Six

“Keep him until I come back. I’ll be damned if your father is back before me, so all you have to do is keep your maid from exorcising him. Or whatever it is she did to my shirt last time I was here. I still have yet to get those stains out.”

Her uncle’s words rang again in her mind as she carefully slunk down the hall, small lamp in hand. She was supposed to have been in bed and asleep hours ago, but curiosity, aided by her uncle’s ominous admonition, was far too strong for even sleep to conquer.

It wasn’t unusual for him to turn up on their doorstep at odd hours. Their house was the largest outside of town, and his various eccentric trips made it an ideal place to rest. If he was to be believed, he’d actually lived with her mother and father at one point, moving out shortly after her grandfather died, leaving her uncle with the family fortune.

However, for Uncle Morgan to turn up in the middle of the night, soaked in rain and caked with mud, carrying a wounded man, only to deposit him safely in the family’s guest room and depart with great haste, was highly unusual. The wounded man’s horse was something of a shock as well. It had taken several sleepy-eyed grooms to coral the beast in one of the empty stalls in the stable. Even now, she fancied she could hear it pounding away, screaming its indignation to the night.

She was almost at the door. From the crack, a faint yellow light was visible, shining quietly into the dark hall. Her heart skipped. Someone had beaten her to it! She prayed it wasn’t Marie, the old maid. Her father kept Marie on staff so his daughters might “have a proper upbringing”; despite the fact the girls both loathed the woman.

Anxiety brought speed to her feet. She was at the door and pulling it open in moments. The light from her lamp spilled into the room, mingling with that of another. A quick glance was all that was needed to prove that Marie was not in the room. Instead, there was a different, equally imposing figure sitting beside the injured man.

“Brooke Alcott! You were supposed to be asleep!”

“So were you, sister,” she replied tartly, closing the door behind her. “What ever will Marie say when she finds you, the lady of the house, awake nights pining over a sailor?”

Her sister colored. “Perhaps she will feel that I am doing my duty, keeping watch over a sick man.”

“He’s sick?” asked Brooke, a sudden rush of concern overpowering her former irritation. “I thought Uncle said he was only injured…” She moved closer, now able to see the sheen of sweat on the man’s face, his skin gray under the tan. Her gaze traveled to the broken arm. “Is his arm…?”

“Uncle had me set it before he left,” her sister answered. She smiled thinly at Brooke, though her eyes were wholly concentrated on the silent form in the bed. The old nightshirt he now wore was too big for his frame; it made him seem even smaller. “He’ll be all right.”

“Catherine…” Brooke’s voice took on a pleading note. “Don’t… You’re a lady…! And you know what father would say! Even Uncle would be against this…!”

Silence. She took a cautious step towards her elder sister, one hand outstretched, as if to hold her back from her folly. Catherine only smiled again, as if to say the gesture was too late. “Go back to bed, child,” she said gently. “Marie will be along shortly and you mustn’t be caught. I’ll stay here with him tonight.”

There was nothing Brooke could do. Catherine had made up her mind, and nothing her little sister said would sway her in the right direction. Yet, Brooke still hesitated in leaving, glancing over her shoulder one last time. Her sister had resumed her position in the chair beside the bed. There was only a small hope that the young woman would come to her senses before their father got home, and an even smaller one that their uncle could take his vagabond away before then. But, Uncle Morgan held more sway over their father than either of the girls. The stranger would be safe, even if their father returned home early.

Although, such an occurrence was unlikely. Their father tended to stay in town for weeks on end, preferring the bustle of the city to the quiet of the manor house. They rarely missed him, however. His presence made the house darker, the walls thicker and more confining. Quite the opposite of his brother-in-law, who brightened everything with his grin.

With a sigh, the girl ducked back into the darkness of the hall, only to collide with the very person she’d been thinking of. He stumbled backwards with an oath that was more common in the backstreets of London than here in the countryside, catching himself awkwardly on the wall beside him. Brooke let out a yelp, nearly dropping the lamp.

“Uncle Morgan! I’m sorry!”

“Brooke? The hell are you doing up?”

The rough language didn’t faze her, although the gentlewoman in her was secretly horrified that her uncle would use such language in front of her. She smiled up at him anyway, falling behind a mask of innocence. “I was thirsty,” she said, feigning sleepiness. “And ran into you… What on earth are you doing back so soon…?”

He folded his arms, the soft pat pat of water droplets on wood floor surrounding him. Strands of blonde-brown hair had come loose from its band, dangling in his face. Concerned as her uncle was about his appearance, it came as a surprise to those who knew him that he kept his hair tied back in such an arcane fashion. “Isn’t the kitchen in the opposite direction…?” he asked, folding his arms. The motion sent more minute drops to the floor.

Blush crept into her cheeks, hidden by the dimness of the hall. “I was only checking on him, Uncle,” she admitted. “But why are you back so soon? I thought you were going to town for the night…”

“I did,” he said, making a vain attempt to wring out his hair. “And I’m back now. There wouldn’t happen to be anything dry in this house, would there? Perfectly nasty weather out there.”

“Oh! Yes! This way, Uncle!” Appalled at her lack of manners, Brooke dashed off to find a towel, or other dry material. She heard his even, purposeful tread behind her and smiled. Even if Marie were to awaken, Brooke had more than a passable excuse to be up and about at this hour.

Soon, they were both settled in the library, with a fire crackling softly in the hearth. It was borderline absurd to be awake this late, acting as if it were merely mid-afternoon. But, then again, today had been an odd day, and if either felt it strange to be up all night talking, neither cared to voice it.

Brooke poured tea, watching her uncle out of the corner of her eye. His hair was free, falling limply to his shoulders, dripping onto his already damp clothes. Grumbling under his breath about something fairly indecent, he rubbed at the wet strands with a cloth, green eyes flashing. Brooke liked his eyes. She’d often heard people in town whisper about his eyes, flattering them for their color, or condemning them for their heritage. Either way, Brooke found them handsome—a fitting match for the rest of him.

The sudden thought made her giggle self-consciously, and almost spill the tea. He glanced up at the sound, arching an eyebrow. “If you’re going to make a mess, at least give me whatever you managed to get in the cup,” he teased. “I can barely feel my fingers.”

She stuck out the tip of her tongue. “And if you’re going to be beastly to me, perhaps I should keep it for myself.”

He sighed, folding up in the chair with an air of wounded pride. “You’re the one being beastly.” His tone was somehow grouchy and lighthearted at the same time.

“This goes against my better judgment,” she sighed, handing him the delicate little cup. She saw his eyes dance before she turned back to her own cup and chair.

Silence passed. Her uncle stared into the fire, steepling the index fingers of his folded hands, resting their tips on his forehead. The empty cup sat on the arm of the chair, precariously close to pitching over the edge. Shadows lengthened as the fire burned lower. Brooke rose to stir it, rubbing weariness from her eyes. She took the cup from the chair, giving him a close look, just to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep. His green eyes met hers, quietly, pointedly.

“You didn’t find him, did you?” she asked, her voice soft. Part of her dreaded the answer, while the other wanted to rejoice. “He wasn’t in town…?”

“No,” he answered. His voice was loud in comparison to hers, stronger too. “Word has it he’s run off to London. Won’t be back for weeks, by my guess.” His fingers clenched. “I’ll stay here until he does. I won’t have you girls on your own all that time.” He paused. “And even if the poor man gets back on his feet before your father gets back, society would be in an uproar if I left him with you. Couldn’t do that to your sister.”

“Don’t be silly, Uncle. Marie—”

A raised hand quieted her protest. “No, Marie doesn’t count. I swear to God, she’s some demon come to make us all pretend to confess before she ignites our trousers.”

Brooke giggled, feeling fatigue creeping up on her. “That hardly makes any sense.” Despite her best efforts, a yawn escaped her, though it was quickly smothered. “Why would we confess before she burns us?”

He shrugged. “I don’t craft sentences; they just come out as I think.” He looked up at her. “And you, need to get some rest. Tell your sister to get out of that room, too. I’ll take it from here.”

There was no arguing this time. She gave him a parting kiss on the cheek, then padded quietly back up the winding stair to her room. Glancing behind, she could still see him, folded into the chair, silhouetted against the flickering orange light.

“Where’s the girl?”

The voice came out of the darkness, startling the would-be bandits. Night found them wandering, lost without their slain leader; lost without their two companions, who now lay crushed beneath a red horse’s hooves. Their only saving grace was the momentary pause in the storm that had persisted all day. Their current leader was a short man in a grubby hat, a man that stuttered when he spoke. He jumped the highest when the voice reached his ears. As one, the bandits turned towards the voice, inwardly dreading making eye contact with the speaker.

She sat in a pool of cold light, skin made white by more than just the moon’s beams. Perfect, white-blonde hair fell to her waist, spreading out around her in an ethereal circle. The simple white shift she wore suggested her to be a girl, but the cloth could not fully cover the full woman’s body beneath. On her lap, rested the head of a large black wolf, its fur matching her flat eyes. “Where is the girl?” she asked again, voice a rich contralto. “You were sent to bring her here, to me.”

“La-lady Hel…” began the leader, crushing his grimy hat in his hands. “W-we went to the place, like you said. But… there weren’t nothin’ there but a fellow…”

“And his horse,” someone growled.

“Yeah, and his horse,” said the leader. “We… we didn’t see no girl. Maybe you… you were wrong…”

In a flash, both Lady Hel and the wolf were on their feet. Her skin swirled in a bizarre pattern of white and gray, fast turning from flawless to rotten. Blonde hair fell out in clumps. The bandits could barely move before she was behind their leader, one hideously elongated fingernail biting into the flesh of his neck. A red drop of blood emerged. The others rushed forward to pry her off, but were stopped by the sudden appearance of four more black wolves, each as large and as angered as the one from Lady Hel’s lap.

“Fool!” hissed Hel. “Fools! Calling the brother-kin liars! How dare you say such things! They are pure, infallible! From beautiful, trickster-father, as well!” Her voice took on an overtone of masculinity, echoing among the dark trees. “They smell her blood here! Faslami blood is too hot to miss! Too hot for this land. You are all blind! Useless, wasted flesh!”

She was away from them as quickly as she attacked. Beyond the wolves, her black eyes glittered, stump of a tongue rolling over the blood on her nail. The men’s hands were on their knives. “What… what are you?” one of them asked, holding up the leader. “Demon!”

Slowly, she came forward again, the wolves melting away from her, parting like water at her approach. Moonlight again touched her skin. It was beautiful this time, fair, making her all the more dangerous. A smile crossed remade lips. “What am I?” she repeated. The purr was back in her voice. “I am Hel. A harbinger.”

Fear made another of them bold. “Of what?”

“Ragnarok.”

She stepped back, snapping her fingers at the wolves. The smile broadened as they began their work. Her father-master disliked loose ends, after all.

Ragi was ill. How ill had yet to be determined. There were no devices by which he could tell the magnitude of the illness. However, he knew he was ill enough to dream of hazy, barely identifiable things. Images of old Hawaii, memories buried beneath dust and time, sprang up and danced before his feverish eyes. Faces swam before him, and he reached out to touch them, only to have them vanish in an eye-blink.

Sometimes he would wake, only to come face-to-face with a young woman, or an old crone, the young placing cool things on his head, the old scowling from over the top of her knitting.

The dreams turned to nightmares in the short span of what he thought to be hours. Mountains melted, seas churned red with blood. Horrific figures stalked the wasted landscape as a great serpent rose up from the ocean, shattering the world thrice over with a wolf’s howl.

And then came the laughter. It pounded in his ears, filling the silence with a cruel, cold ringing. No matter how hard he tried, how desperately he fought, he could not free himself from its grip. It held him fast and drove him nearly mad. All the world seemed to slip away. He fell into a fissure so dark, it hurt. There would be no way out for him; no safe, secure exit from this nightmare. He lay back against the dark, resigning himself to death and madness. It was almost comfortable, despite the guilt. He wanted to tell her he was sorry…

Green eyes lit the world with a suddenness that made him wince. Someone shook him, forcing his head forward, forcing him to stare into those eyes. They filled the world around him, driving out the dark and madness. He reached towards them, scarcely believing they were real. His hand was pushed down, gently, onto a warm quilt he’d ignored in his fear.

Slowly, reality faded back in. The eyes shrank back into their owner’s face. It was a strong, narrow face, its lines sharply cut and softened by wisps of pale brown hair. He blinked. Those eyes belonged not to the nurses he’d dreamed of. They belonged, in fact, to a man roughly his age; a man straddling him, holding him down to the bed. He was breathing hard, staring down at Ragi with a roguish look, one eyebrow raised in a smirk that did not carry to his lips.

“You’re stronger than you look,” the man said. He blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Feeling a bit better?”

Ragi stared. "Who...?"

"Samuel Morgan, at your service, but, call me Sam, most people do," he said, as if their current position was of no importance. "Are we awake and well, or shall I keep pinning you down this way? I warn you, my stamina in this area is legendary."

“What are you...?” Cohesion escaped him. “Where…?”

Still no movement. The face and body remained poised over him. They were familiar, somehow; he’d seen this man before. “You were having a nightmare,” he explained. “It was either I toss myself into this rather awkward position or you toss yourself onto the floor and break something else.” Slowly, so as not to jar the left arm, he backed off the bed, his eyes never leaving Ragi. “And you’re in my nieces’ house.”

Now he looked around, taking in his surroundings. Light filtered in through a window on his left, shining against the white painted door on his right. It was a simple room, green patterned walls, and cool wood floors. A porcelain basin and pitcher sat on a table beside the bed, a chair beside them. Across the room stood a plain, if not polished, armoire. The other man moved to sit in the chair, folding his legs up with him as if he disliked the touch of the floor. “I suppose you’ll want an explanation,” he said, leaning his head on a fist. “I’m here for your interrogation pleasure.”

“How…?” His throat was sore. “How did I…?”

He laughed, mirth lighting his entire face. “Right place at the right time, I think. Saw you playing your harp in a village fairly far from here and, well, we were going in the same direction.”

Recognition dawned like a spark. “You were… following me…” he said, voice rasping. “I… you scared us…” Any accusation he would have added to his words was lost on the weakness overtaking him.

“Sorry…” The green eyes softened. One hand reached out and casually brushed away a strand of Ragi’s hair that dangled too close to his eye. “Didn’t mean that in the slightest.” He smirked. “My eldest niece is infatuated with you. She’s having a fit right now, because I sent her to bed and took over.” Another strand followed its fellows. The touch of his fingertips sent ripples of electricity across Ragi’s spine; he wanted to shiver. “Need a drink?”

He nodded, licking dry lips. The Englishman unfolded from the chair, bending down in a smooth motion to capture a glass from the floor. He lifted it to his patient’s lips, pointedly ignoring the small motions of protest. When the water was gone, he set it back down in the same way, and proceeded to double up again into the chair. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by an exclamation from the direction of the door.

“Mr. Morgan!”

The voice was shrill, elderly too. At the sound, the Mr. Morgan in question proceeded to lose all sense of composure, and wound up half-sprawled on the floor, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tight enough to whiten the knuckles.

A slight shift on the bed was all Ragi needed to view the door. The crone from his fever dreams stood there, knitting in hand. Her clothes were in good condition and of quality, despite their worn appearance. She looked as if she’d walked out straight of an old, dusty painting. The tight bun and stony visage, complete with wrinkles, finished the look. “Mr. Morgan!” she said again. “I thought I had made myself perfectly clear that I would be the one to care for this man.”

“Now, Marie. Don’t get yourself worked up. He’s far too young for you.”

The woman’s face colored visibly. With a snort that reminded Ragi faintly of Soloi, she took the chair from its previous occupant and seated herself, knitting without a second look at either her patient or Sam Morgan. He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be just downstairs if you need anything, either of you,” he said, another smirk dancing around the vicinity of his lips. “When shall I send the girls up?”

“Don’t bother,” she snapped back. “They need to finish their lessons and I’ll not have some stranger bothering them.” The needles flashed. “He’s awake now, the fever’s broken, and Mr. Alcott will be back sooner than later. I have everything under control. You can leave, Mr. Morgan.” Her words turned almost condescending.

Green eyes flashed, fighting against some carefully restrained emotion. The crone ignored him. Her eyes were only on her work, not the man in the doorway. Ragi winced, his arm complaining its prior treatment. The small sound that escaped him was enough to break the silence. Sam stared at Marie, mouth working invisibly, before he nodded cordially to Ragi, then departed.

There was a more comfortable silence now. Ragi closed his eyes. It was nice to be in a bed, even with the twinges of pain. He’d almost forgotten the feeling of security as well. Yet, as sleep began to claim him, something odd in the mannerisms of his host and the maid struck him. Trying to ponder it proved too much work, and he fell asleep to the click of knitting needles.

Over the next several days, he gradually met the rest of the household. It was nearly impossible to see the two girls. They were always kept busy doing and learning the things expected of ladies. The older was Catherine, and the younger Brooke. On one of the rare days the older girl was allowed to see him, he was finally able to speak with her, rather than just hear her name called out by one of the other three.

She came to check his scrapes, carrying another glass of water and a plate of food. By this time, Ragi was allowed to sit up, propped against the headboard of the bed. There wasn’t much to do besides sleep, watch the rain fall outside, or, when she decided he needed monitoring, the old woman with her knitting. The occasional visit from anyone who didn’t view him as another form of the Devil was refreshing. He smiled faintly as Catherine entered. She grinned back. “You look much better,” she said, moving around the bed to the table beside it. “Hopefully, you’ll be able to get up and about soon.” She rolled her eyes. “Although, by then, Marie will more likely throw you out than let you stay any longer.”

“Who is she?” he ventured to ask. “She’s not your mother is she…?”

Catherine laughed at that. “Thank the Lord, no!” Her hands gently probed the abrasions on his exposed skin. “She’s our maid. We have others, certainly, but our father hired her especially to watch us while he’s away.”

“And… your uncle?” he began through gritted teeth. Some of the bruises were still tender. “Does he live here when your father’s not home?”

“Yes.” She handed him the glass. “Uncle Morgan is very… protective of us, I should say. We, Brooke and I, have learned to judge how long father is going to be away by how long Uncle stays.” Catherine sighed. “Usually, he will only stay a week or so… but this time…” she trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Ragi sipped the water, unsure of what to say. The right words never came, not back home, and especially not now, in this wet country. “How’s the horse?” he managed.

“He’s fine, if not a bit discomforted. If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s nearly intelligent.” She passed him the plate. “Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing him soon. He bit Uncle the other day, so you’ll be seeing him again too.”

He chuckled lightly and smiled. “I imagine so.”

This time, the smile climbed to the corners of her eyes, mysterious and mirthful.

(hehehehe)