TOUCH OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

“This is my cousin, Miss Holt,” Braden said to the servants. “She is to be regarded as one of the family.” Almost as an afterthought, he nodded toward Isabelle. “Mrs. Smith, Miss Holts companion.”

A footman opened the front door and Braden offered his arm to Cassidy. Rowena swept up after them, and Quentin accompanied Isabelle into the house.

The entrance hall was lined by plain, heavy chairs, and the ceiling arched high overhead. A long carpet runner, its rich colors faded with years of wear, ran the length of the floor. A grand staircase with intricately carved newel posts climbed to a wide landing at the end of the hall, and more doorways led to rooms on either side.

Cassidy stared up at the ceiling and the large paintings visible on the wall above the first-floor landing. Braden left her to speak with Aynsley, his valet and the housekeeper, Mrs. Fairbairn, while the other servants silently filed past and disappeared within the house.

“It’s most impressive, isn’t it?” Isabelle said beside her, a catch in her voice.

“You’ve been in houses like this before.”

“Yes. Once upon a time.”

“It seems almost too grand for someone like me.”

Isabelle glanced toward the others. “Appearances can be deceptive,” she said. “Even such places hide their secrets. Never forget that, Cassidy.”

The gravity of Isabelle’s words caught Cassidy by surprise. She was about to ask for an explanation when a uniformed maid approached with a curtsy.

“Mrs. Smith?” she said. “Would you come with me? I’m to show you to your room.”

“We’ll talk again soon,” Isabelle promised, and followed the maid to the grand staircase. Braden was still in conversation with Aynsley; Quentin had left the hall, and Rowena was already halfway up the stairs.

Suddenly feeling very much alone, Cassidy gazed about the hall. Isabelle’s warning was clear in her thoughts, yet she didn’t sense anything to fear. The smells of Greyburn seemed part of the walls themselves: wood, stone, leather, cloth, and dust overlaid by damp and the remote scents of cooking.

One of the side doors opposite caught her attention; it was huge and intricately carved, and she crossed the hall to study it more carefully. The images were of men fighting with swords, and horses galloping over rolling hills.

Unable to resist, Cassidy pushed open the heavy door.

Inside was a room completely unlike the hall and even more grand. The towering ceiling had a skeleton of heavy, bare beams, the floor was made of large stone squares, and there were a huge table and countless chairs at one end of the room, beside an immense fireplace. Banners and shields hung on the walls; Cassidy thought of knights in armor and deeds of daring long ago.

Additional carvings framed the fireplace, and Cassidy was inevitably drawn toward them. But the subjects here were different.

There were armored men, and horses, but among them ran lithe, furred shapes with bared fangs: wolves. Everywhere Cassidy looked she saw wolves, sometimes with humans and sometimes running alone.

And then she found the centerpiece, above the main part of the fireplace. It was almost too high up for her to see; she pulled up a chair and bunched her skirts to climb.

Two great wolves confronted each other, ears forward and tails high. Each perched on something that Cassidy thought at first were oddly shaped rocks. Then she made out the features, and saw the bodies of men, hands stretched out in supplication, pressed to the ground by the weight of the wolves.

“My grandfather commissioned those carvings.” Cassidy scrambled down from the chair and whirled to face Braden. He stood at the other end of the great room, but his voice carried pure and resonant across its length.

“The designs on the outside of the door were done in my great-great-grandfather’s time,” he said, walking toward her. “Do you perceive the contrast, Cassidy, between those within this room and those without?”

She guessed it was a test of her ability to observe and appreciate her new home, and she was determined not to fail. “The ones on the door don’t have any wolves.”

“That is correct.” He passed her and stopped directly beneath the fireplace carvings. He was just tall enough to reach them; he ran his fingers over the wolves and their human captives. Gently, as if they were old and dear friends.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *