way of what little sense he had. Thankfully, his wife and child came through matters safely, and all had been quickly forgotten, including his threats to ruin her reputation.
No, it would be much better to fetch Marguarite or Lopez orBerab. Permit them to handle the matter. This was not her business, nor her aptitude.
Yet something made her pause and glance again, this time noting a distinct smear of red on her shift, just above her knee.
Blast. Apparently, she stood corrected, as thiswasher business and aptitude. At least the injury, if not the person behind it.
Inhaling, Rebecca forced her way along the row before crouching down so she could duck beneath the table. Adjusting herself so she was sitting at the girl’s side, back to the outer wall, mimicking her position, Rebecca turned to Fannie.
“The trouble with revenge,” she said out loud, purposefully staring ahead instead of directly at her companion, “is it often hurts you as much or more than its intended target. Let’s take a look.” She gently unwound the girl’s left hand from its position, turning it over.
“How do you know this was revenge?” Fannie asked, fluttering her soaked lashes over her red-rimmed eyes.
