Page 48

Even if it kills her.

Despite the sun, I can’t help but feel a shadow fall over me. The ridge of the Stiperstones rises above the moor in the distance, watching me with its severe, craggy face. I wonder if Mephistopheles is out there, his infernal eyes fixed on me.

I push away the thought and press on towards the paddock at the top of the grassy knoll. It’s quiet as I approach—no bleating of ewes, no chatter of birdsong. The same silence that has fallen over Caelfeld appears to have spread to Oakhill Farm.

“Mr Harrison? Alex?”

My voice shatters the stillness, making me wince. But nobody calls back. Nothing stirs except the wind rustling through the hedges.

The hedges. My heart stills. The soil looks freshly dug in patches, and when I peer closer, I notice thorns amongst the dense green leaves.

Dog rose. Alex Harrison must have taken my advice.

I hurry closer, searching the foliage for any remaining flowers. It’s already late in the summer, and some might have been lost when the farmer transplanted them from the hedgerows. But all I need is one bloom.

I rummage through the thorns, grateful for the thick sleeves of my coat protecting my arms from scratches. There. Nestled between the jagged-edged leaves is a cluster of petals so pale a pink they look white. The scent drifts through the air, its sweetness making my eyes water.

A wild rose, waiting to be plucked.

I reach in and grab it by the stem, only to whip my hand back as a sharp pain slices through my fingers. The thorns have sunk into my skin, leaving my thumb oozing with blood.

“Damn it!” I press my thumb to my lips, sucking the blood welling from the cut. My mouth fills with the tang of iron, and suddenly I’m back in Wreymoor Hall, my lips wet, Iestyn’s mouth on mine. The memory curdles with how much I reviled him, how much I wanted him in spite of it.

I reach for the rose again, droplets of blood falling on the pale, silken petals as I thread my hand around the thorns. Another barb sinks into my skin as I grasp the stem, and I let out a hiss.

The rose doesn’t want to be broken. It resists, cutting my fingers bloody as I grapple with it. But eventually, I wrench it free, snapping the stem as I tear it from where it grew.

Its blood-soaked petals stare at me, defiant and accusing. This is wrong. All of it. The churchyard bone, the gwyllion’s teeth, the elder branch, the devil’s quartzite… I have bruised and bled to collect these wretched things, yet I can’t help but fear the worst is still to come.

An anxious bray carries through the air, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance around the paddock, but I see no trace of the farmer’s ewes. The grass is growing tall, the bare patches of soil undisturbed by footprints.

It’s empty. No, worse than that—it’s deserted.

I scramble away from the hedge, clutching the rose in my bloodied hand. The farmhouse buildings are nearby. Perhaps the farmer moved the flock into one of the barns to protect them from whatever was preying on them.

The path is quiet as I approach. All I can hear is the rattle of my own breathing muffled in my ears. If Lottie was right, if something did happen here…

A clop of hooves startles me from my thoughts, and I round the corner to find a chestnut-coloured mare circling the yard. Her head bobs fretfully as she trots, and I realise with a lurch she’s tacked and bridled.

There’s still no sign of Alex Harrison.

“Easy now.” I reach for the reins, slowing the mare’s gait until she comes to a halt. Her long ears twitch uneasily, and I give her nose a reassuring rub as she stares at me with dark brown eyes. “That’s it. You’re all right, girl.”

She lets out a weak whinny and nudges my arm. Something has spooked her.

“You look like you’ve just come from a ride.” I pat the saddle pad. “Where did your…”

I stop as my fingers come away from the saddle sticky and red.

No. No, I’m too late.

I quickly lead the horse to the side of the yard and slip her reins over one of the posts. The air is deathly still. My heart hammers against my ribs so loud I’m certain if anyone else were around, they’d hear each resounding thump.

That’s when I feel it—the same shiver I felt the moment I arrived in Caelfeld. It crawls across my skin, turning the hairs on my neck rigid. It’s a whisper, a warning I can’t ignore.

I clench my fingers around the rose, not caring that its thorns dig into me deeper. I should pretend I never saw any of this. I should return to Wreymoor Hall and free Iestyn from his curse.

But I know what that shiver means, and I can’t ignore it.