Darkwater by Catherine Fisher

way things happen. I want my father to come back here, back to his home, and he won’t unless the estate is ours again. I want you to give us back the estate.”
    For a moment she expected him to laugh, but his smile was wry and grave. “I see. And, on your side . . . ?”
    â€œA promise. That things will be different. That we’ll make up for the past. We’ll treat the people fairly, I swear we will.”
    â€œYou might. But your father?”
    â€œMy father has learned his lesson.”
    â€œIndeed?” Azrael looked politely dubious. “What I see is a man who never leaves the cottage. Who lets his sixteen-year-old daughter do the work he cannot bear to think of. Does he love you more for what you do for him, Sarah, or is he secretly ashamed of you? Or of himself?”
    She looked at him. “That’s not fair!”
    â€œMaybe not. But your father. Tell me, Sarah, has he
even been humbled? Has living for fifteen years in a slum made him more sympathetic to the poor, feel more for their terrible struggle? Will he be generous with the wealth of Darkwater? Or will he just gorge himself on comforts, spend on luxury, make up for lost time? Will he even remember the Marthas and the Emmelines?”
    She shrugged, miserable.
    â€œYes.” Azrael kicked the fragments sadly. “I think you know the answer to that as well as I. How can I give the tenants another selfish master, just to please you?”
    The silence was intense. Into it she said, “I have something else I can offer.”
    â€œAnd that is?”
    He was waiting for her to say it. So she said it, harshly.
    Squashing down her fear, telling herself he was mad.
    â€œMy soul.”
    Azrael gave the smallest of sighs. He limped to the window and leaned on the gleaming brass of the telescope. She could almost sense his pleasure.
    â€œMy father will die . . .” She took one step after him. “Unless he comes back.”
    Azrael gazed out at the wintry sea. “Have I treated you well?” he asked softly.
    Surprised, she said, “You know you have.”
    â€œThen I won’t fail you now. But . . .” He held up his hand as she came forward. “There are conditions. These things have rules. You have to work for it. How long do you think it would take to make up for the oppression of centuries?”
    She laughed, scornful. “Another hundred years might do it.”
    He nodded. “You think I’m making fun of you. But a
hundred years it is. You have the estate for that time. Use it well, Sarah. At the end of the time I will come for your soul.”
    The room was utterly silent.
    She stared at him, at his grave dark face with its neat beard, a cold unease like a thread of ice inside her. For a moment she knew with certainty that he was some vast, eternal power. And then she knew he was a madman, and felt utterly stupid. “You really believe that,” she whispered.
    â€œHumor me.” He went to the desk, took a sheet of paper and a pen, and began to write, the swift, sloping writing she knew so well. As she watched, she rubbed sore eyes, bewildered.
    â€œYou’re tired,” he said, without looking up.
    â€œI stayed up with Papa all night.”
    â€œScrab will bring us breakfast. And then you should sleep.” He came over. “After you’ve signed this.”
    It was written in red ink with a seal. It said:
    I, Sarah Trevelyan, the undersigned, hereby accept from the hand of the lord Azrael the freehold and properties of Darkwater Hall from this day forward for the period of one hundred years. In return I pledge to him the eternal possession of my immortal soul.
    â€œThis is stupid,” she said, terrified and confused. “I just want . . .”
    â€œSign it.” He put the pen in her hand. “Trust me, Sarah.” The room was chill. Snow clogged the sills. The door creaked as the cat slid