Hugging myself against the cold, I stand over Anna’s carefully placed rock, terrified of taking even a small step to my left, where at least I’d be warmed by one of the braziers. I don’t know why I’m here, but if it’s part of a plan to save Evelyn, I’ll stand in this spot until my blood turns to ice.
Glancing towards the trees I catch sight of the Plague Doctor in his usual location, half hidden by gloom. He’s not looking at the reflecting pool as I thought when I witnessed this moment through Ravencourt’s eyes, but away to his right. The angle of his head suggests he’s talking to somebody, though I’m too far away to see who. Either way, it’s an encouraging sign. Evelyn suggested she’d found allies among my hosts, and surely, in those bushes, somebody is waiting to come to her aid?
Evelyn arrives at eleven exactly, the silver pistol hanging limp in her hand. Drifting from shadow to flame, she follows the braziers, her blue ball gown trailing in the grass. I long to tear the pistol from her grasp, but somewhere beyond my sight an invisible hand is working, pulling levers I can’t possibly understand. Any minute now somebody will call out, I’m certain of it. One of my future hosts will come sprinting into the darkness, telling Evelyn it’s over and the murderer is captured. She’ll drop the gun and sob her thanks, while Daniel presents his plan for both Anna and me to escape.
For the first time since all this began, I feel myself part of something bigger.
Encouraged by this, I root my feet, hovering over my rock.
Evelyn’s come to a stop at the edge of the water, looking around at the trees. For a second, I think she’ll spot the Plague Doctor, but she pulls her gaze back before reaching him. She’s unsteady, swaying slightly as though moved by some music only she can hear. The flames from the brazier are reflected in the diamonds of her necklace, liquid fire pouring down her throat. She’s trembling, desperation mounting on her face.
Something’s wrong.
I glance back towards the ballroom to find Ravencourt at the window, looking longingly towards his friend. Words are forming on his lips, but they’re too late to do any good.
‘God help me,’ Evelyn whispers to the night.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she turns the gun towards her stomach and pulls the trigger.
The shot is so loud it cracks the world, drowning out my anguished scream.
In the ballroom, the party holds its breath.
Surprised faces turn towards the reflecting pool, their eyes seeking out Evelyn. She’s clutching her stomach, blood seeping out from between her fingers. She looks confused, as though she’s been handed something she shouldn’t have been, but before she can make sense of it, she buckles, falling forwards into the water.
Fireworks explode in the night sky, as guests stream through the French doors, pointing and gasping. Somebody’s running towards me, their footsteps pounding the dirt. I turn in time to take their full weight in my chest, sending me sprawling to the ground.
Trying to scramble to their feet, they only succeed in scraping my face with their fingers, a knee jabbing into my stomach. Derby’s temper, already clawing to be let out, takes hold of me. With a scream of rage, I begin pounding at this shape in the darkness, clutching their clothing even as they try to wrestle their way free.
Howling in frustration, I’m pulled off the ground, my opponent similarly lofted away, both of us held fast by servants. Lantern light spills across us, revealing a furious Michael Hardcastle desperately trying to break free of Cunningham’s strong arms, which are keeping him from Evelyn’s stricken form.
I stare at him in astonishment.
It’s changed.
The revelation knocks the fight out of me, my body going limp in the servant’s arms as I stare at the reflecting pool.
When I saw this event as Ravencourt, Michael clung to his sister, unable to move her. Now a tall fellow in a trench coat is pulling her out of the water, covering her blood-soaked body with Dickie’s jacket.
The servant lets me go and I drop to my knees in time to see a sobbing Michael Hardcastle led away by Cunningham. Determined to soak up as much of this miracle as possible, my gaze darts this way and that. Up by the reflecting pool, Doctor Dickie’s kneeling by Evelyn’s body, discussing something with the other man, who appears to be in charge. Ravencourt’s retreated to a couch in the ballroom, and is sitting slumped over his cane, lost in thought. The band is being harangued by drunken guests who, oblivious to the horror outside, want them to carry on playing, while servants stand idle, crossing themselves when they draw closer to the body under the jacket.
Heaven knows how long I sit there in the darkness, watching all this unfold. Long enough for everybody else to be ushered into the house by the fellow in the trench coat. Long enough for Evelyn’s limp body to be carried away. Long enough to grow cold, to grow stiff.
Long enough for the footman to find me.
He appears around the far corner of the house, a small sack tied to his waist, blood dripping off his hands. Taking out his knife, he begins drawing the blade back and forth across the rim of a brazier. I can’t tell whether he’s sharpening it, or simply warming it, but I suspect it’s irrelevant. He wants me to see it, to hear that unsettling scrape of metal against metal.
He’s watching me, waiting for my reaction, and, looking at him now, I wonder how anybody ever mistook him for a servant. Though he’s dressed in a footman’s red and white livery, he possesses none of the traditional subservience. He’s tall and thin, languid in his movements, with dirty blond hair and a teardrop face, dark eyes above a smirk that would be charming if it weren’t so empty. And then there’s that broken nose.
It’s purple and swollen, distorting his features. By the light of the fire, he looks like a creature dressing up as human, the mask slipping.
The footman holds up the knife to better inspect his work. Satisfied, he uses it to cut the sack from his waist, tossing it at my feet.
It hits the ground with a thud, the material soaked through with blood and tied shut with a drawstring. He wants me to open it, but I have no intention of indulging him.
Getting to my feet, I peel off my jacket and work loose the kinks in my neck.
In the back of my mind, I can hear Anna screaming at me, demanding I run. She’s right, I should be afraid, and in any other host, I would be. This is clearly a trap, but I’m tired of fearing this man.
It’s time to fight, if only to convince myself I can.
For a moment, we watch each other, the rain falling and the wind swirling. Unsurprisingly, it’s the footman who forces the issue, turning on his heel and sprinting into the darkness of the forest.
Bellowing like a lunatic, I charge after him.
As I cross into the forest, the trees huddle around me, branches scratch my face, the foliage thickening.
My legs are tiring, but I keep running until I realise I can’t hear him any more.
Skidding to a halt, I spin on the spot, panting.
He’s on me in seconds, covering my mouth to stifle my scream as the blade enters my side and tears up into my ribcage, blood burbling into my throat. My knees buckle, but I’m prevented from falling by his strong arms around me. He’s breathing shallowly, eagerly. This isn’t the sound of tiredness, it’s excitement and anticipation.
A match flares, a tiny point of light held in front of my face.
He’s kneeling down directly opposite, his pitiless black eyes boring into me.
‘Brave rabbit,’ he says, slitting my throat.