Chapter 19
Whitby, England
Darkness lay over Whitby as Lucy unlatched the cottage door.
Mrs. Westenra had thought that a week by the seaside would do her daughter some good, would ease her restless sleep.
Yet, as the groan of the wooden door cut through the night and Lucy was greeted by the cool brush of autumn air against her thin nightdress, she did not wake from her dreaming state.
The narrow street was enclosed on either side by red-roofed cottages packed so tightly together that even the moon overhead could not break through the shadows of the slick road beneath Lucy’s feet.
Her eyes were unseeing, unable to grasp that it was past midnight, that she was out here all alone without shoes or a coat to keep her warm, but her body knew the path by now, leading her down the passageway that was almost tunnel-like in appearance.
And yet, despite the many people sleeping within the cottages all around her, none of them stirred from their slumber as the woman in white walked through the moonlight like a wraith.
Goosebumps spread across Lucy’s skin as she walked, but her mind did not absorb the feel of the cold amongst the salt-thickened air.
She did not encounter anyone on her journey, a fact that might bring her some comfort in the morning when she awoke with dirt-caked feet, understanding sinking in.
But she would have no memory of the walk, of the shadows all around her, the town eerily still despite the crashing waves at the harbor just beyond the cottages.
Lucy followed the curves of the road, passing the quaint teashop where she and her mother had visited each day of their trip so far.
And when the road led upward into a great stone staircase, she began up the steps.
As she climbed higher and higher, leaving behind the cottages and shops in the streets below, she crested the grassy hill to the left, the shore now in full view against the night sky above and beyond.
Her blonde hair swayed in the wind coming off the sea, and as two paths lay before her, she followed the one on the left, the one that would bring her to St. Mary’s Churchyard.
The church soared into the open sky above, casting a great shadow on the grassy hills below. Gravestones cut through the ground at odd angles, the cement worn smooth by decades of wind and salt.
But it was not a grave Lucy wished to visit—it was the seat she’d found solace in at the cliffside, looking down over the harbor in the midday sun.
Walking past the church, past the endless sea of gravestones, Lucy finally reached her favorite bench and sat down.
The cold of the iron seat cut through her shift to the skin beneath, but she could not feel the discomfort, nor could she feel the icy chill of her fingertips, nor her lips starting to blue.
Lucy sat there, overlooking the sea, the waves crashing down below, no one for company other than the church silently watching the lone woman.