Chapter Thirteen
The moment Gussie stepped into her uncle’s house, she knew that something untoward had occurred.
Something might be concluded from the air of bustle and alarm she’d walked into — there went a housemaid trotting across the hall, cap askew and her face registering some kind of dismay; and she could hear raised voices echoing from some indeterminable part of the house.
But the thing that really gave it away was simple.
Great-Uncle Silvester had, at last, woken up.
Ever since the disaster at Werth Towers, the haunted grotesque had remained in so deep a slumber Gussie had not truly expected him to rouse again. The carved and crumbling stone creature he had, for so long, inhabited, seemed reduced to a mere lump of granite again, not a flicker of life left in it. Lady Werth
