Hester Fox - The Widow Of Pale Harbour

After the minister had left, Helen had not been shy about letting her feelings for him be known. She didn’t trust him, didn’t like outsiders coming and sniffing around. But she must have forgotten that she was supposed to be sulking, because the tray was decadently laden with all Sophronia’s favorite tea cakes.

Bristling, Helen didn’t look up as she poured out the tea. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?” But her bad mood was clearly already dissipating; a smile tugged at her lips.

Sophronia’s heart lightened in relief and she sprang up, sending her papers fluttering to the floor. “There’s a dear! I knew you couldn’t stay angry with me. Now,” she said, clasping her hands together as she surveyed the tray of cakes, “which shall we have first?”

Helen took a butter biscuit and sat down. She looked worn and tired, older than her forty years, and a twinge of guilt ran through Sophronia that she had been so short with Helen yesterday. But they settled into an easy conversation as if they had never had a disagreement. They had lived together too long, too closely, for such a trivial matter to come between them. Like two cogs grinding along in the same clock, it would take far more than a tiny, stray pebble to bring them to a halt.

“How is our patient doing?” Sophronia asked as she poured out another cup of sweet, milky tea. She had seen Helen going in and out of the carriage house with the raven, making splints and removing the old bandages.

The little lines at the corners of Helen’s eyes softened. “A real fighter, that one,” she said. “Had him eating grizzle out of my hand today.”

Helen had the touch when it came to animals, though Sophronia suspected some of it had to do with the craft she claimed to practice. Over the years, she had rescued seagulls that blew in from storms, an orphaned litter of kittens and even a fox cub that had found itself the worse for wear after a tussle with a dog.

“You’re a wonder,” Sophronia said indulgently as her gaze swept over the tempting tray of cakes. She’d been working without pause since breakfast, and she was famished. Just as she was selecting a little honey cake with lemon icing, there was a knock at the door and her hand froze. She caught Helen’s eye. It couldn’t possibly be the minister again so soon, could it?

As if reading her mind, Helen’s face darkened. “Probably that nosy minister come back,” she said, and she stalked out of the room to answer the door.

Sophronia hastily swept her hair up, tucking it back into its chignon. Her heart beat a little faster as she followed Helen to the door.

Helen yanked open the door and hissed, “What do you want now?”

But there was only darkness there, and nothing more. Helen stepped back as the door swung the rest of the way open, and Sophronia heard the sharp intake of her friend’s breath. “What?” she whispered, afraid that she already knew the answer.

Helen shot out an arm to keep her from going any farther. “Go inside, Sophy,” she murmured.

“What? No! Let me see!” Sophronia craned her neck, trying to see past her to the bottom of the steps.

“I’ll take care of it. Go inside.”

“Helen!” The force of her voice surprised them both, and with a reluctant sigh, Helen dropped her arm and stood to the side.

Sophronia blinked into the darkness, trying to make sense of the dots of light that danced before her.

Candles. Seven white candles stood in the middle of the path, their flames gently guttering in the night’s thin breeze.

A chill ran down her spine and rooted itself in her gut. They were laid out so...precisely, so deliberately. Not ten minutes before, someone had been on her front path, carefully arranging the candles and setting flame to each one. Just as the day with the raven, her neck prickled at the thought that someone might be watching her at that very moment.

Darting her tongue over her dry lips, Sophronia finally dared to break the taut silence. “Is...is it some sort of witchcraft?” There was something sinister about the way in which the candles stood, as if they were a jury, judging her, damning her to some dark fate. One of the most popular myths in town was that she was a witch; was this someone’s way of accusing her?

After sweeping down the steps, Helen began pinching out the flames with wetted fingertips. Sophronia’s chest tightened in fear as she watched her friend descend into the darkness, away from the safety and warmth of the house.

“No, not witchcraft,” Helen called back with authority. Then she paused, opening her mouth as if she was going to add something else but had thought better of it.

“What? What is it?”

Carefully, Helen plucked up a little white rectangle from amid the candles. “It’s addressed to you.” Coming back, she held the note out to Sophronia, who took it and unfolded the paper with shaking hands.

The two words were black and stark against the paper and sent an arrow of cold dread straight into her heart. “I know . ”

I know. I know. I know.

Sophronia’s footsteps clipped along in time to the words. They spun through her head, imprinting themselves on the back of her eyelids. How could anyone know? They could have their rumors and suspicions all they liked, but the people of Pale Harbor did not know the truth, or her version of the truth, at any rate. The note with the candles was meant to scare her, rattle her. Well, it had succeeded. The question was, why now? Suspicion had followed her about like a cloud threatening rain in the four years since Nathaniel had died, so why send her this now?

After Sophronia had ordered Garrett to dispose of the candles somewhere out of sight, she had paced about the house, as restless and on edge as a caged animal. By the time dawn had broken, some of her fear had faded, replaced by anger and indignation. How dare somehow violate her Safe space? How dare they threaten her with their cryptic messages?

When she couldn’t take the racing thoughts anymore, Sophronia had told Helen that she needed to go for a walk to clear her head. Helen had pressed her lips tight as if she wanted to caution her against it, but ultimately let her go without a fight.

It had been ages since Sophronia had taken a walk by herself without Helen insisting on trailing behind her like some sort of medieval lady-in-waiting. But Sophronia was only going up to the hill anyway.

The hill—which was really more of a gentle slope—was Safe because no one else ever went there, and Helen had told her that she’d designated it as the outer edge of the ring of protection. It rose up alongside Castle Carver, and while it was part of the parcel of Carver land, it was so ambling and expansive that it could hardly be considered private property. It was the farthest that Sophronia would ever go, and at the top she would still be able to see Castle Carver, safe and snug, tucked into the surrounding trees.

The leaves under her boots were satisfyingly crunchy, and it felt good to let her legs stretch out under her layers of petticoats. The September breeze was crisp and cool, holding the promise of colder winds to come. Soon, the candles and the reason for her walk in the first place faded from her mind.

She walked without a bonnet, relishing the wind in her hair. Nathaniel had disapproved of her walking, especially without all the gloves and hats and cloaks that kept her proper. Without them, she’d be no better than a common housemaid in the eyes of the townspeople, he’d said, and it was their job as the most prominent family to set the standard for polite living.

Oh, everyone had loved Nathaniel. He’d been tall and just aloof enough that people deferred to him, but had penetrating blue eyes that made one eager to please him, to win one of his rare smiles. He was distinguished and well dressed, and everything that a wealthy man should be. Sophronia alone was privy to the streak of cruelty that had made him a monster to live with.