The Kingdom

“She went to a different school?”

“She attended the public school before it closed. I’m sure she would have transferred to Woodberry with all the others if she hadn’t—”

I flashed a glance. “What?”

“It was just so sad and tragic. Poor Tilly never got over it. She was always such an odd duck, but Freya’s death pushed her over the edge. I suppose one of these days she’ll have to be put in a home.”

I thought about the knife-wielding woman who had come to my rescue in the woods the other night. The same woman who had warned me away from Asher Falls. Mad she might be, but she was also very, very capable. “Freya died in a fire, didn’t she? That’s how Tilly burned her hands.”

“Yes.” Catrice massaged her own hands, as if in deep pain. “It still distresses me to think about it after all this time.”

“Were you there?”

“We were all there. We all saw what happened.” She turned back to the window, deliberately shutting me out, and I knew she wouldn’t say anything else. Thane was right, it seemed. People were reluctant to talk about Freya Pattershaw’s death, and I couldn’t help wondering why.

We drove in silence until Catrice said, “It’s just ahead. See that red mailbox? Turn there. I’m down the road a piece.”

Like the Covey house, her place was sequestered from the main road by the forest. She lived in a quaint cedar cabin with cane rocking chairs on the porch and a hammock strung between two oak trees in the front yard. I could imagine myself spending lazy summer afternoons in that hammock, watching the clouds. Waiting for twilight and the ghosts.

The studio was in a separate building at the back of the property, accessed by a well-worn footpath. As I followed Catrice along the rough trail, my gaze lifted now and then to a trio of hawks circling overhead, their piercing screams raising a chill even in broad daylight. The afternoon was cloudless, and the sun shimmering down through the evergreen boughs was warm on my face. But the deep shade of the woods pressed in on me, and the scent of the pines somehow seemed ominous. I was glad when the trail broke away from the trees, and we descended toward the studio.

The structure itself was inelegant, a large, mishmash of a building perched at the water’s edge, but inside the rustic charm of stone walls and floors complemented the magnificent view of lake, forest and mountain. An easel with a covered painting stood in front of the tall windows, while finished canvases were stacked at least a dozen deep against the back wall, as if they had been accumulating there for years. Most of them were wildlife and landscape scenes, but I noticed a few portraits that intrigued me.

“Have a look around,” Catrice invited. “I’ll make us some tea.”

“Thank you, but I wish you wouldn’t go to the trouble. I really can’t stay long.”

She smiled. “It’s no trouble. I won’t be a minute.”

After she was gone, I browsed through the paintings. The landscapes were beautiful, but I naturally gravitated to the portraits. She’d painted them all—Luna, Bryn, Hugh and a man I recognized as Edward. I thought they must have been done a long time ago because the subjects were very young and Catrice’s technique still crude. But even then she’d managed to tap into an uncanny essence in all of them—that feral quality in Luna, the ice maiden in Bryn and the almost perverted perfection of Hugh. But it was the portrait of Edward that fascinated me the most. His features were unmistakably Asher, but I thought there was a hint of the neurotic in his eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at him.

“Those are really old,” Catrice said as she came to stand beside me. “And not very good. I was still a novice back then.”

“No, you captured them beautifully,” I said. Eerily so. “Do you still paint portraits?”

“Now and then but only for fun. The landscapes are my bread and butter. I’m lucky they’ve done so well at the gallery.”

“I don’t think it’s luck. You’re very talented.”

She shrugged. “It’s a gift. I can’t take credit.”

“But you’ve developed that gift.”

“You have one, too,” she said, and for a moment I thought she meant my ability to see ghosts. “Your restorations are every bit as inspirational as my paintings. More so, perhaps.”

I lifted a brow in surprise. “You’ve seen my work?” Was she the anonymous donor?

“I mentioned the other night at dinner that I’ve been to your website. I browsed through your gallery and read your blog. I’m fascinated by what you do. You have a calling,” she said softly. “A purpose. We all do.”

A swooping shadow drew my attention to the window. “What was that?”

“Come see,” Catrice said, and as we gazed out on that magnificent vista, a hawk glided down, talons extended, and snatched something from the grass, winging skyward with a triumphant scream. I was jolted by the scene even though it was perfectly natural. Survival of the fittest.

Catrice said in amusement, “That one didn’t last long.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The mouse.” She turned to me, eyes gleaming. “Hawks are such marvelous hunters, aren’t they? They can spot something as small a rodent from above the treetops. They rule the skies, too. Other birds fear them. Did you notice how quiet the forest was when we walked through?”

I said slowly, “How did you know it was a mouse?”

She smiled and cocked her head. “I hear the teakettle,” she said and disappeared.

I stared after her. In her own way, Catrice was every bit as off-putting as Luna and Bryn, and I was suddenly reminded of how Thane had referred to the three women after dinner the other night. The Witches of Eastwick, he’d called them. Or I should say Asher Falls.

I tracked the hawk for a moment longer, and then as I moved back into the room, I suddenly had the uncanny sensation that I was being watched. I decided that it must be the painting. Edward Asher’s eyes. Even on canvas, his face unnerved me. But as I moved about the studio, I could have sworn an invisible gaze followed me. It was all I could do not to glance over my shoulder.

Somewhere to my right came a very faint click—like the stealthy closing of a door.

Catrice had gone through a doorway near the windows, but this sound had come from the opposite side of the room where three arched niches had been cut into the stone. As I moved in for a closer look, I saw that one of the arches was actually a door. Had someone been standing there watching me while my back was turned?

I stepped into the alcove and pushed on the latch. The door silently opened, and I heard the distant murmur of voices. I didn’t know why I felt so compelled to discover who else was in the studio. I told myself to let it go. I shouldn’t go snooping through someone else’s private space. My mother would be appalled by my bad manners.

But despite that internal censure, I slipped through the opening and followed a dim hallway until it curved around to another partially open door through which I spotted Catrice.

“—I’m telling you, it’s her,” she insisted.

“I pray you’re wrong,” someone else said, and I thought I recognized Bryn’s voice. “Because that would mean—”

“Oh, God, don’t say it.” Catrice shuddered. “It’s too horrible to contemplate.”

“I’ll tell you what it means,” Luna said softly. “Someone knows.”

*   *   *

When Catrice came out of the kitchen a little while later, I was back at the windows. I turned with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry you went to so much trouble, but I really have to be going.”

“Oh, you have to at least try the tea,” she said anxiously. “It’s my own special brew.”

My gaze fell to the steam rising from the porcelain cup, and I suppressed a shudder. After what I’d just overheard, I didn’t trust her. And I certainly didn’t want to drink her tea. “I really do have to go,” I said, edging toward the door. “I’ll try it next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” She set aside the tea tray to walk me to the door. Her eyes lifted as she stepped outside, and I knew that she was watching the hawks. For some reason, her rapt expression frightened me.

“You can find your way back up to the house?” she asked.