by Darcy Coates
Clare pressed her hand over her mouth. She felt sick.
He stood and crossed to the window. His shoulders were shaking, but he remained straight and tall as he clasped his hands behind his back. “I do not know why she spared me. Perhaps some misplaced favouritism. Perhaps I am just fun to torment. But she has made it clear—if I step out of line again, my nieces and nephews will suffer for it. They are only children, Clare. She considers them expendable. I cannot leave her. I cannot fight her. I cannot even die.”
Clare tried to imagine what that must be like—being forced to live a life that wasn’t his own, unable to stand up for himself because others would be forced to pay the price, all the while knowing that half of his family had died because of a risk he’d taken. She didn’t think she could have survived that kind of existence.
Dorran turned. His breathing was still rough. “The doctor, at least, was somewhat sympathetic to me. He smuggled in an antidote for cyanide. And I never forgot the symptoms of acute poisoning. When I saw you… white—”
“Dorran.”
He was back at her side in a moment, and his arms wrapped around her. Clare hugged him back, pressing her face into his chest, trying to find a way to tell him it was all right.
“Clare, I cannot forgive myself for doing this to you. I must have been tired. I must have made a mistake with the bottles.”
“Maybe you didn’t.” She tightened her arms around him. His heart thundered under her ears. She steeled herself then said, “I keep hearing things around the house. And that woman I saw… Maybe the bottles weren’t your fault.”
“Clare.” He sounded sad. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“When you fell ill—after I brought you back here—I considered every possible cause. I went through the house again. From the attic to the basement, methodically. I left no square foot of ground uncovered and no hiding holes ignored. I made certain. The fault is my own. I must take responsibility.”
He pulled back but ran one hand over her hair, as though he were reluctant to let her go. “I think we stopped it fast enough. With rest and time, I think it will be all right. But we must be careful. I cannot take any more risks with you, Clare.”
There was something intense and desperate in his expression. Then he stepped back, and it was gone. “You need food. Try to rest. I will be back momentarily.”
Clare waited until the door was closed behind him before pressing her hands over her face. So many emotions were swarming through her, overwhelming her. Hope. Despair. Fear.
There has to be a way to help him. She slipped her legs out of the bed then tested her balance. It was wobbly but not too bad. She followed the wall along the room, holding on to it to keep steady as she made her way to the bathroom. He needs to be saved from this house and this family.
As she washed her hands, Clare heard the bedroom door creak open. She turned off the tap and shuffled back to the bathroom door. “It’s okay, Dorran. I just…”
She stopped. The bedroom door was open, but no one stood on the other side.
Chapter Seventeen
Clare shivered despite the fire. Her senses heightened, she moved towards the doorway. As she passed the fire, she took up the poker and held it tightly.
Cold air rolled through the open door. Clare was wearing only the dress, without shoes or a jacket, and she hated how quickly the cold eroded her sense of comfort. She stopped in the doorway. Her hands shook as she flexed them around the poker. The window at the hallway’s end was covered, leaving the space nothing but a mess of shadows.
Someone exhaled, and Clare twisted towards the noise. There was an exceptionally dark patch to her left, where the intersecting hallways created a little nook. Clare squinted at it. Is that a person? Or just the furniture?
The longer she stared, the more convinced she became that she was imagining it… and the more her paranoia began to scream. The dark mound wasn’t quite as tall as a human, and it wasn’t formed quite like one either. But the shape didn’t seem natural. She stared, not even allowing herself to blink, as she waited to see if it moved. It didn’t. But it wasn’t resolving itself into something explainable either.
Curiosity wanted her to step into the hallway, to find the light switch and unveil the shape. Prudence, wearing Beth’s voice, begged her to retreat into her room and lock the door. They warred for a second. Then Clare took a step into the hallway.
“Clare?”
She jolted and swivelled, holding up the poker. Dorran stood at the other end of the hall, at the top of the stairs, carrying a tray. She opened her mouth then closed it and turned back to where she’d seen the figure.
The space was empty except for shadows and the twisting, insane wallpaper.
“Clare, you shouldn’t be out of bed.” When he reached her, Dorran placed the tray on the ground and touched her shoulder. “You’re freezing.”
“I…” She swallowed, her voice failing.
He glanced past her, towards the empty hallway, and his eyebrows pulled together. “Did you hear something again?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to search?”
She hesitated then shook her head. Dorran pulled her closer, and his arm slipped around her shoulder as he guided her back inside the room. She let him take the poker, and he placed it back beside the fireplace.
“I’ll stay with you the rest of today,” he said as she sat on the edge of the bed. His smile was reassuring, but his eyes were worried. “You won’t have to be frightened.”
He was true to his promise. After they had lunch, Clare fell asleep again. Distorted, confusing dreams plagued her, but whenever she stirred, she found Dorran was still beside her. Sometimes he napped, with his arm bent under his head in a pose that couldn’t have been comfortable. Sometimes he stared into the distance, and the fire’s glow played across his features. Sometimes he watched her. He always smiled when he caught her looking, and she smiled back.
When Clare couldn’t sleep any longer, he read to her. The mansion had a well-stocked library, though none of the books had been published within the last century. Clare was starting to understand why Dorran’s language was so formal, bordering on archaic. He’d had no TV or radio and very little contact with people outside his family. Since she’d arrived, he seemed to have been making an effort to talk more casually and match her tone, but he kept slipping back into the more old-fashioned style of speaking, especially when he was stressed.
She loved listening to him read. He had a good voice. It was deep and full of conviction. Sometimes she let the plot threads escape her and just listened to the way he pronounced each word.
He brought her servings of the soup four times that day. As afternoon aged into evening, they argued about whether Clare was well enough to sit by the fire. She eventually won. He wrapped her in blankets and watched over her as she stretched her feet towards the flames.
She compulsively looked to the windows, but the curtains had been drawn. “What’s the weather like?”
“Just a lot of snow, I’m afraid.” He folded one leg over the other and rested his hands on his knee. “It is nearly back up to its original height.”
Clare shook her head. “How many days is this? Seven?”
“Eight.”
“Yikes. It’s starting to feel like it will never melt.”
He gave her a grim smile. “We may have to consider the possibility that we will be trapped here for the remainder of the winter. I’m afraid that each passing day makes that possibility more likely.”
Clare chewed on the corner of her thumb. She tried to imagine spending four more months in the house. She liked Dorran—a lot. He was kind and made for good company. But Beth would be beside herself. There was no way she could sit and do nothing without at least speaking to her sister. “How’s our resource situation looking?”
Dorran hesitated before answering. “Firewood is fine. We’re in no risk of running out of it. I’m using
petrol to keep the garden lights running but trying to be careful how much I use the generator.”
Clare glanced up at the lights. She hadn’t given it any thought before, but Dorran had left them on almost all day. “We should turn those off.”
“No. I like them on.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “No chance, Mr. Skulks-Around-in-the-Gloom. You turned them on for me, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t coddle me. I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“Of course you’re not.” He took up his cup of tea and blew on it. “I already told you I enjoy having the lights on. It is completely selfish, I promise.”
She sighed. “All right. But at least keep them off while we’re sleeping, please? I’ll feel guilty if you waste fuel on me.”
“We can do that.”
“What about food?”
Again, he hesitated. “We will get by.”
“How bad is it?”
“Well, I am thoroughly tired of soup.”
“Ha, me too.”
“The first sprouts are coming up. I can start mixing some mung beans into our food within the next day or two. That will help make it last. And we have kept the hothouse warm enough that the seeds have germinated. Things will be a lot less uncertain once the first plants are ready to harvest, and that will be as close as four weeks away.”
“Maybe we should ration our food.” Clare bit her lip. “We can live on half serves for a few days.”
Dorran’s expression flattened. “No.”
“But—”
“Your body is trying to regenerate blood and cope with poisoning. It needs all of the fuel it can get.”
She blinked as pieces of the puzzle slid into place. She’d only seen Dorran eat one meal that day. When she’d asked him why he wasn’t joining her for dinner, he’d laughed and said he’d already eaten. “You’ve been rationing your food, haven’t you?”
“That’s not relevant to this discussion.”
“Like hell it’s not.” She scowled. “I’m not going to let you starve yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been doing all of the work lately. No wonder you’re starting to look gaunt.” She ran a hand over her face, feeling sick. “How long have you been skipping meals?”
He placed his cup on the coffee table with a harsh snap. “I am managing my own affairs, and I would appreciate it if you ceased trying to meddle.”
They glared at each other. Clare felt emotions choking her and blinked furiously to fight back tears. Then she took a short, sharp breath. “Here’s the deal. From now on, I’m not eating unless you eat with me.”
He stood, muttered something she couldn’t make out, then began pacing. “You are not in a position to give me ultimatums.”
“So help me, Dorran, you need food. I eat when you eat. If that means we both starve, so be it.”
He glowered down at her, his face full of unforgiving lines and sharp eyebrows. Then his expression softened. He lowered himself to the floor and laid his hands on her chair’s armrest so that she was looking down at him instead. “Clare, I am not being reckless or endangering myself. I am trying to keep us both alive.”
She couldn’t stop the tears any longer. They rolled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin. “Either we both eat, or neither of us eat.”
“Stubborn, infuriating woman.” The words were said half laughingly. “I have yet to win a battle against you.”
“I let you keep the lights on.” She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I know I’m a mess—”
He settled beside her in the chair and pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. He held her with one hand and stroked her hair with the other. Warm breath ghosted over her ear.
“We will be all right,” he said. “I will find a way. Everything will be all right.”
They both slept on the bed that night. Dorran lay on top of the blankets, close enough that he was always within easy reach when the nightmares woke Clare. She didn’t know how much rest he’d gotten the night before, but he slept deeply.
She woke sometime in the early morning when the fire had almost burnt itself out. She could make out Dorran’s features in the snow-muted moonlight. Long eyelashes. High cheekbones. Deeply set eyes. Heavy brows. She’d never seen anyone as handsome.
She carefully, hesitatingly reached out and ran a finger over his cheek. He murmured something in his throat and adjusted his position. Clare pulled her hand back and smiled as he continued to sleep.
A hinge groaned. Clare’s heart faltered. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the noise. It was a windy night. There was no reason the sound had to be malevolent.
A floorboard creaked. The noise came from inside the room. Clare’s eyes shot open. She sat up, clutching her blankets as though they might protect her.
The bedroom’s main door was still closed. She let her eyes drift to the side, towards the bathroom door. Dorran had shut it before they’d gone to bed. It leaked too much of their warmth otherwise. But now it hung open. And the woman stood in front of it.
Chapter Eighteen
Moonlight glossed over the grey figure in strange ways, creating shadows where they didn’t belong and refracting off the skin in ways that made it seem to glow. The woman’s hair had fallen out in chunks. Her back was badly twisted. She hunched over, pelvis forwards and hands dangling behind her knees. White ribs jutted out of the hole in her side, fanning out like spikes. Saliva dripped from the open mouth onto the tattered, grimy white dress.
A scream caught in Clare’s throat. She blindly felt for the man beside her. “Dorran!”
The creature threw its head back, eyes narrowed, lips parting just far enough to release a hiss.
Dorran stirred. Clare yanked on his arm, trying to get him up, to face the creature, to see it. He lifted his head, squinting. The woman was gone, vanished into the shadowed doorway.
“She was there.” Clare knew she sounded half-wild. “The woman. Watching us sleep. She was there!”
He blinked furiously as he tried to shake away tiredness. “What? You are certain?”
“Yes!” She clutched his arm. “She… her… her ribs were poking through her skin. She’s right there. In the bathroom.”
Dorran’s gaze moved from the open door to Clare, and she was horrified to see doubt in his eyes. She knew how she must sound, raving about a woman with ribs jutting out of her chest. She swallowed. “I know. I know it sounds insane. I can’t explain it. I just know what I saw.”
“I will search.” He slid out of bed and crossed the room in four long strides. He didn’t take a weapon this time as he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light. A moment later, she heard another door open and another light switch as he moved into the second bedroom then the hallway.
Dorran was gone for close to twenty minutes. Clare stayed huddled in bed, her knees pulled up under her chin. She heard doors opening throughout the house. A sense of nauseating dread rose through her the longer the search went on. It was becoming an all-too-familiar pattern. He would find nothing.
Finally, the doors began closing rather than opening. Dorran reentered the way he’d left, through the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself. His head was bowed. His expression was tense.
Clare couldn’t stop shaking. Part of it came from the shock. But most of it was the fear of what Dorran’s return implied. If he can’t find the stranger, what does that say about me?
“I don’t know where she goes.” Clare crawled across the quilt towards him, pleading. “But she is real.”
He sat on the bed, shuffled close to her, and took both of her hands in his. His voice was gentle. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes. Of course.”
He rubbed her hands, his gaze imploring. “Know that I would not lie to you. There are no s
trangers in this house tormenting you. There are no phantoms hiding around the corners. You have to fight these fears. Don’t give them any power. Don’t let them drag you under.”
Her hands were still shaking, and they wouldn’t stop. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. She looked towards the bathroom doorway. I can’t be crazy. Not here. Not now. I’m already so much of a burden.
“I’m fine,” she managed, her voice tight. “It was probably just a shadow.”
His fingers squeezed lightly. “You have been through a lot these past days, more than any person should be asked to bear. I will help you as much as I can, but the brunt of this fight will be internal.”
She closed her eyes and nodded. She wanted to cry but refused to let the tears out.
“You are not alone.” He tilted his head down, close to hers. His voice was soft. “I will do what I can to make sure you never have to feel that way. So stay with me and trust me. I will keep you safe.”
Clare didn’t sleep at all for the rest of the night, even though she pretended to. She was fairly sure Dorran was feigning rest as well. His breathing was a little too deliberate.
She felt a small spark of relief when morning light hit the windows. Dorran smiled at her as though nothing had happened as he helped her into the bathroom.
He’d said she wouldn’t be alone, and he seemed intent on keeping that promise. While Clare brushed her teeth, she could hear Dorran moving around in the main room. Normally, he was as quiet as a wraith, but that morning, he never went more than a few seconds without making some noise. When Clare came back out, he’d boiled basins of water for her to wash with. He stayed in the bathroom while she scrubbed herself clean, and when she was done, he came back out and redressed her stitches.
“These are looking a lot better.”
Clare lay on her back, blankets over her chest and lower half, while he cleaned the stitches on her stomach. It was easier to feel like things might be normal now that it was morning and they were back into a routine. She smiled. “Yeah? Think we can take them out soon?”