Page 43 of Hawk & Sparrow

Vesper felt around, trying to gauge a path forward. The room where she and the rest of her family slept was to the right, but the smoke had left her with no sense of direction. She tried crawling forward, but was stopped as a large structural beam came crashing down, engulfed in flames. The building shuddered ominously.

“Ethel!” Vesper’s voice was scraped raw now. “Ethel, keep talking!”

Her sister didn’t answer, but Vesper made out a gap in the smoke. It was fleeting, but it was enough. The door to the family bedroom was just a few feet away. That was where Ethel had to be. Vesper winced as she made her way across the floor, swallowing pain as the hot wooden floorboards beneath her blistered her palms and knees. Through the haze of smoke, she made out a shadowy silhouette in the bedroom’s doorway. Relief washed over her.

“Ethel.” Vesper got to her feet, trying to stay low and avoid the smoke. “I’m right here, come on. We’ve got to go. We—” The words died on her lips as the silhouette stepped out of the smoke. It wasn’t Ethel standing in the doorway. It was Francis Gladwell. He was wearing exactly what he’d worn the night he’d died, and he didn’t seem to notice or care that flames were now licking his arms, singeing the sleeves of his fine woolen suit jacket. His bright green eyes were focused only on Vesper, boring into her with unwavering intensity.

“It’s your fault,” he said, lips barely moving. “This is all your fault.”

“No.” Vesper tried to scuttle back, but the fire was closing in around her. There was nowhere to go.

“It was you.” The inventor took a step forward at the same time as a large piece of the apartment’s drywall crumbled. There was a low groan, and the building shuddered again. “You killed her, and you killed me.”

“Nonononono.” Vesper clapped her hands over her ears, curling into a small ball. “Please, it wasn’t me. I—”

Vesper shot up in bed, eyes burning. She stared around her apartment, and it took a moment for her to understand that none of what she’d just seen had been real. She’d had the same nightmare with new revisions. It had been months since any variation of it had visited her in sleep, but this version … She closed her eyes and saw Francis’s horrible face, the look of disgust that’d marred his features.

“It wasn’t real,” she whispered. “None of it was real.” Still, the words haunted her.

It’s your fault. You killed her, and you killed me.

Vesper launched herself from bed, fleeing the echoes of Francis Gladwell’s phantom voice in her ears. She knelt to kindle the woodstove, then waited for it to warm the room. “I’m all right.” She hugged her arms around herself until her heartbeat slowed. “It was all in your head. It wasn’t real. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She wasn’t sure if the words were for herself, or for someone else.

By the time Vesper came down to the newsroom, the rest of its staff was already gathered. She glanced at the large clock above Tom’s office door and winced. She was five minutes late to their weekly meeting, which wasn’t like her. She offered a small awkward wave as she sat on the edge of her desk.

“Sorry,” she said. “I had a … wardrobe issue.”

Tom’s brows rose. “It’s no problem, Miss Evans. We were just beginning our morning meeting. As we’re all aware, money is tighter at the moment, so it’s important we’re resourceful…”

Vesper knew she should have been listening, but in truth, her mind felt like an overstuffed junk drawer, crammed with too many random things she was struggling to organize. The remnants of the nightmare had left her feeling rattled, but there was something else. She didn’t believe in ghosts, of that she was certain, but nearly a whole day later, she still had no satisfying explanation for what she’d seen outside of Guillermo’s. The man she’d seen had looked like Francis Gladwell. He hadn’t been wearing nice clothes, and he’d looked slightly paler and thinner, but his face had been unmistakable. And if that hadn’t been enough, the way he’d run when she’d called his name only confirmed it. But why had the inventor run?

Most importantly, how was he alive?

More than anything, she wanted to talk to Maximilian. She’d tried to find him after her run-in with Mr. Gladwell, but by the time she’d returned to Guillermo’s the sorcerer had already left. Now more than ever, she wished she could tell him what she’d seen, and ask him what he thought about it.

“Miss Evans?”

Vesper looked up. To her embarrassment, Nell, Ronaldo, Rory, and Tom were all staring at her again, this time with shared concern. She sat up straighter, trying to look alert.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

The line between Tom’s bushy eyebrows creased. “I was asking if you planned to join us at the farmer’s market this Sunday. It’s the last one of the year, so we were all going to go as a group. I thought it might be a nice way for us to support the local community.”

“Oh, right.” In truth, Vesper hadn’t heard any of that. She smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, I can’t make it. I’ve got work to do, some follow-up on a story I’m working on.”

“All right, then.” Tom’s frown deepened, but he only nodded before turning back to the rest of the staff. “For those of us who are planning to attend, let’s plan to meet here at the office at half past ten that morning, then we’ll walk together. That’s all I’ve got for now, thank you.”

Vesper stood with everyone else, shouldering her satchel as she prepared to leave, but Tom waved her down. He stopped in front of her desk, arms crossed.

“Everything all right, Evans?”

“Of course.” Vesper tried to sound cheerful. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Tom hesitated, then leaned closer. In a lower voice he said: “Vesper, you look exhausted.”

“I’m fine, Tom,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to worry—”