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“Gideon, Iscairn's still in there.” I catch at his cassock, pulling desperately at the wool. “They're burning the house. You have to tell them to stop. He hasn't done anything wrong; he was only trying to help me.”
“Hush, now. You needn't concern yourself with him any longer.” Gideon turns away from the shop, carrying me through the crowd as people hurry to clear a path. “We're taking you somewhere safe, Ophi. Somewhere he cannot reach you.”
“Where?”
“The church. We’ll have you sealed in the crypt, away from the sickness and all this wickedness. The Brothers and the flock will join me in keeping vigil above, fasting and praying until the Lord sees fit to lift this affliction from you. We will not leave you, little sister. Not until whatever he has put inside you has been cleansed. I promise you that.”
The crypt.
Beneath the church, where there are no windows and the dead lie behind the walls.
Where nobody will hear me if I scream.
“No, Gideon, you can’t.” I thrash weakly. “Please, not down there. You can take me anywhere else. I'll stay in the church, I'll let you pray over me, I'll do whatever you want, but please don't put me in the crypt.”
“The darkness will help you rest,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek briefly against my hair. “There will be no more visions to trouble you, no more devilry. Only peace.”
“No, don't—”
He turns away from the lane towards the churchyard, and through the falling snow, the black iron gates come into view. I twist in his arms, digging my nails into his shoulders as I struggle to free myself, my legs kicking against his hold.
“Gideon, please!” I sob, the words tumbling out between breaths that have grown too shallow to fill my lungs. “Please don't put me in the dark. I'll be good, I promise I'll be good. I'll do anything you ask, just please, Gideon, don't make me go down there. I can't bear it. Please, I'll be good, I swear I will!”
23
OPHELIA
“Oh, pudding. What’s happened to you, hm?”
I blink into the inky darkness, dragging my cheek across the wet stone as I try to raise my head. My lips part around a shallow breath, drawing in the foul, stagnant air, and I cough, my stomach turning at the taste of rot on my tongue.
“Mum?” I rasp. “Mum, I’m down here. He pushed me, Billy pushed me.”
“I know, my love. I know.”
Oh, thank goodness.
“Mum, I can’t—” I try to lift my head towards her voice, but my neck aches too much to hold it up. I struggle to get an arm beneath me, my palm slipping as I search for something to grip.
What?
I try again, pressing harder, but my fingers are so stiff I can barely bend them. I bring my hand closer to my face, squinting at the blackened tips. The skin has shrivelled around my nails, cracked and dry like the ends of burnt twigs, and when I rub my thumb against them, I can barely feel it.
Oh, God. The pestilence has got into my flesh.
“Mum?” I whisper, staring at my hand. “It’s killing my fingers.”
I dig my elbow into the stone and try to push myself up, but the movement sends a terrible throb through my groin, where the swelling is so hot and tight that even the damp linen of my shift resting against it makes me want to scream. I try to ease my leg away from the pressure, but that only makes it worse, and soon I’m lying there with my teeth clenched, waiting for the awful pounding beneath my skin to settle.
“Mum, it hurts.” My voice comes out horribly small. “I want to go home. Please, Mum. I just want to go home.”
“There is no home anymore, pudding.”
I try to lift my head towards her voice, my brow creasing against the cold stone. What does she mean, there is no home? Of course there is. My bed is upstairs, and my medicines are all in the shop, and—
Fire.
There was fire.
