The Solemn Bell(15)

He crossed the carpets to stand before her. “I never meant to put you in danger. Is there somewhere you can hide?”

“Hide from what? From whom?” She reached for him, finding his hand without faltering. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere—yet. But if my misery is somehow manifesting itself into…whatever is up there…then I don’t want you around me. Find somewhere to wait out the night, and then come find me in the morning.”

Angelica held firmly to his trembling hand. “I won’t! If I leave this room, you are coming with me. We can go down to the kitchens. It’s safe there. It’s where I sleep. We can bar the door.”

“You’d risk locking yourself in with me?”

She pulled him toward the panel in the wall. “Come.”

Never stumbling, Angelica led Captain Neil across the room. They weaved between the heavy, Victorian clutter to the opening, and then proceeded down the corridor. He ducked the cobwebs and low-hanging pipes that ran along the servants’ area. For the first time, she realized how tall he must be. Taller than she was, certainly, for she never had to duck.

“This way,” she said, counting the paces of the passage until she reached the kitchen stairs. She guided him down. Angelica didn’t need to use the handrail, but she slowed her steps for his sake. He was sick, and weakened. Suffering from vile hallucinations.

How easy it would be to stumble with the Devil on one’s back.

At last, they reached the kitchens. She shut the door behind them, and barred it with a heavy timber. Their last line of defense was sturdy, but not impregnable. If whatever was upstairs wanted them badly enough to kick the door in, it could bloody well have them.

Angelica went to the basin and splashed water on her face. Funny how she’d originally wanted only to keep Captain Neill out, but had now led him right into her own private space. What in God’s name was she thinking, bringing him here?

“We should be safe until morning,” she said, quietly.

He seemed not to have heard her. Instead, Captain Neill walked the room, his footfalls echoing off the tiled walls. It was a little disconcerting, because she couldn’t tell exactly where he was in the space. He could be near the worktable, or perhaps by the range. He could be in the dumbwaiter, for all she knew.

He inspected her quarters. “So this is your little nest? It’s surprisingly warm down here.”

“The stove is very efficient.”

“Oh, rather.” He gave the blackened, cast iron beast a fond pat. “You keep it running yourself?”

“It’s easier to manage than, say, a fire in the grate. I only have to feed it once or twice a day.”

This seemed to please him. Grilling her about her daily minutiae likely kept his mind off his demons. He rummaged through the assorted utensils and cooking pots arranged just overhead. “I can’t imagine you cooking.”

“Admittedly, I don’t do much. I’m terrified to even boil water. But I get by.”

He ceased clattering. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

Angelica felt the momentary silence like a lead weight on her chest. “Well, please make yourself comfortable. There isn’t much, but you’re welcome to whatever you like. There’s a stool by the stove, if you need to sit.”

“Thank you. Would you mind terribly if I washed up?”

She remembered he was covered in blood, dirt, sweat, and sick. “Oh, please do. I mean, not for my sake, of course. But…if you want to.” She laughed nervously. If it was awkward having a stranger in her drawing room, it felt doubly so entertaining him in what amounted to her bedchamber.





CHAPTER TWELVE





He couldn’t be truly possessed, could he? Brody heated the pot of water on the range, taking comfort in the distraction of such a mundane task. He dared not dwell too long on the fact that he’d brought the Devil into this innocent girl’s home.

Sweet Angelica Grey. She was too good to leave him to face his demons alone. She’d knowingly thrown her lot in with his, bringing him down into her private living space. He understood now why the rest of the house was in disrepair—she’d focused her energies on making this humble kitchen into a home.

It was clean, compared to the rest of the place. Pots, knives, and utensils sat in their proper places, with remarkably little clutter on the worktable. The items necessary to her daily life were laid out where she could easily find them. Miss Grey liked neatness and order. Brody imagined that, if he moved one fork an inch to the right, she’d know it. Perhaps that was the only way she could navigate her darkened world.

He could never live blindly. How she managed was a miracle to him. And to do it alone…

Taking the pot of heated water off the burner, Brody stole a glance at her across the worktable. She stood, her hands folded in front of her. Her lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. She looked almost like an automaton that someone forgot to wind. As if he could simply give the key at her back a twist, and she would burst into action.

“Miss Grey, could I borrow a flannel and some soap?” he asked.

She turned to fetch him the items, and then slid them across the worktop. Remarkable. She knew exactly where everything was. Even more interesting—she knew exactly where he was, too.

Brody heaved off his heavy coat. It was warm enough in the kitchen that he did not need the thing. He was glad, because it reeked. He doubted the expensive Burberry’s greatcoat would ever come clean.