The River of No Return

as Eamon had ordered, although at almost any time she could have simply walked out of the front door and down to the stables. She could have saddled a horse and ridden away, if only she had the funds to support herself. But she had no funds—and wouldn’t have for three long years—so until she could come up with a viable plan, she was opting for a show of obedience. She schooled herself to show Eamon no temper. Whenever he asked where the talisman was, as he did ten times a day, she looked up from whatever she was doing and quietly informed him that she did not know. Meanwhile, he had the servants turn Castle Dar inside out. They went through every chest in the attics, pulled every wine bottle from the cellar racks, searched the scullery, the empty bedrooms, the gunroom, the kennels. Their orders were to bring him anything unusual, or beautiful, or old, or foreign. After two days the study was piled with bizarre objects. In one corner, all of Grandfather’s rocks, sorted by size. Another corner housed a pile of especially old and mysterious-looking books. The rest was a miscellany, culled from all over the house and grounds. An embroidered reticule three generations old. A badger skull. A lock of gray hair tied with a rotting black ribbon. A scarab. An armored glove. An angel farthing. A shoe buckle made of enormous black-spot paste jewels. Eamon sat in the midst of it all like Job on his dung heap, growing progressively more enraged, and bellowing now and then for Julia. When she appeared, he demanded that she look over any new additions to the collection. Had she ever seen Grandfather with this object? This ivory needle case, for instance. Surely that was a magical symbol carved into it? Some sort of mystical rune?
    “No,” she had said in the quiet voice she had learned to use with him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize that.”
    “Blast it all. This could be it. This could well be it, and yet how am I to know it or access its powers?” He’d held the cylinder of needles up and perused it from all sides, then hurled it in a rage across the room. Then he’d looked at her and screamed, “Get out!”
    Julia had risen quietly and walked regally out of the study, but once the door closed behind her she stormed up to her room. She slammed the door and, barely pausing to pull the chair out and sit down at her writing desk, she scrawled a letter to her childhood friend Lady Arabella Falcott. Bella had grown up on the neighboring estate and was now in London for the Season. Julia’s letter was impassioned, almost every sentence underlined, and it ended with a blotted plea for help.
    Minutes after finishing it, Julia burned it. She could not foist herself on the Falcotts. The dowager marchioness, once a leading light in London society, had become a recluse since the young marquess had been killed in Spain. Clare, the elder sister, was firmly on the shelf. But Bella had always wanted to escape Falcott House. The minute she put off her mourning for her brother she began to pester her mother for a Season. Finally the dowager marchioness gave in. But Bella was twenty-one now, long in the tooth for a debutante, and if she was only to have one Season she needed to make the most of it. Having a penniless friend in deep mourning descend on her would cause her nothing but trouble.
    Now it was dinnertime. Eamon was scowling at his plate and pushing his food around with his fork, making a paste of his meal. Julia eyed him analytically. He was revolting, but she was fairly certain that he wasn’t actually dangerous. The real danger was to her reputation.
    The country society round about would forgive a week or two of domestic irregularity as the new earl settled in. But it had already been ten days since Grandfather’s death, and Eamon had shut the house to visitors. Before long the gossip would begin.
    Eamon looked up and caught her eye. “Penny for your thoughts, kitten,” he said. “Are you thinking of the talisman?”
    “No, Cousin. I am thinking of my reputation.”
    He waved his fork airily. “A thing of rags and patches.”
    “It pleases you to make fun of it, Cousin, but you should be worried, as I am.”
    Eamon snapped his fingers in the air. “That is what I think of your precious reputation, Cousin. It can hang from a gibbet for all I care.” He pushed his plate away.
    It was then that Julia felt something break. It was the taut thread of her patience. “You,” she said in a low voice, “are