A nod. “Though that was more Lady Hargreaves. She loved horses.”
With a choked voice, remembering the memories Lady Hargreaves had left in her of Bram as a boy, Leena asked, “Tell me what your father told the world when Bramwell Avon went missing at twelve years old.”
His words came slowly, as if dragged from a deep cavern. “My mother’s family was not noble. My maternal grandfather was atradesman. My father and Hargreaves told society that I had been kidnapped by a few of my grandfather’s less savory contacts as a punishment for all the money he’d lost them. They said that they’d thrown every resource into finding me, but they’d been told that I was likely already dead. I think my father always intended to come back for me eventually, to ‘find’ me—”
“Because you are his son?”
“Because I am his heir,” he corrected. “Only Percival was killed before he could.”
“That was a very far-fetched story they concocted. Did anyone believe it? Surelysomeonemust’ve gone looking for you.”
There was a frown on his face. “Society would believe anything an Avon said.”
Leena gripped St. Silas’s arm tightly, as if to show him the ache she felt for him. “Lady Hargreaves came to visit me last night. She cared for you. Deeply.”
St. Silas stiffened.
A sudden trough in the earth caught them unawares, sending them both flying onto a blanket of snow.
Leena groaned.
Ice clung to her cheeks and fell down the back of her collar. Her stockings were now thoroughly wet, and she reckoned that she had a hole through her left boot.
Beside her, St. Silas lay completely still.
She scrambled toward him, heart thudding. His skin was entirely bleached of color, his eyes closed.
“My lord!” she shouted. “My lord, wake up!”
No response.
She shook him but his muscles were limp, as if he was already dead. “St. Silas…please!”
His eyelids flickered.
She shook him harder, disturbing the snow dusting his hair.
“St. Si—Bram…Bram! Wake up.Please,wake up.”
Something shifted inside her. She could not explain it, only thathis name on her tongue felt familiar, as if her body had begun to refer to him as Bram—not the Saint, not St. Silas—before her mind had.
His eyes slowly opened, pupils dilated, hazy and unfocused.
Leena let out a small sob. “Bram…please, we cannot rest here…”
The distant sound of the galloping horses was like a blow. Leena’s head swiveled, attempting to locate the noise on the quiet, dark moors, terror gripping her when she realized that it came from the direction of Weavingshaw. And they were not far off.
Had they been too slow? Had the Black Coats already caught up with them?
There was no time to ponder this; they were likely minutes away from being discovered.
“Bram—Bram,we must move!” she whispered frantically, trying to drag his body to a standing position, but he was too heavy for her to lift.
He didn’t stir.
“If you rise now, Bram, I will tell youallmy secrets. Every single one.”
The sound of the racing horses intensified, and yet she still could not see any discernible riders yet.
