Edward Elliott locks eyes with me and glares. This is the first time we’ve been at odds; the first time I’ve not simply gentled him into an agreement. The first spark of a rebellion in his mind, no doubt.
Then he backs off, hold up his palms. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I should not have grabbed at you. I... worry makes for fear and fear makes one rash. I do apologise.’
I lower my eyes, shutter my rage, but I can still feel the anger that enabled me to draw a knife across the assassin’s throat. I don’t want my uncle to see that. Instead I turn to Jedadiah.
‘Thank you for your aid, Mr Gannel. I’ll not keep you further.’ I say nothing else but hope he’ll take my meaning as it’s intended.
When I feel the heat’s gone out of my expression I look back to Edward Elliott.
‘Thank you, Uncle. I am rather chilled.’ I reach for his arm, then let him lead me into the house.
* * *
I refuse dinner, saying I am exhausted by the afternoon’s dramas. I refuse Nelly’s assistance, tell her I’m more than capable of bathing myself. I say I need to sleep but will be well in the morning. I know it’s childish and ungracious, but I feel... so many things.
Afraid. The mer have followed me. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder. They could have taken me, once again, but they did not. They did not sing any threats. The child went in accidentally. The water of the lake, salty. So salty and so far from the sea. I think of a tale Maura told me once, about how the sea got its briny taste, wherein an enchanted quern fell into the ocean before anyone thought to command it to stop grinding salt, but that’s no help at all.
Suspicious. My uncle and Nelly. My parents’ room with all their possessions (but those missing clothes) still there, even the cases, even the hairbrushes. My uncle keeping me from the locked wing, the burned cradle; keeping me from the mine and the smelter. Lying about Nelly’s position. Never mentioning the dead child.
Robbed. And this I recognise as the most selfish thing: that the celebration was cut short. That the people of Blackwater were happy and enjoying themselves and it was all due to my efforts. They have accepted me, look to me in a way that never truly happened at Hob’s Hallow, in part because Aoife was the chatelaine, and in part because we had so few dependents there at the end. I know it’s childish, but I can’t help feeling deprived not by the mer, but by Uncle Edward.
I wait until I hear Nelly’s footsteps going past my door, then I wait a little longer and I am glad for it. There’s a light knock and no waiting for any answer. I am beneath the covers in my nightgown. I’ve left a small vial of sleeping tincture and a cup on the bedside table so anyone will think I’ve taken it to sleep. I believe they drugged me the first night I arrived with what was ostensibly a tea to calm me. I’m experienced at faking sleep, having practiced so many years when Aoife would check on me; when she had gone, I’d sneak to the library and read the book of tales by the light of a single candle. My breathing is even and deep, my lids held still by sheer willpower. Again, I wonder if all Aoife taught me was deceit.
I can sense the flicker of candlelight as someone approaches the bed. The tread is not Nelly’s nor is the hand that touches my hair, caresses my face. I smell alcohol and know it’s my uncle – but then, who else would it be? It’s all I can do to stay immobile.
He seems to remain forever, until I give a deep sigh and roll over, away from his hand. I don’t like putting my back to him, but it has the desired effect. I open my eyes a slit and see the candlelight dancing away as he retreats, no doubt to go to Nelly’s room.
I wait a little longer, then rise and dress warmly.
* * *
‘We found it weeks ago,’ Jedadiah says.
‘Two days before you arrived,’ adds Lazarus. Father and son are both kitted with stout lanterns, hung around with ropes and grappling hooks, and I wonder how far we are going to dig into the earth. I have a silver knife at my belt, one in my right boot, the other in my left, and the pocketknife in my jacket pocket. Should I be more wary of these men? I barely know them, and yet my instinct tells me I’m safer with them in the dead hours than I am in a house with Edward Elliott.
We stepped into the black mouth of the mine almost an hour ago, following the metal tracks that small carts are pushed along to carry the ore. Thick rough-hewn beams support the rock ceiling, seem to keep the basalt walls from bulging inwards to crush us. I can feel the weight of it all as we go deeper and I’m sweating profusely. In some places small niches have been carved and candles are set therein. Lazarus lights them as we go so we leave illumination in our wake as we tread into darkness. Other spots, there are hooks dug into the beams, and lanterns hang there pushing the blackness back. Lazarus lights them too.
‘Who found it precisely?’ They will not tell me what; they say I must see it.
‘ Vera Penhalligon. She was scavenging, wasn’t supposed to be here. You know your uncle closed the mine?’
I shake my head. ‘He told me it was simply not producing much but he had people looking for new seams, that the chief engineer was considering
