I was wrong.
The storm didn’t protect her, though it has kept her sister in peaceful dreams. Our noises must have woken her from sleep.
I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want her to know of these monsters just yet. I turn my eyes to her, choking, barely able to get the sound from my throat. “Lyddie—run—get your sister and go?—”
John swats at her without looking behind him, knocking her to the ground. I fight harder, using every ounce of my strength to remove his hands from neck.
He will kill them both if he gets the chance. If I don’t stop him.
The words swell in my chest with a deep sense of knowing, but as my vision fades, I see movement behind John again.
Lyddie is back. Perhaps she never left. She didn’t run.
My sweet angel, my lamb, barely ten winters on this earth, stands just behind John on the wood floor. She’s barefoot, her hair tangled from sleep, her nightgown dusting the floor. She looks between us. Takes in the sight of the man holding her mother down, at the panic that must be on my face. Without a word or hesitation, she moves.
She takes the fire poker resting on the chair. My eyes lock on her small hands wrapped around the ornate handle, at how perfectly it fits in her palm.
He doesn’t see her coming. Doesn’t hear her. Doesn’t feel her the way I do, even when my vision fades in and out, even when I can no longer hear anything. I feel her moving, know where she is.
She raises the iron poker high above her head, and with one single stroke, she brings it down over his head with more fury than should fit inside her tiny body. She grunts from the force of it, all the breath leaving her little lungs.
Foxglove is filled with the sickening sound of iron against flesh. Against bone.
He shouts—loud, strong—and it startles her. She teeters, stepping back and away from him. For a moment, I’m certain she’s going to drop the fire poker and run. For a moment, I hope she will.
His eyes search the air for help that isn’t here. The sounds escaping his dry lips become a cry, one that dies in his throat when he stills.
She swings again. He groans, and his groan turns to a gurgle. He stands to his feet, hand to his head as he staggers, turns, and rushes toward her.
Without a drop of fear, she lifts the poker into the air, pointed at him, and when he lunges, I watch as the black iron slices through his neck, silencing him at once.
He drops to the ground in a heap. Firelight casts dancing shadows across his form as I try to catch my breath. My neck burns under my own touch, my skin raw from the wood and stone underneath me as I struggled against him.
I gasp for breath as Lyddie runs to me, her little body shaking as she releases the heavy sobs she’d fought desperately to hold in. I gather her in my arms, rocking her against me. I can’t find my voice, can’t speak, though I don’t know which words I would choose even if I could.
Outside, the storm rages on. Rain smacks the roof like stones, and thunder booms over Foxglove, drowning out all else.
The land tried to warn me today when I felt the storm in my bones, but I ignored it. I wasn’t listening hard enough. Lyddie,though, she must’ve heard. She must’ve known. This moment, as unfair as it is, was meant for her.
Not her sister. Not me.
My brave, wild daughter answered the call when she felt it, and she saved us. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for not being the one to do it.
We remain there, unmoving, for quite some time. When the storm is over, the ground will be soft enough to hide what we’ve done. The earth will protect our secrets once again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CORINNE WILDE - PRESENT DAY
A raindrop hits my cheek, bringing me back to reality. Lewis takes hold of my arm gently, ushering me toward the door. “Let’s get inside. The storm is coming.”
Of course it is.
The wind picks up, whipping my hair in every direction as we move inside.
“Why would she do this?” I mutter, shutting the door and enclosing us in silence. Of course, nothing is silent here. Not really. The rain patters on the roof, and the wind howls through the cracks in the stone walls.
“She’s a teenager,” he says, his voice soft and exasperated. As if that’s explanation enough. And…I suppose it should be. Maybe I’m expecting perfection from a young woman being raised by two imperfect people.
