Page 83 of When the Sky Breaks

I nodded. “Not as much as I’d like though.”

“And you’re still shivering?” Ansel pressed.

“I will be fine,” I snapped. Then, turning to Sorcha, said, “You cold?”

She nodded. “Very.”

Shivering and accurately aware of temperature—good signs as far as hypothermia was concerned.

“So long as she knows she’s too cold she should be fine,” Ansel said. “You two both get some sleep. I’ll stay up. Keep watch.”

“For what, more ghosts?” I muttered.

“Worse,” Ansel said. “Locals.”

The rain had faded into a gentle mist by dawn. Ansel sat against the back wall, watching out through the iron grates, checking over his guns. Sorcha was fast asleep in my arms, not even stirring. I dozed fitfully, occasionally adjusting her in my lap—admittedly more for my own comfort and sanity than hers.

The first rays of light were just barely creeping above the horizon and dissipating the mist when I heard footsteps. I opened my eyes enough to watch Ansel holster his weapon and get to his feet. A young municipal police officer was heading straight for us.

Not a sheriff. No. Some kind of low-level cop—too young, too confident, clearly never been punched in the face, likely never been shot at either.

And also likely to be entirely insufferable.

“Can I help you?” Ansel asked casually, pushing aside the mausoleum’s iron grate like he was answering the door at his own house.

“You’re trespassing,” the officer said bluntly, “and we’ve got laws against vagrancy.”

“See we’re not vagrants,” Ansel said casually. “Just passing through. Got caught in the rain. My friend’s wife is sick. You wouldn’t have her sleep out in the damp, now would you, officer?”

“You’re not gonna leave her here, right?” the officer asked, eyes locking on me and Sorcha. She was still hard asleep against my chest, cuddled into my coat, breathing finally slow and even, body finally warm. I shifted slightly, slipping an arm under her knees in case we needed to make a quick exit.

“Why would we do that?” Ansel asked, tone genuinely baffled.

“It happens.” The young man’s tone was defensive now. “People come into town with a girl. But she’s caught yellow fever or cholera or some other shit. They don’t want to deal with it. She’s not useful to them anymore. And they leave her here. Go ask the church. I’m not lying.”

“Is that so?” Ansel asked, smirking.

But I didn’t take kindly to the accusation. I got to my feet, keeping Sorcha pulled close against my chest, and walked slowly toward the iron grating, glaring daggers at the young policeman.

“What are you implying?” I asked, voice quiet, clear, dangerous.

The officer swallowed hard, shook his head like he was trying to clear it.

“Just be out before the sergeant makes his rounds at eight,” he said, backing down and stalking away.

Ansel checked his watch as I leaned back against the stone wall of the mausoleum, kissing Sorcha’s forehead.

“It’s almost seven,” Ansel said. “I think you have to wake her.”

“I know,” I agreed. “I just . . . she’s finally warm.”

Ansel shrugged and went to pick up Sorcha’s discarded clothes from the night before but found them still soaking wet.

“That may be a problem,” he muttered.

“Is her other dress dry?” I asked.

Ansel shook his head. “Something leaked.”