Jane Bonander by Winter Heart

was both eager and afraid to meet her. Eager, because in her heart she knew she could help the woman, and afraid, because she was in over her head. She smirked again. What else was new?
    Turning to the banister, she ran her fingers along the wood and pressed her knee between the elegantly carved balusters. The stairway itself was much like the one in her home in New York: dark cherrywood with a cluster of balusters forming the newel post. She’d slid down the highly polished banister a time or two, much to her dear, sweet mother’s mortification. And Charlotte’s. Charlotte had always acted like a lady, even when they’d been children.
    Memories brought a sudden rush of homesickness upon her, a feeling that surprised her. During her year at Trenway, thoughts of home had only angered her, for Uncle Martin had blatantly taken up residence there.
    A current of air ruffled her hem again, and she forced herself not to turn. Something small and sharp struck her shoulder, and she inhaled in surprise as a stinging sensation penetrated her skin. The door closed as before, with a quiet click behind her.
    Bewildered, Dinah squatted and moved her hand over the carpet. She pricked her finger and gasped again, drawing it back and putting it in her mouth. With her thumb and forefinger she gingerly picked up the missile and brought it under the dim light of the wall sconce.
    Frowning, she studied it. Only a piece of paper, wadded up hard, yet… Another shiver shuddered through her, for in the center, held in place by the paper, was a nail with a sharp point.
    Dinah stared at the door behind which the infamous Emily lurked. So, she liked playing games. Dinah could play games, too. Why, during the past year she’d become a master at it. She wondered if this was how Emily initiated all new nurses. If so, the job would be interesting, she’d give her that. It would be anything but routine. Suddenly, for no sane reason, Dinah felt up to the task.
    The fireplace in the great room was open on both sides. Stones framed the fire, going all the way to the ceiling. There was no mantle on which to display pretty vases, clocks, or plates. No ornately carved woodwork to give it a civilized air. Only cold, hard stone. Dinah huddled deeper into the wing chair.
    The storm still raged; wind buffeted the windows with sheets of rain. Shuddering, she curled her feet under her, her gaze darting to the shadowy corners of the room. The place had the charm of a mausoleum. More wild animal heads adorned the walls, all appearing to watch her no matter which way she moved her head. The moose was particularly unappealing, for he had nostrils the size of gopher holes.
    But the doe … She was certain the doe was sad, for her big, black eyes were beseeching. And why not? She’d probably had a fawn, hidden away to keep it safe. Dinah wondered if it had survived when the mother was killed. Thoughts of her own mother’s death brought a band of sharp pains cinching her heart. No one should have to live without a mother.
    The doe’s plaintive eyes continued to study her. “I know how you’re feeling, you pretty thing, but I’m not to blame for your demise.”
    The grandfather clock struck, and Dinah jumped, for the room had been unnaturally quiet. Except, of course, for the haunting sounds that she was certain only she heard. The creaks, the moans, the howling of the wind as it searched for entrance. As she’d rested before dinner, staring at the ceiling, she swore she could hear someone in the attic, moving about. It was probably her imagination, or perhaps even a mouse, but had she not already encountered Emily on the stairs, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the sister actually were up there, chained to the wall.
    The clock struck eight times and Dinah clucked impatiently. Tristan Fletcher had excused himself after dinner, but had asked that she wait for him.
    Dinner had been another uncomfortable event. Her year at Trenway had erased the breeding,