Together they forced the shutter closed. The latch caught with a metallic snap, and the window stilled—though the gale screamed its displeasure past the glass.
Jane exhaled, her breath unsteady. “The weather behaves as if determined to blow us off the cliff.”
Elise forced a calmness she did not feel. “It may yet accomplish it.”
They hurried down the corridor to the next window. The house creaked under the pressure—old beams shifting, floorboards protesting, the gale seeking every weakness. The hall candles guttered violently whenever a draught blew under a door.
Another crash rocked the south lawn.
“Lord preserve us,” Jane muttered, running to the next shutter.
Elise followed. “What was that?”
“A branch—perhaps half a tree,” Jane guessed, bracing her shoulder against the wood. “This storm is tearing up more than the cliffs tonight.”
They made their way, window by window, around the rooms until the worst of the storm was shut out, but the house still trembled beneath each gust like a ship straining at anchor.
At last, Jane leaned against the wall, panting. “If this continues, we shall lose part of the roof by morning.”
“That will not happen,” Elise said—too quickly, too sharply.
Jane tilted her head, studying her. “It is not only the storm that troubles you, is it?”
Elise forced her shoulders to relax. “I was thinking about Blake, being out in this.”
Jane’s gaze held hers a moment longer—knowing, steady—but she only nodded. “I will check the lamps in the lower hall.”
When Jane stepped away, Elise allowed her knees to weaken for the briefest breath, pressing a hand to the cool stone of the corridor wall.
Someone is using the cipher.
The storm outside roared like an echo of her thoughts, relentless and wild.
Elise made her rounds again, room by room, calming the children in gentle tones. No one slept. The older girls pretended bravery for the younger ones; the younger ones clung to each other like ivy to stone.
“Will the roof come off, ma’am?” whispered little Lucy Sims, her eyes as wide as saucers.
“No, my dear.” Elise smoothed the girl’s hair. “This house was built to withstand much more. It will not be undone by a storm.” She prayed that was true.
Then Clara tugged Elise’s hand. “Mrs. Larkin… will you stay upstairs tonight?”
Elise hesitated. “I shall be nearby,” she promised, brushing Clara’s cheek. “Close your eyes now. Storms always sound more fierce than they are.”
When all the girls were at last quietened—some only by exhaustion from fright—Elise slipped into her own room once more.
Her chamber was cold. The storm blew through its walls like an unwelcome guest. The candle flame strained sideways, nearly extinguished by a draught. She crossed to the jewellery box and drew out Blake’s note again.
Someone is using the cipher.
She pressedher fingers against the ink until they tingled. “Who?” she whispered to the empty room. “And why now?”
Her mind threw her backward into memories she had tried to bury.
She saw Charles bent over the small desk by candlelight, drawing elaborate patterns—lines within lines, rotating alphabets, symbols shifting as the hours wore on.
“You need not understand it fully,” he had said to her, exhaustion and grim determination warring in his eyes, “only enough to recognize danger if it comes looking.”
She had laughed softly. “I hope never to recognize it, then.”
