A Shadow Bright and Burning (Kingdom on Fire #1)(36)
“That’s good to know.” The thought of Magnus berating Blackwood was pleasing. I was sure he’d done an excellent job.
“You should rest now, miss. Gram used to say it looks better in the morning.”
“Thank you, Lilly.”
She stopped at the door. “Miss, Jimmy told us downstairs what you said to Lord Blackwood.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I come from Potter’s Borough, south of the ward. Thank you.”
She left before I could respond.
—
I WOKE FROM A DREAM OF Gwendolyn lying beside me, silent and rotting in death. I didn’t think I could go back to sleep after that image. Outside, it was pitch black. I lit a candle and stepped, shivering, onto the thin rug beside my bed. I hastily threw on my wrap and headed downstairs. Candle in hand, I retraced my steps to the library. The fastest way to calm down after a nightmare was by reading history.
When I crept into the room, the fire was, surprisingly, still lit. My hands were cold, so I moved before the hearth. I craned my neck and looked at Agrippa’s portrait. He’d been younger when it was painted, his hair black. What must it have been like to have Agrippa for a father? For a moment, I selfishly wished my own father hadn’t been William Howel, a faceless phantom I’d never met.
There was the picture of that great estate again, the gleaming white one hidden in a dark valley. I turned to it, entranced by its serene and somehow terrifying beauty.
Someone coughed, startling me. Blackwood was seated with a book open on his lap. He appeared as bewildered as I.
“What on earth are you doing here?” He stood hastily. He had not been to bed, never taken his jacket off.
“I wanted something to read.” I didn’t know where to look. Just seeing him again made my stomach cramp.
“Ah. Anything in particular?” Even his voice irritated me. His eyes brushed the length of my body, and then he looked away.
“I hadn’t given it much thought.” I pulled my wrap even closer around me.
“Might I make a recommendation? This is a basic introduction to the Ancients. It’s been instrumental in drawing up plans to attack them.” He offered me the book in his hand, The Seven Ancients: Theories and Observations by Mr. Christopher Drummidge. The book was slim but handsomely bound. I opened to a sketch of R’hlem the Skinless Man. His exposed muscles almost glistened on the page; whoever had painted this had done an excellent job.
The first chapter was titled “Origins.” “Do they know where the Ancients came from? I’ve only read one book on the war. It said the Ancients were demons from hell, but I don’t know that I believe it.”
“Drummidge makes a case that perhaps they are monsters summoned from the planet’s core.” He sounded amused. “I like his work, but I don’t agree with all of his ideas.”
“Thank you.” I pressed the book to my chest and stood there, silent, while a log crackled in the fireplace. The clock struck three.
I was about to make a hushed exit when he said, “What did you mean about the headmaster?”
“Pardon?”
“That he was cruel and violent. What did he do?” God, how could one go about describing Colegrind in any decent way? I flushed, and that was all the answer Blackwood required. “I see.” His eyes widened. He looked younger, almost sad. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I wish…” He turned away so I could not see his face. He straightened his shoulders. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you, but it couldn’t be helped. That’s the one thing you refused to understand at dinner.” That condescending tone had returned. He didn’t look at me, though.
“It’s nice to know it’s all down to my lack of understanding.”
“You have a right to be upset, but you don’t comprehend my situation.” He turned, took my candle, and led me to the other side of the room. Portraits gazed down on us from above. Blackwood gathered the candle flame in his hand, rolled it into a ball, and tossed it to float up, up to a portrait that hung several feet above our heads. The fire held there, and the light revealed the image of a man, young and handsome and just like Blackwood. No, not just like. There were subtle differences in the face; the eyes crinkled at the corners in some secret merriment, and the full mouth rested in a comfortable smile.
“That’s my father, Charles Blackwood, eighth earl of Sorrow-Fell.” His voice was soft, somehow bitter. “He was one of the most tireless workers in the war against the Ancients. That’s why his picture hangs in this room.”
“Of course.” Why was he telling me this?
“My father was a great sorcerer,” Blackwood said, running a hand through his hair. “He believed that we, the Blackwood family, had a responsibility to rid England of these monsters.”
“Why your family?”
“We are the most powerful members of our society, Miss Howel.” He paused, as if struggling with what to say. “We have been the most blessed, and therefore, we must be the most cursed.” He stepped closer. I could feel a need for understanding coiling off him. “You must realize how seriously I take this war. From the moment my father died, the only duty I had on earth was to destroy these creatures. I neglected my other obligations, Brimthorn included. I have no time for games, or sports, or love. My whole being belongs to this cause,” he said. “Sorcerers should be bent entirely to the task of saving this land, not attending parties and taking carriage rides through the park.” His face twisted in anger. I finally understood his resentment of Magnus. “How much do you know of the rest of the country’s struggles?”