“I can prioritize the health of my wife over magic,” Augustine said, refusing to so much as glance at them. His gaze was fixed entirely on her.
“Then Thorndell farm,” Jane said. “We must get out. All the rest can come after.”
Slowly, he set the lancet back in his case. Slowly, he closed it.
Jane turned back to the creatures, still motionless. Their impassivity made her deeply uncomfortable. It made her want to look away. She fought the impulse with all her focus, and so she didn’t move when Augustine stepped up behind her.
The noxious cloth he clapped over her nose and mouth broke that concentration. She jerked forward, but his other arm was already around her, pinning her to his chest. She might have had a few inches on him in height, but he was far stronger. She tossed her head, desperate for a gasp of fresh air, but the ether was already in her mouth, cloyingly sweet on her tongue and against the back of her throat.
Her head began to spin.
The taste of the ether brought memories roaring back, not of Augustine covered in blood, but of sitting tucked in her mother’s lap, waiting for the shelling to stop. The fumes—not ether, much worse, but so similar in how it had burned—had reached her first, crawling along the floor, winding up her mother’s legs. She’d wrinkled her nose, not knowing what it was.
But her mother had. She’d shouted for Jane’s father and stood up abruptly, despite the heavy vibrations rocking the foundation of the cellar. She’d pulled up the fabric of her overskirt, covering Jane’s head with it.
Shallow breaths, darling, shallow breaths, she’d repeated, over and over.
But Jane couldn’t take shallow breaths. She could feel the panic of that night as if the very floor was shaking beneath them from the impact of the mortars. She sucked in deep, desperate gasps of air, but they were all tainted, all soaked in that burning sweetness.
The creatures. She had to focus. She kicked backward at Augustine’s legs, heel connecting with his shin, but her shoes were soft. He grunted and held fast.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear, “but I cannot lose you, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AS JANE’S VISION swam and her lungs burned, she tried to shout. These spirits took joy in playing horrid tricks on Augustine. This was just the newest. If she could only remind him, he would see. He would let her go.
But everything felt distant, far away and teased apart into strands of nothingness. Her vision was going dark.
She felt herself sag against Augustine, felt him lift her in his arms.
“I’m quite well,” she mumbled. Her lips hurt. Had the ether burned her?
“Your eyes have begun to yellow,” Augustine replied. He eased her against the table just long enough to settle the burned case on her stomach, and she could smell it then, the fire, the smoke. Burned. It was burned. It couldn’t have contained the bottle of ether. Then he lifted her again. Her head rolled back. She tried to stop it, and managed to get her cheek pressed to his shoulder. “The bleeding from your nose has already begun,” he said, but all she could feel was mucus against her lip, courtesy of the gas. “If it progresses much further, you will begin vomiting up great masses of blackness, and you will be beyond my reach.”
“No,” she whispered. “No, I’m not Elodie. Augustine, the spirits. This is the work of the spirits.”
“What spirits?” he asked.
Moaning, she closed her eyes, pressing her head against him as he began to move. His steps were heavy and staggering, but even with her vision obscured, she could tell they were leaving the kitchen. Full darkness enveloped them. He moved without hesitation.
“I was well a week ago, and I’m well now. Augustine, they are twisting your mind,” she said, some strength returning to her voice as the ether passed off.
“Jane, I’ve been given another chance. I will not lose you the way I lost Elodie.”
They reached a pool of light, a welcome reprieve from the suffocating darkness. It led toward the foyer, and Augustine turned to it without hesitation. Jane’s initial relief from being able to see quickly soured as she saw more lights spring to life to guide their path.
To the crypt.
“Augustine, stop,” she said. “Please. Please, don’t take me there.”
“It’s the fever talking,” he murmured. He sounded like a man possessed.
The crypt door hung unlocked and open. Candles had been placed along the stairwell wall, lighting their way down into the blinding white of the stone. She struggled, but Augustine held her fast as he descended into the crypt and through the first doorway. He laid her out, gently, on the white stone table.