Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 50
Twilight crept in over the changing landscape, forcing Emma to abandon her book. By midnight, just outside of Doncaster, a dense fog began to quicken amongst the forest along the causeway, and the postilions were forced to slow their pace considerably thenceforward. While Milli slept on (it was remarkable how much the girl could sleep), Emma peered into the misty gloom where the coach lamp lights barely reached the hedgerows and woodland that stretched alongside the road.
They had taken some supper and changed horses at the Red Lion Inn in Barnby Moor, but from Doncaster onwards, although newly horsed, their progress was no more than a brisk walk. By morning the pace was not much improved. She had looked forward to a leisurely drive, but this…?
The grey dawn light that percolated through the trees and fog revealed little, if any, of the Yorkshire landscape, and it was well-nigh midmorning when they reached York. They crossed the River Ouse, a heavy brume floating along its banks, and finally alighted at the York Tavern.
There they had ample time to rid themselves of travel grime, for it was not till dusk that they were met with an impressive, black barouche that Emma recognized immediately. “Vitam Aeternam,” she said under her breath, remarking the distinctive crest and its motto. Life Eternal.
The Winterly coachman sat atop the bench like a somber shadow cloaked beneath his habitual wide brim, watching silently as servants hurried to transfer the traps to the barouche. The horses were as funereal as their driver, large black beasts that glared at the ostlers as though they might bite them if they dared come any closer. Emma and Milli were quickly ushered into the black coach by the wary innkeeper as soon as the last trunk was secured.
At the crack of the whip, the four black steppers surged into motion. Emma shifted the curtain aside, hoping to see York Minster, even from a distance, but the cityscape was already filled with shadows. Light seeped steadily from the western sky as they left the city, throwing the limestone hills and hay barns and bog plants into darkness.
It struck her as odd that, between the fifty miles that separated York from Whitby, they did not refresh the horses even once.
“Would that we had stopped in New Malton,” said Milli, looking uncomfortable. “Apply to the driver to stop at the next village.”
“You speak to him if you wish to stop,” said Emma, whispering, though she too needed to visit the water closet. “I am sure we shall break our necks if he continues this confounded pace.” By some tacit agreement, the sisters had been conversing in whispers ever since they’d left the tavern. Emma could not say why she did so, but she imagined the gloom of the night and the dreary coachman had something to do with their subdued moods. Or perhaps they were just overtired by the journey. Either way, it was plain that neither sister was inclined to draw the attention of their coachman.
“The faster the better, I say.” Milli shifted in her seat, looking longingly out the window.
Emma was sure that Winterthurse could not be much further and she peered keenly into the night, eager for her first sight of it. Steam rolled off the backs of the horses, their glistening coats catching the lamplights, as they pounded through the mist. Emma fancied she could see brimstone belching from their nostrils as the road curved. She was so hypnotized with watching the beasts that she did not at first notice the shadowed edifice materializing beneath the half light of the moon.
“There it is!” cried Milli suddenly.
Emma jumped. There it was, indeed. Winterthurse loomed like a slumbering dragon in the distance, its midnight buttresses like arching wings and it spires like great horns piercing the heavens. The windows were aglow with a watchful red. A trick of the light, perhaps?
Emma fell back against her seat, her mouth agape.
“What is it?” Milli considered her sister with a frown as she too sat back. “What’s wrong?”
“Winterthurse,” said Emma, bemused. “It’s a castle.”
“So?”
“The wicked viscount lives in a castle after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Winterthurse
My Dear Mary,—What is your opinion on vanishing libraries? Yours sincerely,
Emma.
There was a faint hint of wild hyacinth and heather as the carriage navigated the rise atop which the castle stood sentinel. Emma’s eyes rounded as they moved along an avenue of yew trees, the gnarled boughs stretching overtop like an embowered arcade.
Torches had been lit at intervals along the avenue, which did much in endowing the night with a sort of dark whimsy. The road was wide and the yews magnificent with old-world mystery, some of the branches having long since burrowed into the ground to form new roots. What stories these old giants could tell.
They entered a stone gatehouse, rank with ivy, coming at last to a standstill in the graveled courtyard where a footman stood waiting before a heavyset pair of black, iron-studded double doors. Where on earth the Winterlys found their peculiar breed of ghastly servants, Emma knew not, but this fellow was as rawboned and sallow as their London retainers.
He handed Emma down from the carriage without a word and then her sister. As it rolled away, Boudicca still asleep within it, Emma glanced up to see an old woman gliding down the steps towards them. A bag of bones in a black dress which, like its wearer, was spartan-looking.
“Good evening,” said she, unsmiling. “Welcome to Winterthurse. I am Mrs. Skinner, the housekeeper.” She waved a spindly wrist and indicated that they should follow her up the stairs. “Your portmanteaus will be delivered to your rooms directly.”
“The cat,” said Milli, “shall sleep in my room.”
“As you wish.”
Just then, Milli’s stomach roared with hunger.
Mrs. Skinner answered it with a cold smile and said, “You shall, no doubt, wish to have a meal before repairing