I can feel sweat drip down my chin, another bead traces the side of my neck.
He looks into the fifth row. His silence scares me. He is at the very corner of my peripheral vision. I’m straining my eyes in his direction, just to keep track of him. It’s starting to cause a headache.
As quick as a serpent’s strike, he raises the rifle, puts the butt against his shoulder and pulls the trigger.
18
The roar of the gun would match the ferocity of any male lion in Africa.
I flinch with fright.
A mannequin explodes into bits and splinters. Its head sails through the air to the other side of the room and shatters against the wall.
The soldier must have noticed movement from the corner of his eye. He glares in my direction, unsure which one moved. He steps back from the fifth row and comes closer. I can no longer see him. It won’t be long now. I’m going to die in a costume room, with whom I am and the meaning behind my life unknown. I’ll die bereft of my purpose in the days I have lived, without proof of any good I’ve accomplished, surviving a coma only to be gunned down in my own home.
Deep inside, I feel the adrenaline pumping. My legs tingle. My heart thumps with purpose, yet more than purpose, the final throes before a sure death. I hear parts of the gun moving. He is loading another round. I can’t stand here and just wait to die.
He is fidgeting with something, a lever of some sort. What if I’m still hidden, and he doesn’t know where I am? He curses over something, perhaps a jam in the weapon. I can’t see, so I can’t tell. There is a rumbling in my soul. It is the measure given to humanity when survival is on the line. The body wants to explode, pop the cork on courage and burst into action, full of adrenaline.
I can contain it no longer.
I turn my head in his direction. He’s standing at the end of my row, placing another round into the top opening of the rifle. Could it not hold more? He’s giddy with excitement, like he can’t wait to load the barrel, a hunter who has found his prey.
I have no choice; I rush toward him, thinking only about survival in my haste. As I do, I pull the headpiece from my head. He is startled by my advance, but also ready. He shoves the round into the opening, pulls the lever which slides it into the chamber.
As he raises the rifle, I throw the headpiece at him. It clobbers him in the nose, stunning him. I race past the mannequins, pick the last one up and hurl it in his direction.
He bats it away with one arm, but doesn’t have time to raise the rifle again. I crash into him. We both drive into the wall, my hands pushing against his shoulders. The hood is still hiding his face, as if I’m in a fistfight with Death itself. As the wall behind him stops his fall, he grabs the frays of my costumed shoulders and slings me to the ground. I won’t let go of my hold on him and he topples with me.
I’m in a horrible spot. A man with a lot more strength is straddling me. I can’t get him off and he still grips the rifle in one hand. My finger finds his eye and digs into it, like I’ve jabbed my thumb into a bowl of jelly. He punches it away and slides the barrel of the rifle straight across my throat, pinning my head to the floor.
Although I still can’t see his face, his teeth must be clenched as he bears his weight down with both arms across my windpipe.
I flail my legs underneath him, but can’t escape.
I try to reach his face again, but can’t. Darkness is filling the sides of my vision. I know the end is coming. I suppose in some small way, at least I wasn’t shot.
A sound erupts above me, the force of which shudders through the man over me and reverberates into my arms. The soldier crumples like a house of cards touched by the wind and falls forward, relinquishing the rifle as he dives face first onto the floor. I battle from underneath, suddenly free, as an avalanche of unconsciousness streaks away from my peripheral vision. Striving for breath, I stare at Mr. Crestfield looming overhead. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.
Spinning around, I expect the soldier to return to his feet, but he doesn’t move. Mr. Crestfield huffs and puffs as he kneels next to the soldier, juiced by adrenaline. He turns after a moment with wide eyes mixed with sorrow and worry.
“I’m afraid I’ve killed him.”
It’s only then that I realize he is holding a shovel at his side.
19
“You didn’t have a choice, Mr. Crestfield,” I say, as I rest against the wall, catching my breath. “You mustn’t feel bad about what you did. He would have killed me.”
Mr. Crestfield freezes in a cold stance, thinking over the actions he has taken, his life of civility dashed in an instant.
“Why was there only one? I saw an entire army in the woods earlier.”
He turns to me with a grim frown on his ghost-white face and waits a moment before speaking words I know I’ll dread to hear. “He must have been a scout. At some point, they’ll realize he met with trouble.”
I finish his thought for him. “And they’ll kick the door down.” Seized with fright, I’m on my feet before I realize it. The blood rushes to the top of my head and I feel faint. Imaginary lines, twists of circles appear as my vision fades. Everything around me is going dark, tiny caterpillars crawling in loops, strings of black and white noodles dancing at the periphery of my vison.
“Mrs. Prelude?”
As I sway, I realize I might not make it. The last thing I see is Mr. Crestfield lunging toward me as I collapse into unconsciousness.
20
Railroad tracks surge along at break-neck speed. Gazing at them from above, the ground flies by; it excites me. The wind is flowing through my hair as I lean out past the railing. Darkness pervades the night in a deeper way than normal. A canopy of limbs cast the cart in total blackness, as if hiding me from some ominous force.
I don’t understand it, yet know it is coming. Looking at the pieces of track below which I can see from lantern light, I feel an uneasiness sweep through me, like waking from sleep and remembering something horrible has happened. My life is where the nightmare is truly lived. This is how I feel now. A sinister presence is back there on the tracks. As the train drifts into further darkness, something is hunting me. It is relentless, gaining speed and closing the gap.
I look around the corner toward the front of the train. Plumes of steam from the engine swab the moonlit sky, a soothing reminder of the distance we are covering, but it is to no avail. I look into the night behind me, where the darkness gobbles the tracks into an oblivion never to be seen again. There is a void of hopelessness welling inside me. The distance we are covering doesn’t matter. At some point, we will be overtaken. The locomotive, my steel savior, is only sparing a little more time before misery finds me.
My right hand is trembling. It is a significant observation and I don’t understand it. Racking my memories, I try to pull its importance from thin air. I should understand this, know well the reason for it, yet my memory fails. What a horrible thing, not being able to remember while knowing the information is in my mind, hidden away in a drawer somewhere, as if I’m playing a game with myself.
Staring into the bleakness, I sense myself waiting for a light to appear, a beam of brightness to discover me. There is nothing yet and I hope I never see it, but I know it is coming.
It is only a matter of time.
I turn to the door, wanting to hide inside the cabin, but there isn’t one. I’m locked on the caboose of the train, without an escape from the night, without a way to dodge the all-consuming light that I can’t know is coming.
That is when I see him.
He’s standing next to me. Above us, panels of light, streetlamps whisking past us, break the emptiness of the deep. His kind blue eyes are visible for only a moment, as the lights draw away, his features grow dim, then another burst of fresh light shines upon more of his face.
His cheeks are covered by a farmer’s tan. His stance suggests he is well-prepared to keep me safe. His confidence in the face of this night, these dark, intimida
ting hours cannot be quenched. He will never falter. I haven’t realized it until now, but he’s been holding my hand this entire time. His thumb rubs against my skin. It is a touch of tenderness, how you would handle a cherished possession or the one you love. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. In the moment, I sense the trueness of it. I sense the connection, but I can’t place the face. I understand the signals, yet who is this?
His whisper is so light in the wind, yet full of want. “Promise me.”
In the next burst of light from the streetlamp, he is gazing into my eyes. It is a stare of desperation, a longing which shouldn’t be denied. He requires an answer, and it feels like my next words could spell the end of the world for him. He knows me so well; he trusts me so much. I can see his heart through his eyes alone. Then the streetlamps fade into the night, and his stare with them.
I swing the lantern between us with my other hand and place it on a table behind us. The wind is frigid. For a moment, time seems to stand still. The warmth from the lantern, holding his hand, looking into his expectant eyes – I wish this moment could last forever. This is where I feel safe. Somehow, in everything I know, with my entire being, my heart and soul, I wish I could never leave this place. It is a small respite from what I know comes after.
The air whistle breaks the silence of the night. It screams in a matchless fury. For a moment, I break eye contact with him and look into the gloom slipping away from us. I hate to waste the precious seconds worrying about the hereafter.
Returning to his gaze, the lines of his face don’t suggest impatience with me, but kindness. He covers my hand he is still holding with his other hand. “Please,” he whispers.
This simple word is a plea. A single, simple plea, undemanding, yet marked with need. It unlocks a torrent of emotion within me. I feel my eyes welling up with tears. My lips press together as I fight the urge to cry. I want to oblige him. Give him anything I have, everything he needs. There is a desire deep in my soul to help this man even if it means the ultimate cost, even if my life is on the line.
A coolness covers my hand, mixed with his warm touch. It is a piece of jewelry entwining his fingers. I hadn’t noticed it before, my thoughts have been leapfrogging one another: worry about the future, fear of what is chasing me, my short time with him aboard the train. I hadn’t even noticed it until now. It’s a necklace of some sort. It sparkles in the faint light. The locket holds a purple hue at its center, but I’m unable to make out the shape.
The lantern is dimming. Somehow in the delicate light, I see a small pain at the corner of his face. It only lasts a moment, but this one signal tells me he is hurting in some profound way.
The lantern light flickers. Concerned, I glance at it with worry, hoping it won’t mask us in darkness.
I must know more. I must respond.
The train picks up speed. The air whistle calls with a fury which covers my arms in chill bumps.
As the wind whispers, the lantern flame fades, leaving us in obscurity.
21
An awful headache quakes throughout my temples. The last embers of a lantern float upon my memory, as gentle as a child lying under the cover of a cloud, pulling the fluffiness up to his chin and biding the night in sleep. A face with kind eyes… I can barely fathom it into remembrance. It is all I can bring to the forefront of my mind, and then I’m jarred by reality.
The soldier. The corpse. Mr. Crestfield.
I try to open my eyes, but I can’t. It’s as if a deep sleep has taken hold of my body and though I am conscious, I can’t make my muscles respond. Unable to raise up in bed, some restraint holds my hands down. There is pressure at my shoulders, a resistance which runs across my collarbone.
I believe I’m back in my bed. The comfortable mattress and the sheets across my legs are familiar. Other people are around me now, I can sense them. I almost speak, but decide against it. Maybe I can learn something about my predicament or those responsible for binding me here. Footsteps cross the room. Voices sound like they are at the end of a deep tunnel. I strain to understand their words. It’s a frightening prospect since I’m right beside them.
A hand seizes my arm and I almost gasp at the touch. “Her vitals are fine.” The voice is strange and new, but also familiar.
Has a doctor been called? Why am I restrained, then? I must continue to feign sleep until I have a better understanding of who these people are.
“Sir, she passed the first test.” His voice is giddy, a tone trembling with nervous energy. “She found the key. What does that mean?” another familiar voice, but different from the first.
The response resigns to worry. “A small victory in a long war. Look at how the soldier turned out. An unequivocal failure. We still don’t know if the identity will take.”
They are hiding something. Secrets they don’t want exposed. I think about being locked in my room, my husband never being home, soldiers out in the fields, the altercation with Mr. Reynolds, my time with Maddie, the fear which clutched my heart in the conservatory. Plus, I am someone I don’t know, can’t remember. I want to cry, break down in tears right here and just bawl my eyes out. A powerful fear of the unknown sways inside, dark and full of worry about the unpredictable. Why can’t I remember? Is my husband dead? Have these people taken over the house and aren’t sure what to do with me?
Too much thinking has my mind spinning in circles. I’m tired, mentally exhausted. My arm twitches, and I realize there is an IV in the crook of my elbow. I only wish I could open my eyes, but I can’t. What foreign substance is coursing through my body? There is a feeling coming, a tiredness, like I’ve been drugged. I’m trying to fight it, but it is a losing battle. More voices, mere whispers against a rolling current, drain in my ears. Their words are lost.
Even though my eyes are closed, I must stay awake. I must.
22
I gasp in the night, screaming. My head is damp with sweat. I’m in the master bedroom, safe, but not alone.
A calloused hand touches my forehead and a tender whisper calls to me. “Shh, darling, it’s alright.”
Lamplight bathes his face in a sharp glow. His direct emerald eyes and the hard features of his face, rosy cheekbones, black mustache, the scent of aftershave, alarm me. I only recognize him from the painting downstairs in the sitting room.
It is Robert, my husband.
“Someone was here.” I’m panting like a deer who has just barely escaped a predator, eager to explain the people I know have been in this house.
“No, darling,” his voice is as soothing as honeysuckle in the sunshine, “no, no.” He shakes his head as he sits by my side.
The lamp is bright. It’s the kind that clamps to the side of a bed. It is familiar. Then I remember it was in one of my dreams.
“Robert?”
“Yes, dear, I am here.”
I cling to his embrace, but don’t recognize it. His hands around my back, the way he’s holding me. Blast it all. I can’t remember anything. The touch is of a stranger.
“The soldier,” I repeat myself to ensure he’s listening. “the soldier. He was here. He was going to kill me. Mr. Crestfield stopped him just in time.”
His whisper is a faux assurance. “You must have been dreaming.”
“I wasn’t dreaming.” I can still feel the pressure of the steel barrel against my throat. “and the army outside, they—”
“We will see what happens in time.” His emerald eyes radiate a strange energy.
“But they have been planning for so long. They will be coming.”
He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine. He wallops me with his next words. “Penny, do you remember me?”
His stare is inquisitive. It shakes me to my core. Deep inside it alarms me, but I don’t know why. I start to speak, but it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach. The words won’t come. I draw in a deep breath. There isn’t a reason to hide the truth. I’ve already informed the butlers. He’ll understand, won’t he? I shake my h
ead, then meet his gaze again. “I don’t.”
“With time, I’m sure you will.” He pats my hand.
“Mr. Reynolds locked me in this room. Made me a prisoner in our house.”
“It was for your protection, Penny.”
I furrow my brow, open my mouth a pinch, and bore a hole in his face. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”
“You’ve been sleepwalking.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Do you not remember waking on the stairs under the chandelier? Mr. Reynolds said he found you at the window once. What other places have you awakened other than your bed?”
I want to be angry. Here I go again, but I can’t fight sound logic as I rethink the staircase, the window sill, and the closet.
I put my head in my hands and rub my eyes. “I’ve had the most horrible dreams.”
“Dreams? About what?”
“Can we talk about it in the morning?” I lay back on the pillow and close my eyes. A sting enters the crook of my elbow. “What are you doing?”
He pins my arm down firmly as he withdraws a needle from my skin. “I’m sorry, darling. I know how much you dislike shots and I had to get it out of the way. You’re still recovering from the allergic reaction.”
“Allergic reaction? Mr. Reynolds said I had fallen and hit my head on a rock.”
“That happened as a result of the allergic reaction. A patch of bees attacked you on the property. We were lucky we found you when we did.”
“You could have at least warned me about the shot. Who goes about—”
Then I see it. I don’t know if I really wanted to see it, but this is the way of life. Once you look, you can’t go back and change it.
On the underside of his wrist, just below the palm, sits the black rook.
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