Although I was in evening dress, I am never entirely unprepared for misadventure, and I reached for the narrow blade that rested in a tiny scabbard tucked into my décolletage. I unpinned a lock of my hair and inone quick motion sliced off the last few inches. It was quick work to twist the hair into a knot and set it on fire. I waved the burning knot under her nose and she came to at once, choking a little against the smell.
She asked no questions, but simply stared up at the ceiling for a long moment. “I must have fallen senseless,” she said at last. “What happened?”
It was the question of every swooning heroine in every Gothic novel. I had little patience with the predictability of it and conducted a swift evaluation of her physical state whilst I replied.
“Mr.Templeton-Vane carried you,” I informed her. I peered into her pupils but they were the same size, large in the dim light of the room. “We found you in a state of collapse in the garden. Did you strike your head when you fell?” I asked.
“I do not believe so,” she told me. I reached a hand to the back of her head, probing.
“I feel no lumps or abrasions,” I said at last. “That is good. How is your vision?”
“Perfectly fine,” she assured me.
“Headache?” I pressed. “Rebellious stomach? Trembling?”
She put out her hand and I saw that it did not move. “I am well, thank you.”
“Good. You need out of those wet things,” I said. She sat up and I would have helped her disrobe, but she hurried behind the screen and removed her dress and stockings. I brought her a thin flannel wrapper and she clutched it about herself as I draped the dress and stockings over the screen to dry.
“You are very kind, Miss Speedwell,” she said, smiling faintly.
I settled her onto the bed and took advantage of her gratitude to sit beside her. “What did you see before you collapsed?”
“I—” She opened her mouth, then closed it sharply and shook her head.
“It might help you to speak of it,” I urged.
“I saw nothing,” she said, her mouth set mulishly.
Just then, Effie Hathaway appeared, her freckles standing out in sharp relief in her pale face. “Anjali! Are you ill? Charles said you had taken a tumble in the garden. What on earth were you doing outside this time of night?”
She went to the bed and Anjali gripped her hand, the knuckles going quite pale. “I am quite well. I did not mean to disturb anyone. Her ladyship—”
“Granna is snoring,” Effie assured her. “It would take the opening of the seventh seal to awaken her.”
Anjali gave her a small smile. “I am glad.” She closed her eyes then, and Effie put a hand to her brow.
“No fever, thank heaven. But I still do not understand,” she began.
“It is nothing,” Anjali told her sharply. She gave Effie a meaningful look and they fell into an uneasy silence.
Since neither of them seemed inclined to speak again, I rose.
“If you mean to stay with Anjali, then I will leave,” I said. From the bed, Anjali murmured her thanks and I beckoned Effie to step outside the room with me. She pulled the door almost closed behind us, leaving only a small crack.
“I will stay with her,” she said.
I nodded. “I will be brief. Anjali saw a phantom orb, a sort of ball of blue light on the moor,” I told her.
Effie’s color sharpened suddenly, bright ruddy spots rising in each cheek. “Did you see it as well?” she demanded.
“I did. I pursued it, but it vanished upon the moor.”
“Youpursuedit! But it was a phantom,” Effie protested. “You ought to have been too frightened to attempt it.”
“And you are a woman of science, which means you ought to know it is likely some phenomenon of a natural variety,” I replied. Whilst Iwas perfectly willing to entertain all possibilities, I found myself taking a decidedly contrarian position with Effie. Her insistence that the moor was full of supernatural creatures had no doubt been intended to provoke reactions in the Hathaway children, but it seemed Anjali had fallen victim to the notion of such horrors as well. Such a dramatic reaction was surely the result of a mild hysteria, certainly stoked by Effie’s haunted tales of the macabre.
She must have been thinking along similar lines, for she colored slightly. “I know it is irrational and contradicts all that we know of logic and reason. And yet...” She paused and glanced outside the window to where the moon hung, full and ripe. “I am a modern woman, like you, Miss Speedwell. But I was reared here, and the moor is full of ghostly tales. Runaway coaches with phantom horses, highwaymen who ride in search of their heads. And our own grey lady and black dog. I have told the children the stories, but I confess, I cannot help but sometimes wonder if perhaps there is not a grain of truth to these legends.”
