Deadly Closeness
Two days later
I couldn’t feel my body. Wasn’t sure I even had a body. As if I’d stretched out on the ground, been covered over by soil and weeds, and not moved for a century.
Is this what it feels like to be dead?
I drew a breath, and slowly sensation worked its way out from my expanding chest to my arms and legs, fingers and toes tingling as they woke. I shifted slightly, and a deep muscle and bone ache loosed a quiet moan from my lips.
“Thank heaven.”
My eyes fluttered open at the sound of the familiar voice. Mrs. Moyle sat in a chair beside the bed—my parents’ bed. Jack’s bed, now.
“Wh—” The breathy sound was all I got out before I started to cough.
Mrs. Moyle reached for a cloth on the bedside table, dipping it into a bowl before bringing it to my lips. I had never tasted anything better than those precious drops of cool water, even with the flavor of kitchen towel.
“Don’t exert yourself, dear,” said Mrs. Moyle. “Do you want more?”
I nodded, and she brought the cloth to my lips again.
“When you feel strong enough to sit up, we can try a glass.”
“What happened?” I finally managed.
Her brow furrowed. “I want you to rest for now. We can talk about it when you’ve recovered a little. I’ll put some broth on the stove for you.”
As she was rising, I heard movement in the room beyond the folding screen, and my head turned—causing a stinging at my neck. Something pressed against my throat, and when I raised my fingers, I found a bandage had been wrapped around it.
My memory returned.
He attacked me. Held me close like a lover, then opened my throat and drank my blood. He had tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen. I had struggled to imagine him as the fiend he’d described.
I don’t need imagination now.
And yet somehow, I hadn’t wanted him to stop. Even though I knew I would die. What he had done to me—it felt like drowning in pleasure. And delicious closeness.
Deadly closeness.
Only a tiny part of me had held on to life. Felt the cool silver of my mother’s cross against my skin. The cross I’d worn because he’d asked me to.
Footsteps sounded, and Jack stepped around the screen, face lined from lack of sleep, eyes rimmed red from drink but open wide. He was my twin, and I could see both the worry and the relief in his expression.
“Why aren’t you at the mine?” was the first question that bubbled up and out.
“Sunday, dear,” Mrs. Moyle said quietly, coming back in.
“Was it him, Mina?” asked Jack in a low voice.
I tried clearing the gravel from my throat. “What?”
“Tregarrick. Was it him that attacked you?”
Jack knew? But how?
No. If he knew, he’d have said so. This was just more of the same nonsense from before. Only it’s no longer nonsense.
I glanced at Mrs. Moyle, whose gaze moved warily between Jack and me.
I recalled how Mr. Tregarrick had said I’d have a decision to make once I was home. Now I understood what he meant. Would I reveal his secret? Everything had changed since then. But also, nothing had. He wasn’t the one who’d killed Mr. Roscoe. He had almost killed me, but it wasn’t the same.
How is it not the same?
“Mr. Tregarrick?” I said finally. “No, Jack. Of course not.”
He frowned. “Then who was it?”
I moved to sit up, and Mrs. Moyle came and adjusted my pillow. “I don’t know. I didn’t see what attacked me.”
I realized my mistake too late. His frown deepened. “You don’t know it wasn’t him, then.”
“She’s bound to be confused right now,” said Mrs. Moyle, coming to my rescue. “Maybe if we let her rest—”
“He has to be stopped,” snapped Jack, fixing flinty eyes on her. “Or are you happy for him to go after someone else?”
“I am feeling foggy,” I said, trying to rescue her from the Penrose temper. “If you could tell me what happened—how I came to be here—it might help my memory.” I’d told a pack of lies already. What was the difference?
Jack folded his arms over his chest. He was simmering, but at least he hadn’t confronted me about leaving the cottage after he’d ordered me not to. He’s got his eyes on a bigger target.
“You collapsed on the road in front of The Magpie, dear,” replied Mrs. Moyle.
I’d had wits enough to go to her, at least. Roche Rock was closer to town than it was to our cottage, and Jack would have been at the mine.
“Father Kelly sent for Jack and the surgeon,” she continued, “and we brought you home. Because of the wound in your neck, Mr. Hilliard was sent for, too.”
“What did the surgeon say?” I asked, more worried for Mr. Tregarrick’s sake than my own. How he must be hating himself now. Yet if I had just left him alone like he wanted, none of this would have happened.
“Mr. Perry doesn’t quite know what to think, I’m afraid.
Your wound, though in the same place, is very different from the solicitor’s.
It’s neat and small. He doesn’t believe it was made by an animal.
Though there was no blood on your skin or clothing, the surgeon does believe you suffered blood loss as Mr. Roscoe did.
The constable thinks you managed somehow to escape your attacker, else . . .”
“You’d be dead, too,” said Jack, because Mrs. Moyle didn’t seem up to it. “Probably he was just in less of a hurry this time.”
I looked to Mrs. Moyle, hoping for a different answer, but she said, “The constable does seem to have the idea now that a man—one who is not well in his mind—may be responsible for both attacks.”
I’d gone to Mr. Tregarrick to warn him about the gossip in the village, and instead of helping, I’d made things worse.
Grasping, I said, “Our mother used to talk about fairies on the heath, and she also used to say some fairies are vicious. I know we’re not meant to believe in them these days, but—”
“Fairies!” Jack let out a snort, though as children he and I had both believed Mum’s stories.
If he’d been through what I had in the past week, he’d probably be less likely to scoff.
“Might as well call it an actual wolf,” he said, “like some of the dullards at the tavern. It’s Tregarrick. Mark my words.”
“But why, Jack? Why would he do such a thing?”
“You heard what Mrs. Moyle said. Because he’s not right in the head! Probably runs in his family, and it’s the reason for those old stories.”
The fact that Jack was so close to right didn’t keep me from wanting to have the last word about it.
But before I could fire back, Mrs. Moyle, in a tone of motherly authority, said, “I don’t think this is good for Mina right now.
It’s the Sabbath, Jack. Why don’t you take your day of rest, and let me take care of your sister. We can talk of all this later.”
He gave a dissatisfied grunt, but he went back around the screen without protest. I heard him clomping about for a minute or two, and then the front door opened and closed.
I sighed.
Mrs. Moyle gave me a smile tinged with worry, and then she excused herself to take the broth off the stove. I also heard her bolt the front door, a thing we rarely bothered to do.
Jack was going to be impossible now, and even kind Mrs. Moyle would forbid me from going to The Magpie until this mystery—though no mystery to me—was cleared up.
I couldn’t blame her for that, but I didn’t know how I was going to just sit behind a bolted door while everyone was out trying to find someone to blame for the attacks.
I was afraid of what would happen to Mr. Tregarrick.
Which means I’m the one who’s not right in the head.
I also feared the attack might have left him more dangerous. He hadn’t drunk blood in many years. Would his thirst be worse now? Or perhaps the blood might lessen his thirst; he’d made it clear his vital essence was a poor substitute.
Mrs. Moyle came back with a steaming cup, then set it on the bedside table before opening the window curtain partway to let in some daylight.
“I’m sorry about Jack,” I said. “He wasn’t always so . . .”
“Angry?”
“Mmm.” My hand shook as I lifted the cup, but Mrs. Moyle had wisely filled it only halfway. The broth was salty and satisfying.
“I think people sometimes become angry when they feel powerless,” she said. “First the two of you lost your parents, and two days ago he almost lost you. He has been worried sick about you, Mina.”
“I suppose finding someone to blame makes him feel better.” I couldn’t help sounding bitter.
My employer eyed me keenly. “You can tell me the truth, you know.”
Heart missing a beat, I met her gaze. She had been a trusted friend. In some ways, like a mother even. How I wished I could confide in her! But I feared this truth would be too much for her.
“There is more I could say,” I replied carefully. “I’ve learned things in the past week that have shocked me, but they are very private and were shared only for my protection. One thing I’m sure of, though—Mr. Tregarrick isn’t going around attacking people on the heath any more than I am.”
I held my breath as she continued to study me, then let it out as she nodded. “I believe you,” she said. “But Mina, you almost died. And I can’t help wondering now about your fall on the heath last week—there are things about that I know you’ve yet to tell me.”
“Yes,” I agreed, nodding sheepishly.
“Jack is right. This could happen to someone else.”
“I know, and I believe Mr. Tregarrick himself has the best chance of preventing it.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why would that be?”
What could I answer without exposing him, or terrifying her? I settled for, “He understands the creature that’s doing it.”
Eyes going wide, she said, “Why not tell the constable, then? Wouldn’t it be better if they worked together?”
I sipped my broth and thought about that.
“It likely would be, except I don’t think Mr. Hilliard—or anyone else—would believe Mr. Tregarrick’s story.
And since they’re already looking for a man who’s not right in his mind, telling the constable would probably make matters worse.
They might arrest him, and I don’t know if they can find or stop the killer without him. ”