Page 38 of Wolfhaven

The moment stretched into dreadful contemplation of the terrible events that had taken place here so many years ago. The duke’s tragedy took on real weight the longer she stared at the charred planks.

Shock jolted through her when a low minor chord from the ruined pianoforte came crashing through the attic. Evaine whirled. The statue tucked into the crook of her elbow slipped from her startled grasp and thudded to the floor.

Nothing and no one stood behind them. Yet they were not alone. She sensed the presence she could not see. Blood drained from her face.

Evaine turned to Gareth and whispered, “Run.”

Chapter 19

Gareth

Ashen-faced, Evaine bolted for the attic door. On some level, he knew that trying to run away from a ghost was futile. Anywhere they fled, a phantom could get there faster. Yet his feet thudded after her under a command not his own. Irrational fear gripped him.

Perhaps not so irrational. Something had tipped over that grandfather clock. He had felt the malevolence of this place from the moment he set foot inside. This was not the first time he had experienced inexplicable phenomena.

This house did not want them here.

At the bottom of the steep stairway, Evaine abruptly stopped running. He crashed into her, grabbing her by the waist and twisting so that his shoulder hit the opposite wall instead of her face. Breathless, they stood there, panting.

“I dropped the statue,” she said in an agonized wheeze. He wanted to laugh. How could this woman care so much about a piece of carved rock?

Somehow, he had managed not to lose his grip on the male half of the two dancers. He held it up, examining it ruefully, and said, “I left my jacket up there.” Then he placed the statue on a windowsill and stared up at the attic door.

“We are ridiculous.” She chuckled mirthlessly and pressed her back against the wall, following his gaze. Perspiration dotted her forehead. Her white shirt was limp and wrinkled.

Here in the servants’ quarters it was warm, if not nearly as stifling as up in the attic. The furnishings were sparse. Nothing much to find on the third floor of the house. The servants had taken their personal belongings when they departed and the duke had never been in the habit of pampering his staff with nice furnishings. Rickety pine beds and thin mattresses were all they had been supplied with.

“One jarring noise and we bolted like jackrabbits.” Gareth chuckled. It was a relief to be able to laugh at themselves. “Imagine a grown man startled by a piano.”

“I was no braver. That sound was probably caused by a string snapping after years of neglect. My fault for testing the keys.” She sobered. Quiet unease settled between them.

They both knew that piano could not have made that sound for any natural reason. It was warped beyond recognition.

“Let’s go get your statue and my jacket. Then we can call it a day.” He should offer to go back up alone. It would be the gallant thing to do. Yet the thought of leaving Evaine’s side for even a moment when his father’s spirit was wandering about felt like too much of a risk. There was no telling what that vile man would try to do to her, even in death. He had already tried to kill her once by toppling that clock.

That would not happen on Garreth’s watch. He had failed Marina. He would not fail Evaine and Hazel, too.

Emboldened, they retraced their steps up the steep, creaking stairs, past the warped door where his jacket had fallen off the knob into a crumpled, dusty heap, and into the silent, airless main space.

“See?” Evaine said. “Nothing frightening. Only an attic filled with old junk.”

She strode ahead of him, making a beeline for where she had dropped her statue. Gareth followed. He sensed a presence watching them. Waiting as if to pounce.

Told himself it was nonsense.

Didn’t believe his own lie.

“Here it is.” Evaine bent fluidly to retrieve the heavy statue. “Undamaged, thank God. I would never have forgiven myself if I’d broken it.”

“Stone has the good fortune of being durable that way,” Gareth commented dryly.

“This is carved from alabaster, which is softer than marble, Your Grace.”

“I knew that.” He did, he hadn’t recognized the stone immediately, that’s all. White rock was all the same to him.

A squeak from behind them startled him. They jerked around in unison. Cold dread coursed through his body at the sight of the little red wagon rolling slowly across the floorboards, first slowly, gaining momentum as it creaked its way faster and faster toward the section of wall that marked the burned-out north wing. He gaped in horror as the thing crashed into the wall and bounced back hard enough to dislodge a small shape that had been propped against the back rim.

A doll fell out of the red wagon. Her porcelain head detached from the cloth body and rolled several feet away.