I see my salvation in my sister’s eyes the second before it happens.
Something crashes against me and the wight, sending us both to the floor. The wight’s body jerks—he’s trying to use his inhuman speed to break loose and dart away, but Beresford’s weight holds him down. My breath is being slowly crushed out of me by the two bodies on my back, but I don’t care, as long as Beresford has the time to finish the task.
Beresford has never done this before. All he has to go on is hearsay and stories from others of his kind. I can only hope that instinct will kick in and guide him.
I hear the crunch of teeth through flesh, grating on bone, and the wight howls. Beresford is biting him.
Pain explodes through my body, a corrosive, horrific agony beyond anything I’ve ever felt. As I lie there on my stomach, under the combined weight of the Barrow-Man and my husband, I can see my hand lying against the stone floor.
It’s rotting.
The corruption starts at my nails, which blacken, loosen, and fall off, one by one. The nail beds crinkle and turn black. My flesh shrivels against my fingerbones, oozing pus from cracks in the diseased skin. The rot travels up to my wrist, and when it hits the cluster of nerves there, I shriek. The pain is so intense that I see white.
Suddenly my mother is there, seizing my arm above the elbow, trying to pull me out from under Beresford and the wight. Anne is screaming against her gag. My husband roars through his mouthful of the wight’s flesh, a bellow of agony, rage, and determination.
Mama jerks harder on my arm, and I buck against the weight of the two males, managing to wriggle out from beneath them. But the pain doesn’t stop. The rot is all over my body now.
My mother drags me into her lap, my head cradled against her chest. “I’m sorry, my love, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Hold on, dearest girl, hold on, it will be over soon, it will be all right.”
Patches of pustulent skin grow larger, eating into my breasts. Wounds open in my abdomen, and maggots writhe among my entrails. The world is a blaze of anguish and one long, eternal scream.
Through the haze of my pain, I see Beresford push himself off the wight. Most of my husband’s face has rotted away. His lips and cheeks are gone, exposing his teeth and the bones of his jaw. He rolls over and tumbles onto his back, groaning.
I can’t stop screaming, but now I’m shrieking words, over and over. “Did he finish it? Is it done? Is it over? Is it done?”
The Barrow-Man stands up slowly, jerkily. For a moment he remains motionless, his head hanging down, curtained by his shiny black hair. His long clawed fingers twitch, and his thin body spasms.
Then his head snaps up.
“Enough of that,” he says.
His voice is quite different. It doesn’t have the same silky cadence—it’s warmer, almost familiar. He stretches out both hands, one toward Beresford and the other toward me.
“Give me a moment,” he murmurs. “I need to get the hang of this.” His pale brow furrows in concentration.
Slowly, my pain begins to recede. The maggots vanish from my insides, and my entrails become whole again, pink andglistening. The pus and leaking fluid disappear, and my open wounds seal themselves.
I’m healing. The rot is being reversed.
My mother murmurs words of comfort and encouragement into my hair and holds me close while my flesh finishes repairing itself.
My cloak lies nearby; she must have brought it along when she ran into the room. She reaches over to grab it and drape it over my body.
The foul magic that destroyed Beresford’s beautiful face is being unwound as well. His flesh returns, skin forming over the mended muscle. The blue beard regrows itself, cloaking his jaw again. He strokes it with quivering fingers.
“All right again?” asks the Barrow-Man.
Beresford nods, and I gasp out a sob of relief.
“Good thing I’m a quick learner.” The Barrow-Man grins.
But it isn’t the Barrow-Man anymore, of course. It’s Henry Partridge.
Anne is staring at him, her cheeks slick with tears. She must recognize his voice. After all, he said those very words during that afternoon when we played games together. But she hasn’t pieced together the truth. She doesn’t understand what’s happening.
My mother leaves my side and runs to her, grabbing the vines that trap her in the chair—but Henry is already loosening them. Anne pulls her arms free and rubs her wrists, still staring at him.
I take the opportunity to fetch my clothes from the hallway and pull them on while Mama unbuckles the harness around my sister’s head and removes the bit from her mouth.
