Murkmere by Patricia Elliott

he looked at me at last, his fine dark eyes full of sadness and reproach. “I’m disappointed in you,
     Agnes. You’ve committed a sin, you understand that?”
    “But I didn’t mean to,” I whispered. “Oh, please, Sir, forgive me.”
    He shook his head, wearily it seemed to me. “It’s not my forgiveness that matters, but forgiveness from above. You’ve an inquisitive,
     impulsive nature. I’d not realized that before. I believed you could set an example for Miss Leah. I thought I could rely
     on you.”
    I was filled with remorse at the sound of his sigh. “Oh, Sir, please, you can still do so! What should I do? Pray for forgiveness?”
    “Yes, indeed.” I waited, yearning to be back in his favor. Then he said, “Your aunt’s a God-fearing woman, I know. She’s Chief
     Elder in the village?”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “It wouldn’t be right for her to hear of this.”
    “No, Sir.”
    “And no one else must know — no one here or in the village.”
    “I swear I won’t tell a soul!”

    “Then we’ll ask forgiveness for what you’ve done, pray together. Give me your hand.”
    I let him take my hand in his long, pale fingers; his grip was cool and strong. He began leading me toward the double doors.
     I shrank back.
    “Please, Sir! Not in there, I beg you!”
    “Here, then.” His voice had changed strangely. It was rough, thick, choked with emotion. “Come to me, you child of sin.”
    He dragged me back toward him. I was completely unprepared, still overcome by the thought of how I’d sinned. I lost my balance
     and fell against him as he pulled. His face was very close, looming above me. In the white cloud-light of that room his mouth
     was cruel, his hair no longer immaculate in its glossy blackbird arc: it hung, disheveled, over his face, untidy as the feathers
     of a carrion crow. Mixed with the flower perfume, now overpowering, was a sweet-sour smell as he breathed heavily into my
     face.
    He fumbled at the folds of my cloak, seeking a way to reach my bodice. “Take your amulet out. You must hold it while you pray.
     Here, let me do it for you.”
    I struggled to free my amber. But his hands were there already, like claws, ripping at the stuff of my bodice, tearing the
     lace.
    “Let go of her! Let go of her at once, do you hear?”
    It was Leah, straight and tall as a cold, white flame in her cloak. She had slipped silently through the doorway in her soft
     kid boots and now looked him up and down with a contemptuous fury.

    Mr. Silas had freed me as soon as he heard her voice, and I, gasping with shock, struggled to cover myself. He stood back,
     smoothing his hair into place and straightening the fur collar of his cloak. It was as if he’d straightened his face back
     into place as well: it was once more the charming, courteous face I knew.
    “You surprise us, Miss Leah. We thought we were alone.”
    “And this is how you behave when you’re alone with a maid?”
    “I endeavor to save all souls, whether they be those of maids or not, Miss Leah.”
    “I warn you, Silas.”
    “Of what do you warn me, Miss Leah?” he said smoothly, and he dusted his fingers together as if touching me had dirtied them.
    She paused, then turned away angrily and pointed at the doorway. “Get out! Leave us, go!”
    “As you wish, Miss Leah.” He bowed to her, but his eyes rested on me — with an expression of sorrow, I thought, though whether
     feigned or genuine, I wasn’t sure. A shiver ran down my back. Did he think me damned for what I’d seen?
    “Good day to you, and to your companion, Miss Leah.”
    Then with a swirl of his cloak he was gone, the wet hem leaving a dark, glistening trail on the wood floor.
    Leah said nothing until we both heard the door thud shut at the base of the tower. Then she rounded on me. “Fool!” she spat
     out. “How could you?”
    I was still trembling. I shook my head dumbly. I couldn’tunderstand how she could know that I’d opened the doors to the inner room,