Chapter 15 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Iwake up cold and alone to the sound of sloshing liquid.
I blink up at the ceiling, but I can't see it. It's much too dark in here for that.
Gushing water sounds as thunder rumbles through the building, making the walls quake.
I swing my feet to the floor, immediately sinking in cold wetness up to my calves.
The icy liquid sends a shock torpedoing through my body, and I freeze to the spot as my breath lodges in my throat.
I yelp into the dark, my voice hitting the walls and bouncing back at me.
Panic squeezes my chest as I slosh through the water to the door, the freezing cold fighting against my legs. My heartbeat throbs in my ears as my hands blindly comb the walls in search of the light switch.
"Come on," I mutter, blinking into nothingness as I fervently comb the wall.
An entire minute passes, maybe even more, before I finally find the switch.
I flick it on, and beneath the light overhead, the sound of my harsh breaths is cut by the soft gurgle of rain continuing to slip beneath the door.
The light casts eerie shadows across the walls and the surface of the pooling water, quickly rising up my legs.
A moment later, the light bulb in the center of the room explodes in a fiery burst with a sharp pop, sending sparks of electricity showering down.
I scream as the sound of rushing currents grows louder, filling the room with a relentless low roar. As I blink into the darkness, I feel it climbing higher up my calves and then almost to my knees. The water is merciless, drilling icicles into my bones and making my teeth chatter.
"Help!" I choke out, finding the doorknob in the dark and trying it, but it's no use. As always, it's locked from the outside, caging me in my frozen tomb.
"Help!" I call again. "Help, please!"
My voice splinters with my shivering as I use both fists to pound on the door. I scream again, my calls for help cut only by the sound of my ragged breathing and the flood rushing beneath the doorjamb.
Water climbs to my knees and rises as my fingers fumble against the slick, wet surface of the door. My nails scratch in vain as I scream again for help.
What if no one hears me?
What if it rises too high?
What if I drown?
Each terrifying thought tightens the grip of fear around my middle as the bed on the other side of the room groans with the rising tide. Cold needles my skin, and my shivers turn to convulsions, slicing my shouts into syllables.
"Hello?" someone calls abruptly from outside the door.
"H … h … help!" I croak. "Help!!"
Lightning rumbles above the convent, and the building shakes once more as I come face-to-face with a flustered nun who forces the door to my room open with all her might.
Her black habit is soaked, and she's lost her coif and veil.
Her wide eyes meet mine as her flashlight swings wildly, its beam ping-ponging across the walls.
She grabs my hand, her grip firm and urgent, before she pulls me outside into the hallway.
My bare feet struggle to find purchase as the water climbs up my thighs and higher still. Together, we wade through the quickly flooding corridor. The beam of her flashlight ricochets as we push toward the stairwell.
Finally, we make our way to the spiral stone staircase. Rain cascades down each step as thunder claps outside the building.
Together, the nun and I climb against the running water to the first floor. Once we arrive at the main floor, where the floodwater is only ankle high, she turns to me.
"Stay here," she shouts over the storm before pushing me by the shoulders to stand in the great hall. I plant myself where she left me, squeezing my eyes shut as cold liquid rushes across my bare feet.
I am alive.
I didn't drown.
I am alive.
I stay there, reminding myself of the fact and trying to calm my galloping heart, until a light shines through one of the tall windows near the front of the building. The bright beacon lands on me, and I squint my eyes against the assault.
Is it someone trying to help?
Shielding my eyes with my hand, I wade through the shallow tide and toward the light. Blinking against the brightness, my vision clears to make out a truck, its headlights shining outside the windowpane. I cup my hands on either side of my face to get a better look, but it's no use.
Thunder crashes as lightning strikes outside the window, splitting a nearby tree in two. The impact is dazzlingly bright, and I stumble away, shielding my eyes.
As my vision clears, I hear voices over the storm, and I wade across the wet floor, trying to find them. Has the sister come back?
Finally, I spot Father Ezra down a dark intersecting hall, across from another figure nearly lost to the shadows. In my excitement, I almost call to him, but then I hear Reverend Mother's voice, and her words silence me.
"We need to take care of this now!" she shouts, stepping closer to him so I can get a clear look at her face. "God's work waits for no storm!"
Father Ezra's reply is firm but edged with frustration. "We can't risk everything in this weather, Georgina! It's too dangerous!"
My mind reels, trying to make sense of what I'm hearing.
What work are they talking about? What is so important that it can't wait until we at least don't all drown?
Without warning, the storm picks up again, sending wind howling around the building, and I can't hear them anymore, though the occasional flash of lightning illuminates their serious faces. They're still arguing when two nuns and Professor Thatcher arrive in the great hall behind me.
I look over at them to find Professor Thatcher dressed in sweatpants and a white t-shirt that hugs his biceps.
Water specks his dark hair and drips from his clothes as he scans the room, quickly assessing the situation.
His gaze lands on me, and in an instant, I feel exposed.
I'm only wearing my white nightdress, and it may be loose and without adornments, but I am soaking wet.
The clinging fabric leaves nothing to the imagination, and I swear I see his gaze linger on me before Reverend Mother arrives next to us.
I cross my arms over my chest and look back to where she stood with Father Ezra, but he's gone.
Where did he go?
One of the nuns, her face lined with worry, asks, "Are you alright, Mr. Thatcher?"
Professor nods, brushing a hand through his damp hair.
"I'm fine," he answers gruffly. "Just annoyed. The storm threw a branch through the window in my quarters."
Reverend Mother looks at him and then at me, but she appears distracted, her gaze flicking to the front of the building and then back to us again.
"Professor Thatcher," she calls to him, "would you escort Ms. Immorier to the second floor, please? Ensure she is warm and safe. We have much to clean down here."
"Sure," he agrees with a venomous smile before cocking his head at me. "Come on, little troublemaker."
Hurrying past the sisters already busying themselves with cleanup, I follow Professor Thatcher through a series of narrow, winding corridors to a staircase.
We climb, finally finding dry land on the stairwell, and reach the second floor.
Trying to stop my shivering, I follow him in silence past bare walls until we arrive at a closed door.
"My office," he says gruffly, opening the door and holding it for me.
I step past him, tucking between him and the doorjamb, and he follows me inside, beelining to the fireplace.
He drops to a knee before it and quickly strikes a match, lighting the logs inside of it.
The heat of the crackling flames soothes my chilled skin as Professor Thatcher rises to his feet and walks to close the wooden shutters of the window, shielding us from the storm still raging outside.
As I settle in front of the fire, attempting to warm my hands, he discards his own wet shirt in disgust, letting it drop in a wet ball to the floor.
The light of the flames caresses the ridges of his muscular chest, and I avert my eyes quickly as my heart lodges in my throat.
He turns and pulls something out of an armoire and tosses it at me.
Sweatpants and a sweatshirt land in my lap as he shucks a hoodie over his head, quickly rolling it down over the thatch of dark hair dusting his abdomen.
"Change," he tells me, the word tight and gruff. "You're shivering. They're too big for you, but they are dry and warm."
With that, he leaves the room, and I realize he's stepping out of his own office to give me privacy.
I change quickly, and he's right, the clothes are too big, so I do the best I can.
I cinch the sweatpants tight with the drawstring and let the shirt fall loosely over it.
I take my drenched night dress and hang it on a coat rack.
It looks ridiculous, like a dripping, white ghost, but it's my only option.
"You can come in now," I call to Professor Thatcher, and the door opens immediately.
Firelight winks across the walls, making the room feel almost magical as I take a seat on the settee.
I rub my hands together and wiggle my toes, bringing warmth back into them, as I sneak a glance around his office.
It's not sterile and frigid like I would have imagined for him.
Instead, it's cozy and eclectic, imbued with the scent of bourbon and aged paper.
A half-empty decanter next to an old globe reflects the firelight like liquid gold while books line the walls on rich mahogany shelves.
Framed maps and antique prints hang around the room, each one meticulously placed, and I realize he took care in making this place his own, even when he didn't want to be here.
The settee, a deep emerald green with gold trim, is invitingly worn, and I imagine it's the perfect spot to curl up with a book.
Not that I should be imagining anything in this room.
Professor Thatcher settles in a chair across from me.