Trembling in every fibre of my being, I proceeded in the direction of the singing, exercising the utmost caution as I made my way past the innumerable, bizarre objects for which the cellar served as a repository. At length, I turned a corner and found myself within a vaulted passageway, at the far end of which a massive iron door stood partly ajar. The singing was emanating from the opposite side—as was a sickly yellow light that spilled out into the passageway.

The intensity of the agitation which then possessed me it is folly to attempt describing. Shaking from head to foot—as if I had been seized with the most violent fit of the ague—I crept down the corridor and paused behind the partially open door. Then, mustering every bit of courage I possessed, I stealthily peered around its copper-sheathed edge.

The sight that smote my eyes nearly caused me to swoon. There, perched on a packing crate, her back toward me, was a dark-haired female dad entirely in black, an oil lamp burning dully at her side. From the hunched position of her upper body, the occasional movement of her right arm, and the accompanying sound of rustling paper, I surmised that she was perusing a volume that lay open on her lap. The chamber, or vault, in which she was seated had evidently been employed by Asher as a place of storage for the supernumerary pieces of his extensive art collection. Stacks of framed canvases leaned against the walls, while positioned all around the floor and atop the numerous wooden boxes were a host of precious objects: Italian statues, marble busts, and ancient urns and vases.

What made the scene especially unnerving—in addition to the presence of the crooning, black-clad female—was the unmistakable evidence that this gloomy, subterranean enclosure had recently been employed as her dwelling-place; for, scattered among the many objets d’art were a number of wildly incongruous, domestic articles: a washbasin, a water jug, a blanket-covered pallet, as well as a pile of female garments.

Suddenly overcome with a sickening, vertiginous sensation, I leaned heavily against the iron door, causing it to grate harshly as it moved on its hinges. At this strident sound, the female figure stiffened—clapped her book shut—slowly rose from her perch—and swivelled to face me.

My eyes bulged with terror as I stared at the all-too-familiar countenance of the ghastly female being, whose own eyes seemed to glow with a preternatural intensity.

“So,” said she, as her pale lips stretched into a cold, triumphant smile. “Fate has brought you here to me. I bid you welcome—brother.”

CHAPTER 32