He offered his arm, searching my face with concern. There was nothing in his expression that suggested we had made love moments ago… that I had used that passion to steal the vine from his pocket.
I took his arm, and we moved out of the crypt into the rain-washed cemetery. The sky had begun to lighten at the eastern horizon—dawn approaching, though the heavy clouds obscured most of the emerging light. We would reach the house before full daylight, before Agnes noticed our absence.
We walked in silence, heavy and burdened with things that could not be undone.
His attention remained fixed on our predicament. He adjusted his grip when I stumbled, slowed our pace when my breathing grew too labored, and steered us around the deepestpuddles to spare me additional discomfort. His focus was entirely on getting me safely back to the house and ensuring I did not worsen my injury or succumb to the cold that had seeped into my bones.
If what had occurred troubled him, if my behavior had disturbed or disgusted him, he gave no indication. His manner was careful, solicitous even, but emptied of the heat that had consumed us both in the darkness.
The voice had finally quieted to a sullen presence at the back of my mind, no longer screaming but still radiating displeasure at my failure to take what it wanted. I felt it watching through my eyes, noting the shape of his coat pocket where the cutting rested, calculating whether another opportunity might present itself.
We reached the house as gray dawn light began to filter through the clouds. He helped me inside, and we stood dripping in the entrance hall like guilty children caught in mischief.
“You need to change into dry clothes,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “And elevate that ankle. I will ask Agnes to tend to you.”
I said nothing, too afraid of what my little companion might force me to do next if I did not focus on calming it.
He finally looked at me then, and something in his eyes made my chest tighten—pain and longing and resignation all tangled together, visible for just a moment before he shuttered it away. He hesitated, and I recognized the agony consuming him. It was the same one consumingme. There was so much that needed to be said, so many questions demanding answers, but neither of us said any of it.
He turned and I thought he would walk away, but then he stopped, spun back, and stalked toward me. My breath caught as he lifted me into his arms, cradling me. He pressed his lips to my forehead and I allowed my body to relax into his warmth, resting my head against his chest.
He climbed the stairs slowly, as though he wished for the moment to never end.
And I allowed myself tosavor it too.
Chapter 20
Iwoke to the sensation of being watched.
The feeling crept through the fog of laudanum-induced sleep, pulling me toward consciousness despite the heavy weight of the drug still dulling my senses. Everything felt distant and hazy, as though I were underwater or wrapped in thick wool that muffled sound and thought alike.
My ankle throbbed with each heartbeat, a steady pulse of pain that the medicine had reduced to manageable discomfort but did not eliminate entirely. I had been confined to bed for two days now—Agnes’s orders, delivered with maternal firmness that brooked no argument. She had wrapped the swollen joint, elevated it on pillows, and administered measured doses of laudanum Dr. Ambrose had prescribed at intervals I could not track with any accuracy.
Time had become elastic, stretching and compressing until distinguishing day from night was a challenge I lacked the clarity to meet. Hours slipped past me in lucid fragments, the cold weight of sleep dragging me under again before I could grasp what was real or what was a dream.
I opened my eyes slowly, blinking against the darkness of my room. The fire had burned low in the grate, providing just enough light to see shapes but no details. Pools of inky black filled the corners and lay thick across the floor, climbing walls like predatory vines intent on suffocation.
Something moved in those shadows.
I held very still, my breath caught somewhere between my lungs and throat, as the darkness near the foot of my bed began to coalesce into a shape. It thickened gradually, a stain deepening against the dark air. She materialized gradually, bleeding into existence with the same slow inevitability of rot spreading through dead flesh.
Dr. Ambrose’s wife hovered above the floor at the foot of my bed, her bloodstained nightgown hanging in motionless folds that defied any air current. Her hair fell in tangles around her shoulders, and her translucent skin was a sickly gray-green shade, deepening the shadows around her eyes.
Her lips parted and a wet gurgling sound emerged from deep in her chest. She bent double, one hand covering her mouth, one pressed firmly to her abdomen as a violent fit of coughing overtook her spectral form. Splatters of crimson seeped between her fingers with each expel of her lungs.
I stared at her, unable to move or breathe properly, fully expecting the vines to reveal themselves at any moment.
Her form flickered, dissolved, then reappeared on the side of my bed, her attack settled back in her chest. She tilted her head, studying me with those green eyes that matchedmine exactly. Then she lifted one translucent hand and beckoned me.
I sat up slowly, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated as I fought against both the drug’s lingering effects and my body’s reluctance to cooperate. My injured ankle protested, sending sharp reminders of its condition. I gritted my teeth against the discomfort and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
The ghost waited patiently as I found my footing. Standing required concentration and balance I did not entirely possess, but I managed it through stubborn determination and the support of my bedpost. The floor tilted beneath me, and the dark room seemed to stretch like a toothless yawn, prepared to swallow me whole.
She turned and floated toward the door.
I followed, limping heavily, one hand trailing along the wall for balance, the other gripping my nightgown where it gathered at my hip. The fabric dragged cold against my legs, and the floorboards chilled my bare feet until the sensation crawled into my bones.
The house was dark and silent as we moved through corridors I had learned to navigate by daylight but which seemed foreign and maze-like now. The ghost provided the only illumination, her form casting a gentle, hazy light that was barely sufficient to see by.
