Page 8 of Her Cruel Dahlias
Cricket held her head high and inched toward the woman, sarcasm lacing her tone as she spoke, “It was fine. I got a good look at the lovely scenery, but I’m back. I didn’t like it as much as I thought.”
“Will you be running off again?” Mistress Eliza cooed. “Or will you be focusing on honing your curiosity? The carnival doesn’t need fickle people who aren’t dedicated.”
Cricket didn’t fault Mistress Eliza for her reprimand. If she were in charge of a carnival, she would want performers who put their entire hearts into their craft and not give up when they believed they couldn’t handle a situation.
“That even includes ones with wondrous potential,” Mistress Eliza added, her lips tilting up at the edges.
Cricket blinked. Wondrous? The necromancer believed she had that sort of potential? Even though part of her still wanted to flee, she knew wherever she went, her curiosity would be attached to her regardless. And so she needed to try harder, do it for herself. “I’m here to focus.”
Mistress Eliza gave a curt nod. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to use your necromancy again?” She couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be to have had such an ability and lose it.
Mistress Eliza blew out a breath. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I haven’t even been able to raise a single animal, which used to be a simple task. As a child, I was told to raise the loved ones of the wealthy, but as I gained independence, I did things my way. I only bring back those I see in my visions, those who call to me. However, over the past year, after Ingrid died, there have been no calls when there should’ve been. Now, even when I can feel the life waiting to be reawakened within the dead, my efforts are useless. Unfortunate decisions will have to be made to keep this carnival going. It’s infuriating, yet for now, we’ll make do.”
Ingrid had been the carnival’s longest performer who’d passed away while Cricket was dormant as the Sleeping Darling, but several others were also aging, tiring more easily.
Mistress Eliza met Cricket’s gaze, and for the first time, pity shone on the woman’s face. “There’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“Something harrowing has been happening in Nobel, and I hope you don’t run away again once you hear it.”
Cricket faced death itself before, so she promised herself she would face whatever came her way. “If it’s a sickness spreading, I’m not worried about that.” Yet she couldn’t help but think about her little brother’s death from the plague. How boils had covered his frail body, his lungs barely pumping.
Mistress Eliza sighed, shaking her head. “No, nothing of that sort. But a little after you left my home last night, Stormy informed me how she’d overheard a group of visitors discussing a recent murder that happened in Nobel. Not only one but three similar cases in the past couple of weeks.”
Cricket furrowed her brow. “There’s always a murder here and there in the busier part of the city, more so on the poorer side.” Before she could think about Clancy’s gloved hands squeezing her throat, she shoved that damning day back into the depths of her mind.
“Unfortunately, that’s true.” Mistress Eliza tapped her chin and looked behind her at the performers milling about. She met her eyes once more, then whispered, “But not murders like yours.”
Cricket froze, taking a deep swallow as her heart struck against her sternum. “What do you mean?”
“Three women have been found dead. All left decorated with black dahlias.” Mistress Eliza held Cricket’s gaze, the necromancer’s grip firm on her shoulder, as the world went cold.
Cricket held back a gasp and dug her nails into her palms. “Clancy’s dead. He was hung.”
“Is he?” Mistress Eliza asked. “You were dead once. What if another necromancer came out of hiding?”
Her words were like a knife to the heart. Had someone brought Clancy back to life? Or was it someone else imitating him? But why would they do that? “I don’t understand. It seems awfully strange. In this case, I’m certain that someone in Nobel would’ve dug up Clancy’s grave to see if his body was still buried.” Unless another body was placed down there to appear like it was his… No, it had to be someone else.
“I’m sorry, child. I should’ve told you before we left, but you were already frightened of the dahlias your curiosity brought forth. If this changes your mind about continuing, I need to know now. I understand if it would.”
Three murders with dahlias left in their wake. It most likely was someone imitating what Clancy had done, but why? If it had been within the past couple of weeks, it had started sometime after she’d been to Nobel. Word had to have spread that she was alive after she’d visited a pub and a couple of shops where she’d been recognized. Bram would’ve also told the other authorities since he’d joined law enforcement as soon as he was old enough. But why would that make someone want to start imitating murders? It didn’t make sense, and she believed Bram would have the situation handled as he had when uncovering that Clancy murdered her. She wouldn’t hide from her problems again. It would be cowardly for her to run and just as cowardly for her not to find out more. “I’m staying.”
“I’ll take your word for it then. And I’ll send Wilder to the authorities once we arrive to find out if Clancy’s grave has been checked.” Mistress Eliza patted her arm, the most comforting she’d ever been toward her, before leaving her alone.
Cricket leaned against the caravan and stared up at the gray sky, the bloated clouds, just as they’d appeared when she’d been walking home the day she was murdered. She thought about the dahlias from the night before, the scratching, but she couldn’t feel her curiosity inside her now.
A tall shadow slipped around her caravan, and her gaze fell on Zephyr. He didn’t say a word as he rested beside her against the caravan, a hint of his woodsy scent brushing her nose. He wore a white shirt with several buttons unfastened and a black vest over it. The usual dark collar hugged his neck.
As she studied his sculpted face, she was glad for the distraction from what Mistress Eliza had told her. But then her mind turned into another dark direction—Juniper and Zephyr being murdered as children, how they’d come to the carnival together. A bright side to the darkness was that they’d at least had one another.
“You look like you could use something,” Zephyr said, pressing his head to the caravan as he peered at her.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m keeping my clothing on, thank you very much.”
“Now that’s a damn shame. A nightgown is easy to remove,” he purred.