The carriage slowed, then stopped, and she alighted, paying the man an extra sum to wait outside for half an hour. His eyes on her, or at least the knowledge that they could be, spurred her to a performance of confidence. She strode across the deadened garden as if she weren’t quaking with terror inside. Her heart grew tight and cold as she came closer and closer to the door, but she made herself press forward, never slowing.
The door came open at her touch, as it had the night of the storm.
The lights were on, brilliant and high, gas flames leaping against their shades. But there was no movement, no sign of Augustine. She thought to call out, but her voice died in her throat. She was too afraid of what might answer.
Instead, she crept up the stairs and made for Augustine’s study. She took each step with care, peering into shadows for any sign of movement, an elongated head, the hem of a nightgown. But everything was as she had left it, and she pressed her hand against the rapid beating of her heart. They had only come to her past midnight or in the cellar; she still had time, even with the heavy night pressing in on every window. The wind had picked up, and the glass groaned in its frames.
The study door was closed, as it had been on their wedding night. Now, though, she did not hesitate. She did not call out, or knock, before she entered.
Augustine did not stir from where he lay, sprawled on the low couch.
Laudanum. His exhaustion and his dread must have led him to dose himself possibly as soon as he got into the carriage, or through the front door.
She went to his side and took his shoulders, shaking him firmly. He groaned, his eyelids fluttering, but he did not wake. “Augustine,” she hissed. “Augustine, wake up.”
“Leave,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for her to hear.
“A patient needs you!” she cried. Around her, Augustine’s bookshelves seemed to prowl and watch. She could picture too clearly Elodie climbing the stairs, blood leaving a trail behind her, blood filling the hallways, blood drowning her—
The front door banged shut below.
Jane leapt away from Augustine, biting down her shriek. That stirred Augustine, at last, and he sat upright, bleary-eyed and bewildered. His gaze fixed on her. “No,” he said. “No, no, you’re not real. You can’t be here. You knew not to come.”
“It’s one of the boys at the Thorndell farm,” she said, coming back to him, seizing his hands and drawing him up from the couch. He staggered after her, pale. “He’s vomiting—he’s gone blind. We must go, quickly.” Outside, the carriage sat, the driver unknowing. Time was passing, and if neither of them emerged, he would leave, and the boy would be without a doctor until the morning.
“That’s right next to Maerbeck’s farm,” Augustine said, frowning. He swayed on his feet. “I was just there.”
“Augustine, you must come. How much laudanum did you take?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. He did not sound fine. “If it’s the same sickness, he needs help immediately.” He turned to her with fervent solemnity. But his eyes were having trouble focusing. “Where is Mr. Lowell?”
It was enough, that he was upright and talking. She led him into the hallway, down the stairs. Above them, the light wavered. Flickered. Threatened to extinguish.
“Out with family, I gave him the evening. He’s to be back soon, and the boy’s mother is waiting for him, but we will need you.”
Shadows moved across the walls at the third-floor landing. Twisting, she saw more behind them, on the stairs. No figures yet, but they would come soon.
The door. They had to get to the door. Augustine might sicken in the carriage, to be drawn away from them so abruptly and in such a state, but she could still get him to the Thorndell farm in time. She could be his hands, if only she had his mind.
But the front door was locked, and the lock refused to budge, not for her, not for Augustine.
“It was open when I arrived,” Jane said.
“I don’t know—it’s never done this—”
A shadow fell over them, its root stretching in the direction of the cellar, and Jane fell back half a step with a whimper of fear, her bravery faltering at last.
It was Augustine who steadied her.
“We must reach the kitchen,” he said, urgent and low. His hand shifted in her grip, and then it was him leading her, through the door under the stairs that led to the sitting room, the dining room. “I will—I will work a protective circle, give us time to think. Come quickly.”
“Magic? You would work magic?”