Neferet's Curse (House of Night Novellas #3)(26)

Humph! He’d made a noise through his nose followed by a guffaw of laughter. “You just spoke almost the exact words I used to your mother when she’d petitioned for the bank’s charitable support of the GFWC. Well done you for understanding so quickly what your mother did not comprehend at more than two decades your senior.”

I’d held my words. I would not barter my soul to be the ally of a monster. In silence I’d continued to push my food around my plate. Father had watched me while he drank deeply of the wine I had not had an opportunity to water.

“But contributing to a charity is of the utmost importance for those of our social and financial status. Let us imagine, for a moment, you could support a charity of your own inception. Tell me, Emily, what would that be?”

I’d hesitated enough to consider whether there could be any negative ramifications to answering him honestly, and I’d quickly decided I might as well speak my mind. It was obvious that I was his toy, his doll, his diversion. Nothing I said had the least bit of meaning to him at all.

“I would not support the lower stratus of humanity. I would uplift those who strive to reach beyond the bounds of the mundane. I have heard Mr. Ayer speak of his collection of fine Native art. I have heard Mr. Pullman discuss adding electricity to Central Station and his more exclusive cars. If it were within my power, I would create a Palace of Fine Arts, and perhaps even a Museum of Science and Industry, and I would nurture excellence rather than sloth.”

“Ha!” Father had slapped the table so violently his wine had sloshed over the rim of his glass, and ran like blood into the fine linen tablecloth. “Well said! Well said! I am in complete agreement. I proclaim from here on you will no longer volunteer at the GFWC.” Then he’d leaned forward and captured my gaze. “You know, Alice, we could accomplish great things together, the two of us.”

My whole body had gone to ice. “Father, my name is Emily. Alice, your wife, my mother, is dead.” Before he could respond I stood and, as George entered the room with the dessert, I’d pressed the back of my hand against my forehead and staggered, almost fainting.

“Miss, are you unwell?” The Negro had asked, frowning in concern.

“As Father said yesterday, I am still fatigued from Saturday night. Could you please call Mary so that she may escort me to my room?” I’d glanced at Father and added, “May I be excused, Father? I would not want my weakness to keep you from calling on the Simptons tonight.”

“Very well. George, call for Mary. Emily, I expect your health to be better tomorrow.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Carson!” He’d bellowed, pushing away the dessert George had left for him. “Bring the carriage around at once!” Without another glance at me, he’d stalked from the room.

Mary had come in immediately thereafter, whispering about the fragility of my health and herding me to my bedchamber as if she were a hen and I her chick. I’d let her help me out of my day dress and into my nightgown, and then curled into bed, assuring her that I would be well if I could just rest. She’d left me quickly, though I could see that she was honestly concerned for me.

What could I have told her? She’d seen the heat of Father’s eyes on me. She and George and Carson, and probably even Cook, had to know that he stalked and imprisoned me. Yet none of them had said so much as one word against him. None of them had offered their aid in planning my escape.

No matter. I must be the vehicle of finding my salvation.

But that night, at least for an hour or two, I could orchestrate an escape, if only one of miniscule proportions.

Father would be gone to Simpton House, and would be ingratiating himself in the family and attempting to appear the concerned patriarch for his poor, frail daughter.

Again, no matter. It only meant that I could flee to my garden!

On silent feet I tiptoed down the broad stairway, around the foyer, and made my way out the servants’ exit. I was not discovered. The house was as I preferred it, dark and quiet.

The April night was dark, as well. And I found a great ease in the concealing shadows. With no lights on in the rear of the house, and no moon risen as yet, it seemed as if the shadows had overtaken the walkway completely and, welcomingly, they caressed my feet. As I hurried to my willow, I imagined that I drew the shadows to me so that they cloaked my body in darkness so complete that it would never, ever, allow me to be discovered.

I’d followed the music of the fountain to my willow, parted the boughs, and gone to my bench, where I sat with my feet curled beneath me and my eyes closed, breathing deeply and evenly and searching for the serenity I’d always found there.

How long I was there I have no real recollection. I tried to keep time in mind. I knew I must leave my safe place well before Father might return, but I was drinking deeply of the night. I did not want to be parted from it.

The latch of the side gate to the garden had not been oiled, and its protesting voice had my head lifting from my hand and my body trembling.

Moments later a nearby twig on the garden path snapped and I was certain I could make out footsteps shuffling through the gravel of the walkway.

It could not be Father! I’d reminded myself. He does not know I come to the garden!

Or does he? Frantically, my mind had raced back to the conversations of Saturday night—the women complimenting me on my flower arrangements; Mrs. Elcott’s sarcasm regarding my regard for the garden.