Page 16

Ann Radcliffe

* * *

Mrs. Roskelly led them up the main staircase, her sensible boots making soft thuds on the worn runner that climbed through the heart of Grimsfell Hall. The corridors twisted and turned, passing through sections that clearly dated from different centuries. Angelo tried to maintain his bearings but soon gave up. This place was a labyrinth.

“Mr. Angelo Scott, ye’ll be here,” the housekeeper said, pushing open a door to reveal a guest chamber that faced east. “And Mr. Nicholas Scott, just across the hall.” She gestured to the opposite door. “Signor di Bianchi, ye’re just next to Mr. Nicholas, with a lovely view of the sea come morning, though I warn ye, the wind does sing something fierce on that side of the house.”

Lorenzo barely acknowledged the information, his demeanor distant and preoccupied. Angelo watched his friend mumble something in Italian, which sounded like a curse, though the words were too low to make out clearly, before disappearing into his assigned chamber without ceremony.

Nicholas limped to his door, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The four days of travel had clearly taken their toll. His face was drawn, the lines around his mouth deeper than usual, and Angelo noticed how carefully he distributed his weight to favor his injured leg.

“I will bring liniment shortly,” Angelo called after him. “Give me a moment to … fissare? … settle my things.”

Nicholas’s only response was a grunt before his door closed with an ill-humored click.

Angelo stepped into his own chamber and paused, taking in his surroundings with the appreciation of someone who had spent too many nights in dubious coaching inns. The room was simple but elegant. A narrow four-poster bed dominated one wall, its hangings a faded green velvet that had probably been quite grand fifty years ago. A walnut writing desk stood beneath the tall sash window, and a high-backed chair with worn arms waited by the ornate fireplace.

The floor was polished dark wood, mostly covered by a threadbare rug that bore the ghosts of what had once been an intricate pattern. The air smelled faintly of crushed lavender and beeswax, underlaid by the ever-present salt tang from the sea. It was all scrupulously clean, with a cheery fire in the hearth that warmed the room against the winter chill.

Angelo set his travel trunk down with a grateful sigh and moved to the window, throwing back the heavy velvet curtains. The view was extraordinary. The cliff edge fell away at an angle, and beyond it stretched the rugged Cornish interior. Rolling moorland was broken by stone walls and winding lanes, the land darkening as the afternoon light failed. Even here, turned inland, the wind sang softly against the glass, a constant presence that defined this wild place.

He turned from the window and began unpacking with habitual efficiency. His medical supplies came out first. Tinted glass vials filled with various tinctures and oils. A mortar and pestle wrapped carefully in cloth. Several leather-bound medical texts in Italian that his uncle Paolo had presented him before he left Florence.

Angelo placed these items on the writing desk with care, creating a makeshift apothecary counter. The tinted vials caught the light, their contents ranging from clear to amber to deep green, yet rendered uniform by the amber glass. Arnica for bruising. Comfrey for bone and tissue repair. Lavender oil for relaxation. Rosemary for circulation. Willow bark tincture for pain.

He pulled out the jar of liniment he had prepared in London specifically for Nicholas’s treatments. It was his own formulation with a base of olive oil infused with arnica, St. John’s wort, and cayenne pepper, with additions of camphor and menthol for their warming properties. Lady Trafford had been using a similar preparation, but Angelo’s was more aggressive. His uncle’s leg required it, and Nicholas was more than capable of withstanding the stronger properties.

Preparing to exit the chamber, he paused, noting the decorative iron grates, similar to the ones he had seen in the library and the morning room. But these were different somehow. Positioned oddly, they were not quite where one would expect purely decorative elements. Angelo tilted his head, studying the metalwork. The pattern was intricate, almost like lace frozen in iron, and behind the decorative façade lay darkness.

Ventilation, certainly. But something about them nagged at his attention.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He was becoming as obsessed with this hall’s mysteries as Lorenzo. There was work to be done.

Angelo collected the jar of liniment and a clean cloth, steeling himself for the ordeal ahead. Nicholas was not a gracious patient at the best of times. In pain and exhausted from travel, he would be absolutely insufferable.

The corridor was dim and quiet. Angelo crossed to Nicholas’s door and knocked.

“Enter, if you must,” came the irritable response.

Angelo pushed open the door to find a chamber slightly larger than his own, with windows that faced west toward the sea. The furniture was similar, dark wood and faded elegance, but Nicholas had already made the space his own in the brief time since their arrival. His coat lay draped across the back of a chair, his boots kicked off carelessly near the hearth, and a book lay open on the small table beside the bed.

Nicholas himself had positioned a chaise beneath the window and was in the process of removing his breeches with obvious difficulty. His jaw was clenched, his movements pained.

“Do you require assistance?” Angelo asked, setting the liniment and cloth on the nearby table.

“I am perfectly capable of undressing myself,” Nicholas snapped, though the way his hands trembled belied the claim.

Angelo waited in patient silence, knowing better than to offer help a second time, which would only be rejected with greater vehemence. Finally, Nicholas succeeded in removing his breeches and stockings, leaving him in his shirt and small clothes. He eased himself back onto the chaise lounge with a hiss of discomfort, stretching his injured leg out before him.

The limb was thinner compared to the other, the muscles mildly atrophied from years of disuse and neglect, but improving with each passing month. His uncle had only recently begun to receive adequate treatment from Lady Trafford, his previous physicians being barbaric quacks who still bled their patients. They had lacked the intelligence or interest to truly help Nicholas.

The scars from the original break were still visible, pale lines that traced across his shin and thigh where bone had torn through skin all those years ago.

Nicholas had been fourteen when he had fallen from a third-story window during some youthful indiscretion. The injuries should have been treated immediately, aggressively. Instead, the family physician had prescribed laudanum for the pain and left the leg to heal improperly. When his uncle had sobered up enough to admit something was terribly wrong, he had been fortunate to encounter Lady Trafford and her more astute methods of treatment.

“Well?” Nicholas demanded, his blue eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he could will himself anywhere but here. “Get on with it. The sooner you start, the sooner this torture ends.”

Angelo moved the chair closer to the chaise and sat, rolling up his sleeves. He uncapped the liniment jar, and the sharp scent of camphor and cayenne immediately filled the room.