The Bell at Sealey Head

gone. I suspect to Aislinn House. I must find a cook, then see what I can do to help Ridley. See page eighty-two. I have very grave misgivings about Nemos Moore.

Gwyneth sat mulling over that. Where, she wondered, in the grim, quiet Aislinn House she had seen, in which the past was covered by dustsheets and an old woman lay dying, did they keep the marvels, the rituals, the magic? Under the floorboards? Within the walls? What was it that had drawn Nemos Moore back? And where?

And how far would Judd, after trying to explain things to the impenetrable Miss Beryl, get through the front door?

She gave up trying to imagine that scene and went back to her story, to beguile away the time while she waited to hear from Judd.

For a time all went pleasantly well.

The visiting mariners lost a few coins; the guests from Sealey Head gained a few to line their threadbare pockets. All was convivial, amiable, gratifying. Bottles were passed; glasses continually filled. The ship scarcely moved; time and tide themselves might have been stalled, idled around the ship in response to the good wishes of those within.

The ladies drifted to sleep upon the cushions, woke to hear the game going on, went back to sleep. Lord Aislinn’s daughter finally closed her eyes.

She had the most peculiar dream.

The candles around the gamers were dwindling. Great sheets of shadow loomed over them. The faces of the mariners remained unchanged, open, friendly; those of Sealey Head became most anxious, desperate. All the shiny piles of coin seemed to be in front of others. The guests asked for pens and slips of paper; these they were given graciously, with smiles. The games continued.

Candles sputtered, died, were replaced. Papers piled up amid the coins. The men of Sealey Head spoke very little; their words were heavy, toneless. Mr. Cauley made his final bet first: all he had.

“The Inn at Sealey Head.”

It was duly written down. He signed the paper.

Cards were dealt.

Mr. Cauley staggered up from his chair, went into the shadows, and, in the way of dreams, nothing more was heard from him.

Mr. Blair, his face waxen in the candlelight, wagered his entire line of ships.

They went the way of Mr. Cauley’s inn; Mr. Blair followed Mr. Cauley into the dark.

Sir Magnus Sproule, his own broad, rustic face defiant to the end, bet Sproule Manor and his lands upon his final hand.

When he rose, letting his cards flutter to the table, only Lord Aislinn was left.

He offered what, ostensibly, he still had. But the smiling visitors shook their heads. They seemed to know, in the way of dreams, that every field, every tree, every dusty book and bottle, every stone of Aislinn House belonged to his creditors.

“My lord?” Eloise heard. “My lord Aislinn?”

She opened her eyes.

Her father looked across the table at her.

“My daughter, Eloise, my heir,” he wrote as his final wager, and the smiling mariners nodded briskly. Yes, yes, indeed . . . Their handsome faces turned toward her, their fine eyes, their lean, predatory jaws. She smiled back.

The cards were dealt.

Lord Aislinn sagged back in his chair, his eyes closed, his face bloodless. Eloise felt the only moment of pure happiness she would have in her brief life.

Someone opened a hatch above them. She felt the wild surge of water, heard the masts straining against the wind and realized, astounded, that they had sailed out of the harbor into open sea.

Then she saw the water bubbling up from underneath, around the unconcerned mariner’s boots as they pocketed their gold, and the ladies around her stirred and gasped.

The water surged around them. Eloise screamed. As the ship sagged on its side and she slid across the room on a wave, she had one final glimpse, through the hatch, of the most beautiful sunset, ragged clouds of gold, purple, and rose engulfing the dying sun. They had played through the night and the entire day. And now the day was done.

The ship’s bell tolled a final, solitary knell as the wild waves dragged it down into the sea.

Gwyneth heard from Judd sooner than she expected, even as she was puzzling over her ending and wondering why, tidy as it was, it did not satisfy. Perhaps she felt guilty about the unfortunate Eloise. She could see Pandora bouncing up from the sofa with a cry of indignation over that; she could see, above a palm frond, her father’s raised eyebrow.

Well, she couldn’t please everyone. And Crispin would certainly like the feast. It would be best, however, she thought a moment later, twirling her pen moodily in her hair, if she could manage to please herself.

“Miss Gwyneth!” It was Ivy, just outside the door. “You have a visitor.” She gave a little grin as Gwyneth opened the door; she must have heard the discussion in the hallway, earlier. “Mr. Cauley.”

Gwyneth took a step across the threshold and hesitated. “Tell him I’ll only be a moment.”

“Yes, miss.”

She went back to her desk, gathered up her story, shook the papers straight, rolled them, and bound them with the ribbon from Judd’s bundle. She paused for one more second, to touch the lovely iris in its truly hideous vase of tiny sea-snail shells fastened with pitch onto teak. She felt the sudden lightness in her heart.

Judd, pacing the carpet in the hallway downstairs, wasn’t smiling at all until he turned and saw her. Then his set expression softened; for just that moment, he looked as though he forgot why it was on his face at all.

“Gwyneth. You look so charming with that little scribble of ink on your cheek.”

She sniffed. “And you smell like the sea. All windy and briny—have you been at the fish market?”

He nodded, frowning again. “I’ve been running errands all over town. Mrs. Quinn is back in the kitchen, and I’m hoping she’ll drive all the guests away. I got your note. I wanted you to know that before—” He hesitated.

“Before what, Judd?”

“Well. Before I go to Aislinn House. To look for Ridley Dow. I have no idea how far I’ll get. Or where—I just don’t know. When I’ll be back. I wanted to see you. To tell you that before I go.”

“Indeed.” Their faces were very close, she realized, both searching for something, maybe, memorizing lines, colors, the hollow of a throat, the slant of bone. She reached out, still gazing into his eyes, and slipped her story onto the hall table beside the door key and the mail. “To find the true secrets of Aislinn House, challenge the wicked sorcerer, and rescue Ridley Dow?”

“Something like that. If I can persuade Miss Beryl to let me in the door.”

“Oh, good. I’m coming with you. There’s something wrong with my version of the story.”

He felt obliged to argue, despite the relief on his face. “But Gwyneth, it may be—What story?”

She slid her fingers under his elbow, tugged him toward the door. “Quickly, before the twins or Aunt Phoebe come down. I’ll help you with the awkward parts, like getting us into the house; you can have the heroics. The ones I don’t want, that is.”

“We’ll let Ridley have them.”

“Good idea.”

She opened the door. In the last hour of morning, with the sun pouring cheerfully into the streets, glinting and breaking on the wind-rippled harbor, they heard the single, unmistakable toll of the bell.

Twenty-one

Emma heard the bell down in the kitchen, where she was picking up the first of the breakfast trays for the