The Mirror at Northmere (Everbound Chronicles #3)

Chapter One

The lane had not been travelled in some time. Snow lay in the wheel ruts undisturbed, at least a week old, crusted and grey where the wind had scoured it, soft where the hedgerows gave shelter.

Elizabeth kept to the frozen edge, where the ground was firmest. Her boots, made for London streets and ill-suited to a northern road in January, punched through the crust with every third or fourth step.

Each time, the snow swallowed her to the ankle.

Each time, the effort of pulling free cost something she could ill afford.

She had walked since first light. The carrier from Matlock had set her down at a crossroads two miles south of the valley.

The man had taken her coin, not met her gaze, said nothing—the transaction she required.

No questions. No name given to the driver of the next coach or the woman at the last inn.

She had paid in small coin at every stop since Nottingham, because small coin left no trace.

She had given a different surname each time, for repetition was a thread, and threads led backwards to places she could not permit discovery.

The bag was heavy. She had kept it in her hands since Hertfordshire, for letting it go—even to strap it to a cart or hand it to a porter—was a separation she could not risk until she reached Jane.

Eleven days since Longbourn. Eleven mornings rising before the household that had given her lodging. Eleven departures timed to the mail coach schedule so she could board and disembark between the regular stops. Eleven evenings spent choosing the busiest inn, because a busy inn remembered no one.

The soles of her boots had worn through at the outer edges. Her dress hem had stiffened with mud no brushing could remove. The muscles across her shoulders had knotted into a strain so constant it announced itself with every step and refused dismissal.

Below, the valley opened without warning.

The lane crested a low ridge between two stands of bare oak, revealing a bowl of white and grey, steep-sided, the slopes dark with leafless trees, the bottom flat and luminous with snow.

A house stood on the far side, set into the hillside above the valley floor—large, stone-built, its chimneys cold.

Below it, occupying the valley’s flat centre like a plate of silver laid upon white linen, shone the water.

She stopped. The wind, which had pushed at her back for the last mile, now struck from the valley’s open end, carrying the smell of cold stone, wet earth, something mineral—something clean and old, like water that had travelled far underground.

The mere was perhaps a quarter of a mile across.

She could take it whole within her vision, and it remained still—so still that the sky lay upon its surface in perfect reflection, cloud for cloud, the bare branches of the trees along the near shore mirrored with such fidelity the water was less like water than like a second world laid open beneath the first, identical and inverted.

Jane had written that the path to her cottage lay along the valley’s western edge. She could see where it would run—skirting the mere, climbing the far slope, vanishing into the trees beyond the house. An hour’s walk at most, if the ground held.

The ground between her and that path crossed the mere’s southern margin, where snow covered the bank, the bank met ice, ice met water—no visible line between them.

The snow ran all the way to the centre unbroken.

It looked like a meadow. It looked like the safest, flattest, most walkable surface she had encountered since Nottingham.

Her legs were finished. They functioned—the muscles obeyed the commands her will supplied—but eleven days of hard travel on insufficient food had drained her reserves to a measure that was low.

The path around the western edge would add half a mile, but crossing the mere’s margin would save it. The snow was unbroken, thick, packed by wind into a surface that bore her weight when she tested it with one boot. Solid.

She descended.

The slope was steeper than it had been from the ridge.

The snow deepened in the lee of the valley wall, the trees that had stood sparse from above closing around her in a colonnade of grey trunks, their bark slick with frozen damp.

Beneath the canopy, light changed—dimmer, flatter—the sky visible only through scattered gaps between bare branches.

The wind dropped. The quiet that replaced it was not absence but presence, like the calm of a still winter water, a hush that occupied the air as cold did the skin.

She reached the bank. The mere was closer now, intimate in a way it had not been from above.

From the ridge, the water had been a blank mirror framed by white hills, reflecting sky and trees.

From here, if she had looked straight down, she would have seen her own face staring back from the surface of a world she did not know.

She did not look down. She gauged the distance to the western path—the bank, the margin, the stretch of snow-covered flatness she needed to cross.

The surface was solid. She tested it. Stepping from the bank onto the snow that covered the mere’s edge, the snow held.

Her weight was nothing to it. A second step, a third—the ground beneath was firm, the crust unyielding—a fourth, a fifth, the snow solid as flagstone, the crossing as ordinary as walking through a field, a safe field, flat and simple.

Twelve steps from the bank, the ground vanished.

Her right foot sank first—a lurch, a sick tilt of the world—and she grasped for something, anything, her arms flung wide, fingers raking across the ice shelf as it split beneath her with a long wet shriek of breaking surface.

Nothing to hold. Nothing solid. The ice tore apart in every direction as she plunged through the centre.

She screamed. The sound broke from her before she could stay it, raw and high on the frozen air, cut short by the water—the water swallowing her to the thighs in one gulp, so cold her lungs seized, so cold her vision whitened, so cold that for one blind instant she was nowhere, she was nothing, a body with no name in black water and she could not breathe, she could not breathe, she could not—

Her left foot found stone—slick, uneven, spring-worn. Her right foot found nothing—the bottom dropping away into dark she could not see. The unequal footing wrenched her sideways. Her left leg, the one that found the stone, took her full weight at an angle the bone was not built to bear.

The sound rose through her own body—not through the air—but through her bones.

A wet, wrong noise, like a green branch bent beyond its limit, and then another, sharper—a thing tearing that should not tear, and her leg ceased to be a leg.

It became a place—a screaming place below her left knee sending signals her mind could not resolve except as wrong, wrong, wrong—

She fell. Sideways into the water, her shoulder and head striking the ice shelf, which cracked but held, her mouth open against the frozen surface, sounds coming from her that were not words or screams, something more animal.

Her left leg lay beneath her at an angle that made her stomach lurch upward.

She could not look at it. She could not look.

The water around it was warm where the buried spring broke upward through limestone—warm in a way that was wrong, warm with something from her now mingling in it, and the warmth spread in the black water like ink.

The pain was a living thing. It pulsed. It bit.

It chewed through her from knee upward, eating muscle and nerve with a patience that mocked the frantic pounding of her heart, every movement—every slight movement of hip, weight, the broken leg’s angle—biting down harder, and the world slipped into bright white nothing and returned dimmer than before.

A hot wave of nausea rolled from her stomach, and she retched against the ice, bile and nothing, her body fighting to turn itself inside out while the leg screamed and the cold closed from every side, and she could not—she could not remain here.

The water reached her hip. The cold reached her bones.

If she did not move, she would perish here, and the mere would hide the evidence, and no one would find her until the spring thaw, and Jane would never know what had happened, and—

Move. Now!

She braced her right hand on the ice shelf. Pushed. Her body rose an inch, two inches, the left leg dragging beside her like wreckage—broken and heavy and sending a white-hot shriek with every inch gained.

She hauled herself onto the shelf. The ice held.

She pulled forward with her elbows, fingernails cracking against the frozen surface, dragging herself on her stomach across the snow she had trusted only minutes before.

Her sound was continuous now, a low torn keening rising through clenched teeth with every pull.

Behind her, in the water, something trailed from her leg that she would not look at. Would not.

She pulled again. Her hip cleared the water.

She kept going—hand over shaking hand, elbows grinding, her right knee pushing forward while the left leg followed like wreckage behind a sinking ship—until she was out.

Entirely out. Lying flat on the frozen margin, soaked through, the sky above her immense, white, indifferent.

She was perhaps ten feet from the bank. A distance she had covered in three strides going the other way.

Her body shook. Not the controlled shiver of cold—but full convulsions, her torso jerking, teeth clattering hard enough to taste copper.

The leg still screamed. The warm wetness still spread beneath her skirt, slower now in the air but unending, and the smell reached her—iron, salt, the scent of something that should be inside a body and was not—and nausea rose again.

She turned her head, retched, breathed, retched, and lay still.

The bank. Ten feet. She had to reach it or perish here.

She crawled. Each inch a negotiation between the part that could move and the part dragging her down into darkness behind her eyes, where pain could claim her whole and uncontested. She won the negotiation ten times. Ten victories, each smaller and costlier.

The bank came beneath her hands—frozen earth, dead grass, solid world—and she dragged herself up against a birch trunk and sat.

Sitting sent a fresh bolt through the leg, white obscuring her vision, and she heard herself make a sound—a wounded animal’s cry when it ceases to run and knows the hunter still follows.

She could not stop making it, could not shape it into words or a call for aid.

Her dress was already frozen to her skin. Wool, soaked through, stiffened in the wind, drawing tight, producing discomfort almost comic—almost—because the leg was so much worse that anything less barely mattered. She had broken it—badly, if the flash of blood on the snow meant anything.

The house rose above her, up the far slope, its chimneys still cold, windows dark.

Stone, substantial, built for a family of means—now standing in the winter afternoon with the disreputable air of an estate outliving its owner’s interest. Could she reach it?

Not walking. Walking was over. Crawling, the way she had crawled from the ice to the bank, if the cold held long enough.

The cold would not last.

Wet clothing drew heat from the body faster than it could be replaced. Her reserves, low before stepping on the ice, were draining now at a rate unworthy of calculation. Calculation was for those with options. She had one—to be found. Being found required someone to find her.

There was no one.

The mere lay at her feet, still as something that had never breathed—not stillness but absence of any motion that could be called alive, a surface that mimicked calm as glass mimics water.

The trees stood bare against the white sky.

The house above was dark. The lane she had walked was empty.

The cold pressed her hands and feet and rose through her chest toward the centre.

She closed her eyes.

She had told no one where she was going.

Mr Gardiner believed she travelled safely to Scotland with a manservant.

Jane was the only one who might consider her destination and expected no arrival date.

The carrier who left her at the crossroads had already forgotten her face—she had paid him to forget it.

Forgetting was what she bought at every stop on this road.

Anonymity. Invisibility. The absence of any trail tracing back to a house in Hertfordshire.

She dug her fingers into frozen earth and held on. Not to the ground—to herself. To the discipline that upheld her for eleven days, that kept the locked room locked, that kept every truth she dared not face sealed behind a door she refused to open while moving…

She was no longer moving. She sat against a tree with a broken leg in a valley chosen because no one would look there.

No one would look here.

No one was looking here. What had been the plan was now the trap.

Something moved on the slope above.

She gasped—a sound—boots on frozen ground, the grinding of a heavy foot compressing crusted snow. Coming down the slope. Coming toward the water. The rhythm was unhurried, a man walking this path at his leisure, with no urgency.

He had not seen her—perhaps never would.

The birch she leaned against stood in a cluster of three, the light failing—the January afternoon waning toward early dusk that would swallow the valley within the hour.

She lay low, still, dressed in dark wool chosen for this—to be unremarked, overlooked, to pass through the world without snagging attention.

She ought to cry out, but all that passed her throat were whimpering sobs, gasps that never flowered into words, and the terrible tremble that seized every muscle.

She could not move. She could not hide. She could not run—the answer to every problem on this journey, the first, last, and only strategy. Run. Keep moving. The strategy was over, slain by twelve steps on frozen lake and the treason of warm water rising through limestone.

The footsteps approached. The groan of packed snow, the snap of frozen twig beneath boot, and behind it the valley’s silence—not silence at all but the mere—the mere in its terrible patience, the mirror lying flat and still, waiting to show whoever looked into it exactly what they were.

She was a woman frozen to the ground with a broken leg and a name that could fit a warrant.