bloom:
The wide, dark eyes on her pleading face. Hair like oily black smoke. His open hands and the red explosions on her pale skin. The dancing shadows in the barn, the frightened horses. Her white blouse. She had looked at another man. Her upraised left arm, fingers splayed. Black strands of hair thrown violently across her face. She had looked at another man and wanted him. The mattock by the hay bale. Wilfred, dear gods above, no, Wilfred, no. The mattock's swing like the flash of an insect's wing. The red on her blouse. Screaming, the screaming — Wilfred, Wilfred. The mattock high again. She had wanted another man. Wanted another man.
The mattock's swing an endless blur, the blouse all red, all red, all red, all.
Wilfred, said the envelope.
An automaton, he opened the seal. He pulled the single scrap of paper from within it and held it to the light.
A moment later, he flung it away with a hideous cry, unaware of the strength with which he threw himself back from the table. His chair was dashed to the floor. Candles throughout the room flickered; some went out. The scrap of parchment lay on the tablecloth beneath a wavering candle. Its words were clear even from a distance in dim light.
What became of the lord when they caught him at last?
'No!' Lord Godefroy roared at the room. 'You are — it is not — not possible!' He struggled with the words as he wrung his hands, ridding them of the feel of the letter. 'You are not alive! You cannot do this to me, you filthy whore! You damned whore!'
But he knew there was no reason she couldn't do it.
What was good for the gander was good for the goose.
He fled so quickly that one of his shoulders passed entirely through a door frame. It wasn't proper, but he never noticed.
The candles in the dining hall swayed with his flight.
Then, one by one, they began to go out.
He regained control of himself at the foot of the grand staircase. He was breathing again with rapid, shallow breaths. Stop it, he ordered himself, clasping the post and railing. Stop it at once. I am the lord of Gryphon Hill. I am the master of Mordentshire, sovereign of life and death. Nothing can take that away from me. Nothing can take anything away from me. No power in this world or beyond. She cannot even hurt me, much less kill me.
Lord Godefroy broke into high, brittle laughter. He had killed her, not the other way around! She had no power over him, even if she had come back from the grave herself. He was being a fool. She could not kill him now.
His pale hands clutched the stair railing until they resembled white crab claws. With an effort, he loosened his grip, slowed his breathing, and, coughing loudly, forced himself to stop breathing altogether. Then he settled back on the stairs to regain his composure.
Well, so she was back. If she was back, maybe. .maybe Amanda was back, too. It wasn't unreasonable, though the reason for the miserable child's return was beyond him. Amanda had counted for nothing in his life. A girl erroneously born in the place of the boy who should have slipped from Estelle's womb. Amanda had betrayed him by her very existence. He remembered her, too — not as clearly as Estelle, but he remembered the face in the background, the bowed head, her whimpers as he beat her with his belt, time and again. A worthless child, though beating her did bring pleasure, after a fashion.
Amanda had been there in the barn, too, hiding. Screaming. She had rushed him. He'd fallen back, surprised, while the child cradled her mother. Her hair was like strands of gold in the lantern light. He even recalled her last words — I hate you, I hate you, you evil old man. She threw something at him while he was still holding the mattock. I hate you, she screamed, clutching the body of her mother on the dirt floor of the barn as the shadows danced.
It was strange that he didn't remember actually killing her. There was nothing to it, not even passion. Afterward, he had covered up her death as he had Estelle's: the bodies dragged into the stall, the pistol fired by the stallion's head, the great horse dancing in fear on the wet bodies. Shooting his best horse was the only way out. No one had argued over it; everyone knew his temper and his grip on power. Case closed. He lived alone after that. It was better than living with a whore and a whore's worthless daughter.
Lord Godefroy put a withered hand over his face, as if to cover his eyes from a light. His pince-nez fell and dangled from their ghostly white chain.
There was something more. Something more had happened.
It would not come to him now.
He flung his hand down and in a rage stood up on the stairs. His mind was playing tricks on him. He was still lord of Gryphon Hill. He would be its lord forever. If Estelle wished to confront him, by the Mists of this cursed land, he would give her what she wished.
He had the Touch.
Perhaps it would work on the dead as well as the living. Perhaps he should find out. It might be worthwhile.
The master of Gryphon Hill set his pince-nez in place, then set out for the stables, teeth clenched. Let the little trollop frighten him now. She had started it all. She had looked at a stable hand, looked at him with undisguised lust. She had betrayed her lord and husband. The whore had started it all. Now her lord would finish it.
The halls passed. The kitchen. The drawing room on the right. The back entry hall. Candles lit at his approach. Damn those magical bastards, they had better move when he appeared. He was the lord of Mordentshire, the colossus of Gryphon Hill. He did not wait to open the door at the end of the hall. He strode right through it.
'Light!' he roared, entering the stables. Light sprang up from a lantern ahead of him, shedding a weak radiance over the remains of the stables. Gray wood stalls, dirt and rotting hay underfoot, bridles and ropes disintegrating on their pegs on the wall.
He saw the mattock against the wall, seized it, and swung it high with the strength of a young titan.
'Estelle!'
Quick echoes answered him. Scampering noises came from all directions. Only field rats.
'Estelle!' Louder now. The walls rang.
Nothing. No one.
'You dirty whore, come out! I command you as your lord and husband! Estelle, you crawling slut, come face me!'
The scampering faded. Nothing else was heard.
He whirled. No one appeared.
He held the mattock high over his head for several minutes more, until he slowly lowered it and held it in front of him.
Nothing came.
He kicked at the stall doors. Rotten hay. Dried manure. A hoofprint. Nothing.
Silence.
The mattock swung at his side, in one hand.
'Bitch,' he said under his breath. It was just like her.
But. .
Maybe it hadn't been Estelle after all.
He considered this, standing by the dim lantern. There was no Estelle here, no Amanda, no trace of either of them. Had the letter been a trick itself? Had someone, another power in this land, made him a fool? Or was a darker motive in store — a power play? A takeover? Gryphon Hill was not undefended; the lord of Mordentshire was hardly weak.
He didn't know.
He would have to go back and look at the letter. He knew Estelle's handwriting. He'd been a fool and worse not to have checked it.
He hefted the mattock in his thin-boned fingers, looked around at the wreck of the stables, then set the tool aside where he'd found it. She wouldn't come back where the mattock was kept, anyway. She knew it all too well,
