Mary-Anne ran for her life. The ground underfoot was pure mud, slipping and splashing every which way beneath the torrential thunderstorm that raged through the Southern English countryside.

She was gasping for breath, glancing frantically backward into the darkness, watching for the floating glow of light that bounced along with each of his heavy steps. There! Mary-Anne was running again, tearing through the low grasses and shrubs, not caring about the brambles and twigs that caught and tore at her clothes and skin. She pushed on as the rain poured down, accompanied by glorious blasts of lightning and thunder.

The light was growing more distant as she dashed on, gasping out for air but not daring to stop, not until she was clear. On and on she went, not stopping at even the greatest of stumbles, feeling her chest burning fiercely with the need for oxygen. There was a voice, deep inside, that saying It’s alright, you’ve made it. Sit down. Rest. She relentlessly ignored it, forging forward, feeling that slick, cold numbness overwhelming her skin. Then there was another voice, louder than the first, keep going, it said. You’re almost there.

Mary-Anne did not know where she was, only that she had escaped the carriage on the road from London, sometime after they had passed through Camden. She had no idea how far she had run, and she knew to only keep running, as an all-encompassing, blind need to survive drove her in and out of creek beds, under farm fences, and finally to rest beneath a low bridge.

She shuddered in her wet clothes, hugging her arms to her knees and bouncing her legs to keep warm. She could feel no heat within her; it was as if all of her body had been chilled, and now past the point of even warming itself. Huddled there, feeling the chill of the night set in around her and hearing the rage of the storm above her, Mary-Anne thought that she would die; that at any moment she would just cease to function, and collapse into the low river, to be found by some unlucky person come to wash their clothes. She felt sorry for that person and did not want them to see her like this, and then she remembered: You are not dying beneath this bridge.

Mary-Anne struggled up, realizing only then that she had lost her shoes to one of the bogs she had traversed and found that she had no feeling in any of her toes. It was too late to be concerned about it, she had only to keep moving until she reached somewhere safe. Where was that? She had no clue of her surroundings, but as she climbed up to the road above her, she saw the lights of a manor house atop a high hill, looming out in the distance as either a beacon or a lure, and she knew not which.

Another bolt of lightning cut out over the black rain, and she knew she had to seek shelter there. She began to hurry up the long, winding road, and each step was heavier than the last. Now, at last with a destination in sight, she could not find the strength to pull herself up the gravel road and found herself falling. She could not help it; she had finally used up all there was to give from her wells of resilience, and she struck the ground with an unceremonious splash.

As she lay there, feeling the rain hammer down on her forehead, she saw the bobbing light of an oil lamp making its way down from the house, swinging with each sopping step of its carrier. She opened her mouth to scream out, NO! But no sound came from her terrorized vocal cords; instead, she flailed helplessly, utterly exhausted, defeated, and despaired at the arrival of the lantern.