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Chapter Ten
Despite Rayley’s trepidation, the scene which greeted them at Hever Castle was tranquil. The same
scraggly crew they might have expected was gathered around the long dining table, sharing a dinner of
oats and potatoes. The food, while hardly aromatic or appetizing, was more plentiful than when the
tyrant LaRusse was in attendance, so Trevor could only assume that the rules about gleaning were
relaxed during his frequent absences. Apparently some of the artists had made a raid on a nearby
farm, and the figure now presiding at the head of the table was the painter John Paul. He greeted
Rayley and Trevor with an uninterested wave of the hand, his attention barely flickering from the
buxom young creature at his side, and Trevor realized that no one in Hever had noticed that he,
Rayley, and Anne had abandoned the castle for the Edenbridge Inn.
This is a topsy-turvy world indeed, Trevor thought. LaRusse departs and John Paul steps into his
place. The king is dead, long live the king. People gather for breakfast, but if they do not return
for dinner, no one goes looking for them or expresses the slightest curiosity as to their
whereabouts. No, not even if they are young girls like Dorinda Spencer or Anne Arborton. How
quickly absolute freedom can become absolute indifference.
But at least the fact that everyone appeared to be dining as a group meant that he and Rayley could
explore the castle uninterrupted. He doubted they would find LaRusse or Dorinda – or even any clue
as to where they might have gone – within the occupied sections of the castle. Most likely they would
have to move on to the cellar and the gatehouse if they wanted any real answers, but just as Trevor
was starting toward the kitchen to begin his search, Rayley signaled to him.
“What is it?” Trevor said, as he joined Rayley at the bottom of the stairs.
“It’s just occurred to me what was different about the castle as we approached,” Rayley said. “You
know the windows in the east turret? The ones Dorinda decreed should always stand open because
of the paint fumes? They were closed.”
****
The candles they had grabbed from downstairs were small and ineffectual against the dark and
winding stairs. Rayley muttered a terse warning that there was no handrail and that the steps
themselves were crumbling and sloped, indented by centuries of feet. Trevor, always more cautious
than proud in these instances, dropped to his hands and knees for the climb, at one point clinching the
candle stub between his teeth like a cigar.
And it was in this bizarre and unmanly position that he saw the first one.
The first picture, that is.
It was the face of a woman, very like the face in the portrait they had found in the gatehouse. Roundeyed,
lovely, beseeching. The Angel of Hever Castle.