Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 6

Chapter Three

Gypsy Fiend

Dearest Emma,—I think the effluvia of London horse leavings has caused you to take leave of your senses. The life of a traveling tightrope walker, or explorer of Egyptian tombs, would befit you better than vespers and veils. Do take care, Cousin, the London streets sound positively treacherous. God bless you and your mucky boots,

Mary.

They had gone to the Stapletons’ after all, and it had been decided that they should dine early and return home at sunset, in light of the murders. Before they’d set out, her uncle had finally seen fit to enlighten his womenfolk about the ‘unpleasantness’, woefully understating the gravity and violence of the crimes. No doubt for the sake of their delicate sensibilities. Poor man, did he honestly imagine women incapable of discovering from their neighbors and servants, if not the papers, all there was to know?

It was not until after the small party retired to the drawing room that the conversation, much to her uncle’s disgust, degenerated—his word, not Emma’s—into talk of death and the macabre, and from there into the supernatural. The evening from that point onwards was rather lively, despite such morbid topics, and Emma was exceedingly disappointed when her uncle suddenly announced that it was time to depart. On any other occasion she’d have been only too happy to rush away, but this evening was unlike any other.

“What an ungodly night,” said Mrs. Stapleton, drawing back the drapes and peering fretfully into the gathering fog and twilight. “So frightfully dark already. I daresay, I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”

Mr. Haywood’s mouth flattened at the remark. “Yes, well, that is because you were all so determined to speak of nightmarish things.”

Mr. Stapleton joined his wife at the window. “Hmm, rather too dark to walk home, Haywood. Fog’s thick enough to chew on.”

“And thick enough to conceal a killer,” said his aged mother, the wobbling candlelight throwing long shadows over the many folds in her face.

Mr. Stapleton, nodding at his mother, offered the Haywoods his carriage. The mixture of fog and black London smoke had completely blotted what little indigo light remained in the west.

Emma’s uncle, however, ostensibly flouting the notion of danger, promptly and politely declined the kind gesture. After all, he declared, the townhouse was not so very far away and the walk would do well to clear their heads of all the nonsense. Aunt Sophie merely acquiesced with an unenthusiastic nod and a wary glance out the window.

“I insist,” said Mr. Stapleton. He then turned to give the order to his footman, but the servant promptly reminded his master that the carriage had yet to have its axle repaired. “Ah, yes, I quite forgot.” But he smiled, appearing determined to see to it his guests were conveyed home in safety. “I believe my neighbor has a hansom he can spare. I daresay you’d all squeeze in nicely.”

“Never mind that,” said Mr. Haywood, impatient, “it’s early yet and we could do with the walk.” He then gave his wife and niece a bolstering grin.

We? Emma turned a dubious glare towards the blackness pressing at the window. There was no ‘we’ here. She decided her uncle must have a rat in his pocket, for she and her aunt certainly were not inclined to take that deuced walk.

But the footman cleared his throat and informed his employer that the esteemed neighbor in question was out of town…with his conveyance.

“Devilish inconsiderate of him,” their host grumbled, following Mr. Haywood and his family from the room. “We’ll flag down a bone-shaker then.”

“Give over, Stapleton, I shall be climbing my doorstones before your man has even spotted a hack.” Uncle Haywood took his coat and hat from the servant. “The fog’s too thick to see through, never mind drive in.”

“I never met with a more stubborn man.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Mr. Haywood replied, grinning as the rest of the party assembled in the foyer to see the intrepid pedestrians off. Emma and her guardians departed shortly thereafter. Would that she had not glanced back at the house, though, for it was dreadfully disconcerting to see the silhouettes of Mr. Stapleton and his family gathered at the window, safe in their circle of light. The malignant street lights hovered in the darkness like disembodied Lampades dancing in the mist.

A lamplighter was scurrying down his ladder as they turned a corner, leaving Mr. Stapleton’s street. Visibly startled, the man froze and watched them as they passed him by; the street was otherwise uninhabited. His gaslit eyes glimmered with carnelian dread and his mouth parted as though he might be on the verge of saying something, but after a moment he shook his head and hurried off with his ladder. The man then disappeared into the gloom that seemed to suffocate even the orange glow of the gaslights.

How dark it was tonight, Emma thought, looking up at where the eaves and upper windows disappeared into the fallen clouds so that any candlelight swaying dismally at the glazing appeared otherworldly. Shivering, she endeavored to keep pace with her uncle’s militant stride, loath to admit even to herself that the night was starting to disquiet her. The shadows themselves glared from the fog, raising her hackles. Only silence prevailed. The silence of the night and brume disrupted only by the rhythmic strike of her uncle’s cane and three pairs of heels slapping briskly upon the cobbles as they marched through the white, creeping drift. Rhythmic until, unexpectedly, a fourth set of sinister footsteps was heard to echo in the street, the discord instantly tripping Emma’s heart.

She froze and listened, her gaze furtively cutting through the fog that lay behind them. “Do you hear that, uncle?”