The Chocolatier's Wife (39 page)

She opened a
concealed door in
the wall. A
window, framing
the bright sapphire
moon,
was
the
only
illumination
as
the
woman started
down
the creaking
servant’s
stairs.

Tasmin
followed,
timing
her
steps
with
the
other
woman’s,
grateful
that the full moonlight made the movements so clear.

She
paused
and
Tasmin barely
managed
to
catch
herself,
balanced
on one foot, her weight slightly forward,
her breath held.
The
stone
was
starting
to
itch
under
her
tongue,
and
she
swallowed
what
excess
moisture
she
could
without
sending
the
stone
into
her
stomach.
Her greatest
fear
was
swallowing
it,
for
that
would
make her
invis
i
ble
for
an indefinite
amount of time.

The maid
stood there for
an
age, listening, and
Tasmin,
scared she was going
to
fall
into
her,
slowly
reached
out
for
the
banister,
wrapping
her fingers
around
it.
The
woman
turned,
slowly,
and
looked
back
up
the
stairs. Her
eyes
widened
as
she
looked
at
the
wall,
her
head
moving
back
and
forth, horror
plain
on
her
face.
Tasmin
moved
her
own
head
slowly,
and
saw
two shadows,
one
holding
the
banister
and
standing
very still,
the
other
not, head shaking.
The woman
screamed and
ran
down the stairs.

“Oh,
blast
it
all,”
she
muttered,
and
ran
down
the
stairs
after
her,
threw herself
against
the
wall,
and
scooted
until
she
could
see
around
the
corner, fearful
something
else
would
give
her
away.
She
felt
guilty—a
good
and honorable
person
would
reveal
herself
and apologize—but
she
wanted
to see William.

The
woman ran
outside,
leaving
the
door
open.
Tasmin took
a
breath and
followed
her,
running through
the
kitchen, jumping
over
a
basket
of potatoes
in
the
way,
and
on
past
one
of
the
skivvies who
had
decided
to add
her
voice
to
the
chaos
for
God
knew
what
reason.
It
looked
like
she
was in
the
clear,
at
least
until
she
tripped
on
the
discarded
bed
warmer. She breathed
in,
surprised,
managed
not
to
scream, but
felt
the
stone
go
over her
tongue
and
down
her
throat.
She
started
coughing,
hacking, trying
to get it out, desperate not to swallow or
choke on
it.

William
came
out
of
the
shadows,
and
she
wanted
to
call
to
him,
but
she was
too
busy
doubled
over
and
gagging.
He
stopped,
watching
the
wall
next to her intently b
e
fore going behind her and
thumping her back
hard.

She
felt
the
stone
dislodge
and
she
cupped
her
hands
over
her
mouth
to catch it as it fell.

He
pulled
her
against
him
and
she
wiped
her
face
with
shaking
fingers
before sli
p
ping the stone into the pocket in
her skirt. “Thank
you,” she breathed, trying to r
e
cover.

“I
saw
her
on
the
stairs,
I
did!
The
dread
lady
has
returned
to
haunt
us.” The maid’s
voice was strident, not from
fear,
but from
not being believed.

“Nonsense.
The
Master’s
father
had
her
exorcised
years
ago.
Do
not spread panic about things you do not know.”

Tasmin
thought the other voice was the butler’s,
but she wasn’t
sure. William
groaned
and
straightened
his
hat,
then
wrapped
her
in
his
cloak,
pulling
them
backward
through
a
tiny
hole
in
the
hedge.
His
move
was
not for
magic, but
practicality,
as
the
wool
would
take
the
rough
scratching
of the branches better than
her own clothes or
skin
would do.

“I
hope,”
he
said
dryly,
as
he
plucked
some
needles
from
his
cloak,
“that you are
a
better detective than
you are
a
ghost.”

She
reached
over
and
brushed
off
his
cloak.
“Twas
a
brilliant
plan,
save that the moonlight gave me away.”

“Well, it
saved
you
as
well,
‘twas
how
I
was
able
to
discern
where
to strike. I
heard
someone
coughing
and
saw
the
shadow
on
the
wall,
all hunched
over,
and
was
able
to
logic
it
out,
especially
since
your
own
visible presence was quite significant
in its being missing.”

He
offered
his
arm,
and
she
took
it,
matching
his
brisk
pace
easily. The
night
was
a
touch
bitter,
and
she
was
glad
she
had
worn her
warmest clothes.

“Ah,
so
you
didn’t
think
it
was
the
Dread
Lady,
returned
to
haunt
you?”
she asked in
a
shrill,
panicked voice.

He
coughed.
“Nay.
I
certainly
do
not
believe
in
ghosts
or
spirits,
and
I
never
thought that the Dread Lady
was one.”

“But
we
have
many
documented
cases
of
haunting,”
Tasmin
said,
who was
of
two
minds
on
the
issue.
Neither
r
eligious
teachings
nor
reason
left room
for
ghosts.
Magic
not
only
left
room
for
them,
but
it
threw
all
the doors open and
invited them for
tea.

“Aye,
but
you
have
documented
cases
of
heresy
and misinterpretation. No
one
knew
if
the
Dread
Lady
left
because
the
Bishop
came
and
cleansed the
house
or
if
it
was
because
my
great
grandfather
finally
opened
his
purse strings wide enough to get the chimney draft fixed.”