had to have heard.”
“You mean that John whatever his name was was one of Sebastian’s bunch?”
“John Rowan was his name, and yes, that’s exactly what I think. Might be worth keeping our ears open for mention of him and his wife Mildred. Never hurts to be careful.”
“Might be worth giving Dixie a call. See if she remembers the name.”
“A little project for you while I hunt.”
“It’s hardly hunting when you already know what you’re after.”
“It’s always hunting, Elizabeth.”
Not entirely. She’d learned that much from firsthand experience. “It’s not always hunting. It can be seduction.”
With Antonia off hunting, Elizabeth stayed in Orchard House, wandering through the echoing rooms, absorbing the voices and spirits. There was evil and unkindness here—that she sensed, even without knowing all Dixie told her—but under that was more: happiness, births, love, tears and loss, all part of the fabric of the house and its inhabitants. In the kitchen, she sensed the most. “Must be five, six hundred years old,” the architect commented on one of his early visits. “They tacked the house onto an old farmhouse, I imagine.”
The age of everything was hard to conceive. The “new” part was “only” a couple of hundred years old or so. Life in the older part seemed to reach back forever: the air full of mysteries, sorrow and happiness, and comings and goings.
And Antonia and she were about to add another layer.
Brushing aside her reverie, Elizabeth dug into her pocket book for her phone and speed dialed Dixie. She wouldn’t talk long given the absurd rates for transatlantic mobile calls. She got Dixie’s voice mail at home before she remembered the five-hour time difference. At the shop, Dixie answered with her still unmistakable southern accent. “Vampire Emporium.”
“It’s Elizabeth. Can you talk?”
“Elizabeth? You bet. Hang on.”
A clink of the phone being put down, a pause, and…“Okay now. Just locked the door and turned the sign to ‘Closed.’ We can talk now.”
“Didn’t mean you to close the shop!”
“It was empty, and besides, I could do with a chat. Christopher is off on a buying trip for a few days. When he gets back, there will be a bunch of new stock arriving, so here goes. How are things in Bringham?”
How were they? At the price this was per minute, better get to the point. “Fine, busy but looks good so far. Antonia’s already recruiting craftspeople, but I really called because…Did you ever, over here, come across a John Rowan or his wife, Mildred.”
“No.” She sounded pretty sure. “Did they say they knew me?”
“Not exactly.” She gave Dixie an abbreviated version of what had happened.
“Odd.” In the ensuing quiet, Elizabeth almost heard Dixie thinking. She certainly pictured the crease between her eyebrows. “When you meet Ida Collins, ask her.”
Another explanation needed. “Brush-off is a polite word for her reaction.”
“I tell you, Elizabeth, I don’t know, but I’d be leery. Sounds as though either that coven has disbanded, or they don’t want a soul to know they haven’t. You could try talking to Emily, but I always found Ida more willing to chat.” She was quiet for a moment. “Was he really threatening?”
“He meant to be, but really, how much can one mortal threaten a ghoul and a vampire?”
“Don’t underestimate that lot. They almost finished off Christopher. Even if Sebastian is out of the way, there’s the rest of them. I’d be careful. Where’s Antonia?”
“Out alley catting with a potter she fancies.”
“Oh Lordy, do tell.”
Elizabeth told. Chatting was good, and after hanging up much later than she’d intended, she called Tom to reassure him that she was fine but omitted mention of John Rowan. His threats might not gel with Tom’s definition of fine, and she promised that yes, she would get the train back on Friday for the weekend.
It was only after she hung up that she remembered what she’d intended to do once Antonia was out of the way.
She rummaged through her bags until she found a dark blue silk pouch. Unrolling it, she took out a beeswax candle and from another bag, a small bottle of scented oil. She’d prepared it herself a few days earlier, dropping cinnamon, patchouli, frankincense, and juniper into grapeseed oil. Taking bottle, candle, and a box of matches, she walked out to the garden.
Old outbuildings and roofless stables were hardly the setting she sought. She walked round the back of the house, pausing where the lights from the kitchen windows threw irregular rectangles on the newly mown grass.
Sitting cross-legged, she anointed the sides of the candle with the oil; scraped out a small hollow to help the candle stand upright in the grass; and striking a match, lit the wick. It sputtered and flickered in the night breeze but soon burned steadily. As Elizabeth focused on the light beam in the dark garden, she prayed for success of their venture, and as she sat there at peace in the quiet, she added a prayer for Tom’s safety.
After a few minutes of calm, the flame sputtered out in a sudden breeze. Gathering everything together, Elizabeth stood up. And realized she wasn’t alone. Eight, ten feet away was a dark shape. A large dog. A very large dog. For a second, she thought of wolves but reminded herself this was the Home Counties, not the wilds, and hadn’t wolves been extinct in the British Isles since the Middle Ages?
Was it a dog? It moved as she did, turned away, moving soundlessly like a cat, until with a leap, it bounded over the low hedge that separated the lawns from the rose gardens and disappeared into the night.
So much for local fauna. Odd. Had to be a trick of the light, magnifying an ordinary household cat into an extraordinarily graceful creature the size of a Labrador. She hesitated a moment or two, the July night tempting her to explore the gardens further. She still hadn’t seen the magic garden, but the night was dark and the light from the house only penetrated so far. Too bad she hadn’t brought a flashlight.
Might as well go down to the hotel, take a shower, and curl up in bed with a book. She had the latest Anita Burgh sitting in her suitcase.
Antonia ran through the night, down the lane and toward the common. Fast as she ran, she’d be just a blur to mortal eyes, if anyone happened to be peering out their windows or wandering home from the Barley Mow. Knowing the way, she kept up speed as the lane narrowed, heading onward, driven by hunger and a deep, burning need to see Michael Langton again. Nutty really, that. She was far too old to view a mortal as more than a pleasant source of sustenance and intimacy, but there was something about his dark eyes and that little twisted smile.
Maybe she’d make him smile in his sleep.
If he was asleep.
If he wasn’t, she’d be patient. Something told her Michael Langton’s dreams would be worth waiting for.
As
