Page 2 of Darkest at Dusk
Papa said nothing.
On they walked until they reached a door with no window. With a flourish, Matron drew a key and unlocked it. Dr. Hargreaves opened the door, soundless on well-oiled hinges. Isabella glanced inside. The walls were bare. No furniture adorned the space, only a straw mat upon the floor. There was no window, no air, no light but what crawled under the door.
“A seclusion cell,” Dr. Hargreaves said. “A period of solitude can work wonders on an excitable disposition.” He offered an oily smile. “Step in.” When Isabella hesitated, he added, “Unless you see something inside… Is that it? A spirit? A ghost? Oh, I know what you said in my office earlier, a whitewashed tale of hearing footsteps when the house creaks. But I have consulted with the doctors you saw before me and am well versed in your case. I know what you’ve claimed before. Hearing voices. Seeing people who are not there. You can be honest here. I cannot help you if you are not honest, my dear.”
Isabella glanced at Papa. He was frowning, his jaw set.
“There is no need to be afraid,” Dr. Hargreaves murmured and gave the smallest nudge.
She stepped over the threshold just as Papa said, “No.”
The door slammed. The sound clanged like a bell. Iron was cold against her palm as she seized the handle. It did not yield.
“Papa,” she said, her voice high and thin. Do not leave me here. Do not lock me away. Papa!
“Open it,” Papa said, voice carrying through the door, calm and flat.
“Just a moment,” Matron replied. Keys chimed.
Dizzy with fear, Isabella turned a slow circle. Nowhere to go. No seam to pry. Only barren walls and ceiling and floor that she could barely make out in the paltry glow that eked under the door. She pressed her palm against the wall, smooth and cool beneath her touch.
Tap…tap…tap said the wall, delighted.
The air at her back tightened, colder, heavier, bringing the chill of cellar stone and the smell of old damp leaves. Something touched her ear, something like breath or the weight of being not-alone. She could not see in the dark, but she knew the presence of a wraith as well as she knew her own fear.
“Open. The. Door,” Papa said, each word its own blade. “Now.”
A key grated. The latch lifted. A slice of light cut the dark, burning her eyes. Then she saw Matron’s scowl, the doctor’s thin patience, and Papa, pale and unyielding. Heart pounding so hard she thought she might retch, Isabella stepped out as if she were not fleeing.
“That will do,” Papa said. “We are finished.”
“We should admit her?—”
“We should not,” Papa cut in, clean as a knife.
He settled Isabella’s hand in the crook of his arm and walked her through the corridors, past the wired windows and the faces behind them, out into the rain. The sky was a flat sheet of pewter, water stinging the air.
In the carriage, Papa cradled her cheeks in his palms. “Isa,” he said, fear humming through her name. “You see nothing. You hear nothing. Never say it. Never show it. Never. One day I will be gone. I will not be here to protect you. If you speak then of voices and visions, they will lock you away. Do you understand?”
The words scored deep. “I understand,” she whispered.
It was no lie. She did understand. If she heard the voices, saw the wraiths, felt the icy touch of their fingers, then she was not of sound mind. Those not of sound mind were sent to an asylum with iron bars on the windows, cold stone walls, the sounds of distant screams. A place like St. Jude’s that would cage not only her body but her mind, until the whispers were the only company left to her.
Leaning her forehead against the glass, she watched St. Jude’s recede into a smear of stone and water. She did not look at the wraith who sat in the opposite corner of the carriage, eyes like hollow pits, watching her. She fixed her gaze on the rain instead, and told herself, you see nothing, you hear nothing. Because she could not afford to look at it or others like it ever again.
Chapter One
Isabella Barrett woke to the sound of male voices, one low and calm, the other raised in anger.
“You…you blackguard… Get out!”
She jerked to a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of her bed, pulse flicking like a trapped bird. The angry voice belonged to her father, and that was nigh impossible. Malcolm Barrett was by nature calm and reserved; any display of strong emotion was limited to untrammeled joy when he discovered a rare manuscript or book or engaged in conversation about rare manuscripts or books. Only once, in the icy hallway of St. Jude’s when he had coldly ordered that a door be unlocked, had she witnessed him step outside his norm.
Somewhere below, more words were exchanged, Papa’s voice and that of another man, the content of their discourse muted by the plaster walls and ceiling. But her father’s tone was unmistakable, and his voice, though lower now, still shook with the force of his wrath.
Then he shouted, “Get out. Leave this house and do not return. Do you hear me, you wretch?”
Never had she heard such insults cross Papa’s lips, not even in jest.
