sea.
Dusk was falling. The fading sunlight covered the rolling moor in bitter orange. A few flocks of sheep were seen hurrying this way and that in the grass, but otherwise little stirred. It was as if all life had fled the approach of darkness. Even the birds were silent.
“This may be the most desolate place I have ever seen,” Varanus said softly.
She lifted her veil to see better. With night coming and the sun behind them, she no longer had need of it. But for good measure, she still wore a pair of dark glasses to shield her sensitive eyes.
At her side, Ekaterine said, “It reminds me of Scotland.”
“I didn’t know you’d been there,” Varanus said.
“I haven’t,” Ekaterine replied. “Luka went once, with Lord Iosef. He brought back a painting for me. It looked very much like this, only with mountains.”
The scene did indeed lack mountains, Varanus thought, but not for lack of trying. Each stone-topped hill seemed to reach upward as if inspired yet unable to become a towering peak. Indeed, the very land dropped away as if intending to further this aim. The train station sat on raised ground, but within only a few feet the ground began to slope away into the Blackmoor plain.
“I must say, this is not what I had anticipated,” Varanus said. “What has become of England’s green and pleasant land?”
It was certainly nothing like the remainder of Yorkshire, which they had seen along their journey. That land had been lush and beautiful. Varanus looked southward, the way they had come, and could just make out the hint of a familiar, vibrant green beneath the horizon. Turning back toward Blackmoor, she was faced again with burnt umber and desolation.
“Ought we to walk to town?” Ekaterine asked.
“The baggage will be something of a chore,” Varanus replied. She nodded to the two trunks they had brought with them. “And my cousin did assure me that we would be met at the platform.”
“Considering that there is little of the station but the platform, that would seem necessary,” Ekaterine said. She looked this way and that, her mouth set tightly in irritation. “This is not an auspicious beginning, I must say.”
But Varanus had spied something dark moving along the road to town. Even at that distance, she could make out the shapes of horses pulling a carriage of some sort.
“No fear,” she said. “They are late but approaching.”
“And I thought that the English were punctual,” Ekaterine said.
They waited in silence as their transportation approached. In due course, a weathered black brougham pulled up to the platform. Its driver was a gangly fellow with matted black hair and side-whiskers. He wore a tall hat, a weathered suit with trousers tucked into tall boots, and a heavy overcoat with shoulder capes, all as black as his carriage, his horses, and his whiskers.
“What a sinister display,” Ekaterine murmured. She grinned. “It’s rather exciting isn’t it?”
“Oh, hush,” Varanus said.
The coachman leaned down and touched the brim of his hat with his fingertips.
“Pardon fer me lateness, Yer Graces,” he said. “I were delayed in town.”
Varanus smelled whiskey on his breath. Delayed in town? Delayed in the pub, more likely.
“Well, you are here now,” she said.
“Which’a ya is the Princess Shashy’vany?” the coachman asked, climbing down from his seat.
“Shashavani,” Varanus corrected him, emphasizing each part of the name. “And I am she.” She motioned to Ekaterine. “This is my sister-in-law. You may also address her as Lady Shashavani.”
“Yes, Yer Grace,” the coachman said, bowing his head. “Me name is Barnabas, should me services be required durin’ yer stay. I’s coachman to th’ Earl o’ Blackmoor.”
“Of course,” Varanus said.
Barnabas bowed his head again and opened the door of the brougham. Varanus politely accepted his assistance in climbing inside, as did Ekaterine. There was no need for their self-reliance to offend the help. The seat inside was old and worn, but still soft enough to offer some degree of comfort. At least it was better than the coachman’s box outside. And warmer as well, Varanus wagered. Though it was only September, there was a chill in the air.
The coachman heaved their luggage onto the roof of the brougham and climbed into his seat.
“Not a long journey, Yer Graces,” he called down to them. “An’ ya can see the countryside along the way.”
* * * *
There was little to the countryside that Varanus had not already seen, but up close it proved somewhat more interesting than at a distance. The brougham drove first through the Village of Blackmoor, an ancient and weathered relic of an earlier age. A great many of the buildings were stone or brick, and much of the construction seemed to date back to the Eighteenth Century or earlier.
Though many of the winding streets they passed were deserted, the main road through town had more than its fair share of people. Whether they had come to see the arrival of strangers or were simply on their way to the local pub, Varanus could not say. But regardless, they all backed way from the approaching carriage as quickly as possible and clustered along the sides of the street to watch. Their faces were as tired and worn as the buildings of the village. Their expressions spoke of apprehension and fear.
“I don’t think we are welcome here,” Varanus said.
“Perhaps,” Ekaterine said. “But they have no idea who we are. The coach, however, they must recognize.”
They were soon free of the village, and Varanus watched the barren landscape roll past them as the brougham followed the main road toward Blackmoor Manor. As she had surmised before, there was very little on the moor aside from a few cottages and the odd church. Here and there she saw a standing stone or an isolated monument that had been placed in the wilderness for no evident purpose. But otherwise, there was nothing to be seen but the grass and the heath and the tor-topped hills.
Blackmoor Manor sat atop a hill a little over a mile outside of the village, as much a weathered relic as any of the buildings in town. A three-story Tudor construction, the house was built in the manner of a fortress, with parapets and towers set alongside grand arches and windows. There was even a gatehouse that led into a central court, inherited from an earlier, far more violent time. The stonework was worn smooth by rain and wind and stained so that it was almost black.
Blackmoor indeed, Varanus thought. The ground, the rock, even the manor.
The coachman drove them into the central courtyard. There were lanterns hanging over both the gate and the door to the house, and two rows of torches led the way from one to the other. Bathed in the orange glow of fire and sunset, the dark walls looked rather like vertical faces of bare rock, and in the gathering shadows, the courtyard put Varanus in mind of some place of pagan sacrifice.
What a dreadful thing to think about the home of one’s ancestors, she thought.
A man was waiting for them on the steps when they alighted, with a party of servants standing behind him at the door. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, though he looked slim and elegant in his dark gray frock coat—a marvel of tailoring to be sure. He was handsome, with a sturdy jaw, a large but narrow nose, and high cheeks and brow. At the sight of Varanus, his mouth opened in a wide smile that showed his strong, ivory-colored teeth. His hair was black but graying, rich and full, and longer than was common among most men of his age.
Varanus recognized him from when he had visited her a year ago to pay his condolences. He was her Right Honourable cousin Robert, the Earl of Blackmoor. But, she wondered, was he to be her friend or her adversary? That remained to be seen. The family had made clear their claim on her grandfather’s property, but she still held