The Librarian of Blackthorn Edge - Part 1

Chapter One: An Advertisement Worth Answering Corvina Vale arrived in Bellweather shortly after nine on a grey October morning, descending from the coach in a charcoal travelling dress while the city moved around her in damp wool, carriage smoke, and the restless clatter of iron wheels upon stone. She carried one leather case, though she owned houses, jewels, accounts, and buried fortunes enough to purchase most of the street. Money had ceased to interest her several lifetimes ago. What she required was opportunity. She entered a coffee house near the coach station, selected a quiet table, and unfolded the morning newspaper while pretending to drink coffee. “Governess,” she murmured, passing over one notice. “Too many watchful mothers.” She examined another. “Companion to an elderly widow. Pleasant, perhaps, but nutritionally disappointing.” “Are you seeking employment?” Corvina looked up. The woman beside her table was perhaps forty-two, pleasantly rounded, with chestnut hair beneath a lace cap and the alert expression of someone who learned more from customers than newspapers ever printed. “I am seeking an interesting household,” Corvina replied. The woman laughed. “That is not quite the same thing.” “It rarely is.” “I am Mrs. Fenwick. I own this place, which means I know who has money, who has debts, who is marrying badly, and who needs competent help but refuses to admit it.” “Then you are better informed than the newspaper.” “Considerably.” Mrs. Fenwick lowered her voice. “There is a mansion at Blackthorn Edge, beyond the eastern gardens. Mr. Hawthorne is seeking someone to organize his library. Hundreds of volumes, perhaps thousands. He collects books faster than he reads them.” “And the household?” “A wife, Alice, about forty-five. A daughter, Lillian, twenty-five and unmarried. Several servants. Gardeners, footmen, stable hands. The usual arrangement.” Corvina’s eyes lingered on Mrs. Fenwick. “The daughter is unmarried by choice?” “Not if her father has anything to say about it. Another wealthy suitor is expected this week.” “A large library,” Corvina said. “A neglected wife, an unwilling daughter, and a generous quantity of male staff.” Mrs. Fenwick tilted her head. “You make it sound like a menu.” Corvina smiled. “Only an opportunity.” By noon she stood before the gates of Blackthorn Edge. The mansion rose beyond bare trees and clipped hedges, broad and grey beneath the autumn sky, its windows reflecting no warmth despite the fires undoubtedly burning inside. The family had not expected a candidate so soon. Mr. Edmund Hawthorne arrived in the drawing room with his waistcoat half-buttoned and his irritation prepared, but both became confused when he saw Corvina standing by the fireplace. She was tall, pale, and composed, her black hair pinned beneath a travelling hat, her dark eyes resting upon him with the calm attention men often mistook for admiration. His wife entered behind him. Alice Hawthorne was still a beautiful woman, though years of disappointment had left a careful tiredness around her hazel-green eyes. Her chestnut hair was arranged perfectly, her deep green dress expensive, and her posture so controlled that Corvina immediately understood how much anger it concealed. “You came without an appointment,” Alice said. “I feared the library might deteriorate while formalities were arranged.” To Alice’s surprise, she smiled. Mr. Hawthorne did not smile. He stared. “You have experience, Miss Vale?” “Some.” In the library, that modest answer revealed itself as an amusement. Corvina recognized rare editions without opening them, corrected the dates of several volumes, identified a forged signature, located evidence of mildew behind a locked cabinet, and explained, with devastating politeness, that the existing catalog was “less an organizational system than a prolonged cry for help.” Mr. Hawthorne stared at her. Alice laughed for the first time that day. “You could restore it?” she asked. “I could make it worthy of the house.” Mr. Hawthorne named a salary. Corvina hesitated. He doubled it. When the servants’ quarters were mentioned, she glanced toward the distant corridor without enthusiasm. “There is a guest room in the main house,” Alice said. “Near the family rooms and much closer to the library.” Corvina allowed another small pause. “I suppose I could endure it.” She was hired before luncheon. Chapter Two: Hunger in the Garden Corvina was permitted to rest that evening and begin her duties the following morning. Rest, however, was not what she needed. She had not fed since leaving York, and though hunger did not weaken her as human hunger did, it sharpened every sound inside the mansion—the pulse of a footman carrying coal, the heartbeat of a groom laughing below the kitchen windows, the warm rush of blood beneath the skin of every man who passed her. Near midnight, Corvina left her room in a dark cloak and wandered into the garden. She found the gardener near the yew walk. Or perhaps he found her. He was young, broad, and confident in the way of men who confused physical strength with universal permission. “You should not be out here alone,” he said. “Should I not?” “This part of the grounds is mine after dark.” Corvina glanced around. “I saw no sign bearing your name.” He moved closer. “You are the new librarian.” “And you are the gardener.” “I am the man people come to when they want things handled quietly.” “Do women frequently require handling?” His smile widened. “Everyone here learns how things work.” He seized her wrist. Corvina allowed her eyes to widen. She stepped backward, letting fear enter her face with such convincing delicacy that he became bolder. “Please,” she whispered. “That is better.” He pulled her against him. Corvina laid one hand upon the back of his neck. “Yes,” she said softly. “Much better.” Her teeth entered his throat before he understood that the trembling woman in his arms had never been afraid of him. She drank only what she needed. When his body became heavy, she lowered him gently behind the hedge. He would wake before dawn with a headache, a vague recollection of wine he had not consumed, and no memory of Corvina’s mouth upon his throat. Fed and restored, Corvina returned to the house. But feeding answered only one hunger. She had always thought of the second as dessert, though it was more complicated than appetite. Blood kept her alive; female affection reminded her why immortality might be worth enduring. As she approached her room, she heard someone crying behind a nearby door. Corvina stopped. She knocked gently. “Go away,” a woman called. Corvina waited. “Please leave me alone.” The door was not fully closed. Corvina opened it. A young woman sat beside the hearth in a pale nightdress, her honey-blonde hair loosened over her shoulders. Tears glistened on her cheeks, though her expression held more anger than despair. She looked up sharply. “You are the librarian.” “And you are Lillian.” “My parents have already told you about me?” “Only that you exist. The rest is evident.” Lillian wiped her face. “What is evident?” “That someone has demanded something of you and called it duty.” The anger in Lillian’s eyes softened. “A suitor is arriving tomorrow. My father has nearly decided I shall marry him.” “Nearly?” “He believes my opinion is a formality.” Corvina approached slowly and sat beside her. “And what is your opinion?” “No one asks me that.” “I just did.” Lillian stared into the fire. “I would rather live alone in a cottage with ten cats than marry a man who discusses women as though choosing horses.” “A cottage can be pleasant,” Corvina said. “Though ten cats may become political.” Lillian laughed unexpectedly. They spoke for nearly an hour. Corvina asked questions and listened to the answers. She did not interrupt, correct, dismiss, or explain Lillian to herself. No one had listened to Lillian with such complete attention before, and by the time Corvina touched her cheek, the younger woman was already leaning toward her. “This is improper,” Lillian whispered. “Most worthwhile things have been called improper by someone.” Their first kiss was careful. The second was not. Corvina remained until dawn. Chapter Three: The Truth Behind the Kiss The following afternoon, Corvina began work in the library. Lillian appeared three times before luncheon under increasingly implausible excuses. First she needed a book. Then she had lost a ribbon. Finally she wished to ask whether dictionaries required dusting differently from novels. Corvina found her charming. That evening, Lillian slipped into Corvina’s room. “I have thought about nothing else,” she admitted. “That may pass.” “I do not want it to.” Corvina studied her. There were truths that could be hidden for years, but Corvina had no desire to build tenderness upon lies. “Lock the door,” she said. Lillian did so, suddenly nervous. Corvina sat beside the window. “There is something you must know before you decide whether to come near me again.” Lillian’s hands tightened around one another. “You are married?” “No.” “You have another name?” “Several, but that is not the difficulty.” Corvina allowed the candlelight to touch her face. Her eyes darkened, their brown deepening toward crimson, and when she parted her lips, Lillian saw the fine points of her teeth. For several seconds, neither woman moved. Lillian stepped backward. “You are—” “Yes.” “A vampire?” “That is one word.” Lillian’s face whitened. “Did you come here to kill us?” “No.” “Did you drink from me?” “Never.” “But the gardener was found ill this morning.” “He will recover.” Lillian looked toward the door. Corvina made no attempt to stop her. “I feed upon men,” she said. “Usually men who imagine women exist for their convenience. They sleep. They forget. They survive.” “And women?” “Women are not food.” “What are they?” Corvina’s voice softened. “Loved, when they permit it. Protected, when they need it. Cherished, when they desire me.” Lillian’s fear remained, but curiosity began pushing through it. “You could force me to stay.” “I could,” Corvina said. “I will not.” “You could make me forget.” “Yes.” “Will you?” “No.” Lillian stood silently for a long time. Then she returned to the chair beside Corvina. “You said you would never feed upon me.” “Never.” “And if someone tried to hurt me?” “They would regret having hands.” A trembling smile touched Lillian’s mouth. “I believe you.” “You should take longer.” “I have spent my entire life among men who claimed to protect me while arranging my future for their own satisfaction. You are the first person who asked what I wanted.” “And what do you want now?” Lillian leaned close. “You.” Corvina kissed her gently. Neither woman knew that within days, another confession would occur in the same room.