“There is a spectral ball of light upon the moor!” I cried, forcing myself to my feet.
Even as I spoke, the blue light approached the summerhouse door that led out to the moor. The figure in black turned and seemed to shrink away from the light as it came near.
“Go away!” called a feminine voice. “You are not wanted here!”
I rushed ahead to where Anjali—for I recognized from the voice it was she in the black cloak—trembled upon the threshold of the summerhouse. As I ran, I heard a dull rattle and wondered if the phantom was attempting to enter the summerhouse.
Gathering my skirts well above my knees, I hurtled past Anjali and into the summerhouse, giving an imitation of a Viking berserker cry. (I have upon occasion had recourse to employ the battle cries ofthe Maori, the Celt, and several of the indigenous peoples of the Americas. I have found them all equally effective.)
In this instance, the orb of blue light seemed to float then vanish before my very eyes. I would have given chase, but behind me, Anjali emitted a shriek and fell heavily into a swoon.
“Anjali!” I cried, gathering her into my arms. She was entirely unconscious but seemed otherwise unharmed. Just then, Stoker and Jonathan burst into the garden through the door from the billiards room.
“Veronica!” Stoker exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside me. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine, but we must pursue the apparition! It was a ball of blue light,” I insisted, pointing in the direction it had vanished. Stoker leapt into action while I thrust Anjali into Jonathan’s arms and commanded him to look after her. “Mind you do not let her take cold,” I added as I pushed myself to my feet and followed hard upon Stoker’s heels.
He had stopped just beyond the summerhouse, peering into the bleak emptiness of the moor. I shoved past him, feeling the stone-strewn grasses beneath my slippers. This was where the landscaped order of the gardens gave way to the empty wildness of the moors beyond. They stretched like some sort of alien world, the menhirs silvery white against the ceaselessly moving darkness of the terrain. Of the phantom orb there was no sign. I peered into the night, straining my eyes for any sign of the spectral presence. “Perhaps behind one of the stones,” I said, starting towards the nearest.
Stoker grasped my arm. “Don’t be a fool. You cannot possibly venture onto the moors at night. It would be suicide.” I made to wriggle free, but he held my arm fast.
“Drat and damnation,” I muttered. But, of course, he was correct. I recalled my own unfortunate experience with a bit of mire earlier that day. Only experience and a steady nerve had seen me out of itsafely. Rushing in the dark would be unspeakably foolish and unnecessarily dangerous.
With bad grace, I returned with Stoker to the gardens, where Jonathan had carried the still-senseless Anjali. He looked up with anxious eyes. “What is wrong with her?”
“Shock, I imagine,” Stoker told him. He put a finger to her pulse and listened to her breathing. “Her pulse is quick but strong. I can find no injury. Carry her inside so she does not take a chill. She cannot remain upon this damp grass.”
Jonathan struggled to his feet, upon which Stoker reached out and swung the motionless form into his arms with as little fuss as if she were a feather.
“What the devil is all the furor about?” Charles Hathaway, imperfectly attired in nightshirt and hastily donned trousers, a nightcap settled askew on his head, lifted a lantern as he emerged from the house.
“It was a phantom, Mr.Hathaway,” I told him.
“Phantom!” It was too dark to see properly, but I was certain he had paled at the word.
“An orb of blue,” I added helpfully. “I saw it as plainly as I see you now. Anjali did as well, and the sight frightened her so badly she collapsed.”
“Ruin,” Charles Hathaway said faintly. “It means ruin to see one of the phantoms of the moor.”
I went to him and pinched him hard upon the arm, at which he jumped. “Madam!”
“You looked decidedly unwell and we simply cannot have two people unconscious at once,” I told him.
“I am composed now,” he said, although his voice still quavered.
“Good.” I turned once more to Anjali, who was beginning to stir inStoker’s arms. “Upstairs with her. I presume she has a room near Lady Hathaway’s in case she is needed in the night.”
Charles Hathaway confirmed this and we made our way inside, a strange little procession. He paused at the doorway and gestured for Stoker to carry her inside. Stoker settled her gently on the bed.
“Leave me to it,” I instructed. “This is woman’s work.”
He hesitated. “She may be distressed when she regains her senses.”
“I will not leave her,” I promised. I looked at Charles Hathaway. “You might send Effie. In case she requires anything.”
He nodded, seeming glad to have something to do. Jonathan had melted away, but I was not surprised. Harry Spenlove had never been good in a crisis, I reflected bitterly. Stoker offered once more to help, but I waved him off, conscious that this was hardly the time to embark upon the discussion that was now long overdue.
I glanced about the room. It was small and stingily furnished, with a narrow bed and a table and chair, neither of which matched the washstand. A thin screen across one corner of the chamber was the only concession to privacy. The Hathaways were the sort of folk who did not even permit a lock upon the door for the servants, I noticed with a rush of resentment on Anjali’s behalf. I went to the small hearth and poked up the fire that had fallen to ash, building it until it could take a few tiny logs. It made only a little difference to the chill of the room. Anjali was lying motionless upon the bedcover where Stoker had placed her. She, like me, was fully dressed. I removed her damp shoes and set them near the fire, but not near enough to scorch. Her hem was wet as well, and the back of her dress. I should have to wrestle her out of her sodden things, but it would go a good deal easier if she were awake.
