Chapter Fourteen
FOURTEEN
Every time Vesper had the nightmare, it began in the same place.
She recognized the living room she was standing in.
It was as cramped as it was squalid, and as always, it was burning.
She watched as the surrounding flames grew higher and higher, devouring everything in sight as they filled the tiny apartment with thick black smoke.
Down on the street, frantic voices rose; a man was shouting, asking if the building had been cleared.
There are still people up here. Don’t abandon us, please.
The man never came for her, in this version of the nightmare, or in any other version that’d come before. Vesper knew what she would hear next, but nothing ever prepared her for that second voice. It was small, faint.
“Vesper?”
She cringed. Sometimes she heard her mother, sometimes it was her father.
But in the very worst versions of this nightmare, it was Ethel’s wavering voice that called to her from the dark.
Vesper lowered herself to the floor and began to crawl.
The fire had consumed most of the apartment by now; in a matter of minutes, she knew the whole building would come down.
She needed to find a way out, but Ethel’s voice was still perfectly clear, anguished and pleading.
“Vesper, I’m scared.”
“Ethel!” Vesper tried to draw breath, but took in a lungful of smoke instead. She coughed violently, retched, then forced herself to look up again. “Ethel, follow my voice. I’ll get you out, just tell me where you are.”
“Please.” Her sister’s voice was growing fainter. “Please, it’s so hot.”
Vesper felt around, trying to gauge a path forward.
The room where she and the rest of her family slept was to the right, but the smoke had left her with no sense of direction.
She tried crawling forward, but was stopped as a large structural beam came crashing down, engulfed in flames. The building shuddered ominously.
“Ethel!” Vesper’s voice was scraped raw now. “Ethel, keep talking!”
Her sister didn’t answer, but Vesper made out a gap in the smoke.
It was fleeting, but it was enough. The door to the family bedroom was just a few feet away.
That was where Ethel had to be. Vesper winced as she made her way across the floor, swallowing pain as the hot wooden floorboards beneath her blistered her palms and knees.
Through the haze of smoke, she made out a shadowy silhouette in the bedroom’s doorway. Relief washed over her.
“Ethel.” Vesper got to her feet, trying to stay low and avoid the smoke.
“I’m right here, come on. We’ve got to go.
We—” The words died on her lips as the silhouette stepped out of the smoke.
It wasn’t Ethel standing in the doorway.
It was Francis Gladwell. He was wearing exactly what he’d worn the night he’d died, and he didn’t seem to notice or care that flames were now licking his arms, singeing the sleeves of his fine woolen suit jacket.
His bright green eyes were focused only on Vesper, boring into her with unwavering intensity.
“It’s your fault,” he said, lips barely moving. “This is all your fault.”
“No.” Vesper tried to scuttle back, but the fire was closing in around her. There was nowhere to go.
“It was you.” The inventor took a step forward at the same time as a large piece of the apartment’s drywall crumbled. There was a low groan, and the building shuddered again. “You killed her, and you killed me.”
“Nonononono.” Vesper clapped her hands over her ears, curling into a small ball. “Please, it wasn’t me. I—”
Vesper shot up in bed, eyes burning. She stared around her apartment, and it took a moment for her to understand that none of what she’d just seen had been real.
She’d had the same nightmare with new revisions.
It had been months since any variation of it had visited her in sleep, but this version …
She closed her eyes and saw Francis’s horrible face, the look of disgust that’d marred his features.
“It wasn’t real,” she whispered. “None of it was real.” Still, the words haunted her.
It’s your fault. You killed her, and you killed me.
Vesper launched herself from bed, fleeing the echoes of Francis Gladwell’s phantom voice in her ears.
She knelt to kindle the woodstove, then waited for it to warm the room.
“I’m all right.” She hugged her arms around herself until her heartbeat slowed.
“It was all in your head. It wasn’t real. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She wasn’t sure if the words were for herself, or for someone else.
By the time Vesper came down to the newsroom, the rest of its staff was already gathered. She glanced at the large clock above Tom’s office door and winced. She was five minutes late to their weekly meeting, which wasn’t like her. She offered a small awkward wave as she sat on the edge of her desk.
“Sorry,” she said. “I had a … wardrobe issue.”
Tom’s brows rose. “It’s no problem, Miss Evans. We were just beginning our morning meeting. As we’re all aware, money is tighter at the moment, so it’s important we’re resourceful…”
Vesper knew she should have been listening, but in truth, her mind felt like an overstuffed junk drawer, crammed with too many random things she was struggling to organize.
The remnants of the nightmare had left her feeling rattled, but there was something else.
She didn’t believe in ghosts, of that she was certain, but nearly a whole day later, she still had no satisfying explanation for what she’d seen outside of Guillermo’s.
The man she’d seen had looked like Francis Gladwell.
He hadn’t been wearing nice clothes, and he’d looked slightly paler and thinner, but his face had been unmistakable.
And if that hadn’t been enough, the way he’d run when she’d called his name only confirmed it. But why had the inventor run?
Most importantly, how was he alive?
More than anything, she wanted to talk to Maximilian. She’d tried to find him after her run-in with Mr. Gladwell, but by the time she’d returned to Guillermo’s the sorcerer had already left. Now more than ever, she wished she could tell him what she’d seen, and ask him what he thought about it.
“Miss Evans?”
Vesper looked up. To her embarrassment, Nell, Ronaldo, Rory, and Tom were all staring at her again, this time with shared concern. She sat up straighter, trying to look alert.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
The line between Tom’s bushy eyebrows creased. “I was asking if you planned to join us at the farmer’s market this Sunday. It’s the last one of the year, so we were all going to go as a group. I thought it might be a nice way for us to support the local community.”
“Oh, right.” In truth, Vesper hadn’t heard any of that. She smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, I can’t make it. I’ve got work to do, some follow-up on a story I’m working on.”
“All right, then.” Tom’s frown deepened, but he only nodded before turning back to the rest of the staff. “For those of us who are planning to attend, let’s plan to meet here at the office at half past ten that morning, then we’ll walk together. That’s all I’ve got for now, thank you.”
Vesper stood with everyone else, shouldering her satchel as she prepared to leave, but Tom waved her down. He stopped in front of her desk, arms crossed.
“Everything all right, Evans?”
“Of course.” Vesper tried to sound cheerful. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Tom hesitated, then leaned closer. In a lower voice he said: “Vesper, you look exhausted.”
“I’m fine, Tom,” she said quickly. “You don’t have to worry—”
“It’s not just that,” Tom went on. “I took a look at the pieces you wrote last week, particularly the profile you did on that union boss, Clifford Owen.”
Vesper stiffened. “Was it bad?”
“No,” said Tom, not unkindly. “As always, your writing is concise and clean, but the profile was missing your usual flair.”
Vesper felt a renewed sense of guilt. She’d done her best to stay on top of her assignments and duties for the Globe while also managing her work for Maximilian, but there were only so many hours in the day.
She suddenly thought of all the things Tom and Nell had done for her when she was a little girl.
They’d purchased her secondhand clothes when her old ones became too small, brought hot soups up to her apartment when she’d gotten colds or felt under the weather.
“I’m sorry, Tom.” She lowered her gaze. “I’ve had a lot going on, but I’ll find a way to make it up to you. If there’s anything you need—”
“Actually.” A small smile touched her editor’s lips. “If you have the time, there is something you could do.” He went over to one of the desks and held up an envelope. “This form needs to be taken to the Treasurer’s Office at City Hall.”
“I’m on it.” Vesper took the envelope at once and stowed it in her bag. “I’ll deliver it before the day is out.”
“Miss Evans…” For the first time, Tom looked slightly uncomfortable. “I know it’s not my business, but I noticed your clothes have changed recently.”
Vesper tensed.
“You’re a grown woman,” he continued. “And you’ve always been perfectly capable of handling yourself. I don’t need to know the details of your personal life. I really just want to make sure you’re all right. You know you can always talk to me.”
Vesper paused. What on earth did Tom think she’d gotten herself into?
Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. She thought about telling Tom everything then—about her deal with Maximilian Kite, and why she’d struck it.
She thought about telling him that the Globe was her home, and that he was the closest thing she had left to a father.
But she’d never been good at saying how she really felt.
She supposed it was just one more thing that had always made her strange.