I’ll forever carry my mother’s hope turning to despair beneath me. But she’s of the Devil’s domain now. Beyond me. Surely.
Noise to my left interrupts me. A squelching of meat mixed with the gritty sound of stone on stone. A line appears to my side, glowing white, then expanding into a hole in the wall. Mr. Pratterman emerges. He doesn’t take the stairs. Interesting.
His stride is fast and assured, but he keeps one arm behind him. It’s not until he’s well into the room that I see her, dragged by her hair.
Bridget’s eyes are dark, as though a storm has passed over their sky blue. She’s given up fighting, slumped into dead weight. How far was she dragged? If Mr. Pratterman intervened with her, did Liney see him?
“You’re welcome,” Mr. Pratterman says and throws Bridget between us. She hits the ground hard, the noise reverberating up the stairs in heavy echoes. “Consider this a favor.”
My gaze fixes on Bridget, then Mr. Pratterman, then back. This is too easy.
“Why did you—” I stand at my full height and face him as what I never considered us before—equals.
“Patience isn’t one of my few virtues,” he interrupts. “She was about to leave the island. That goose chase is outside the bounds of my tolerance.”
I would’ve lost. I’d have had enough time and the tools to kill her but failed. He’d have had me. Yet here we are. There’s always a trick. Another motive, a hidden agenda.
Why does Mr. Pratterman not want to waste time? He’s a being of endless time. Why is he so worried about Bridget surviving?
My heart thumps hard in my chest, a wild thing. For once I think instead of fighting first.
“Eleanor.” His voice is deeper. It hums, resonating through the stones around us. It reminds me of his voice against my neck, humming into my skin. “Not even a thank-you?”
His voice once worked on me. Everything about him used to work. The contract-binding embraces, his chest against my back in that melting room, and his bright, hungry eyes. Dangerous tenderness between the demands for violence. Keeping me hooked.
Bridget stares up at me, lip trembling and eyes frantic to capture mygaze, to plead. Tendrils from the meaty mortar between stones wrap around her ankles. A lamb tied for sacrifice.
No. A girl.
“Thank you,” I say, torn at the edges.
“This is a moment of celebration, Eleanor,” he continues, stepping forward until his shoes touch the edge of Bridget’s dress. I sewed that dress for Liney, a light linen for summer. The stitching of the hem hikes up on the left side from when Douglas made a joke and distracted me. I thought he was being cutting, but now…
My knife pulses, cool within my grasp. These moments, from seeing my parents to meeting eyes with Bridget, are too fast, too much.
“She’s the highest value she’ll ever be to us.” A grin spreads to show his red-tinged teeth.
More pieces click into place. When we met in the city, why did Mr. Pratterman need to research the rot inside me? He never spoke of it again. And now he speaks ofvalue? As though Bridget were a prized mare fit for the auction.
“How so?” I raise my gaze to match his. Shouldn’t the deepest of sinners be the most powerful fuel for suffering?
Mr. Pratterman’s mouth is stretched nearly the full width of his face. Those moonlight eyes hold a hunger deeper than any I’ve seen before. There’s no trace of gentleman left. He’s embraced his monstrosity, believing I will too.
“Suffering is relative. Ripples of grief can fade or grow into a maelstrom. Think of it like any other resource. I could sell raw gold and make small returns compared to the effort. Or I can refine it. Craft it. The time Bridget’s spent here, unknowingly torturing you and giving Caroline a glimpse of what could be, only to have it ripped from her by her own sister? Three for the price of one. That’s explosive. Unless you believe there’s something stronger?”
He doesn’t have to say it. Liney’s threat. I imagineherlying between us instead of Bridget and wince. I shake my head. Anything but that.
“This place is capable of much,” he drawls, spreading his hands. “But it’s limited in scope. With the concentration I can consume from her, I can create new sources. Gain territory.”
This is the only territory he has? Given his biblical precedence, why would a tiny island off the coast of Nova Scotia be his center of control? Sweat slicks my knife hand.
Bridget’s begun to recover between us. Her head moves, examining the hellscape she’s been dragged into. I hope she doesn’t notice the sinew that’s tightening around her legs.
“How would you like to be the true keeper of this place, Eleanor? Not only the lighthouse but the entire spiral’s power.”
The keeper. My heart skips a beat, and so does the knife’s rhythm in my palm. The power of the spiral, mine alone. Hasn’t that been what I’ve wanted? To be out from under Mr. Pratterman’s thumb but still here?
A memory worms its way back to me. Another place of heat, that ever-melting room where we first met. After I’d poured my heart out, Mr. Pratterman planned my escape with me. But what did he say about plans when I asked him for help against Thomas?
