Free Once Upon a Wallflower by Wendy Lyn Watson Page A

as they told the story. Two young women killed at Midsummer in the same manner…people began to suspect something more sinister was afoot.
    “And then, a year after that, Miss Linworth died.”
    Mira sat for a moment, digesting what she had learned. “So the first two girls were stabbed. But Olivia Linworth fell—or was pushed—off a wall. She wasn’t stabbed at all?”
    “If she was, I never heard of it. And this is a small town. News tends to travel.”
    “So if Olivia was killed in a different manner, why do people assume she was killed by the same person?”
    Nan raised an eyebrow as though Mira’s question was ridiculous. “Every summer, right near Midsummer’s Eve in fact, for three years in a row, a young girl is killed within spitting distance of Blackwell Hall. They must be related. How could they not be?”
    Mira nodded. “Yes, I see your point. But why suspect Nicholas?”
    Without a blink of hesitation, Nan replied, “Because he’s right queer. Been odd all his life, near as I can tell.”
    Mira sat stunned for a moment. “That’s all? Because he’s odd? The whole countryside suspects the man of three murders simply because he is odd?”
    Nan’s chin rose a notch. “Not just odd, but peculiar, secretive. He creeps about on the moors at night, and Tom Henry, the smithy, said he once came out to Blackwell to repair some of the doors in the old keep, and he saw Lord Ashfield walking along the top of the wall in his shirtsleeves…with red smears of blood all over the white linen.” She shivered. “Even a streak of the stuff across his cheek.”
    Nan’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she glanced about nervously, as though someone might be lurking nearby to hear. “My mother says that he communes with the devil himself. That limp of his? My mother said that when he sealed his pact with the devil, the devil put his mark on him…changed his leg from that of a man to that of a goat.”
    “A goat?”
    “Yes, a goat.”
    Mira tried to be polite, but she could not help herself. She collapsed back onto the bed with laughter.
    “A goat? Why that is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. You cannot honestly believe that.”
    Nan had the good grace to blush. “Well, no, that bit is difficult to believe. But still, the rumors are what they are, and most rumors have a grain of truth in them. Besides, there is more.”
    Mira sobered a bit. “What more?”
    “Just before she died, Bridget started talking about love, mooning over some mysterious man. On Midsummer’s Eve, when the rest of us were peeling apples to divine our true loves’ names, Bridget just smiled this wistful faraway smile and said she already knew what fate held for her. And whoever she was stepping out with, he gave her some money. Just a few coins, enough for a bit of hair ribbon and some sweets, but Bridget hinted that that was just the beginning, that she was going to have fine things someday.
    “And the vicar’s wife confided in me that Tegen Quick was wearing a silk chemise when she died. Now where would a fisherman’s daughter, one of seven children, get a silk chemise if not from a wealthy lover?”
    Mira had no answer. With confidence, Nan concluded, “Bridget and Tegen were both involved with a wealthy man, one whom they must have known and trusted, but one who killed them. And Miss Linworth was also involved with a wealthy man. It is the one thing all three girls had in common. We do not know for certain the name of the man who was paying court on Bridget and Tegen, but we all know who Miss Linworth was involved with: Lord Ashfield.”

Chapter Eight
    “Miss Mira, please, I beg you, do not go to that man’s room alone.” Nan stood at the foot of Mira’s bed, clutching one of the posters as though her life depended upon it. Her face was ashen, her mood a match for the rain that poured down beyond the chamber windows.
    The note from Nicholas, inviting her to see his artwork in his tower quarters, lay open on the