Craven Manor(28)

“No, never.”

Daniel was crumbling the half-eaten bread between his fingers. “She doesn’t live in the tower?”

It took Bran a second to answer. When he did, he sounded tired. “No. I do not mind your straying through the manor, but stay away from the tower. That is one rule that, if broken, would be unforgiveable.”

The image of the figure standing at the window flitted through Daniel’s mind. Is it where Bran lives? But if so, why are the locks on the door’s outside? He couldn’t be hiding someone else in the tower, could he?

Daniel sensed he didn’t have long left to speak with the house’s owner. He latched on to one question that had been disturbing him since he’d seen the girl’s crypt. “How did Annalise die? Did you say her mother did something to her?”

“Yes. Eliza Myricks’s insanity spiralled deeper with every passing year. When Annalise’s doctor tried to offer Eliza some medicine, he was summarily dismissed. One of her brooches went missing, and she chased the entire staff out of the building with a knife. You may have seen their unfinished work scattered through this wretched house. Finally, when it was just her and Annalise trapped together, the weight of her paranoia rested on the child. She began to imagine Annalise was a witch and that the aversion to sunlight was a sign from heaven that the girl was unholy.”

Daniel waited, a full spoon hovering above the bowl, for Bran to continue, but the only sounds came from the crackling fireplace and the occasional hiss of a candle.

Then Bran sighed, and a deep, overwhelming weariness infused his rasping voice. “She burnt Annalise on a pyre.”

The spoon, still full, dropped back into his bowl. Daniel pressed a hand over his mouth. He pictured the girl in the painting, wide eyes and the hint of a smile, with terror infused under the surface. “That’s horrible.”

“It was. And I believe it is the reason Annalise has not been able to find rest. Violent deaths in this area tend to leave marks. If you will excuse me, I will bid you goodnight, Mr. Kane. I find I have grown weary.”

The door creaked. Daniel hadn’t even heard the man rise, but he swivelled to watch him leave. He was just in time to see the back of a dark coat disappear through the doorway and into the foyer’s oppressive gloom. “Wait! There’s one last thing—a cat lives here—it’s very thin—”

“Do not mind the cat. It cares for itself.” The voice had grown faint, and its echoes bounced so badly that Daniel couldn’t tell which direction Bran had taken. He rose out of his chair and went to the foyer door, but his companion had already disappeared.

“Okay. Goodnight. And, uh, thank you for taking the time to talk to me.” Daniel rested a hand on the open door and exhaled. Talking with Bran had been one of the most stressful experiences of his recent life.

At least he gave me some answers. Poor Annalise. Burnt alive—I can’t imagine how horrific that must have been.

The warm soup and bread roll waited for him in the dining room, but Daniel had lost his appetite. He collected the plates and bowl then went to the kitchen to wash them. He didn’t want to leave the cleaning up to Bran. He hadn’t been able to place his employer’s age, but he certainly wasn’t young, and just a few minutes of speaking had exhausted him.

As he rinsed the last of the crumbs off his plate, his thoughts drifted back to the tower. Bran hadn’t given him an answer about who lived up there, although Daniel was sure he’d seen a face through the window.

It’s all so strange. Bran isn’t a ghost, and yet he lives in a house that is, essentially, unliveable. No electricity, water hasn’t been run through the taps in years, no garbage collection. And no grocery deliveries until Joel was hired shortly before I was.

Bran had said he didn’t spend all of his hours in the house. For all Daniel knew, he might walk in from town every day. Or he could even have another building on the property, though Daniel suspected he would have found it by then.

All the towels in the kitchen were decayed, so Daniel shook the plates and cutlery until they were mostly dry. He tried not to think about the cooks and maids being chased out of the room by their knife-wielding mistress.

What would she have looked like? Would her hair be fine and light, like Annalise’s? Was she also tall and thin? When transferring bones into the new grave, he’d seen scraps of clothing tangled in the dirt. It might have been the decay dying them black, but Daniel could very easily imagine the demented woman clothing herself in dark colours. It would have matched her décor style. The house held an air of elegance and refinery, but in a cold, unkind way, as though it judged every person to step through its doors and could show a level of malicious spite towards anyone it deemed unworthy.

Daniel went back to the dining room, unfolded the napkin, and placed the still-wet plates and cutlery onto it. He wasn’t sure if the plates belonged to Bran or to Joel, but either way, they were ready for collection.

The fireplace where Bran had sat was dead and cold, as though it had never been lit in the first place. Daniel gave it a wary glance then blew out all of the candles in the room except for one of the candelabras from the table’s centre. Night had set in, and clouds choked the moon, so he hoped Bran wouldn’t mind him borrowing a light.

As he passed through the foyer, he felt eyes following him. He scanned the shadows and found the cat near the ancient chairs. It sat pin-straight, its tail tucked around its bony paws, as his candlelight reflected off unblinking eyes.