Book Blurb:
Excerpt:
WHEN MIRANDA MORELAND finally arrived at Nevermore Castle to claim her inheritance, she was exhausted, out of sorts, and, worst of all, famished. Had anyone at the castle been acquainted with her, they would have shaken in their boots, for a hungry Miranda was a fearsome thing.
The journey into Cornwall had been a series of disasters, each worse than the last, culminating in several missed meals. And now that she had reached her destination at last, she could not even see the castle for the thick fog creeping in from the sea. She had a fair idea of what it would be like, though, having heard it described often enough as “the old pile.” No doubt it was rundown and about to slip into the sea, but it was hers, and surely there would be a hot meal waiting for her. Or a cold collation, or a side of beef —anything, really, would do.
When she alit from the carriage and the servant went to ply the knocker, she was startled by a brush of wings so close to her face that she nearly screamed aloud. The bird landed awkwardly on a gatepost, and she saw that it was a raven. Ravens, of course, were common as mud, but this one was wearing a square academic cap — in bright yellow, complete with tassel.
She blinked, never before having suffered hallucinations from hunger, but the ridiculous creature was still there. What’s more, it spoke to her.
“Help! I’m Professor Quirk, and I’m trapped in a raven’s body.”
“Of course you are, and I’m Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra. Make yourself useful and fetch me some supper.”
“Zenobia. Supper.” He repeated her words, fixing her with his beady little eye. Miranda wondered if he would taste like chicken. Perhaps he could read her mind, for he flew off quite abruptly.
The heavy door finally opened with a resounding creak. Miranda mounted the steps quickly, anxious to get inside.
The servant who opened the door was not only slovenly, but quite rude. He stood there, without a word, and made no move to let them in. He wore no livery—in fact, he was in his shirtsleeves, rumpled, unshaven, with a faintly oily smudge across one cheek. His eyes were like chips of ice as he stared at her, unblinking and without expression. Perhaps he was a little daft, but really—such treatment was the outside of enough.
She snapped her fingers near his face. “You, there. Stand aside and let us in. I am Miss Moreland, and I require a hot meal. At once.”
Somewhere in the darkness behind her, the stupid bird croaked, “Zenobia. Supper. At once.”
“I’m Lance,” he said at last, his odd drawl grating on her ears. American servants — what next?
“Do come in. I cannot have a lady starving on my doorstep; Nevermore hospitality would not permit such a thing. But — did you say Miss Moreland? How can that be? Are you aware this is the home of the late Sir Davian Moreland?”
“Of course I’m aware of it, you dolt. Why else would I be here? Now see about my supper. And fetch the housekeeper. Or someone responsible. And sane.”
“Responsible. Sane.” The raven had flown inside ahead of her and was now perched on a suit of armor, as if for the express purpose of mocking her.
“You!” She said, “Keep it up and you’ll be in a pie. Four and twenty blackbirds, you know.”
Quirk squawked and departed in haste.
Lance stared at the woman, horrified. Had she seriously just threatened to bake Quirk into a pie?
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