Page 56 of Down Comes the Night

Wren could feel how swollen they were—could only guess at how bloodshot and crazed they looked. But if she tried to close her eyes, her thoughts and theories would torture her into wakefulness. Wasted time she couldn’t afford.

Wren waved her pocket watch. “I’m on a five-minute break now.”

“That hardly counts.” Hannah sighed. “How about I draw a bath for you? Wouldn’t that be nice? Or maybe—”

A low wail reverberated through the house. In the hallway, thesingle overhead light swelled brighter with a droning buzz—then flickered out. A chill, like an icicle dripping down Wren’s collar, seized her spine. Magic rippled up her arms in time with the wave of gooseflesh. “What was that?”

Even Hannah paled, her eyes darting fretfully around the room. “A power outage. The wind will do that sometimes.”

“As validated as I feel in my mistrust of those lights, I was talking about the sound.”

“Also the wind?”

“That was absolutelynotthe wind.” It sounded too human, too pained. Once, Wren would have ridiculed herself for being afraid. But sleeplessness shredded her composure and let her imagination unspool. What could be crawling in the darkness in Colwick Hall?

Or maybe someone was injured.

Or poisoned.

She was hardly prepared to heal anyone, halfway delirious and dressed for sleep. Her nightgown nearly drowned her in white fabric, frothing with ruffles at the collar and down her billowy sleeves. But if someone needed her, propriety be damned. She would sooner keel over than wrestle with corset laces right now.

“I’m going to investigate,” Wren said. “Would you take that medication off the burner when it’s time?”

“You’re going toinvestigate? Why?”

Wren pulled a fur-lined cape on over her gown and snatched the candelabra from her desk. “Are you worried about me?”

“Of course not,” Hannah huffed. “You’re sleep-deprived, and it’s showing. But it’s almost midnight, and if you’re not back before then…”

“If it’s only the wind, I’ll be back in just a minute. Lowry won’t find out.”

“But—”

“The forceps are on the desk next to the burner. Thanks!” Wren brushed past her and into the hallway, pursued by Hannah’s groan of displeasure.

Outside her room, there was complete, esophageal darkness,tight and swallowing. No one and nothing moved outside the sphere of candlelight, but with the wind outside, the house groaned deeply, wood straining against nails.

Somewhere below her, a door slammed.

She could hear herself breathing far too loudly. In her exhaustion, nothing looked distinct or real. The shadows outside the light were soft as mist but sharpened into long, severe lines as she walked. She stretched out her hand into the empty space to keep herself from bumping into anything—or anyone.

At last, her searching fingers gripped something solid and cold: the balustrades of the grand staircase. She sagged against it in relief. Past the banister, the long descent to the ground level seemed an endless chasm. The only light came from her candelabra, reflected dully in a tarnished mirror across the atrium. It looked as if another tired girl in a nightgown stared back at her.

Although she was loath to wander deeper into the dark, her curiosity got the best of her. She descended step by step until her bare feet touched the floor. The chill radiated from her soles to her crown. As she was about to call out, a noise—stone clattering against stone—rooted her in place. Then, the rustle of fabric.

Something wasmovingbehind the tapestry.

Someone was in the forbidden east wing.

Wren extinguished the candles with a single breath and ducked behind a sofa. Slow, uneven footsteps marked every terrible second. From her vantage point, she saw the orange spill of lamplight on the swollen floorboards. She dared to flatten herself against the ground, shuddering at the cold raking across her belly. She caught a glimpse of black polished boots adorned with a neat row of silver buttons. Another shimmy forward brought the figure into full view.

Lowry. Despite the bitter cold, he wore no jacket and the sleeves of his stark white shirt were rolled up to the elbows and—

Was that blood?

It flowed in rivulets down his arm and beaded on his fingertips. He must have been the one who cried out. But what was he doing inthe east wing? He’d told her it was dangerous—dangerous enough to get a wound like that.

Lowry held his arm up to the light. He flexed his fingers and scrutinized the way the tendons in his wrist corded against his skin. With every squeeze of his fist, blood seeped from his wound afresh. What was that look on his face? Assessment or admiration? She was obviously intruding on something she wasn’t meant to see. And although it wasn’t rational to be afraid, she didn’t want to know what he’d do if he found her here. Nothing good could come of it.