The lad grinned. “Sixpence.”
I scoffed. “Those old hares are mostly hide and bones! Now, if you had a nice, fat rabbit ...”
He ducked his head. “I’ll bring you one, miss.”
I bade him good day and turned toward home. On a whim, I took a fork in the path that ran alongside the stream to the pool. There was a wide, flat stone next to it that Mum and I had sat on to eat our lunch sometimes on days like this. I raised my skirt and stepped up onto it.
The slab was pleasantly warm, and the breeze fresh. I reached into my basket for a scone to nibble. I thought about what Jack would say if he could see me now—or Mrs. Moyle, for that matter—and I did feel a pang of guilt. But this spot was a secret I had shared with Mum, and it was my first time coming here since she died. She would have called it a sad shame to remain indoors on an afternoon like this. For soon enough we’d have rain every day.
With this thought, the light dimmed, and I glanced up and saw masses of darker clouds moving to crowd out the woolly ones. The air was already cooling, and I even heard a rumble of distant thunder. Across the surface of the pool, which wasn’t much wider than our cottage, I saw little circles forming before I ever felt a droplet on my skin. It was a gentle rain, without the bite of winter yet. I took off my bonnet.
As the first raindrops kissed my forehead, I realized I was crying. It had come on me quietly, one slow tear at a time. Next thing I knew, I was sobbing.
I think I’d been too scared to cry before then. Scared of whatever had come for Mr. Roscoe. Scared Jack would finally manage to take Mrs. Moyle and The Magpie away from me. Scared of what was becoming of my twin and me without our parents. Was it that the tearoom—with its books and newspapers and people from other places—had shown me how small my life was, and that it didn’t have to be that way? Would I have been better off without that lesson?
It should have been me.I realized this dark thought had been lurking ever since that night on the road. Death should have come forme, not a man with a family and some kind of purpose in life.
But here I was being morbid again, and foolish, too. I had no idea what that man’s life was like. And I had no real wish to die. Especially not in autumn, when there were fiery leaves and tart red apples. When slanting golden light visited the downs at the end of the day. When mist drifted in off the moor at twilight.
I heard the whisper of wings and turned my head. A magpie fluttered down near the edge of the stone slab. It pecked at a bit of silvery-green lichen, occasionally tilting its head to eye me. I broke off a piece of my scone and slowly held it out toward the visitor.
“Good day to you,” I murmured. “I’ve got something I think you’ll like better.”
The magpie danced closer and eyed me again. I held very still as it stretched toward the crumb, finally nipping it out of my hand.
Laughing, I said, “I thought so.”
The bird suddenly let out a stream of coarse chatter, startling me, and flitted away.
“Heavens,” I said. “You’re welcome.”
I rose to my feet, careful not to slip on the wet granite. As I bent for my basket and bonnet, I heard a noise behind me—a rustling in theheather around the base of the slab. I turned, but before I could look closer, someone shouted my name.
I glanced up toward the sound and discovered fog was rising quickly. Roche Rock was no more than a deep shadow in the distance. The birchwood had disappeared altogether.
Who had called for me? It was a man’s voice, so not my poaching friends. I hoped they’d moved on, because it might very well be that “the master” was somewhere on the heath.
“Hello?” I called back.
Then something struck me from behind.
“Leave Her forDeath”
Harker
My eyes first picked out the red bonnet resting at the edge of the pool, one of its ribbons floating on the surface. Then the mist shifted and I saw her.
She lay on her side, facing me. I could smell the warm copper of her blood.
My head throbbed with the roar of an angry sea bashing the shore.Ihad done this. I knew that no rabid dog had taken the life of my solicitor, and I’d chosen to say nothing. To protectmyself.
A movement caught my eye, and I froze—a slight rise of her chest. Training all my senses in the stillness, I could hear the breath passing between her lips. I could hear the throb of her heart and feel the pulsing of her honeyed blood.
Relief flooded me, and I stepped closer.
I. Can’t. Do. This.
Yet what was the alternative? Leave her for dead?
