Echoes in the Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page B

of ice are scattered carelessly over the ground. His warm breath sends clouds billowing into the glassy air. The only sounds are the hushed whispers of clandestine lust. When her latest customer gives a final grunt, she lowers her skirts and her heels ring out on cobbled stones. In spite of him, she is still plying her nighttime trade, seeking a coin for bread—or absinthe. Daring him to come for her. He thought he had dealt with her, but it seems she will never learn. He will have to show her all over again. The thought excites and repulses him.
    “All women are whores,” his master states conversationally. “They all have their price. Some have yet to discover what theirs is, that’s all.”
    She giggles when he beckons her. Business is good tonight. The last one’s seed still trickles down her thighs. His kiss is tender and melting. One hand claims the slender pulsing column of her throat while the other tangles itself in the abundant softness of her fair hair. She opens her eyes as he raises the knife. Her mouth forms a silent O of surprise. Without a struggle, she allows the night to engulf her. This is the best part, the moment when the lifeblood drains and the light fades from her eyes. Now nothing human remains of either of them.
    * * *
    Eleanor Jago was dainty and fair, a younger, mirror image of her mother. She regarded me with wide-eyed curiosity and another expression that I could not read, before turning to greet Eddie. There was an awkwardness about the embrace they shared that struck a discordant note. Perhaps it was because they had not seen each other for so long.
    Eddie’s eyes were warm as he released her and studied her upturned face. “As beautiful as ever, sis,” he said softly and she shook her head, a becoming blush staining her pale cheeks. She turned back to me as Lucy introduced us. I couldn’t help noticing the way Eddie’s eyes stayed on her face, with a tender expression in their depths. Although he spoke of his brother with distrust, it seemed he was fond of his sister.
    I was most surprised to learn that Eleanor and I were of a similar age. In fact, she was almost a year older, even though she appeared so much younger. The life I had led had imbued me with experiences most women my age would never have. Fortunately for them.
    “Your gown is beautiful,” Eleanor told me shyly, eying the shimmering bronze folds with admiration.
    “Beautiful maybe, but not very practical for this climate,” I replied ruefully. I was surprised my bare arms and shoulders were not blue and goose-bumped with cold. “Your dress is so much more suitable.”
    It was the ideal opening gambit in a conversation between two lovers of fashion, and one that we continued over dinner. It ended with a proposed visit to Lucy’s dressmaker in Port Isaac on the following day. In the meantime, Eleanor dashed off to her room and brought back a shawl for me to wear. Until that night, I could never have imagined myself feeling gratitude and affection toward such an unglamorous item of clothing.
    The dining room was a long, elegant apartment that ran the length of one wing of the building. Wide French windows gave a breathtaking view over the soaring cliff top. Lucy explained that the dining room in the old castle had been a dark, dreary room with heavy, antique furniture, and she had wanted this room to have a contrasting feeling. Pastel silk wallpaper lined the walls and pale blue velvet curtains lent a soft tone to the light. The pictures on the walls were sylvan landscapes and elegant, sculpted rugs provided pools of bright colour on the polished oak floor.
    Our sumptuous meal began with rich tomato soup, followed by an eye-opening variety of other courses. I watched in amazement as the family made short work of cod in oyster sauce, quenelles of duck, braised beef, roast lamb and pheasant with a vast array of vegetables. Several types of homemade bread were placed upon the table alongside pats of golden butter. When