A Cold Legacy by Megan Shepherd Read Free Book Online Page A

McKenna appeared at the top of the stairs withValentina right behind her, both in their loose-fitting sleep shirts. “Was that you who screamed, Miss Moreau?” Mrs. McKenna asked.
    â€œI saw someone in Edward’s room. Blast it, I’m going in.”
    I turned the key in the lock and opened the door. We all pressed inside. Edward lay on the bed, unconscious, with sweat dripping down his brow. My heart pounded as I searched the tall curtains. Montgomery threw open the armoire, and Lucy knelt to look under the bed. They both came up empty-handed.
    Had it been only my imagination?
    Mrs. McKenna watched me keenly. “This person you saw,” she said, throwing Valentina a wary glance. “Can you describe him or her?”
    â€œI don’t know if was a man or a woman. I only saw the person’s eye looking at me through the keyhole. It was completely white, as though the iris had been drained of color.”
    Mrs. McKenna shared another look with Valentina, this one substantially less mysterious. I felt as though I was missing something between these two.
    â€œDo you know the person?” Montgomery asked.
    â€œOh, aye, we know him.” Mrs. McKenna’s mouth quirked with either annoyance or amusement, I couldn’t tell. She walked over to a fading oil painting in a gilded frame that stood as tall as her. To my surprise she swung it open on groaning hinges, reaching quickly into what must have been an alcove or tunnel behind the painting, and grabbed something that scrambled there.
    I heard a tussle as the thing tried to get away, but then gave up with a curt little sigh and let the housekeeper pull it out.
    No one was more shocked than I when her hand reemerged clutching a small child by his shirt collar’s high nape. He was a tiny thing, five years old perhaps, with a shock of dark hair and a scowl that rivaled even that of the old bartender from the inn on the main road. A live white rat perched on his shoulder—a tamed pet. Lucy made a face of disgust.
    When Mrs. McKenna turned him toward the light, I saw his eyes. One was a deep brown, the other milky white.
    â€œIs this your trespasser, miss?”
    â€œY . . . yes,” I stammered.
    Mrs. McKenna let go of the boy’s shirt. “This is Master Hensley. He’s been missing since breakfast. He often disappears; he always comes back sooner or later, when he’s hungry. I should have thought to look in the walls.”
    â€œMaster Hensley?”
    â€œAye, Mistress Elizabeth’s son.” Mrs. McKenna gave me a strange look. “Didn’t she mention him?”
    Something curdled my blood. I’d spent a month in London with Elizabeth, sharing all our secrets, practically becoming family, and not once had she mentioned having a son.
    Why not?
    The housekeeper gave him a firm pat on the back in the direction of Valentina. “To bed with you, child. Leave our guests alone, else they’ll think the house haunted.”
    Valentina held out her hand, ungloved now that she was just in her dressing gown. Her hand was surprisingly small and white beneath her long sleeve, not at all the same complexion as the rest of her body. I wondered if the pigment in her skin had been bleached in some chemical accident. That would certainly explain why she wore gloves most of the time, when she hardly acted like a Puritan.
    The little boy sauntered off with her into the hallway. He barely seemed like a child in those stiff clothes, with that scowling face—more like a little man made to live in a too-small body. His scuffed shoes and the dirt under his nails spoke of frequent disappearances like this one.
    â€œI apologize for the disturbance,” Mrs. McKenna said, closing the painting. “It’s an old house, filled with these tunnels. Mad Lord Ballentyne is rumored to have built them to confuse spirits that might be wandering the halls, though I think it’s more likely it was to hide his