The Secrets of Roan Island

3. Ruby

3

Ruby

B y the time I drop to the other side of the gate, rust and dirt stain my white gloves like streaks of blood. My dress hasn’t fared much better. There’s a tear up the side of the bodice and tiny cuts in the sleeves. I shove the tattered gloves in my satchel, then smooth loose strands of hair back into my bun. There isn’t anything I can do about the dress. So I square my shoulders and set off.

Twisted branches bow over the drive, and brambles claw at my boots. It’s such a fight to make headway, I don’t notice the break in the dark thicket until a monstrous building looms before me. The steep roof cuts the sky, topped by an iron and stone widow’s walk. Tubular chimneys punch through to the overcast clouds, smoke rising from several. Dozens upon dozens of leaded windows offer relief from the stonework, many shrouded by thick climbing vines.

This isn’t an estate, but a castle. But whereas a castle might have manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, and shapely flower beds bursting with color, everything about the landscape at Roan Island is overgrown and leeched of life. From the climbing vines to the trees and shrubs, it’s as if the surrounding land is in league to overtake anything unnatural.

A bird caws from the trees, as if in agreement with my thoughts. Or in warning.

The shiver that races up my spine isn’t only from the cold. Standing here in the oppressive winter woods, under the shadow of a house that feels abandoned, I can’t help thinking that this is exactly the kind of place that could swallow a person. There’s something ominous here. Something hungry.

Not to be deterred, I take a deep breath and start forward. By the time I climb the steps to the entrance, my fingers are numb. I lift the large brass door knocker and rap it twice against the carved wood, then wait, listening for movement beyond the door.

The wind bites through my dress, sending a shiver down my spine as it slips its frigid fingers past the rips in my puffed sleeves.

I knock again. Harder this time. Still no answer. I’m starting to hate this inhospitable island. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but there’s a possibility this whole thing is a trick, an elaborate ruse to poke fun at the mad professor, and I’m just ridiculous enough to fall for it. I really hope that’s not what this is, because I need this grant. Without it, I’ll likely end up in the Crimson Quarter alongside the women my work centers around.

With a huff, I follow the balustrade to the closest window, but it’s too dark to see inside. Returning to the front door, I knock a third time.

After no answer, I test the doorknob. Unlocked. With a push, the heavy door creaks open, betraying my crime to the expansive foyer. The light flows around me, casting a long shadow against the parquet floor.

“Hello?”

My voice is swallowed by the darkness beyond. Maybe this really is the wrong place. I consider turning around, but where can I go? The boatman is gone. And besides, the idea of climbing back over that gate is unbearable.

Thunder cracks, the final word on whether or not I stay. Eerie as it is, the house will at least provide shelter from the storm.

I step inside, my boots tapping against the wooden floor. “Hello? Is anyone here? Mr. Roan?”

A huge circular chandelier dripping with unlit candles hangs over a table with a single lit candelabra. A dim light in the massive foyer. It draws me with its pale warmth, like the comfort of a lighthouse to a lost sailor. If there’s a candle, someone must be here.

“Hello?”

As soon as I step towards the table, the door slams shut. I gasp and spin, hastily backing away from the door until I bump the table. A cold gust plunges me into darkness.

My heart races.

Chills race over my skin, clammy and damp.

Nightmares scratch at my mind. Ones I don’t want to remember.

The darkness and panic close in, tightening around my chest.

Somewhere, someone laughs.

I spin again and back across the room until my bustle bumps against a solid surface. Unable to bear the darkness, I squeeze my eyes shut. My breath comes in gasps, one hand clutching the buttons at my chest, the other fumbling for the doorknob, hoping I’m not far.

“Behave yourself,” a voice says from the gruesome dark.

My eyes fly open. The candles on the table are lit once more, as if they’d been that way all along. A woman blows out a long match, her severe face all sharp angles and pointed features. “You should know better.”

“I’m sorry. The door was open and–”

“Not you, child.” The woman picks up the candelabra and spins to face a dark corner. “Him.”

A man strolls from the darkness with his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. A matching vest buttons neatly over a light-colored shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and his dark hair is parted to one side, the thick locks combed smooth. He smiles, a handsome face, too handsome. It’s off-putting, as if his facial features were purposefully drawn to perfection.

“I was just having a bit of fun.” He smirks and saunters toward me with a dignified grace, looking me over from head to toe. I’m suddenly all too aware of my disarray. “So you’re the infamous Professor.” He makes a judgmental noise through his nose. “We thought you’d be a man.”

I swallow under his attention and dip into a small curtsy, but I’m still feeling a bit wobbly so the movement is far from graceful. I rise stiffly, exposed nerves grating at his statement. We thought you’d be a man . How many times have I heard that sentiment? How many times have I been overlooked, ignored, ousted, disparaged because of my sex. I straighten my shoulders and narrow my eyes. “As you see, I am not.” Holding his gaze is easier now that my blood is boiling. “You have the benefit of my name. Am I to assume you are Mr. Roan?”

“One of them.” He circles me. “Looks as if the travel did a number on you.”

“It would have been helpful if the gate had been left open to receive me.”

He laughs loudly, the sound cascading through the expansive room as if thrown up into the air like confetti and drifting back down around us, spent. Then he pauses, tilting his head to the side, and an awkward silence fills the space between us. “Mrs. Darning,” he eventually says, “is our guest’s room ready for her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Darning.” I greet the other woman now that I finally have her name.

“She’s just the housekeeper,” Mr. Roan says, waving a dismissive hand.

The housekeeper makes an impatient noise. “One who raised you.”

“That was then and this is now, Mrs. Darning. Time keeps on ticking, changing everything.”

The housekeeper steps forward with a stiff back. “I’ll show Professor Rose to her rooms.”

“No,” Mr. Roan says, backing away toward the wide stairwell, the first step situated just behind the table where the candles in the candelabra flicker. “Allow me.”

I bend to collect my satchel, but Mrs. Darning picks it up before I can, pinching the bag between her fingers as if the severe woman loathes to touch the offensive material. It is rather worn, the leather cracked and faded, but I haven’t replaced it for sentimental reasons. My best friends, the amazing ladies of The CWS, gifted it to me upon my tenure at New Essik College.

“Would you like me to dispose of this, ma’am?”

“No. No.” I take it from her, hugging it against my chest. “It’s mine.”

“Well?” Mr. Roan calls from the stairs.

“Right.” I nod to the housekeeper and start up the wide staircase. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Roan–”

“Mr. Roan.” His voice croaks as if he despises the name. “Mr. Roan is my father. Please, call me Jafeth.”

“Jafeth,” I repeat, turning with him into a hallway which seems to stretch forever. Sconces jut out from the dark papered walls, offering only enough light to guide us through the hallway. The shadows are pervasive. We pass ornate doorways framed with carvings that beg me to stop and look closer, figures writhing in the dark-stained wood. Paintings line the walls from the floor to the ceiling, stern-faced men and delicate women that resemble carved porcelain.

“You said you were only one Mr. Roan. How many of you are there?” I ask, moving quicker to catch up after dawdling near one of the carved doorways.

He glances back, eyes cast in a strange glow from the gas lights. “A few of us.”

Legs tired from the trek up to the house and climbing the gate, I stumble on the thick carpet, but Jafeth catches me before I tumble to the floor. His smile is a little too eager, a little too flawless.

“You’ll meet all of us tonight,” he says, letting me go. “At dinner.”

“That sounds pleasant.” I rub my arm where Jafeth touched me and frown, shivering as we continue down the dark corridor.