The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [58]
“Aoife Grayson,” I managed. My own flush crept up my face. “I’m Mr. Grayson’s daughter.”
The chambermaid screwed up a frown. “Well, I’ve never heard of you.”
I let go of her arm and stepped away. Of course she hadn’t. My father had no use for me.
“Where has everyone gone?” Cal said. “The other servants? Mr. Grayson?”
“They …” The chambermaid shuddered. Her round face went paler than dead under Cal’s lantern. “They …”
“What’s your name?” I amended, as shivers racked her frame.
“Bethina,” she quavered. “Bethina Constance Perivale.”
“I’m Aoife,” I said again. “This is Cal, and we and our friend are searching for my brother, Conrad. He’d be a bit older than me, and taller. Black hair and blue eyes. He was here … have you seen him?”
Bethina’s eyes, the shade of a Coca-Cola bottle shot through with sun, went wide. “Mr. Conrad? You’re his sister?”
“Yes. And I desperately need to find him, Bethina. Can you help me?”
Bethina’s face crumbled, moisture shine rising like dew on her cheeks as her eyes filled. “It were a terrible thing. Terrible, terrible thing what happened to Mr. Conrad.”
Even though my throat tightened with dread, I felt through my pockets for a handkerchief and held it out. The small dingy flag dangled limply between us before Bethina snatched it and gave a great heaving snort into its folds.
“Bethina,” I said gently. “Don’t cry.” That only made her louder. “Bethina!” I said, trying to sound like Marcos Langostrian, entitled to boss her. “Is that any way to behave in front of your, er, your betters?”
“I’m … I’m … s-sorry, miss,” she gulped. “I just … I’ve been here for days. Days, alone in the cold. When it gets dark …” She dissolved again and soaked my handkerchief with a fresh flood of tears.
A shuffling came from the darkness, the click of flint, and a small flame sprang to life. “You two could wake up a dead thing and get it dancing,” Dean said, hiding a yawn. “What’s the racket?”
Bethina gasped. “Who is that?”
“Dean,” I said. “This is Bethina. She worked … works for my father.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, darlin’,” Dean said. He lofted his lighter and illuminated an oil lamp hanging over the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen. Dean blew on the flame and after a breath the lamp sprang to life in sympathy, without the aid of the flame.
“Old Ones return!” Bethina gibbered. “You didn’t touch that lamp! That’s regular witchcraft!”
“Witches aren’t real,” I said automatically. “They’re stories for fools.” Conrad’s words. He always knew the right ones.
“Stories usually start true, Miss Aoife,” Dean said. “A touch of truth makes a lie worth believing.” He sat himself at the battered kitchen table and looked about. “Got any food in this dump, Bethina? I’d murder something for a sandwich.”
“I don’t want you here,” Bethina blubbered. “Any of you! You’ll let them in. The cold things and the creeping shadows. They’ll steal me away.…”
I glanced at Dean. “Can’t you do something?”
Dean grimaced. “Waterworks ain’t really my department, Miss Aoife.”
“Conrad was here,” I grated, feeling control slip. “She saw him. Talked to him.” My own tears, hot and thin and angry as Bethina’s were fat and hysteria-laden, threatened to boil over and betray me. “She has to tell me where he went. What she saw.” I took Bethina by the shoulders and gave her a shake. “Stop that infernal noise and tell me where my brother is!”
“Aoife, calm down,” Cal said. “You’re getting shrill.”
“You’re damn right I’m shrill!” I shouted. “My brother is missing and my father is gone and my shoulder aches, so forgive me if I’m not dropping a curtsy!”
Dean clapped his hands sharply. “Everybody simmer down.” He got up, moved me to the side and lifted Bethina’s chin with one finger. “Now you listen, Miss Bethina. You’re gonna leave off the fussing and talk with Miss Aoife, and I’m going to make you up something hot for your nerves. You got any coffee?”
Bethina swallowed and shook her head, her poodle cut bobbing like soap bubbles on