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Right. I shan’t tarry. The hymnal’s what I’ve come for, and I intend to be quick about it. The chapel’s ancient oak door is heavy. I pull hard and it creaks open a sliver to allow me passage. Inside it’s murky and silent. Anything could be waiting. My heartbeat quickens. I prop open the door with a rock and proceed.
The inky blue of late dusk surges against the stained-glass windows, casting patterns on the floor. My lamp sends shards of light through them. I find no hymnals at the back, so I’m forced to make my way down the center aisle, away from the doors and quick escape. I swing my lamp over the pews from side to side until at last I spy what I’m after in the middle of one. A sudden gust of wind bangs the door shut, and I drop the hymnal and hear it slide under the pew.
Blast.
Heart beating even faster now, I crouch on the floor, feeling for the book until I have it. A voice, hard as fingernails rapping on metal, sounds in the dark.
“Stay….”
I whip around so quickly the flame wobbles in the lamp. “Who’s there?”
The chapel is still, save for the wind that gusts against the now closed door. Hurriedly, I grab the hymnal and scurry up the aisle, breathing hard.
“You must not go….”
I turn myself around in a mad whirl. My lamp casts angry shadows on the walls.
“I know you’re here. Show yourself!”
“The woods be not safe now.”
The windows buckle and shift. The stained-glass images move. They’re alive.
“We would keep you safe, Chosen One….”
The voice comes from the odd window panel, the one of the angel in armor brandishing a bloody sword in one hand and a severed gorgon’s head in the other. At least, I have always taken the icon to be an angel; now, in the deepening dark, I am no longer certain of anything. The angel grows taller inside its glass prison. Its body bows the front of the window, and its face looms like the moon.
“They are in the woods….”
“You’re not real,” I say aloud. The gorgon’s head drips blood onto the chapel’s floor. I hear it hit in sickening drops, as steady as rain. Bile rises in my throat. I breathe through my nose, swallowing it in burning gulps.
“If you be sacrificed in the Winterlands, the magic falls to them, and all is lost. Do not leave the chapel!”
It’s too late. Abandoning my lamp and the hymnal, I bolt for the door. I throw my body against it and it flies open. Night’s army has come with a vengeance. I can barely see my way, and I curse myself for leaving the lamp. The dogs have not ceased their barking.
I rush down the path, taking very little care. A tree slaps me in the face and I look round. I gasp for breath. Something is moving in the trees. Two men step out from behind a large fir, and I scream. It takes me a moment to recognize them—Tambley and Johnny, Mr. Miller’s missing men.
“You frightened me to death,” I sputter. My heart thumps as quickly as a rabbit’s.
“Sorry, miss,” Johnny says, his voice calm.
“We didn’t mean no ’arm,” young Tambley adds. There is something odd about them. They seem as inconsequential as dust, two shimmers of men, and when they step forward into a stream of moonlight, I could swear I see their bones glowing beneath their skin.
“You’ve given us all quite a scare,” I say, moving back. “They said you’d gone.”
“Gone?” Johnny repeats without seeming to understand.
The trees shake with the fluttering of birds’ wings. Several crows perch on the branches, watching silently. A grim voice inside speaks its fear to me: Hide, Gemma.
“You should report to Mr. Miller straightaway. He’s worried about you.”
My hand strays out, searching for the trunk of a tree. A sound comes from my right. I slide my eyes toward the sound and there is Johnny. He was before me a second ago. How could he possibly…?
Tambley points a finger at me. His bones seem to shine under the surface of his skin, which is as pallid as a fish at the bottom of a pond.
“We’re back now,” he says. “For you.”
The birds raise a clamor with their chilling caws. Johnny’s hand grips my cape. I slip the clasp and let the cape drop in his fingers. I waste no time. I turn and scramble for the path. I run hard and fast the way I have just come, for they block the way to Spence. The wind rises behind me, bringing the sounds of cackles and whispers, rat scratchings, and the flapping of wings. The crows’ cries are like the screeches of hell. For all I know, I am screaming with them.
