I dared to peek down into the gardens once more.
The woman had moved.
She now sat on the bough of a tree, ten feet off the ground, her skirts falling over the branches like a satin waterfall. Her mouth opened, stretched too wide, too gaping, and again that sound.
“That’s not possible,” I murmured.
How had she climbed a tree so quickly? How was she making— She shrieked again.
—those cries?
I leaned against the wall, keeping my back to the window, to the woman, to that awful noise, and covered my ears.
A ghost, a small voice within my head whispered. You’re seeing a ghost.
“That’s not possible,” I repeated, resolution tightening my voice. “The candles,” I murmured, grasping the thought with the desperation of a drowning man searching for a life preserver. “The candles are supposed to keep them away. Light another a candle.”
The same candles you saw Hanna light hundreds of times? the voice asked unhelpfully. Hanna Whitten who has been dead and gone these last twelve years? Those candles?
Another scream echoed through the night.
Why didn’t anyone else hear it?
Unbidden memories of my last conversation with Camille welled up in my mind, like a festering blister swelled to the point of bursting.
Do you know how strange you look, speaking to them, carrying on entire conversations overheard as one-sided? You look mad, Verity, as though you’ve entirely lost your mind.
As the screams echoed around me, I sniffed, pushing back tears.
The halls had been still when I’d checked.
No one else in the manor heard any of this.
If they were ghosts, if ghosts were real, others would have seen them. Others would have heard them.
But no one else did. No one else had.
It was all me.
It was all in my mind.
Camille was right.
I was mad.
Dear Camille, As I write this, huddled on the floor of my sitting room, just before dawn, a dead woman is outside my window, screaming her death knell, and I now know that everything you said to me was true.
There is something deeply, painfully wrong with me. I feel as though a part of myself—some terribly important vital part—is broken. And I don’t know if it?’s possible to ever fix it.
I wanted to show you I was strong and capable. I wanted to be like you—master of my own fate and destiny—but I can’t see a way forward now, knowing what I know.
Please send help. I know I’ve angered you but I’m still your sister and I’m asking for your mercy. I’ll do whatever penance you insist upon. Just hurry. Yourself. Please.
Your sister, Verity
A knock on my door rustled me from sleep. Beams of light fell over my face and I scrunched my eyes against the painful rays.
“Miss Thaumas? Breakfast,” a muffled voice announced from the other side.
Breakfast?
Morning.
It was morning.
I untwisted my tangled limbs, wincing as my spine popped and joints protested. Somehow, I’d managed to drift off, curled within the curtains, hiding from the dreadful creatures I’d conjured up last night. Scattered sheets of paper—half-begun, half-finished drafts of letters to Camille—littered the floor around me.
“Coming,” I called out to the footman. My throat felt rusted over, as if I’d spent the whole night screaming.
Had I?
No.
Surely someone would have heard that and checked on me.
After stumbling toward the door, I opened it a few inches wide, squinting out into the hall.
It was Alex. His face fell as he took in my rumpled state. “Oh, Verity, are you all right? You look unwell.”
“I…” I frowned, confusion muddling my speech. “I’m sorry, I thought…I thought you were…” Realizing my robe was open, I hurriedly pulled it around my frame, but not before he caught sight of my nightgown. In my fitful sleep, the neck ties had come undone, revealing bare collarbones.
His face instantly flushed. “Oh, yes—it had been meant as a joke. Not a very good one,” he admitted. “I’m so sorry. It’s past nine. I assumed…”
Alex glanced down the hall as if desperately wishing someone would come along to rescue him.
I pulled the top of the robe against my throat, every inch of me burning with mortification. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night and I’m afraid I’m not prepared for company just yet.”
“Why don’t I have breakfast brought here for you?” he suggested, his eyes carefully avoiding me. “I should have known Father would have kept you working too late and…I…I’ll just go see about someone bringing up a tray. Yes.” He backed his chair down the hall before coming to a sudden halt. “Coffee? Do you take coffee? Or tea?”
I angled my body around the half-shut door so only my head peeked out. “Either is fine. Well…coffee,” I decided. After such a night, I’d need every bit of help I could gather. “Black, please. Thank you.”
Alex nodded and raced away, his wheels flying.
“I truly am sorry,” I said again, perched on one of the chairs in the sitting room as I smoothed my hands over the skirt of my best tea dress. I’d picked it out hoping the clusters of blue embroidered flowers would lift my spirits and the white lawn fabric would give the appearance of color in my cheeks. It also boasted the highest neckline I could find, fastening down my nape with three pearl buttons.
Alex had had the decency to wait half an hour before returning. A footman had followed close behind, bringing a tray of coffee, toast, a beautifully poached egg, and a small bowl of colorful fruit.
“The apology is all mine. When you didn’t come down this morning, I thought…” His cheeks reddened again. “I wasn’t sure if it was something I’d said yesterday or…I’m sorry to hear you had an unpleasant night.”
A sharp bark of laughter burst from me at his unintended understatement. “It was…” I paused, remembering how I’d scrawled out my defeat to Camille before crying myself to sleep. Even in my dreams the ghastly women continued to scream at me. “It was awful. But it didn’t have anything to do with you,” I added in a hurried rush.
It hurt to meet Alex’s gaze, knowing something was so terribly wrong with me. When he found out—and I was certain it was when and not if—any budding friendship between us would be over.
I wondered how he would react. Would he pull away instantly, thanking his lucky stars to have escaped such an unlucky acquaintance? Or worst of all, would his eyes turn cloudy with pity, worrying over the girl gone mad? The thought burned.
“I didn’t sleep well either,” he confessed after taking a sip of his own coffee. “Those damn birds kept half the house up last night.”
“Birds?” I echoed, confident I’d heard him wrong.
“They were screeching like banshees. You must have heard them.”
“I heard…I heard something last night, but it couldn’t possibly have been birds.”
He nodded. “Mother’s peacocks. They’re horrible things. You can hear them for miles.”
I blinked at him.
Alex let out a chuckle of disbelief as realization dawned over him. “Oh, Verity. I can’t imagine how terrifying that must have been for you, not knowing what it was.”