“You don’t look too old to me.”
“Neither do you.”
They regarded each other with curiosity. Then Christopher’s eyebrow raised and they both howled with inexplicable drunk laughter, causing the horses to shy. When they finally arrived at the front stairs of Blackthorne Manor, the first thing Angelika noticed was that the house had had a haircut.
“Something’s been happening out here,” she said, squinting at the visible porch railings. There were leaves on the ground and some sacks filled with greenery. “I think someone’s been gardening.” She felt conscious of the old house’s appearance. “It was so grand, once upon a time. These days, it just looks miserable.”
Christopher was charitable. “It looks grand to me.”
“Not in daylight.” It was a black brick gothic mansion, three stories, plus basement and attic. It had arched windows, and the thick glass panes shone iridescent, like soap bubbles. Now that the choke hold of ivy and creeping roses had been loosened, the gargoyles might be visible again.
“Must be twenty-five rooms, at least,” Christopher said. He had been counting windows and doing his sums.
“And every one of them is stacked up to the ceiling in curios and inventions. Believe me when I say I barely have enough room to store a new hatbox. The barn to that side has been converted into Victor’s laboratory. Stables, orchard, and so on.” She waved in the direction of the dark. “The forest is the stuff of nightmares. Who has been working out here?” she asked herself again. “The ground is covered in petals.”
The next odd thing happened when a teenage lad appeared from the side of the house and grasped her reins as she dismounted. “I’m your new stablehand, Jacob. How do you do, Miss Frankenstein?” His voice was thin from nerves.
She shook his hand firmly. “Hello. Who hired you?” Angelika could not imagine Victor being bothered. He usually left the horses free to roam.
“Sir Black did. Is this Percy?” The lad produced a carrot from his pocket. He barely spared Angelika another glance.
She laughed at his eagerness to be acquainted with his charge. “Yes, this is Percy. He is purebred Arabian. He was brought here from Persia by ship as a colt.”
As she said it, she heard it: the casual brag, and the privilege she had. Poor Percy; how frightening the journey must have been. He had suffered in order to be a birthday gift for a spoiled girl? She was wicked. She ran a hand down the animal’s gleaming neck to say, I’m sorry, so sorry. “I have had him half my life, and he is precious to me. You must be kind to him. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.”
“He’s a good match for Solomon; they both have the same white blaze. Sir Black’s horse,” Jacob prompted when she looked blank.
“Will finally named his horse,” Angelika said, beaming. “Please make his stable a nameplate.”
“I surely will. Sir, I’ll take him.” He led away the two horses, tying Christopher’s nearby. As he walked off into the darkness, Jacob called out, “And, miss? I’m terribly sorry. For what I did.” He was gone before she could question him.
“Has he already made a blunder?” Angelika pulled off her gloves. “More staff popping up around here. Probably a good thing.”
“Who is Sir Black? An uncle or cousin to impress?” Christopher examined his cuff. “Never fear, I shall attempt it.”
“He is my brother’s colleague,” Angelika said as the front door opened. “Ah, here he is now.”
Will stepped out to join them, and the two men faced each other.
It was like comparing daylight to darkness. Christopher was a bright, blond sunny day; a creaseless sheet on a washing line. But Angelika had always been drawn to the calm, cool, and stars. She liked lightning strikes, and the tawny patterns in owl feathers. The intimacy of what she had done with Will—how she had created him and watched his first breath—could not be matched by any other.
The shock of the two men’s juxtaposition blended into a new concern: this was a huge risk for Will to take if he had indeed originated from the military academy. But a bland silence followed.
“How do you do? I am Commander Christopher Keatings.”
“Will Black. I am well, thank you. Very late to come home, Angelika.” Will spoke like a chiding husband—a role he seemed to take on whenever it suited him. “You are not dressed well enough for the cold.”
She would usually luxuriate in his concern, but it was not done for her benefit. “I’m not a child. Hiring stablehands for me, are you? And a groundskeeper?” She ran a hand over the tamed honeysuckle.