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CHAPTER THIRTEENWhispers

I sat at the table, skimming the children’s book for the words stitched into the little poppet’s skirt. I could only translate a handful of them on my own—I needed more context to decipher the message. Yet another set of clues to piece together. My eyes burnt from staring at the letters. I don’t even know how long I’d been struggling with the translation when Ruan finally arrived, closed the door, and locked it behind him. I didn’t bother looking up from the little children’s book.

“It was blood,” he said, shucking out of his coat and hanging it from a peg near the door. “I cannot tell if it was human or animal. But I believe it had been combined with something else to thin it for use as paint.”

Lovely. I wrinkled my nose, looking up at him at last, uncertain whether the notion of watering down blood was better or worse than using it straight from the source. “Any idea who might have done it?”

Ruan ran his hands over his herringbone waistcoat. A bit of the blood concoction had gotten on the sleeve of his shirt. A drying brown stain, stark against the white. He’d evidently noticed the same, as he began unbuttoning his shirt and walking into the adjoining room. “Someone who knows English, for one. But no. There were no other signs. No clues at all. Whoever it was, took their brush with them—if it was even a brush they used. Might have been a rag or cloth. I didn’t notice brush marks come to think of it.”

I could hear him rummaging in his bag as I covered my face with my hands. Was this what our life would be like together? Casually discussing murder and threats while dressing?

“It wasn’t a threat per se,” he called back from the other room, overhearing my thoughts.

I grumbled beneath my breath about busybody witches who couldn’t keep their minds to themselves.

Ruan chuckled, unbothered by my annoyance. He came behind me, smelling comfortingly of the herbs he spent so much time with. He bracketed me with his arms, palms flat on the table, and looked at the little doll. “What did Mrs. Wauters say about the poppet? Did she understand the message?”

“I didn’t have the heart to ask her. That’s what I’m doing here. Trying to figure it out myself. But Ruan—” I caught my lip in my teeth, weighing how much to burden him with.

“All of it. Every last bit. We’re in this together,” he reminded me.

I let out a breathy laugh. “You’re irritating, you know that don’t you?”

“You might have said it a time or two.” I could feel the warmth of his smile as he came around to sit across from me. “Besides, you’re no saint yourself. Now out with it. What did Mrs. Wauters say?”

This newfound domesticity was uncomfortably pleasant. I suppose a girl could get used to this—albeit with less murder. Sitting across a table from Ruan Kivell without being at odds or injured was actually quite nice. I placed the book down, tugged my feet up beneath me, and began to regale him with the story from today. Of Father Étienne rummaging around in von Keller’s office, what the doctor revealed about the other patients, the two dead women in the lake, the missing girl, the newspaper clipping, the peculiar woman arguing with Dr. Peterson. Every last drop of information leading up to the moment we found Mrs. Wauters in the back garden.

“And you said she thought she heard her son just before she found the message?” Ruan asked me curiously.

“Yes. And that Djhan and Félix were close. I’m beginning to believe the scene today with Félix was a diversion. But I don’t understand why or for whom. What’s more, I’ve been spending the last hour trying and failing to translate a language I don’t even know.” I groaned loudly, rocking back in my chair, letting the doll fall to the tabletop. “Perhaps I’m not made out for lady-detectiving after all?”

Ruan leaned across the table, turning the doll around and straightening its skirt to modestly fall over its wooden legs.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms against them until I saw stars. “The best I can make out is it’s referencing a tale of a fox and a sparrow—but it’s not one I’ve come across before.” It was hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

Ruan pulled my fingers from my face, forcing me to look at him. His pale green eyes were stormy today, the dark cloud in the one strangely larger. My pulse began to slow and at last I drew an easy breath.

“You knew this would be difficult.”

“Of course I did! But difficult is finding one’s mother is now mute and bringing her home and repairing our damaged relationship. I don’t even think there is a word in the English language to describe investigating your mother’s murder.” My gaze fell back to the children’s stories—there was a word there, beneath a beautifully drawn picture of a little sparrow in the sky. I’d used it to translate the word sparrow. But then I spotted another word. Fly … I sucked in a sharp breath. “The doll is telling the sparrow to fly…”

My mind raced forward. “Dr. von Keller said Mother tried to leave the priory before. Then that girl this morning at the children’s home, she believed the girl, Manon, was with my mother.” I pressed my forehead against the wood of the table and closed my eyes. “I just wish I knew how the imposter played into all this. I’ve never even met the woman. It would be a great deal easier if I—” My gaze settled upon my valise. Of course! I may not have met with her, but Hari had.

With far more energy than I felt, I shot to my feet, nearly knocking my chair over on my way to grab the papers Hari had given me. The man, God love him, never missed a detail. A convenient quality in one’s solicitor. I rummaged through my valise until I found the sheaf of papers and brought them to the bed with me, like my cat Fiachna did when he caught a mouse. I began to look for the page where he’d described the woman he’d met in Oxford—the one claiming to be my mother. At last, I laid hands on it and began to read aloud. “No more than five feet tall, summer wheat–colored hair. Cunning. Possibly American. Too young to be N.V.” Niamh Vaughn.

I swore beneath my breath. Hari’s description could have been anyone, yet it bore a striking resemblance to the woman arguing with Dr. Peterson this morning.

Ruan made a low sound in his chest in agreement. “That also sounds like the woman I saw in Oxford—the one who had been following you this past December.”

The woman arguing with Dr. Peterson this morning had to be the imposter. She simply had to be. And if she was lurking around Saint Oda’s it meant I could find her, and once I did, I intended to get some long-overdue answers.

“What else do we know for certain?” Ruan leaned forward in the chair he’d taken at the little table.

“Well, we now know the imposter is here.” I ticked up one finger and pulled my legs up beneath me on the bed. The thin mattress squeaked beneath my weight. “We also know at least two—possibly three—patients are believed to be dead. Plus, the missing child.” The thought gnawed at my belly.

Ruan made a low sound of agreement in his throat as he watched me as my mind tripped on ahead.

“Someone discovered my mother in the lake—Mrs. Wauters said it was Father Étienne but the orderly this morning said Félix found her, which opens up an entirely different bag of possibilities—”