Page 56 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

But then reality came snaking back. “Is that smoke?” he asked.

“There’s a fire, upstairs.” It must have been spreading rapidly, because already the pounding of footsteps had been replaced by an eerie silence above them. “What about Mr. and Mrs. Hewitt? Where are they?”

He jerked his head in the opposite direction. “Next door,” he said. Gingerly removing her from his embrace, Ralph cursed as he lost his balance and nearly fell into the washstand. Ivy rushed to offer him a hand but he brushed her off. Instead, he staggered out the door, his long legs gradually steadying.

Grimacing, Ralph led her next door. Ivy worked the knife in the lock, feeling more than a little proud when it sprang open under Ralph’s appraising gaze.

“Wait,” he said, stopping Ivy’s hand on the knob. “It might not be...” He trailed off. “I’ll go first. Just in case.”

With her heart in her throat and the smoke curling ever thicker around them, she stood back as Ralph opened the door.

“Christ,” Ralph muttered when it had swung open.

Ivy couldn’t quite conjure memories of the Hewitts’ faces exactly, but she remembered a dignified couple that took pride in their work, distantly polite. The man and woman that sat huddled on the bed together had papery skin, sunken eyes, and looked as if they hadn’t had a proper meal in ages. At their entrance, Hewitt sprang up, putting his thin frame between them and his wife.

“It’s me,” Ralph said gruffly.

The butler stood down, but his wan face darkened as he took in Ralph’s loose clothes and the dried blood in his hair. “Barbarians,” he said, his words heavy with contempt. “Apparently the gentleman’s code goes out the window when the Mabrys are involved.” Turning, he helped Mrs. Hewitt to stand.

A purple bruise bloomed across her left cheekbone, her eye swollen like a boxer’s in a fight.

Ralph’s jaw tightened. “They struck you,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Mrs. Hewitt insisted, brushing off their fussing. “Just a little worse for the wear.” Her gaze turned wary as it passed to Ivy. “How much does she remember?” she asked Ralph.

“I’ve no idea. Haven’t had time to chat.”

“And the manuscript?”

“It’s in my room,” Ivy told her, one eye watching the encroaching smoke at the door. “Or, it was. I believe one of the Mabry servants has it.”

Mrs. Hewitt made an attempt to push into the hall. “We have to go get it before—”

But Ralph stopped her. “They’ll have gotten it by now and taken it somewhere safe. We need to get out of here.”

“You’ll have no argument from me,” Hewitt said, coughing into a soiled handkerchief. “Live to fight another day, that’s what I’ve always said.”

With Mrs. Hewitt’s weight on Ralph’s shoulder, they slowly made their way out of the servants’ hall. Ivy would have liked to have had the security of Ralph beside her, drinking in the warmth of his body, but Mrs. Hewitt needed him more. The electricity had gone out, the corridor cast in smoky shadows. They formed a surreal procession, the old couple, the young man with the limp, and the girl with no memory. But even with both the Hewitts and Ralph accounted for, Ivy had the sense that there was somebody missing, a light step, and a small frame in a blue service dress that should have been beside them.

“Agnes,” Ivy said, coming to a stop. “Where is Agnes?”

“I sent her home the night of the party,” Mrs. Hewitt told her. “And thank God I did.”

Continuing, they emerged out of the servants’ entrance to an artificially purple sky, the smell of damp earth and acrid smoke rising up to greet them. To one side lay the drive, and to the other, a path leading into the gardens. In the gravel drive, a chain of people had formed, water buckets passing down the line to the fire. No one noticed the huddled foursome as they limped past, clinging to the shadows like thieves in the night. From across the lawn, Ivy could hear Arthur yelling instructions as servants scrambled to find more buckets.

The gardens loomed ahead of them as sharp gravel bit into Ivy’s bare feet. “What will become of the abbey?” She had stopped, awestruck at the sight of black smoke pouring out of the windows of what had been both her prison and her home.

Mrs. Hewitt gave a weary sigh as she paused to catch her breath. “It will survive this. It has weathered greater storms before. And knowing the Mabrys, they will have protected the library. As for the manuscript, it will protect itself.”

They came upon a cottage, set safely away from the abbey toward the back of the grounds. In the darkness, Ivy could just make out a thatched roof and brambly rose garden. Hewitt opened the door and ushered them inside. Despite the stale, unused smell that greeted them, it was neat as a pin, homey, and a cat jumped down to greet them with loud, indignant meows.

Mrs. Hewitt caught Ivy’s wandering gaze and nodded. “This is our cottage. They’ll be too busy with the fire to spare us a thought. We should be safe here, for now.”

“How long do you think we have before they start looking for us?” Ivy asked. It all still seemed more like a strange dream than reality, time blurring into an endless string of moments.

Hewitt moved around the small drawing room, closing the curtains and lighting dim lamps. “Not long,” he said grimly.

Ivy sank into the worn sofa, leaning back and letting her eyes drift closed. She’d been awake for who knew how long, and keeping herself from slipping into exhaustion was becoming a losing battle.

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