'Don't look, Lillian. Never look into the eyes of a Sin-Eater, you will be as cursed as he is and will forever languish in darkness.'
Lillian Elmes remembers the warning her mother gave her about the town's Sin-Eater only too well.
How could she n...
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It is never lost on me how suddenly the summer weather turns in the Dale, from fierce heat one day, to grey tumultuous skies and threats of rain the next. It is also not lost on me that a change in the weather seems quite fitting considering my destination today.
The name of Wilderhope Manor has always seemed a total contradiction. To suggest the house, and indeed the Dale itself upon which the house flanks, possesses any semblance of hope is quite frankly, most ludicrous – or at least, that has always been my estimation of Wilderhope. The first part, Wild, is certainly far more accurate a description as I always fancied it to be a wild and bleak place, too far secluded from the civilisation of the towns and villages.
Today, as I steady the trap along the bumpy lane – my mastery of the trap something for which I have Papa to thank, as he always took great delight in teaching not only to William but myself also – I eye the foreboding skies overhead as if they might fall upon me at any moment. In fact, I am not sure I have ever visited Wilderhope when the clouds did not roll viciously above, casting shadow over the pastures of dull gold stubble and dark woodland that entomb the house.
In my delicate and often wily manner, I had been able to procure from Papa at what time Major Smallman expected to take the visit from Mr. Carver today, although I had not predicted that Silas would be loitering in the yard this morning, as he was meant to be in the lower field tending to a break in the wall. Once Silas finally departed, I was able to fetch the trap and be on my way, but I was already behind schedule and have since spent half the journey worried that I might arrive too late.
As I turn into the lane down from the village of Longville to Wilderhope, the way narrows considerably and I am so busy attempting to navigate the path without leading the horse into a ditch, that I almost do not see the familiar grey figure that haunts the side of the road.
Daniel Carver walks, as he always does, with head bowed and shoulders hunched forward – a man of the most awkward disposition when not in the seclusion of his own home. Today, he carries a leather satchel, battered and worn at the corners. The long strap crosses his body, and the bulky bag sits low against his hip, held steady by his firm grip.
As the trap draws near, he moves to the side of the lane, almost engulfed by the hedgerow but does not look up until he realises the trap has halted. When he does glance up, his expression turns quickly from one of surprise to an anger that sours his whole face.
'Miss Elmes, what business do you have so far from home?'
'And a good day to you too, Mr. Carver,' I say, ignoring his bitter tone and offering him a generous smile. 'I had heard of the troubles over at Wilderhope. Having known Major Smallman and his dearly departed wife since I was a child, I had thought to come along and assist you.'
'Had you now?' he replies, his jaw tightening. 'Did you happen to fall again and knock your head after I left you yesterday, Miss? It appears you are plagued with an amnesia in which you have conveniently forgotten that I told you I did not need your help.'
