The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (9 page)

“Nye-nye, Naldi!” The old woman’s lips formed words I could never have read had Hawk not been there to repeat them. In my peripheral view, the wolf craned its head to attention. “Naldi, caught a rhubarb. I allers did say you the jam on my rye.”

The beast trotted over to lick the gypsy’s stockinged feet through the strands of her sandals, then nudged the fallen branch that earlier held the tent’s flap, a plea to play fetch.

My captor jerked my elbow until the tip of my nose aligned with hers. Her breath—tart and spiced with tobacco—scorched my nostrils and her wrinkled face reminded me of a walnut’s meat. Braids, as white as untouched snow, looped beneath a broad-brimmed hat tied over her ears with a crimson sash, distracting me as I tried to concentrate on her pruned mouth.

“My vurma you followed. The straightway made crooked. Little rhubarb … cheat an old woman of her sumadji. Black-hearted trot.”

Hawk relayed the strange, senseless words. I struggled against her grasp, stopping when she jabbed the knife at my neck. Hawk’s swift appearance at my side offered little comfort as my pulse throbbed against the blade’s tip.

“Don’t struggle, Juliet. She thinks you followed her trail in the trees to steal her stash. We must reason with her to get you out of this.”

Trail in the trees? Stash? When did she say that
?

“Vurma,” he answered without pause. “It means a trail; and sumadji is a treasured heirloom.”

Before I could even respond, my captor nudged the knife against the book beneath my coat. Her neck veins strained in a shout. “What ye hide give back, rhubarb!”

In spite of my noodling legs, I wouldn’t surrender. We needed this book; judging from Hawk’s knowledge of the gypsy tongue, he could decipher the pages. To think that all along the songs he’d been singing were Romani …

Hawk hadn’t budged from his place at my side, but there was little he could do. I had to save myself.

Taking shallow breaths to prevent the knife from sinking deeper into the journal, I looked the woman square on and hoped she would understand English. “I’ve been visited by the one whose grave you keep. I seek the truth about the
Rat King
.”

“Mulo …?” The old woman’s face paled and she dropped the knife. “O Bengh!” She clutched her chest. Her eyes lolled into their sockets and she fainted, knocking the back of her head on the branch behind her.

I sat next to the fireplace and sipped the spiced cider Enya had warmed. She watched from her place at the table, preparing a mud poultice for our untimely guest. I didn’t wish to give an explanation yet. Not when I would have to repeat it upon my uncle’s return.

I couldn’t have left the gypsy bleeding and groggy. She might very well be Hawk’s family. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might be of another race. A foolish oversight, considering his mastery of a foreign tongue and his exotic features. But with his opacity, I never had a clear glimpse of his coloring. And his English attire offered another contradiction.

On the way home, Hawk had deciphered the gypsy’s last words. She’d said something about a masculine spirit before fainting dead away. The Romanies obviously knew more of the afterlife than the English did.

Small though she was, it had been no easy feat to drag the woman along the path through the forest and back to the cemetery. Hawk had instructed me on crafting a stretcher with some branches and one of the gypsy’s skirts. The carriage’s boot was low enough to the ground that I managed to push her motionless form into Uncle’s cab.

If not for Hawk’s help, I would never have slipped the woman past Naldi and out of the tent in the first place. The wolf tried once to attack me until a shove from Hawk sent her sprawling on her back. After that, he stood between us and she dared not cross him again. Yet the loyal pet stayed with us, not letting her mistress out of her sight, even following behind the rig.

Upon our arrival home, Enya helped me carry our guest across the threshold. We stretched her out in the sitting room upon a velvet settee, draping the woolen throw up to her chin. When last I looked in on them, Naldi lay on the floor beside her, powerful muzzle cradled between delicate front paws.

I reached the bottom of my cider where the cloves overpowered the juice, leaving my tongue numb. Even without looking over my shoulder, I sensed Enya’s angry glare.

Earlier, when Uncle had noticed the absence of his cab-fronted gig and saw my window lagging open, he had left to follow the wheel tracks. He went on foot—despite his gimp back. For Hawk and I to miss him on our ride in, he must have taken the foot trail to the cemetery as opposed to the road. I could not imagine what horrific scenarios raced through his mind. No doubt he thought me too distressed to make any sound decisions.

I stood and put down the cider, casting a glance at Hawk but speaking to Enya. “I must search for him.”

Enya’s hardened scowl came into view as she stepped into the circle of firelight. “Haven’t you caused trouble enough? He shan’t be physically able to chase you another step today.” No sooner had she said this, than her head snapped toward the front of the house.

I rushed into the hall. Upon slamming the door shut, Uncle drew me into an embrace against the rough nap of his great coat. His scent of dusty citrus filled my nose and his lips moved atop my head, scolding me, while knowing I wouldn’t hear a word.

What he didn’t know was that a ghost relayed them for me: how he would not survive losing me after losing Mama, how I was all he had now—the daughter of his heart.

I heard the tenderness in Hawk’s recitation of each sentiment, and wondered if it was respect for my uncle’s devotion to me, or regret for his lack of memory of any such relationship in his past.

“Both,” Hawk whispered, and with my cheek pressed to my uncle’s chest, I met my friend’s ghostly gaze to assure him he had a family now.

He smiled in grateful acknowledgment.

Our quiet moment shattered as my uncle stretched me out to arm’s length so I could see his lips. “Never leave like that again, tiny sparrow.” His eyes glistened with tears as he stared at my waistline where the strip of fabric formed a limp tail. “Did someone hurt you? Did someone touch you?”

My cheeks flamed. “No, I’m fine. It happened when I climbed down the tree.”

His face paled as if just the thought made him faint. “I’ve been in turmoil for hours. I could only think of that day … at the quarry … the mud, so red on your frock I thought you were bleeding. I cannot relive that. Ever.”

Mud as red as blood.
I glanced at Hawk’s boots.
That’s
where I had seen such a color before. My accident at the ochre mines when I was a child.

Hawk gave me a meaningful frown, seeking more details, but I pressed him to wait. First I had to show Uncle Owen our guest … and I had no idea what to offer as explanation.

“That was the perfect ruse, Juliet. Your uncle believed you stumbled upon her on the road, already unconscious. So why so distraught?”

I stiffened at the edge of my bed. Hawk stood in front of my picture window, his palms splayed on the desk top to appraise the strange drawing of the rats that I had spread open. Evening’s blush filtered through him—making him unsettlingly beautiful once again.

“Why am I upset?” I wasn’t even sure if I spoke aloud. “Not only have I proved myself a resourceful thief—I am also a masterful liar. And I’ve had wanton thoughts about a ghostly man who lives in the petals of a flower. Who am I since my mother has left me? I don’t know anymore.”

Hawk strode over. The mattress sunk beneath him as he settled, and again I spurned the physical laws so intent on taunting us.

“Everything you have done is for the greater good. Yes, you filched the flower … but in the process, you liberated my spirit. And yes, we stole from the gypsy. But this book could very well be about me—which in turn makes it mine. And as for your uncle, would he have believed the truth? Or would he have imagined you crushed with grief to the point of insanity, and become ill with worry himself? Now he’s off to retrieve the physician who will heal the woman. When she wakes, we can learn her relation to me. And lastly,”—his palm drifted through the back of my hand, dipped into my flesh, then released with a slight tug, just as his lips had done earlier—“by having
wanton
thoughts of me, you’re making me feel alive.”

Our gazes joined and I smiled. “You are becoming stronger.”

He grinned back. “I’m learning how to connect on another level. It seems to be a form of osmosis … triggered by my spirit touching your flesh. As if I’m being absorbed by your body. So, what should we try next? My lips upon your cheek?”

I lowered my lashes, self-conscious beneath the intensity of his stare. “I fear there’s no time for that. We need to study the journal.”

“Ah, coy Juliet.” Amusement smoothed his husky murmur. “You do like to pretend. But you always manage to change the subject when things harken too close to reality.”

“That’s not it at all.” It was impossible to lie to a spirit who could see my thoughts. “We should look now.” I struggled against the tickle in my chest. “While we have time alone.”

“Of course. While we’re alone. Were I a man of flesh, I could surely find better use of such moments.”

I shook my head and leafed through the journal—an effort to appear in control.

Hawk’s teasing chuckle silenced as I came to the first page with writing on it. “There. Hold it there,” he said, pointing to the signature. “The book’s owner is someone named ‘Chaine Kaldera’.”

On the next page we found a dated entry. Hawk began to read the foreign words in silence until I folded the page down. “If I’m to be your doorway into the world of the living, you will bar no secrets from me. Read aloud.”

He seemed hesitant, but nodded.

I pressed out the crease with a fingertip then held the page at its corner.

“The monster came tonight when Papa left,” Hawk relayed the script, his gaze tense and focused. “I hate him. He howls at me. He tears my clothes and skin until I bleed and the stains will never come out. Papa is angry when he sees them. The monster doesn’t care. He hates me, too. He throws me into the pit. I don’t like it there. The shadows whisper and snarl …”

Hawk stalled as my hand covered the page, as if by holding the script I could ease the anguish etched into each loop and curve. It was a child’s voice—a boy, judging by the name. I never imagined anyone could treat a child with such maliciousness.

Hawk regarded my face. “Are you sure you wish to continue? It seems rather severe for a lady’s sensibilities.”

My eyebrows pinched together. “I am in constant company of a dead man, yet you’re worried for my delicate sensibilities?”

He pursed his mouth. “Fair point.” He regarded the page again, this time reading the child’s words in a tentative voice. “You belong there, the monster says. You are born of dirt and filth, he says. Then he takes the light from me. I wait alone. In the dark, I wait. When I feel their claws in my hair … I know they have come. The monster dumps them from a bag onto my head. They scuttle down my arms. Their eyes are beaded like glowing buttons; I want to poke them out. I want to wear them so I might see in the dark as they do … but I can’t. The monster says I must make of them a living crown. I must tie each to the other by their tails. For I am their king. I will always be their king. The king of rats, the monster says. The king of rats.” Hawk’s vocal cords faltered.

He glanced at me, his cheeks streaked with tears. Though I’d been crying, I hadn’t realized he’d wept, too. His voice had remained strong throughout the reading until the very end.

“God help me.” He swiped at the moisture with his shirt cuffs and leapt to his feet. “Wake the gypsy! I must know. Did I terrorize this poor child? How could I have lived with myself?” His expression darkened. “Perhaps I couldn’t … perhaps I took my own life and am better off alone in darkness with the voices.”

“No.” I stood, casting the offending book atop my pillows. “You have never been anything but kind to me. Even as a ghost, you practice more empathy for my infirmity than most living men I’ve met.” I kneaded my hands, afraid to give too much of my past away. “Your watch is engraved with the words ‘Rat King’. If anything is to be gleaned from that detail,
you
are the child. You are Chaine.”