“What can I do for you, miss?” The publican had stepped from behind the bar and approached me.

  “Good day, sir,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Maybe you’ll think this strange, but I have a curiosity about this old tavern, and if you have a moment, I wondered whether I might ask you a few questions.”

  He frowned, grizzled brows angling down toward his bulb nose. “We’re not in the business of answering questions at The Wolf’s Head, miss. Nor are we in the business of serving unaccompanied young ladies.”

  His refusal disappointed but did not surprise me. “Beg your pardon, sir.”

  But as I was turning to go, he said, “Aren’t you the lass that works at The Magpie? Jack Penrose’s sister?”

  “I am.”

  Scratching at the stubble on his jaw, he continued, “Sure as the moon, your brother will appear before the evening’s out, so I suppose it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to call him your escort.” I could only imagine what Jack would have to say about that. “If you’ll sit down and order a glass of sherry—and if you don’t intend to harangue me about your brother’s habits—I might be persuaded to answer a question or two.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mister . . .”

  “Couch.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Couch.”

  I sat at a small table near the door. Though the publican knew who I was, I kept my bonnet on, hoping no one who came in would recognize me. The two men at the bar had turned as I’d entered, but they’d soon gone back to their ale.

  Mr. Couch went behind the bar, poured amber liquid into a small wineglass, and returned to my table. Placing the glass before me, he said, “What is it you want to ask me, Miss Penrose? I’ll warn you again—if it has to do with your brother, I don’t discuss my customers’ business.”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Moyle, the lady I work for—she was telling me she thought this tavern might be named for a story that used to be told about a wolf people had seen on the heath.”

  His brows lifted. “So it was, but that was many long years ago. The Wolf’s Head—used to be an inn as well as a tavern—has stood here for about three centuries. That brute Richard Grenville, who fought for the king during the Civil War—he once stayed here, at least according to my granfer. It’s not as old as the black chapel, but old enough.”

  “The black chapel. You mean the Tregarrick place?”

  “Mmm.” He tilted his head to one side, studying me. “Maybe you don’t know, but there’s a mineral in that granite called tourmaline that gives it its color.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” I sipped my sherry. It tasted sweet and burned in my throat, though not nearly as much as Mr. Moyle’s whisky. “Do you know if there was ever a real wolf, or was it just stories?”

  The publican’s lips—and the mustache above them—turned down, his eyes narrowing. But he looked like he might be trying not to smile. “I know I must look pretty old to you, but I’m not nearly old enough to answer that question.”

  “No, sir,” I said, smiling.

  It had been worth a try. I reached into my pocket for money to pay him.

  “Now if you ask my opinion . . .”

  I looked up.

  “I’ve always assumed those stories were really just about folks being scared of the old place and jumping at shadows. Now, with the constable saying a dog killed that solicitor . . . I’m not sure what to think.”

  I swallowed. “Do people think it has something to do with Mr. Tregarrick?”

  “It’s almost all my customers are talking about. Doesn’t help matters that no one has ever laid eyes on the man. Leaves the imagination a little too free.”

  So Jack had been telling the truth. “I’ve met Mr. Tregarrick.”

  His eyes widened. “You don’t say?”

  “He came into The Magpie a few days ago.”

  “The Magpie? For what?”

  I shrugged. “For tea.”

  “Hmph. What did you think of him?”

  I rested my fingertips on the stem of my glass. “He was quiet and polite. Seemed a fine gentleman to me.” Let him chew on that. “What do you think, Mr. Couch? You don’t really believe Mr. Roscoe’s death had anything to do with Mr. Tregarrick, do you?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I couldn’t say, Miss Penrose. But you won’t catch me going anywhere near the place.”

  I let out a quiet sigh, and I dug a few coins from my pocket. “What do I owe you, sir?”

  He waved my money away. “On the house this time. Your brother must be spending half his pay in here.”

  With an inward groan, I replied, “Thank you. For the sherry, and for answering my questions.”

  He folded his arms, eyeing me shrewdly. “Can I ask you one?”

  Wary, I answered, “All right.”

  “Why come in here asking about wolves in old stories? And don’t try telling me again you’re curious. People like us who have to work to put food on the table don’t have time for idle curiosity.”

  Why, indeed. My reasons were complicated, to be sure, having been the one to find Mr. Roscoe, as well as being possibly the only one in town who knew Mr. Tregarrick. And more than just knowing him, owing a debt to him.

  I decided to give Mr. Couch the reason he’d best understand—and find least concerning. “We practically live on the heath, sir. I walk by Roche Rock every day on my way to work, and Jack comes home by himself, after dark and in his cups most nights. I just wanted to know what people were saying. If I should be worried.”

  He nodded, seeming to accept this. “Well, I know Hilliard thinks the danger’s past, but I think you can’t be too careful right now.” He pulled a towel from his shoulder and wiped at something I couldn’t see on the tabletop. “Now, you sit there as long as you like, Miss Penrose. Our rowdier customers won’t be in for some time yet.”

  He was going, and I said, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Couch, I’d rather Jack not know I came here today.”

  He winked at me. “Like I said, I don’t discuss my customers’ business.” Then he went back to the bar.

  I didn’t really want the sherry, but neither did I want Mr. Couch to think me ungrateful. So I sat and sipped it, thinking about the things he’d said. It seemed to me that until Mr. Roscoe’s death, the publican didn’t believe in the Wolf of Roche Rock any more than Mrs. Moyle did. Yet like most everyone else, he was wary of the place.

  When I’d finally emptied my glass, I left The Wolf’s Head and went into the sundries shop. Mrs. Teague had a few ceramic pitchers to choose from, and I bought one with a pattern of pink roses, similar to the one I’d smashed.

  The sherry had made me feel sleepy, and the headache was coming on again, so I walked home after that. Back at the cottage, I made Jack’s supper and left it out for him, ate my own, and went to bed early. Before I’d had time for any reflections on my day beyond a growing uneasiness, sleep came.

  I’m walking home from The Magpie at dusk.

  I hear the call of an owl, and dogs barking in the distance. As I reach the dip in the grass where the hedge meets the old wall, I see a man. Drawing closer, I discover it’s two men—one lying on the grass and another bent over him. Hearing my step, the bending man straightens and turns.

  Mr. Tregarrick. Blood dribbles down his chin. I try to scream but can’t make a sound.

  I look to the road for someone to help me, and from the direction of the village, I see people marching toward us. Many people, as if everyone in the village has turned out. Their voices are angry, and some of them stab rifle barrels or pitchforks into the air. Out in front—leading them—is Jack.

  When I look again at Mr. Tregarrick, his face is clean. No blood stains his fine white shirt. His eyes are gentle and sad, like when we talked in the chapel.

  He starts walking toward the angry crowd, and I try to cry a warning, but still no sound comes out of me.

  Casting a glance over his shoulder, he says, “It’s for the best, Mina.”

  I woke suddenly, the warning that I had been trying to shout finally sounding—though no more than a muffled squeak. By the light in the room, I knew it was morning.

  How yesterday’s conversations had preyed on my slumbering mind!

  Only a dream, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling that I must do something. Yet what was it in my power to do?

  Get up and get on with the chores. If nothing else, it might help to order my thoughts.

  Things were still cool between Jack and me, and I thought—hoped, even—we’d not speak before he left. But it wasn’t to be.

  As I was handing him his lunch on the way out the door, he said, “I won’t hear of you walking to The Magpie this morning, will I?”

  Grateful that there’d been no more talk about me at the mine and that Mr. Couch had kept his promise, I said dully, “No, Jack.”

  The plain relief in his haggard face caused a twinge of regret. I had blamed his recent outbursts on resentment and the bottle, but I remembered what Mr. Tregarrick had said. Perhaps Jack’s afraid of losing you, too. I harangued him about his drinking for the same reason.

  When he was gone, I did something I rarely had time for—sat down to drink a cup of tea by myself in the quiet cottage. As I was about to pour, I thought about my mother and her visitors, and I removed the strainer from my cup.

  I took a deep breath. “Show me, Mum.”

  I sloshed the tea around in the pot to lift the leaves from the bottom before filling my cup. Heart beating faster, I began to sip the bitter brew, which had been steeping long enough that it really needed milk to be drinkable.

  I tried to imagine what would’ve happened next when Mum had done this. People would have had some reason for coming to her. Perhaps they’d ask a question.

  “What am I to do about Mr. Tregarrick?” I murmured. Then I swallowed the last of the tea and tilted the cup to catch some light from the window.

  The leaves had all clumped on one side. I carefully rolled the cup until I could see more clearly—and my breath caught.

  There under the handle was a copy of what I’d seen in Mr. Tregarrick’s teapot.

  Another wolf’s head.

  I let the air fill my chest, trying to slow my racing heart.

  I had been thinking about wolves all of yesterday. Maybe the leaves could be affected by that. Or it might have to do with my visit to the tavern. Or the gossip in the village.

  It could be another warning that he’s dangerous.

  I let out a frustrated sigh. How was this ever of any use to anyone?

  Maybe don’t expect to be an expert the first time.

  I rose from the table and cleared the dishes. After that I paced from one end of the room to the other. Mr. Tregarrick was all I could think of. His many kindnesses, and how he’d sacrificed in all he’d done for me—confronting his fear of blood, allowing a stranger to invade his private sanctuary, exposing himself to Jack’s anger.

  Though I wasn’t going to work today, I’d made a smaller batch of pasties for Jack and me. I wrapped up two in a cloth and put them, along with my knife, into my basket. I went out behind the house and picked half a dozen tart, rosy apples and added those, too.

  I stood a minute under the tree, listening to the reddening leaves rattle in the breeze, giving Jenny a scratch, and feeling the sun on my skin. Today’s sky was clear and the color of cornflowers, and the air had a crispness you could smell. I thought October might be the best month of them all. I had always loved her golden days and moody mists in equal measure.

  “Wish me luck, Jenny.”

  She looked up at me with her strange eyes, black rectangles surrounded by a color like light shining through honey.

  I picked up my basket, walked around to the front of the cottage, and started down the road. This time when I reached the gap in the hedge, I took the knife from my basket and hurried straight through before my courage could fail me, or guilt over disregarding the advice of those who cared about me could turn me back.

  I followed the path around the oak wood, knife in hand, peering into the deep shadows beneath the branches. I wondered whether Mr. Hilliard had searched there, too. Half expecting to find a pair of eyes glowing in the rusty bracken, I walked faster.

  As I neared the chapel, I wove around slabs and big blocks of tourmaline-laced granite, strewn about as if by a giant at play. Some of the larger pieces looked like standing stones. Faded heather clumped around their bases, along with a furze bush here and there. Much of the scrub that covered the uneven, sloping ground had dried to gold or bronze in the final hot weeks of summer. Though with the recent cooler, damper days, some things were greening again. The few remaining wildflowers looked timid and fragile, as if they knew they belonged to the previous season. Dewy spiderwebs sparkled in the grass.

  At last I reached the foot of the roughly hewn stone stairway, and my gaze followed the tower’s stark lines. I saw that the casement on the lower floor was open, as before.

  “Mr. Tregarrick?” I called, thinking it best to give him some warning of my arrival.

  I waited a few moments, but no face appeared, and no answer came. He might have been on the upper floor, or somewhere on the grounds.

  Or he might not wish to see me.

  I placed the knife back in my basket, then took a deep breath, raised my skirts so I wouldn’t trip, and started up.

  “Why Aren’t You Afraid?”

  Harker

  She is coming.

  Not passing on the road. Not crossing the heath. She was coming to my very door. I knew it as sure as if I’d spotted her from the battlements.

  This is my own doing. I never should have brought her here.

  Drawing an unsteady breath, I checked the furnace beneath the copper cucurbit that I used for distilling my vital essence. The vapor was collecting nicely in the alembic and had already begun traveling down the pipe to the receiver. It could be left unmonitored for a while.

  “Mr. Tregarrick!”

  I jumped at the sound of her voice. I took slow steps to the top of the stairs and stopped, jaw clenching. The last thing I could afford to do was admit this woman into my home again. Ever.

  I must be your worst nightmare.

  Indeed, the last time had very nearly resulted in tragedy. Despite carrying her injured from the heath, I had been in no way prepared for that sudden flow of fresh, hot blood—even if just a trickle—when the knife opened her finger. That metallic, red stain was to me as opium to those in its thrall. Far more to me than the vital essence that merely kept me alive. How I had bargained with myself in that moment. The smallest taste will be enough. Just this once, and I’ll forget her.

  I fought something very like addiction in not admitting her now. I fought my own nature. And God help me, I fought a burgeoning curiosity that likely would never have swollen fully to life had I not brought her here the first time.

  A series of thuds landed against the chapel door. I closed my eyes.

  “Mr. Tregarrick?”

  I crossed to the chapel window, a stained glass depiction of Christ healing a leper. From here I could watch her go. Make sure she made it safely back to the road.

  She’ll only come back. Little as I knew her, I suspected a stubborn streak. Again she pounded on the door, punctuating my thought.

  “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” I muttered, though there was no one but Christ and the leper to hear.

  Because you’re not trying hard enough, fool.

  I would have to try harder, or one of the monsters on my estate was going to end up killing her. And I’d sooner die myself.

  The Alchemist

  I was going when the door swung suddenly inward, causing my breath to catch.

  “Come in, Miss Penrose,” Mr. Tregarrick greeted me stiffly, turning and moving away from the door. “Leave it open,” he said as I crossed the threshold.

  “It’s a lovely day,” I said brightly, though I was clearly unwelcome. Best to keep this visit short. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I’ve brought you some lunch in thanks for your recent kindness, but mainly I wanted to—”

  “Please sit down.”

  I hesitated near the door, studying him. His dress was the same as last time I saw him—fine, but old-fashioned. I noticed the top button of his shirt was loosed and the ruffled collar lay open, revealing the small hollow at the base of his throat. Something red had blotted the white fabric just below that. I hoped after what he’d told me that it wasn’t blood.

  His hair hung loose in waves to just past his chin, and his face was drawn and very serious. He gestured to one of the dining chairs, which was turned out to face the room.

  I don’t belong here. I should go.

  My heart lost its rhythm as I walked to the chair.

  “I can see that I’m intruding,” I said quietly, unable to fully hide my hurt at his manner. “There are some rumors in the village having to do with you and your solicitor. I thought you should know, so I’ve come to tell you. After that, I’ll go.”

  “There is something I must tell you, Miss Penrose.”

  I stared at him, confused by how changed he was from the day he’d brought me here. Wary, I said, “All right, sir.”

  “You must not come here again.”

  I nodded, feeling small now, as well as hurt.

  “Of course,” I said, voice trembling slightly. “I’m sorry if I’ve said or done something to offend you, Mr. Tregarrick. It’s the last thing I—”

  “Miss Penrose,” he said, huffing in disbelief, “this estate is dangerous. I would think you of all people would understand this by now. You risk your life in even setting foot on it.”

  My chest loosened and I let out a breath, finding this easier to stomach than the idea I had made him angry with me. “It was out of concern, sir.” I held back from saying for you. I’d overstepped enough. “You took considerable trouble in helping me, and I thought it only right—”