Read Online The Ground She Walks Upon by Meagan McKinney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meagan McKinney
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the walls covered with mahogany and gilt-bronze-mounted bookcases lined with leather-bound spines. Two chamois-covered chairs sat by the hearth, only one chair showing signs of wear on the bottle-green leather, indicating the room's sole occupancy.
Ravenna felt her heart skip with every damning creak of the hinges as she closed the door behind her. She stepped into the bedchamber. Trevallyan's bed, an enormous four-post cavern carved of black oak and draped in green velvet, was a room unto itself. Scarred from hundreds of years of use, the past was written in its ancient wood, with one especially impressive cut hacked into one of the huge onion- shaped finials. She walked past the bed and wondered if the scars in the bed were caused by invaders to the castle in previous centuries. She was too young to think of jealous lovers and cuckolded husbands.
A small doorway to the left caught her eye. She walked across the lush Axminster carpet, marveling at the way it kept her bare feet and the stone room toasty warm. She turned the brass knob and found herself in the lord's dressing chamber. Inlaid mahogany wardrobes stood sentinel on either side of the room. And beneath a shield-shaped shaving mirror, on a bureau with the carved feet of a lion, lay Trevallyan's comb.
She held the tortoiseshell comb to the light of a small mullioned window high in the stone wall of the dressing room. There were three blond hairs intertwined within the teeth. Triumphant, she pulled them out of the comb and curled them into her palm, marveling at the way they caught the light, like spun threads of gold, so different from her own.
The sound of voices suddenly chilled her blood. She clutched the three hairs and stared at the dressing-room door. The voices came and went and she tried desperately to determine whether they were in the staircase to the tower or were just the echo of passing servants. The voices grew louder, and she was paralyzed by the creak of groaning hinges.
"Kevin, tell Greeves to send up a bath and my dinner. I'll be staying in my rooms tonight. " The male voice was well-mannered, even refined, but the underlying anger in it left Ravenna with a fear that stabbed through her like an icicle.
"Very good, my lord. I'll send the footman up to tend to the hearths. Your early arrival was unexpected, or we would have seen to it that the fires were lit. "
"Fine. Fine," the commanding voice answered absent-mindedly.
The doors creaked shut. There was silence.
Ravenna didn't dare breathe. Her worst terrors had come true. The master of Trevallyan stood in the bedchamber, and she was trapped, hidden in a corner of his dressing room.
She climbed atop a chair beneath the small mullioned window and looked down. It was a hundred feet to the gravel-strewn courtyard, if not more. Certain death. Silently, she jumped back down to the floor on grubby bare feet. The only way out of the stone tower was the way she had come: through the bedroom and the antechamber and down the steep, winding staircase.
She crept to the dressing-room door, her heart beating a heavy staccato in her chest. What would he do to her if she were caught? Thieves were sometimes hanged. Would he hang her, or take mercy upon her because she was merely a girl? She could feel the blood rushing from her face. Slowly, she peered into the bedroom to find her captor.
Trevallyan stood by the bank of windows near his writing desk. She had seen the master rarely, perhaps only once or twice, but he had always left an impression. He was not an overly tall man, nor big, but there was something about him, a wickedness to his slant of eyebrows, a commanding, even cruel gleam in his fine blue-green eyes, that convinced her —nay, all the townfolk of Lir—that he could be spawn of the devil.
His coat and black neckcloth were thrown across the bed. Clad in a fine batiste shirt, a black figured-silk vest, and wool trousers, he made a melancholy figure at the window as he stared around across
Ravenna felt her heart skip with every damning creak of the hinges as she closed the door behind her. She stepped into the bedchamber. Trevallyan's bed, an enormous four-post cavern carved of black oak and draped in green velvet, was a room unto itself. Scarred from hundreds of years of use, the past was written in its ancient wood, with one especially impressive cut hacked into one of the huge onion- shaped finials. She walked past the bed and wondered if the scars in the bed were caused by invaders to the castle in previous centuries. She was too young to think of jealous lovers and cuckolded husbands.
A small doorway to the left caught her eye. She walked across the lush Axminster carpet, marveling at the way it kept her bare feet and the stone room toasty warm. She turned the brass knob and found herself in the lord's dressing chamber. Inlaid mahogany wardrobes stood sentinel on either side of the room. And beneath a shield-shaped shaving mirror, on a bureau with the carved feet of a lion, lay Trevallyan's comb.
She held the tortoiseshell comb to the light of a small mullioned window high in the stone wall of the dressing room. There were three blond hairs intertwined within the teeth. Triumphant, she pulled them out of the comb and curled them into her palm, marveling at the way they caught the light, like spun threads of gold, so different from her own.
The sound of voices suddenly chilled her blood. She clutched the three hairs and stared at the dressing-room door. The voices came and went and she tried desperately to determine whether they were in the staircase to the tower or were just the echo of passing servants. The voices grew louder, and she was paralyzed by the creak of groaning hinges.
"Kevin, tell Greeves to send up a bath and my dinner. I'll be staying in my rooms tonight. " The male voice was well-mannered, even refined, but the underlying anger in it left Ravenna with a fear that stabbed through her like an icicle.
"Very good, my lord. I'll send the footman up to tend to the hearths. Your early arrival was unexpected, or we would have seen to it that the fires were lit. "
"Fine. Fine," the commanding voice answered absent-mindedly.
The doors creaked shut. There was silence.
Ravenna didn't dare breathe. Her worst terrors had come true. The master of Trevallyan stood in the bedchamber, and she was trapped, hidden in a corner of his dressing room.
She climbed atop a chair beneath the small mullioned window and looked down. It was a hundred feet to the gravel-strewn courtyard, if not more. Certain death. Silently, she jumped back down to the floor on grubby bare feet. The only way out of the stone tower was the way she had come: through the bedroom and the antechamber and down the steep, winding staircase.
She crept to the dressing-room door, her heart beating a heavy staccato in her chest. What would he do to her if she were caught? Thieves were sometimes hanged. Would he hang her, or take mercy upon her because she was merely a girl? She could feel the blood rushing from her face. Slowly, she peered into the bedroom to find her captor.
Trevallyan stood by the bank of windows near his writing desk. She had seen the master rarely, perhaps only once or twice, but he had always left an impression. He was not an overly tall man, nor big, but there was something about him, a wickedness to his slant of eyebrows, a commanding, even cruel gleam in his fine blue-green eyes, that convinced her —nay, all the townfolk of Lir—that he could be spawn of the devil.
His coat and black neckcloth were thrown across the bed. Clad in a fine batiste shirt, a black figured-silk vest, and wool trousers, he made a melancholy figure at the window as he stared around across
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