Page 23 of Darkest at Dusk
The whispers grew harsh.
The rain fell, dripping off the edges of her umbrella.
Shivering, she looked down at her father’s open grave then up again.
She looked to the hedge where Mr. Christopher waited just out of sight.
Mr. Caradoc was in the distance now, the fog swirling at his back. She lifted her skirt and hurried after him, instinct guiding her feet.
But no matter how she quickened her pace, she could not catch him. She called out, but he did not turn or slow. She hurried past endless rows of gravestones, moss-covered and damp. The rows grew narrower, the stones taller, until she was forced to turn sideways to maneuver between them. Her heart pounded and her mouth grew dry, unease gnawing at her like vermin at a carcass.
The walls narrowed even further now, no longer stone but formed by the bent and twisted branches of burnt and blackened trees. Iron bars jutted from the trunks, wired windows hanging between them, windows ripped whole from St. Jude’s itself. She saw her reflection warped in the glass, pale and desperate, as though she were the one trapped inside.
She pressed on, the way so narrow that it scraped her skin with every inch she gained.
Mr. Caradoc was there in the darkness, his form barely discernable far ahead, broad shoulders and an uneven gait, moving through the tunnel with far more ease than her. And she knew that if she did not follow now, she would never have this chance again.
The tunnel widened and she ran forward, the branches like talons as they tore her hair and scratched her face. Scorched roots sprang from the earth, catching her ankles, twisting in her skirt. She tugged and pulled until she heard the material tear, only to be caught again and again no matter how carefully she stepped. Sweat prickled along her spine. Her breath came in shallow gasps.
With a desperate yank, she tore herself free and ran, faster, and faster still, lungs heaving.
But she gained no ground. He was always too far away to catch.
Go back. Do not follow. The warning came in Papa’s voice, rough and urgent. But Papa was gone, buried beneath the cold earth.
From somewhere far ahead came the crack and snap and roar of a fire she could not see. The fog grew thick and heavy, smelling of mildew and copper, of things dead and rotting, and underlying that, the stink of smoke and soot and tar. The damp cold sank into her bones. It stroked her cheeks, her lips, her limbs, like webs twining about her. She brushed them away, but they came again, thicker now, sealing her lips, covering her eyes, hissing softly, like dozens of whispering voices.
She struggled to lift her hands, but the webs were too strong, trapping her in a cocoon that forced her legs together and her arms to her sides. Sick with fear, she struggled against them, but they held her fast, growing ever tighter.
She was bound, unable to move, unable to see, unable to scream. Terror was her world. Her heartbeat became a hammer, each strike cinching the bindings tighter.
Voices came to her, soothing and soft. The wraiths pulled at her bindings, aiding her struggles, working the threads.
The sun flashed, blinding her.
With a cry, she sat upright, panting and drenched in sweat, cheek cold where it had pressed against the window. The scents of coal-smoke and hot metal stung her nose. Her chest heaved, her limbs shaking. The sound of her own breathing, loud and ragged, rasped in her ears.
There was no graveyard, no man, no webs, only green velvet and thin daylight bleeding through the carriage window. Yet the whump and roar of hungry flames and the scent of smoke and ash clung to her as real as the blood pounding at her temples.
Papa’s key had bitten half-moons into the tender skin of her palm. She unclenched her fist and tucked it back beneath her bodice to lie warm against her chest.
It had only been a dream. A nightmare. And yet… the echo of her father’s voice lingered in her ears, and she could not shake the feeling that the nightmare was a portent of things to come, a warning…or a summons.
Moments later, a uniformed guard leaned into the corridor to call, “Maidenhead! Maidenhead Station.”
The train slowed and pulled into a modest station, the red brick walls dark with soot, the platform edged by cast iron lamps. Isabella gathered her things and stepped down onto the platform, her boots landing on the wood with a thud.
“Where might I find the post-chaise?” she asked a porter.
He gestured toward the exit. “Just there, miss. Man in the black coat with the gray bays.”
Isabella stepped from the shelter of the station into the cobbled street, the porter following at a short distance, trundling her trunks on a hand cart. The chaise waited, its body black-lacquered and mud-splattered, reminding her of the carriage in which she had ridden to Papa’s burial. The gray horses stamped and snorted, restless in the cold. The driver, a tall, stoop-shouldered man, touched the brim of his hat in greeting.
“I am Miss Isabella Barrett,” she said. “I believe you are expecting me.”
“Right then, Miss Barrett.” He glanced at her trunks. “Those’ll go in the luggage cart behind. My lad will fetch it round and follow us to Marlow. We’re just waiting for two more, then we’ll be off straightaway.”
He opened the door, and she stepped up into the narrow compartment. The seats were worn but clean, the interior close and smelling of leather and horse.
