The Last Heir to Blackwood Library


 
 
 
 Praise for the novels of Hester Fox
 
 A Lullaby for Witches
 “Weaves a spell of darkness that’s mysterious and magical, and binds it with a knot of deathless love.” 
 —Susanna Kearsley, New York Times bestselling author
 “A spine-tingling blend of paranormal and historical fiction that feels gothic, gloomy, and perfect for winter.”
 —BuzzFeed Books
 “With unexpected twists aplenty, this is sure to keep fans of paranormal fantasies turning the pages. It’s a multilayered, haunting tale.” 
 —Publishers Weekly
 “Fox deftly navigates the overlapping borders of romance and the paranormal.” 
 —Kirkus Reviews
 “A haunting story full of long-buried secrets... Fans of Louisa Morgan and Susanna Kearsley will want to pick this up.”
 —Shelf Awareness
 “Both timelines are compelling and readers will enjoy this blend of paranormal, gothic horror, romance, and historical fiction.” 
 —Booklist
 
 The Widow of Pale Harbor
 “A gothic romance with the flavor of Edgar Allan Poe, this is also a suspenseful mystery novel... Highly recommended.” 
 —Historical Novel Society
 “Sophy is a strong gothic heroine.” 
 —Publishers Weekly
 
 The Witch of Willow Hall
 “Steeped in gothic eeriness, it’s spine-tingling and very atmospheric.” 
 —Nicola Cornick, USA TODAY bestselling author
 “The Witch of Willow Hall offers a fascinating location, a great plot with history and twists, and characters that live and breathe. I love the novel and will be looking forward to all new works by this talented author!” 
 —Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author
 
 
 Hester Fox is a full-time writer and mother, with a background in museum work and historical archaeology. Most weekends, you can find Hester exploring one of the many historic cemeteries in the area, browsing bookshops or enjoying a seasonal latte while writing at a café. She lives in Virginia with her husband and their two sons.
 HesterFox.com
 
 
 The Last Heir to Blackwood Library
 Hester Fox
 
 
 
 In loving memory of DJF
 
 
 Contents
 PROLOGUE
 CHAPTER 1
 CHAPTER 2
 CHAPTER 3
 CHAPTER 4
 CHAPTER 5
 CHAPTER 6
 CHAPTER 7
 CHAPTER 8
 CHAPTER 9
 CHAPTER 10
 CHAPTER 11
 CHAPTER 12
 CHAPTER 13
 CHAPTER 14
 CHAPTER 15
 CHAPTER 16
 CHAPTER 17
 CHAPTER 18
 CHAPTER 19
 CHAPTER 20
 CHAPTER 21
 CHAPTER 22
 CHAPTER 23
 CHAPTER 24
 CHAPTER 25
 CHAPTER 26
 CHAPTER 27
 CHAPTER 28
 CHAPTER 29
 CHAPTER 30
 CHAPTER 31
 CHAPTER 32
 CHAPTER 33
 CHAPTER 34
 CHAPTER 35
 CHAPTER 36
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 
 
 PROLOGUE
 Yorkshire, England, 1349
 They bricked her up on Saint George’s Day.
 An expansive blue sky stretched over the rolling moors, the distant bleating of sheep echoing through the valley as Matilda had taken her vow of solitude and entered confinement as an anchoress. It was an auspicious day, given Saint George’s patronage of books and England, and then a sheep had passed a bezoar, and the nuns had passed the smooth, polished stone between them, marveling at its singular beauty. Father William had immediately hailed it as a blessing from God himself, a cure for the plague which was spreading throughout the world, creeping ever closer to the remote abbey of Blackwood. But the sisters of Blackwood were in good spirits, and even reports of the Black Death could not dampen them as they helped Matilda prepare by dressing her in a simple white robe and headscarf.
 Mellow sunlight filtered in through the small porch window, enjoyed equally by the sparrows that flit about the gardens and the languid abbey cat watching them. The breeze carried with it the sweet scent of lavender and the ringing of the Terce bells. Matilda dutifully knelt at her prie-dieu and recited her prayers. Then, rising, she arranged herself at the small desk that would be her confessional, her anchor, and her oasis for the decades to come.
 The bishop had blessed the cell, swinging his pendulous incense and filling the small room with the intoxicating scent of myrrh and other exotic spices. Her fellow sisters had queued to say their goodbyes, kissing her smooth, unlined cheeks and leaving her humble gifts befitting an anchoress, such as pots of ink, candles, and hard cheese. They might have still resided under the same roof as her, but henceforth Matilda would be as a stranger to them, a ghost of a woman who once was, confined to the small cell. As soon as the last brick was in place, her only contact with the outside world would be the food and gifts left by the pilgrims who would come to seek advice from the porch window. This would be the last time she would feel human touch, join her sisters in song and worship. Afterward, only Sister Alice had lingered, her sweet blue eyes wet with tears, and Matilda had had to look away, lest she lose her resolve.
 But the truth was, the world was as large as one allowed it to be. The four walls of her cell might have been no more than a fingertip’s reach in each direction, but Matilda’s horizons were broader and brighter than those of the lord of Blackwood, who lived on a vast estate yet never bothered to look up from his account books. A single oak leaf blown in through the window was a wonder to behold, the delicate veins an intricate and divine network unrivaled even by man’s highest cathedral. The birdsong that carried on the breeze was as rich and haunting as any Te Deum or devotional, a celestial hymn composed by God himself.
 Matilda’s world had not always been thus. As a child, she had fallen ill with a fever from which the physician had told her parents she would never recover. While on her sickbed, she had received visions of Christ on the cross. But rather than being frightening or grotesque such as the carvings in the church might have her believe, Christ appeared content, ebullient, even. After all, he was a harbinger of eternal life, joyous in the prospect of offering her such sweetness, such happiness in the