I nodded, and she brought the cloth to my lips again.
“When you feel strong enough to sit up, we can try a glass.”
“What happened?” I finally managed.
Her brow furrowed. “I want you to rest for now. We can talk about it when you’ve recovered a little. I’ll put some broth on the stove for you.”
As she was rising, I heard movement in the room beyond the folding screen, and my head turned—causing a stinging at my neck. Something pressed against my throat, and when I raised my fingers, I found a bandage had been wrapped around it.
My memory returned.
He attacked me.Held me close like a lover, then opened my throat and drank my blood. He had tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen. I had struggled to imagine him as the fiend he’d described.
I don’t need imagination now.
And yet somehow, I hadn’t wanted him to stop. Even though I knew I would die. What he had done to me—it felt like drowning in pleasure. And delicious closeness.
Deadly closeness.
Only a tiny part of me had held on to life. Felt the cool silver of my mother’s cross against my skin. The cross I’d worn because he’d asked me to.
Footsteps sounded, and Jack stepped around the screen, face lined from lack of sleep, eyes rimmed red from drink but open wide. He was my twin, and I could see both the worry and the relief in his expression.
“Why aren’t you at the mine?” was the first question that bubbled up and out.
“Sunday, dear,” Mrs. Moyle said quietly, coming back in.
“Was ithim, Mina?” asked Jack in a low voice.
I tried clearing the gravel from my throat. “What?”
“Tregarrick. Was it him that attacked you?”
Jackknew? But how?
No. If he knew, he’d have said so. This was just more of the same nonsense from before.Only it’s no longer nonsense.
I glanced at Mrs. Moyle, whose gaze moved warily between Jack and me.
I recalled how Mr. Tregarrick had said I’d have a decision to make once I was home. Now I understood what he meant. Would I reveal his secret? Everything had changed since then. But also, nothing had. He wasn’t the one who’d killed Mr. Roscoe. He had almost killedme, but it wasn’t the same.
How is it not the same?
“Mr. Tregarrick?” I said finally. “No, Jack. Of course not.”
He frowned. “Then who was it?”
I moved to sit up, and Mrs. Moyle came and adjusted my pillow. “I don’t know. I didn’t see what attacked me.”
I realized my mistake too late. His frown deepened. “You don’t know it wasn’t him, then.”
“She’s bound to be confused right now,” said Mrs. Moyle, coming to my rescue. “Maybe if we let her rest—”
“He has to be stopped,” snapped Jack, fixing flinty eyes on her. “Or are you happy for him to go after someone else?”
“Iamfeeling foggy,” I said, trying to rescueherfrom the Penrose temper. “If you could tell me what happened—how I came to be here—it might help my memory.” I’d told a pack of lies already. What was the difference?
Jack folded his arms over his chest. He was simmering, but at least he hadn’t confronted me about leaving the cottage after he’d ordered me not to.He’s got his eyes on a bigger target.
