by Kelley York
Adelia makes a noise at that, though she does relax a little under my hands. “You’ll hear about it if not.”
I give her shoulders one last squeeze before pulling away. I can only imagine how frustrated she is, feeling trapped in the house, knowing her father would not permit her to join me. Were the matter not so dire, I’d try to sneak her out again, but as it is I feel too much time has been wasted.
Riding on Wakefield’s horse, I follow Nathaniel across the property at a steady trot. It’s closer to dark than I expected, and it’s a good thing he leads the way because by the time we find the last few members of the search party, visibility is next to none. I spot them from a distance only by the little flicker of lantern-light against the inky blackness of the rolling hills and trees.
When we’re close enough, Virgil draws his horse up alongside mine.
“Nothing?” I ask.
“Not a bloody thing. The dogs had his scent for a bit by the farm but lost it near the road.”
“That’s where I lost the tracks earlier. I suspected whoever took him continued on by carriage.”
“A possessed man driving a carriage? That would be something to see.”
“They’re not as instinct-driven as I initially thought.” I coax the mare into keeping pace with Virgil’s as we continue on. The remaining members of the search party have formed a line, combing down the hill and keeping lookout for anything out of the ordinary. I can see what Wakefield meant, though; there’s little to see once the sun has gone down. A blanket of snow and black trees beneath a glittering sky. “You’ll recall back at Whisperwood, the ghost knew exactly what it needed me to do. However…”
Virgil squints off at nothing in particular. I think. For all I know, he could be looking at something I can’t make out. “You have some sort of theory about that, it sounds like.”
“My theory,” I say slowly, “is actually Adelia’s original theory, that the possessed are being controlled.”
“Controlled?”
“I brushed it off at first, but I’m beginning to think she was onto something. Multiple spirits. Multiple possessions. Working together, no less? Setting up an ambush and kidnapping someone? Violent spirits act on emotion, attacking out of fear and anger. They don’t strategise. Even Nicholas Mordaunt’s spirit was easily distracted and tricked.”
“Then you believe the Brewers were targeted?”
I shrug. It sounds silly when worded like that. Earlier, as I restlessly paced the library of Evenbury, it was the only thing that made sense. If they were not acting of their own volition, then they were obeying orders. Orders from who or what, I haven’t a clue. The idea is not that far-fetched. Miss Bennett herself has summoned spirits, has drawn them into her own body to have them speak through her. I’ve witnessed it countless times. I’ve been controlled by a spirit who wanted to guide us to an answer, as well.
If a medium can summon a spirit into their own body, who’s to say they could not summon one into the body of another?
As we continue the search, I mull over these thoughts aloud with Virgil, who in turn nods quietly and takes it in, brows furrowed, but not coming up with any counter-argument.
It isn’t long before we’ve combed the entirety of the hillside, and the next, and the next, and the rest of the men are beginning to wane, returning home after promises of picking up the search in the morning. Mr. Edison is the last to go, giving an apologetic tip of his hat before manoeuvring his horse to head back.
Even Virgil has begun to grow tired, his horse anxious and fussy, and it’s only a matter of time before he says, “I think we ought to stop for the night.”
My jaw clenches. “Just a bit longer. We’ve headed this way awhile, maybe if we—”
“William. Please. We’re not getting anywhere. It’s too dark, it’s beginning to snow heavier.” He tips his chin skyward. “A good night’s sleep will do us well, then we’ll have daylight on our side and more men in the morning.”
James cannot be out there on his own all night. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. It isn’t…
I give a yank on the reins, turning, looking out over the blurry dark mess of grass and trees and snowfall all around us, chest tight with the thought of where James is. What if he’s injured, waiting for me? What if I rest, and find him in the morning, and something awful has happened because I wasn’t there fast enough?
It occurs to me that he said the same to me, once upon a time, nursing his guilt over not having been there quickly enough for Oscar Frances. I’d only been able to moderately sympathise with that then, but I fully grasp the depth of it now.
But I also made a promise to Adelia. I cannot push Virgil—not that he’d let me even if I wanted to. He knows as well as I do that I can’t be out here on my own, so I’ve little choice but to turn back to him with a defeated slump of my shoulders.
We ride for the estate, which is settled and silent when we arrive. All but the one or two servants who live on-site have gone home until the early hours of morning. One of them blearily comes out to greet us and take the horses, having received instructions to wait up for our return. I suspect Wakefield has long since gone to bed himself.
There’s light seeping from under the parlour doors, and inside we find Adelia dozing by the fire. At our entrance she rouses, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirts and turning a tired, inquisitive gaze our way.
“Well?”
Virgil goes to her and shakes his head. “We will resume in the morning.”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Which means we all ought to get some sleep.”
Adelia’s lashes lower as she rises to her feet. “Something will turn up. He couldn’t have disappeared.”
“No,” I agree. “But if Madeline and Abraham were able to go missing for months, obviously whoever took them is adept at keeping them hidden.”
Virgil and Adelia exchange uncertain glances, and I imagine they’re trying to think of some way to refute that. Something to make me feel better about this whole miserable affair. No such phrase exists, I’m afraid; it is what it is.
There’s a very real chance I’ve lost James.
But I will do as James would do. So long as hope remains, I refuse to let the overwhelming despair swallow me whole.
Sleep does not come easily. I could medicate myself to rest better or steal downstairs to get a drink. I do neither of these things. I would rather toss and turn for the rest of the night and be able to get up with a clear head should anything happen.
For the first few hours, tossing and turning is precisely what I do. Although my head is no longer splitting, I’m still fending off the bruises, aches, and pains from my tumble down the hill. Coupled with the fact that every time I close my eyes and begin to drift off, nightmares of James laying bloodied and torn asunder in the snow have me jerking back awake in a cold sweat.
During one of those moments I lie awake, staring out the windows, which have frosted over, and listen to the sounds of the house that have begun to grow familiar during our stay. I wonder if I should have returned to the farm tonight and stayed there. Clearly, Abraham and that dead boy were after us. Perhaps I could have lured Abraham back and got a second chance at apprehending him.
Ha. As though I could handle something like that on my own.
Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy again and begin to fall shut. The quiet wind outside, the creaking of old walls, the shift of fabric as I move my restless legs…
Then, an unfamiliar sound. A thud, a slam, a crash. Faint. Not anywhere in my room nor even in the hall, but…below, I think.
And, accompanying it, that frigid sensation of something impossible and wrong lurking nearby.
I throw back the blankets and crawl out of bed, making quick work of yanking on a pair of trousers and a shirt in exchange for my nightshirt, and fetching my crucifix and phial of holy water.
Just as quickly, I hurry downstairs.
The sounds continue. Shuffling, moving about, coming from the parlour. My heart hammers away in my chest as I approach the doors, hand upon the knob, pressing my ear to the wood to listen.
Silence.
I know I did not imagine it.
Cautiously, I twist the handle, and push open the door.
The embers of the fire in the hearth have long since died. At first, the room is too dark to make out anything beyond the doors leading onto the terrace and gardens; the curtains flutter in the breeze, which has also upset stacks of papers on Wakefield’s tables and desk. The only movement.
It isn’t until I step further inside, willing my vision not to be so uselessly blurry, that I notice the man.
James.
I choke on the sound of his name. Knowing, even as I rush toward him, by the gut feeling tugging at my insides that something is wrong, and I cannot seem to help myself. I need to see his face.
“Darling,” is the word that makes it past my lips. I halt just shy of him, able to make out his profile. The slope of his nose, his lips, the curve of his jaw, the tumble of his mussed hair hanging in his eyes and the fresh scratches down his face and neck from his tussle with Abraham.
At the sound of my voice, James turns, moonlight cast across his face and the haunted, milky whiteness of his eyes. There is no reaction there. He looks right at me without seeing, and every nightmare I’ve had over the last day slams into me full-force.
Just like Madeline. Just like Abraham and Mitchell Keiser.
Without thinking, I lift my hands to his face, aching for some sort of recognition to register in his features. His skin is cold to the touch, but the gentle flutter of a pulse still thrums beneath my fingertips.
“James,” I manage, shaking out my voice to keep it calm. “It’s me. It’s William. Please, I know you’re still in there somewhere.”
Nothing.
No reaction. Not so much as a blink. I might as well be throwing my voice into an empty room.
It’s foolish to have expected more. It’s foolish to have let my guard down, even for a moment, because in the next—
I don’t know where Abraham comes from, but there he is, knocking me away from James with enough force that there’s nothing I can do but land heavily, crashing into one of the low tables which cracks and topples beneath the assault, sending papers and knick-knacks and empty glasses scattering.
Abraham makes another lunge. I roll left, away from the broken table, coming face to face with the fireplace and the steel tools arranged neatly beside it.
I grab the handle of the fireplace poker and pull myself off the floor. Beneath the broad swing of Abraham’s arm, I drive the razor-sharp end of the poker into his right shoulder, deep. He does not register the pain.
I heave my weight forward, driving him back as he tries to grab for me, keeping distance between us so he cannot get his hands on me. There’s a closet nearby, and I force him toward it—at least, up until he plants his feet into the rug and resists. The poker begins to slide through his shoulder with a sickening sound, and he grins.
I brought two of the remaining phials of holy water with me. It didn’t do us a lick of good back in the forest, but I’ve no other option. I fumble one-handed to get the bottle. The cork has been jammed in too far; I can’t get it out with my teeth, can’t relinquish my hold on the poker to mess with it.
Abraham shoves his way closer still, teeth gnashing.
With a grimace, I shove the bottle into his mouth, and slam the heel of my hand against his chin. The bottle shatters between his teeth.
That, he feels.
Abraham’s head wrenches back, a gurgling caught in his throat. But he stops resisting, and it’s just enough that I can throw myself forward and shove him back and into the closet, poker and all, and slam the door to trap him inside. The old trick of grabbing a nearby chair and jamming it up and under the handle ought to do. At least for a time.
Breathless, I stagger back, having all but forgotten that Abraham is not the only person I have to contend with. I whirl back toward the windows.
James is gone.
The parlour doors stand wide open. I know I closed them when I entered the room.
Abraham claws at the inside of the closet door, but the attempts are weak; the holy water will keep him subdued, but for how long, I do not know. I don’t have time to find out. As I hurry from the parlour, I shut the doors and lock them, hoping they’ll slow his progress should he break free. I’d rather he escape back outside than have him running loose in the house.
But now, I have to find James. Again.
Logic says he would have gone upstairs. I need to alert the others, except if I begin causing a scene and shouting, it will lure everyone into the halls. Right now they’re behind closed doors, and they’re safer that way.
I hurry upstairs, attempting to focus on that feeling just beneath my skin that I know will lead me right to James if I can focus on it enough. It takes me not to my section of the house, but to the halls containing Adelia and Lord Wakefield’s bedchambers. Only a single sconce remains lit in each stretch of hallway, their flames turned low to the barest of glows, doing little to illuminate the numerous shadows in which a person could hide.
The sound of steps up ahead, just around the corner, catch my attention. With bated breath, I square my shoulders and march for it, rounding the corner in preparation for another fight.
Instead, I nearly collide right into Lord Wakefield himself. He blinks and jerks back, bleary-eyed and startled in his nightgown and robe.
“Esher! Christ almighty, you gave me a fright. What are you—”
“Have you seen anything?” I ask urgently. “Heard anything?”
His brows furrow. “I was having a difficult time sleeping and heard a commotion downstairs. Was it you?”
I open my mouth to respond to that, but movement at the far end of the hall draws my attention. The faint flicker from Wakefield’s candle catches the whites of James’ eyes, and my heart skips.
The second James moves, I throw myself forward, shoving Wakefield and myself through the open door of his bedchamber and heaving it shut behind us. Followed, not a moment later, by the sound of James’ body slamming fitfully against the other side. I lock the door, though James doesn’t appear to have the thought to try the knob. Instead, it’s just the sound of his angry snarling, and nails dragging down the wood.
I lean into the door and squeeze my eyes shut, heart threatening to break to pieces. “James, James please. Don’t do this. I need you to snap out of it!”
I’m met with nothing more than James continuing to strike against the other side. Yet it seems to be strong enough to hold for now. I twist around, slumping back against the wood, eyes closed, trying to figure out what to do.
And just as suddenly—confusingly—the banging stops. The hall goes quiet.
Not necessarily a good thing. If I can hear James, I know where he is. If I cannot, there’s no telling if he’s still standing right out there, or has retreated to the shadows, or gone off in search of another living, breathing body to attack.
If James hurts anyone, he’ll never forgive himself.
“That was—that was Spencer,” Wakefield whispers.
“It would seem that way.”
“Has he gone…?”
My eyes open to regard him. “I don’t know,” I begin to say, though the words fade at the end as my attention is drawn elsewhere. Beyond Wakefield, to the paintings above his fireplace mantel.
They’re no different than other paintings in the house. Some of landscapes, others of people. In particular, I’m drawn to the largest one in the centre, a beautifully crafted portrait of a young girl with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes and honey-coloured curls framing her face. The painting is clearly of a younger Adelia, but I have se
en another such girl before.
Laying in a morgue in the town.
Younger, but the face, the cheeks, the eyes…
I step further into the room, staring up at the painting, taking in all the details.
“Mr. Esher?” Wakefield asks, voice pitched with concern. “Are you all right?”
I drag my gaze over to Wakefield. Same cheekbones. Same eyes. Long lashes and that shade of hair… Flora Brewer did not have hair like that. Neither did her husband. Slowly, I turn to him, taking in the sight of his honeyed hair greyed at the temples. God. Why had I not seen it earlier? It was right in front of my damned face.
“It was you. You were bedding Flora Brewer.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Lord Wakefield look shaken. His eyes have grown wide, and the colour has vanished from his face. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mrs. Brewer was having an affair. Some of the children did not belong to Hugo Brewer.”
It’s a bold accusation to make without solid, tangible proof. But then shame and pain and regret etches into the lines of his face and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m correct. He could deny it all he wants, but the truth of the matter is clear, and I can’t believe James and I didn’t notice the signs sooner.
It also occurs to me, as Wakefield attempts to conjure what to say in response, that I don’t have time for his explanation right now. Every second I waste here is an increasing risk of losing track of James again.
“Stay here,” I instruct, voice hard. “Keep the door locked and watch the windows. Find something to arm yourself with.”
“Wait, what are you—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish before cracking open the door and slipping into the darkened hall. There, I wait until I hear him click the lock back into place.
Everything is silent again. No James. But I don’t believe he’s gone far.
Something moves to my left, behind the dim glow of the gas lighting at the end the hall. I have a single phial of water on my person. The idea of using it on James, of causing him pain, is one I’m going to have to contend with at a later time; I need to restrain him no matter the cost. I would expect him to do no less were our situations reversed.