Ghosts in the Snow Read online

  Dari never worried about looking at Lady Thremayne's trinkets. Dari never worried about much of anything. She stood before Lady Thremayne's tall mirror and fluffed her hair, as she did most mornings. She caught the pillow shams in one hand with barely a glance, and grinned. "Think I should let it grow out?" she asked, tilting her head. She pouted into the mirror and cocked her narrow hips to the side with the pillow shams fluffed out behind her like a lady's skirt.

  "I think you need to get back to work before you get us into trouble," Nella said, laughter sparkling in her voice.

  Dari ran to the bed, her feet a whisper on the carpets. Laughing, she belly flopped onto the feather stuffed mattress and giggled. "I don't want to work. I want to do something fun! I haven't taken a day off in over a moon, and all this work is boring." She rolled onto her back with her feet hanging off the edge, and her eyes gleamed at Nella. "I know! Let's take your horse for a ride."

  "Oh, Dari." Nella shook her head but her smile refused to hide. Button was a plow horse, big and brown and regular, but Risley had bought him. Bought him just for her.

  Groaning dramatically at Nella's reluctance, Dari stretched on the wide, soft mattress. Nella could not begin to imagine how wonderful it must feel, but Dari didn't seem to think about that at all as she wiggled with gleeful anticipation. "We can ride into the village and look at dresses. Maybe we can even flirt with some nice-looking young farmers. What do you think?"

  Nella shook her head. "He's not my horse yet. I still have to finish paying for him."

  Dari bounced her feet against the side of the bed. "Let's take him for a ride anyway. It'll be fun!"

  Nella shook her head again. "I still owe Risley twenty-one crown and change. I can't ride Button until he's paid for, even if I could take time off."

  Dari reached for a pillow. As she stuffed it into the sham she said, "Nella, I'm absolutely positive Lord Risley would be happy to let you ride your horse. Besides, an afternoon of play never killed anyone."

  "Still wouldn't be right." Nella shooed Dari off the bed and pulled the crisp sheet across the mattress. Risley would let her, all right. He'd probably saddle Button and offer to come along and pay for everything. She refused to think about it. As fun as it sounded, she did not want more debt.

  Dari continued on undaunted, reaching for a fresh pillow and tucking it under her narrow chin. "I don't understand. Surely you see he doesn't want you to pay him back. He likes you." She winked at Nella and stuffed the second pillow in its sham. A giggle later, she dropped the pillow on the floor, then tucked the corner of the sheet under and tied it tight.

  Nella unfolded the top sheet with a flick of her wrists while Dari tied corners. "He likes lots of girls. I'm the one who owes him money."

  "So you won't allow yourself a few simple pleasures because of a little debt?" She finished tying the bottom sheet's corners and helped Nella smooth the top sheet. "You've been here almost three moons and haven't spent a penny on yourself, or taken a single moment to rest. Pigs' wallow, Nella, you even hunt for more work. What are you so afraid of?"

  This was not a subject Nella wanted to discuss, so she reverted to the tried and true. "I have to pay the debt." She reached for the first blanket and shook the folds out.

  Dari grabbed one end of the thick wool blanket and walked to the other side of the bed, her eyes rolling. "So you slave all day in The Bitches, then mend clothes and polish candlesticks half the night? All for a few more pence Lord Risley doesn't even want? You're going to kill yourself."

  Nella knew what working to death was like, and making beds in perfumed rooms was nowhere close. "No, I'm not. I promise. Can we talk about something else, please?"

  Dari smoothed the wool blanket while Nella unfolded the cotton one. "Avoid it all you like, it's still there. He likes you. You like him…"

  Nella sighed and lowered her eyes. "Dari, you know that's not true."

  Dari took the blanket from her and flicked it over the bed. "Oh, don't even try to deny it. I've seen what happens. You work and slave all phase to make what? Eight crown? Ten? You count it, get all happy, tuck it in a tidy little package and give it to Lord Risley. You're so giddy you can't hold still. He's so smitten he has to wipe his drool off the floor, and all for what? A few moments of flirting followed by eight days of misery? It's crazy."

  Nella picked the pillows off the floor. "It's not like that."

  "Horse piss. It's exactly like that." Dari turned to Nella and leaned forward, gesticulating in aggravation. "You know what you should do? Instead of taking me and that plow horse of yours into the village, you should ask Lord Risley if he'd take you to town. I'm sure he'd leap at the chance to see you." She grinned again. "Besides, his horses are much prettier."

  Nella shook her head and arranged the pillows on the bed. "You've forgotten a couple of things."

  Dari leaned back, her hands on her hips. "Oh no, here come the excuses."

  Nella ignored the last comment and said, "Not only do I owe him money, but I'm a commoner. A servant. No one."

  Dari's hands moved off her hips and gestured in the air, fingers spread wide and straight. "And he's the King's grandson. I don't understand why you won't even try. What have you got to lose?"

  Nella turned to her friend and said, "I don't have anything to lose. That's the point. And I've caused him enough trouble." She looked at Dari for a moment, then walked to the privy room to collect dirty towels.

  The privy room was small, with barely enough room for a tub, a chamber pot, and a washbasin set on a tall narrow table. The walls were white stone, the floor bare wood. A narrow cupboard stood in the corner to hold bath linens and soaps. A small mirror hung on the wall and a bottle of perfume waited beside the washbasin, nearly lost within a tangle of soapy cloths.

  While servants used rough, plain-woven wool to wash and dry themselves, the castle nobility were provided with finely woven cottons that were soft to the touch and a pleasure to behold. The delicately embroidered washing cloths were perhaps twice the size of a man's palm, and the big drying towels Lady Thremayne somehow left lying about every morning were larger, and cozier, than Nella's sleeping blanket. Nella had never understood how one woman could get so wet, or create such mess in the process of bathing.

  She lifted a dripping towel from the basin, another from the middle of the floor, and knelt to retrieve one wedged beneath the tub while her mind wandered. How can I explain Risley to Dari when I don't understand it myself, she thought as she pulled. The towel was good and stuck—how had Lady Thremayne managed that?—and she put her weight behind it and tugged. She thought about Risley, how his eyes glimmered in sunlight, the sound of his voice, his laugh, his scent, and she shook her head and tried to shove the meanderings away. Best not to go there, Nell, she scolded herself. You know better.

  From the main room, Dari squealed, "No. Here?"

  The towel slid free, and Nella's head snapped up, banging against the cupboard door. All pleasant thoughts of Risley faded away.

  Drenched bath linen in one hand, the other rubbing the back of her head, Nella hurried from the privy room. Her roommate, Plien, relaxed against the hall doorway as if it fondled her, and her eyes glistened with worldly ease. Her linen maid uniform had been partially unbuttoned and her golden hair framed her face like a lover's caress, extending just long enough to curl against the exposed curves of her breasts.

  Dari stood quivering beside the bed and her face had paled as white as the stone wall behind her. She crushed a toss pillow in her hands, denting the silken fabric.

  "What happened?" Nella asked, her throat clenching.

  "You'll never believe this!" Dari said, glancing between Plien and Nella. She looked like she might rip the pillow apart.

  Nella's voice hitched as she spoke. "Believe what?"

  "A milkmaid was murdered," Plien said as if she were explaining a stain on her uniform. Flicking her hair from her eyes with one hand, she added, "I heard her legs were cut off."

  Towels fell to the
carpet beside Nella's feet with a wet schlopping sound. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth and her knees felt loose and quivery. The memory of her sister's death flared in her mind. The bastards had broken Camm's legs when they raped her. Snapped them loose from her hips before abandoning her naked corpse on the stoop. Life had never been the same. "Oh, Goddess!" she said and sat on the edge of the bed before she fell to the floor. She had never sat down on the job before. When Dari stared at her, surprised, Nella tried to stand but couldn't. She couldn't shove away the memory of Camm.

  Plien examined her fingernails and smiled, the gleeful bearer of bad news. "Word is Dubric puked all over her, she was so messed up."

  Dari turned away from Nella and snapped, "Take your nasty story and go. Can't you see she's upset?"

  "I'm all right," Nella whispered and staggered to her feet. Plien must be lying, creating the story to scare us, she thought. She's tried to frighten us before. Nella didn't think Lord Dubric would ever vomit at the sight of death. He seemed too strong for that. She nodded, reassuring herself, and tottered to the wet towels, dropping to her knees to retrieve them before her legs gave out. Dari dropped the pillow and hurried to Nella's side.

  With a toss of her head, Plien left Lady Thremayne's suite, presumably to spread more good cheer.

  Nella's shoulders shook as she smelled the perfumed air and tried to calm herself. She was in Faldorrah now, not Pyrinn, and no one was raped or murdered because of debt. Ever. Risley had promised. Dari helped her with the puddle and she wished she could sop the memory of her sister from her mind as easily as the mess on the carpet.

  * * *

  Dubric was halfway to the physician's office when a scream ripped through the great hall. Far ahead of him, three scullery maids with terrified faces ran from the ale room as if Taiel'dar himself slathered on their heels. People near the ale room surged to their feet and stampeded away.

  A sick feeling blossomed in the pit of Dubric's stomach as he and several others pushed through the panicked crowd. He was ashamed of the relief he felt. "Stop," he said, grabbing the only person to reach the door before he did. It was a tall, skinny kitchen lackey, perhaps ten summers old, with flour-and-grease-spattered hair and a filthy tunic. "Let me go first."

  The boy nodded and Dubric pulled his sword as he pushed open the door. The crowd huddled far behind him, as silent as the ghosts.

  The ale room was dark, cold, the shadows of the stacked kegs like lumbering giants in the dim light. Dubric pulled a torch off the wall and held it as he entered the room. Sword in one hand, torch in the other, he walked between rows of kegs. Something pale lay on the floor, gleaming in the torchlight as if it flowed from a tipped keg. He raised the torch higher and hissed out a breath. The hand and arm of the victim extended between the kegs.

  He turned to the boy and two men who followed him. Torchlight reflected red in their eyes, like blood. "Everyone out. This room is off-limits for the time being." He looked at the boy. "And you. Hort, is it? Can you fetch two of my pages? Tell them to knock when they get here."

  "Aye, milord." The boy ran off.

  "What is it?" Lander Beckwith, the herald, asked. Tall, lanky, and timid, he hesitated as he looked through the door. The white feather in his herald's cap seemed to mimic the deflated and shocked look in his pale eyes. The other man was a no-account noble named Talmil. His eyes flashed eagerly and he reached for the edge of the door.

  "Nothing for you to worry about yet," Dubric replied, then pulled the door from Talmil and locked himself inside the ale room.

  He approached the body slowly. Two similar deaths. Could it be a demented brute on the loose or a lovers' triangle gone awry? If the unthinkable stalked his castle, could he catch the beast? Could he survive more ghosts?

  He ignored his worry and resumed his examination. No idiot do-gooders had ruined the scene; the scullery maid's body waited untouched, the way the killer had left her. She lay on her side on the stone floor and faced a tipped keg covered in blood. One hand extended above her head and the other lay curled against her face. He jammed the handle of the torch between two kegs and knelt near the body, wondering what, if anything, connected the girls.

  Unlike Elli, the cause of the scullery maid's death was apparent at first look.

  Her throat gaped open, slashed nearly from ear to ear. Her uniform slumped loose from her shoulders with the back slit from the neck to the hips and the front sopped with gore. One shoe leaned discarded against the bloody barrel, probably kicked off during the death throes. He touched her extended hand with one finger and began taking notes. She was as cold as the floor she lay on.

  He examined the body and scene as the ghosts watched him work. The scullery maid had been slashed open on either side of her spine below the ribs, leaving the remainder of her back intact. A single blue curl of intestine slumped onto the floor behind her. Dubric measured the two gashes. Neither had bled, although both were slightly longer than the width of his hand. They were as clean and straight as any cut of meat he had seen on the butcher's block. Most of the blood had pooled in front of her, indicating she had likely died before the killer sliced open her back. "He had privacy," Dubric muttered as his pencil hurried across a page in his notebook. "Privacy and time."

  He looked to the back of her head next. Her head bore no wound. Her bobbed, light brown hair fluffed curly and clean; little wisps of it danced on the floor beside his knees. He picked up a few strands and put them into the crease of his book. If the details of Elli's murder had not given him cause to look, he might not have noticed her cut hair. The killer had removed a bit here, a bit there, snippets hidden by the curls.

  Dubric tilted her stiff head gently. He found no bruising on her face or neck. Her eyes stared forward, surprised and cloudy; blood from her throat had splashed over her face. She had been a pretty girl. Except for her open dress, her clothes remained intact. She still wore knee stockings and one shabby shoe. Her underdrawers had not been moved. He doubted she had been raped.

  He sketched her body, made a few notes, and examined the scene in which she lay.

  He found a single bloody handprint on a keg behind her, where he wanted to place his own hand as he rose from kneeling to standing. Moving the torch for better light, he examined the bloody smear and saw nothing of note. Big enough to be a man's hand, four fingers and a thumb, all straight and true. It could have belonged to anyone. The blood was dry and impossible to transfer directly to parchment, but traceable. He made a note in his book as a reminder to acquire transparent parchment. He found no hairs on the floor but the victim's, no dropped clues, no bloody footprints.

  When the two pages knocked, he returned to the door, looking from keg to keg as he walked through the ale room. Not a print to be seen. He did, however, find three drops of dried blood on the floor near the door. The vertical bar of the door latch was a smeared bloody mess, with fingerprints on the left, thumbprint on top, and a palm smear on the right. The killer was right-handed, or had used his right hand to open the door.

  After writing a few more notes, Dubric stood again and reached into his pocket for a kerchief. Taking care to not smear the blood, he opened the door for his pages. Both were junior pages and sons of castle nobles. Neither was terribly bright. A crowd of people huddled far behind the boys.

  He glowered at them and said, "Gilby, fetch me a clean blanket. Second-floor-east storage room will do fine. Norbert, run to the mapmakers'. Tell Eamonn I need a piece of tracing parchment. If he gripes about his supplies, you tell him that is not my concern. If he refuses to give you one, fetch a squire and have him thrown in gaol. Just get me the blasted parchment. Any questions?"

  They looked at each other and Norbert whined, "Why do I have to argue with Eamonn? He smells bad, and he's always grouchy. Can't you send Gilby instead?"

  Gilby punched Norbert on the shoulder. "Quit griping. We'll be polishing armor for a whole phase!"

  Norbert rolled his eyes and punched Gilby back. "You've got the easy job. Pilferin
g a blanket from the ladies' storage roo—"

  Dubric towered over them. "If you two do not get your backsides moving right this instant, you will never get the armor polish out of your fingernails."

  "Yes, Milord Dubric," Norbert muttered, and both boys ran off.

  "What did you find?" a lady asked from the murmuring crowd, a kerchief crushed in her hand. Around her, the crowd eagerly leaned closer.

  Pitta stood beside her husband. The herald's feather still drooped and he stroked his wife's arm with a shaking hand as she spoke. "I heard it from the girls, Dubric. Another one dead. Is it true?"

  Dubric nodded and focused all of his attention on Pitta. "Yes. When were kegs last brought out?"

  She paled. "Every night the kitchen is supposed to restock for the following morning, but we ran out of ale during breakfast. The keg should have been full, but it wasn't! I never should have sent them. I never should have needed to!"

  Pitta sobbed and Beckwith drew her close to press her face against his narrow chest.

  Dubric wrote, Were the kegs emptied on purpose, or did chance bring the victim to the room?

  "What would you have us do?" Beckwith asked, his voice trembling as he stroked Pitta's hair.

  "List the girls' names for me. That is all I need for now."

  Beckwith held his wife closer. The crowd whispered around him and for a moment Dubric considered the pair. Although shorter than her husband, Pitta's bulk seemed to soak his lean frame into her like a dab of jelly onto a fresh-baked roll, her ruddiness nearly obscuring the horror on his face.

  Dubric closed the door before he had to answer any more questions. He took a deep breath, locked the latch, and turned back to the ale room.

  He examined the rest of the room step-by-step and found no more blood. He noted nothing more than thirty-two wine kegs, sixty-one ale kegs, a half-dried puddle of vinegary sludge from a leaking keg, a dusting of pipe ash in one corner of the room, and a silhouette of a man's bootprint within the ash. He knelt before the pipe ash and sketched the shape and angle of the print. The killer had found a perfect, dark hiding spot; three stacked ale kegs hid the corner from the door. A smoker perhaps, he noted in his book. Likely male. Might have dropped some ash on his boot while he waited for her. Patient.