Page 69 of The Pearl (The Godwicks 3)

A brown hare, long-eared and white-footed loped past the fireplace and toward the garden terrace doors.

Regan rose from the chaise and followed it. How had a hare gotten into the penthouse? She was on the top storey.

It wanted out. She saw it sitting up on its hind legs at the doors, terribly polite of it. She opened the door and it hopped onto the terrace. Regan went after it.

The garden terrace wasn’t there anymore. Or it was, but it had been transformed somehow into a forest. A dark night-time forest lit only by a waning moon.

Some part of her rational mind still functioned and warned her to stay away from the forest. There was danger in these woods. Yet, she couldn’t deny herself the beauty that beckoned even if it was foolish to follow its call.

This is how she’d gotten herself entangled with Arthur Godwick, she knew—her love of beauty, even dangerous beauty. And what was more dangerous than making love to the heir of the family she most despised in the world? Walking into an enchanted forest at night alone and unarmed, of course.

Two spreading yew trees, limbs twisted and gnarled, formed a gate at the edge of the wood. Siddal’sHaunted Wood. A wind gust pushed the boughs apart just enough she could slip through them.

Ahead of her the brown hare paused in a shaft of silver moonlight, then fled into the woods.

The city sounds of London were muted inside the forest. No cars. No rumbling lorries. No sirens. No voices or laughter echoing from the streets below. She heard nothing but owls hooting, the sighing wind, the lonesome cry of a wolf.

There were no wolves in England. They’d all been slaughtered three hundred years ago.

A bird landed on a branch. She looked up. A raven.

“Gloom,” she said with relief. “Come here, baby.” She held out her arm.

“Leave my loneliness unbroken,” Gloom said, and flew off. Regan could have wept.

“What do you want from me, Malcolm?” she whispered as she walked through the yew trees and into the impossible forest. The ground was soft under her feet, soft like the earth of a freshly dug grave. “What are you doing to me? If you want me to stop hating the Godwicks, fine…I already do. I won’t hurt them, not even Charlie, though he probably deserves it.”

It was all that made sense to her, that Lord Malcolm was trying to heal the breach between her and the Godwicks. That’s why he’d been scaring her over and over again into Arthur’s arms. Could he see into the future? Could he see that if she’d caused Charlie to be cut off from the family, he would spiral down into the gutter too far to be brought back, as Arthur feared?

“I’ll return your portrait to the family,” Regan said in a hushed tone. “If that’s what you want, message received. The Godwicks can have your precious painting back. Charlie can work off his debt at the hotel.”

Nothing happened. She’d hoped that if she promised to return the painting, she’d wake up as if from a nightmare. But no. Malcolm had more to show her, it seemed. More pretenses to abandon, more promises to make or break.

How was this real? Regan could smell the rot of dead trees emanating from the forest floor. She could feel leafy branches on her face, catching in her hair. As she passed a thorn tree, she lifted her fingers to a branch and pricked her finger on one of its wicked thorns.

The pain and blood should have woken her if this had been a dream. But, just as when she’d slayed Holofernes, she could not seem to wake herself.

As Regan walked past a towering ancient oak tree, she sensed a presence behind her. Footsteps following her. She froze and every nerve in her body screamed a warning and every hair on her arms stood on end. She would not look back, however. She would not let herself look.

She kept walking, kept moving forward, letting the light from the moon guide her path.

“Why am I here…” Regan muttered.

“You know why you’re here,” came a woman’s voice behind her.

Regan inhaled sharply, but walked on. It was her own voice that she’d heard. An echo of words never spoken, or something else?

“You live in a tower at the very top where no one can reach you,” said the voice. “You think you’re safe in your tower, but you aren’t safe. You’re only alone.”

“Alone where no one can hurt me,” Regan said, arguing with her own shadow self.

“You can hurt yourself. You’ve been hurting yourself for years. The Tower can’t protect you. It never has. You know that. That’s why you invited Arthur into your tower—to protect you. Who do you wish was here with you now, in this forest?”

Arthur. She wanted Arthur here with her.

“You want Arthur?” the voice taunted. “He’s here. Let’s find him. Follow me.”

A whisper of white, like the hint of a mist, passed Regan and floated in front of her. Regan walked faster, chasing the mist until it brought her to a clearing in the trees. A fairy circle of stones ringed the clearing. In the center of the circle burned an enormous dancing bonfire.

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