She inched toward the edge of the light where the path met the forest. The allure of the song was undeniable, but if she strayed too far, Mr. Thorn might think she’d gone ahead without him. Where was it coming from? And who was singing? She stepped into the shadows, hesitantly at first. As she drew closer, a sense of surety settled over her.
She stumbled over a rock and fell to her knees. Pain shot up her leg. The song stopped. Darkness enveloped her. Even the light of the Fairy Bride had disappeared. Had she wandered farther into the forest than she meant to?
It took her eyes a moment to adjust. A sliver of the moon gave little light. Tall trees loomed on all sides and blocked the road from view. A figure approached. The stars outlined his form in a thin string of light. He stood back and hid his face from view.
“Can you help me? I wandered from the road.”
He did not speak and did not move to help her.
“I tripped over a rock. My mum used to say I’d trip over my own breath.” She laughed as she stood. As she tried to regain her feet, he slammed her back down. Body pinned by the shoulders, she fought against him as he straddled her waist.
“What’re you doin’?” She kicked her legs and wriggled her torso, trying to break free to no avail.
“Hush,” Mr. Thorn said. His voice was husky, and his breath was warm against her face.
“What are—” he covered her mouth with his hand, stifling her words.
She tried to scream, thrash, make any noise. The pub was a few feet away. Someone would hear. Someone would come to help. Wouldn’t they?
He tore her blouse with one hand. Her chest heaved with her shaking breaths.
“Please.” Her pleas were muffled by his hand as hot tears rolled down her cheeks.
A cold knife brushed her skin as he cut through her gown and petticoat. Her flesh pimpled in the evening’s chill.
“Don’t worry, my pet. I don’t want your body. I’m only after your heart,” he whispered into her ear as he thrust the knife hilt-deep into her chest.
1
The woman in white crept toward Catherine. Her eyes, like bottomless pits, bored into her.
Catherine froze on the threshold of the morning room. The woman in white inched closer even as a servant walked through her as if she were made of mist.
Catherine closed her eyes and counted to ten as Dr. Armstrong had taught her. She wasn’t real. She wasn’t there.
She opened them, and the woman in white’s gaunt face filled her vision. A red stain spread out from the empty chasm where her heart had been cut out. Catherine jerked her head backward and pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress her scream. The servants, who were busy placing dishes on the long table covered in crisp white linen, didn’t notice Catherine. She couldn’t catch her breath; her heart pounded. Not today, not on the first morning of her new life. Lord Thornton would arrive at any moment and find her staring at nothing. He would ask unwanted questions, questions she’d been trying to avoid since they met.
Counting always worked before, but if she couldn’t shake the vision, perhaps she could just ignore her. Closing her eyes, Catherine marched forward, stiff-legged, over to the banquet table. When she opened her eyes, the ghost was gone, and rows of gleaming silver cloches in a row awaited her. First breakfast. Though she had no stomach for it, she would go through the motions at least. Hands trembling, she reached for the cloche that covered the dish in front of her. An icy hand curled on her shoulder. Catherine yelped and threw her hands up, dropping it. It struck another platter and made a loud bang as it crashed onto the floor.
All eyes turned to Catherine, including the dead stare of the ghost whose glacial grip had not slackened on her shoulder. A shiver ran through her.
The ghost touched her.
They never touched her.
A chill sliced her down to the marrow.
“Lady Thornton, please let us serve you,” Mr. Hobbs, the butler, said as he picked up the cloche.
She stepped out of the way and out of the grip of the ghost. Mr. Hobbs hardly came up to Catherine’s chin, and over the top of his head, the woman in white watched her with hooded black eyes. Not real. Not real. She chanted it in her head over and over like a talisman.
Being in a strange place, the uncertainty of her position was taking a toll upon her mental health. She was having a fit, nothing more.Catherine stared at the bald spot on the top of Mr. Hobbs’ head as he nodded to the footmen who uncovered steaming mounds of sausage, toast, and eggs. The scent of cooked meat and eggs turned her stomach. Mr. Hobbs ladled hefty portions onto her plate, more than she could ever possibly eat. At Elk Grove, breakfast consisted of cold gruel in a chipped bowl.The staff didn’t let them have hot meals in case a resident burned themselves.
The woman in white hovered at the fringes of her vision and swatted at Catherine’s arm; the ghostly hand passed through her and raised her gooseflesh. Catherine yanked her arm back and elbowed Mr. Hobbs.
He turned to her with a pinched expression. “Lady Thornton?”
“That’s plenty,” she mumbled.
