The Awakening. Amanda Stevens

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       Four

      I awakened the next morning to the soothing sound of rain on my roof. I got up and dressed for the cemetery, but the deluge showed no sign of letting up. Work had always been my escape in times of stress and confusion, but today I felt a keen sense of relief that I could put off a return to Woodbine. The experience at my office window had left me unnerved. The ghost child wanted something from me and I hated to think what she might do next to get my attention.

      But even apart from the dread I had of the apparition and her intentions, I had no desire to run into Prosper Lamb again. I had felt something in the caretaker’s presence—an indefinable foreshadowing—that worried me. I wasn’t comfortable with his proximity. I didn’t want him watching over me. I would have much preferred a solitary restoration, but I had no control over his comings and goings.

      Trapped inside, I spent the morning catching up on bills and invoices, and that afternoon, I worked on my blog, Digging Graves. The crib monument had so intrigued me that I decided to write about the history of such headstones. The more I researched, the deeper my fascination became until the single blog post I’d originally envisioned turned into a series of articles I called “The Loneliest Graves: An Exploration of Symbolism and Traditions Associated with Infant Burials.”

      Hours passed unnoticed as I became engrossed in my work. It was cozy in my office with the rain streaming down the windows and Angus curled up nearby. I sipped tea and contentedly typed away, stopping only when the drag of exhaustion called me to bed just before midnight.

      Without any ominous dreams or ghostly interruptions, I slept the sleep of the dead and awakened to another rainy day. I returned to my writing, but by midmorning, I was starting to go a little stir-crazy. I drove down to Waterfront Park and then, grabbing my umbrella, exited the car for a soggy stroll along East Bay Street and the Battery. The weather had chased the tourists inside and I had the walkway to myself. I went all the way to the point of the peninsula and watched the waves for a few minutes before turning back.

      The downpour shrouded the mansions along Battery Row, but even so, I stopped to admire them as I almost always did on my morning walks. The towering spectacles were a mixture of architectural styles representing the peak of Charleston’s grandeur. Like most of the old houses south of Broad Street, they had been passed down from generation to generation. The Devlin abode was one of the largest on East Bay, a shimmering white Renaissance Revival with three stories of columns and a rooftop pavilion from which the family’s ancestors had undoubtedly viewed the Battle of Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor.

      Once upon a time, I’d had a connection to that house, though I’d never been inside and had never met the current owner, Jonathan Devlin. Until a year ago last spring, I’d had a relationship with his grandson, John Devlin, a former police detective who was the heir apparent to the Devlin home and to the family fortune. Our breakup had not been mutual and I’d spent the past eighteen months brooding about his reasons and motivations when I should have long since relegated him to a distant corner of my memory. But no matter what I did or where I went, I couldn’t seem to forget him. Scarcely a night went by I didn’t ache for him, that I didn’t dream about being back in his arms. Mornings were cold, cruel awakenings.

      Not only had Devlin broken my heart, but he’d also returned to a life he once rejected. He’d resigned from the police department, taken control of the family’s holdings and, rumor had it, he’d moved back into his grandfather’s mansion. Sometimes in my weaker moments, I wondered if the reason he’d left was because I didn’t have an acceptable pedigree. I wasn’t a suitable match for someone who came from a world I could only gaze at from afar. The Devlin family was one of the oldest and wealthiest in the city. They had been here since the founding of Charleston over three hundred years ago. My people came from the mountains.

      But that was too simplistic an explanation for our estrangement and didn’t take into account his family’s sinister connections—those dark alliances and shadowy associations, some of which were only now surfacing. It was hard enough to accept Devlin’s recent engagement, let alone the possibility that as a member of the secret and deadly Congé, he might now be my mortal enemy.

      As I stared across the street, the base of my spine tingled. Little wonder, I told myself. For all I knew, Devlin might be inside at that very moment. Even the mere possibility of his nearness fluttered my heart. But it was more than that. Someone watched me.

      My grip tightened around the umbrella as I searched the windows and balconies and the rain-soaked garden. I didn’t see anyone until I shifted my focus to the third floor and then my pulse jumped. Devlin stood in an open doorway, arms folded, one shoulder propped СКАЧАТЬ