Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Minerva climbed the narrow path that wound along the cliff, the drop to one side steep and unforgiving.
She glimpsed Kitty and Thom up ahead where the path ran straight along the headland, their pace unhurried.
She slowed to let the distance between them grow.
They deserved their privacy and she needed her own, her thoughts tumbling one against the next.
She thought about the chemist’s tales, about the two brothers and the dreams that walked between sleep and wake, and about the cellar and what dwelled there.
Then she thought about Dashiell Penrose, had been thinking about him since their first encounter outside Mr. Granger’s offices.
Those thoughts had become more frequent ever since he had appeared at her door with a borrowed book he readily admitted was a pretext, and the audacity to touch her and make her want more.
He posed a danger to her, though not in any ordinary sense.
She did not fear that he would turn to her with violence or rage.
She feared the swift, treacherous awareness he awakened in her whenever he drew near.
The unsettling pull of him. The way her mind both sharpened and blurred beneath the weight of his gaze.
He disturbed her composure far too easily, and what frightened her most was the knowledge that some part of her did not wish to resist it at all.
The path curved ahead and she lost sight of Kitty and Thom entirely.
Below, the sea stretched, choppy and wild, the waves striking the rocks with a steady, punishing rhythm.
Of a sudden, the wind picked up, vicious now, tearing at her clothing, stinging her skin, coming not in gusts but in a steady, unrelenting force that churned and swirled around her, buffeting her from all sides.
Then, without warning, the tumult ceased, the wind going quiet. Minerva stumbled to a stop, the sudden silence pressing down on her, thick and unnatural. The only sound was the rasp of her own breathing.
Someone watched her. She felt it, ill will and malice directed wholly at her.
Whispers rose around her, sound without words or meaning, reaching inside her—
No. They did not rise around her. They came from within.
And then she took a step forward though she did not make the decision to move. She was aware of this with cold clarity, her feet already carrying her toward the cliff’s edge. With a gasp, she willed herself to stop, to be still. But her feet betrayed her, taking yet another step forward.
Horror and fear curdled in her veins.
The pendant burned against her skin, warmth escalating to an unbearable heat that radiated outward, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, accompanied by an uncomfortable prickling that scratched along her nape then clawed its way down her back to the base of her spine.
Her breath came in short, harsh rasps as a figure appeared before her at the very edge of the drop.
She could not say if it was man or woman, only that something stood there where the ground fell away, the shape shifting, thinning, unraveling, reforming, never quite resolving into anything she could name.
Slowly, the thing turned its head. Dark hollows painted the suggestion of features stretched thin, and in place of eyes were endless black holes that tunneled deep, clear to her soul. Revulsion oozed through her.
In her mind, she recoiled. But, somehow, her body denied her will and she took a step closer.
Panic surged, tasting like chalk and ash and copper on her tongue. Her heart jerked and strained, a bird desperate to escape its cage.
Trembling, she stumbled back. She did. She meant to…
But her traitorous body carried her yet another step forward, her hand lifting toward the monstrous thing before her.
It called to her without words, summoning her without sound.
Willing herself to be still, she arched her back, arched away even as her feet carried her a single shuffling step closer.
The thing before her shifted again. For an instant, she saw not one figure but two, locked together, forms breaking and reforming as though they could not exist separately and could not bear to exist together.
One surged toward her with a malevolence and hunger she felt in her chest. The other strained away, fighting the same pull it exerted.
Desperation gnawed at her with little rat teeth as she willed herself to flee. But she could not, instead held in thrall by the thing that summoned her. She howled but no sound left her lips, her horror trapped inside her, clawing at her insides, desperate to break free.
The wind surged. The world narrowed to the edge of the cliff. The pull was unbearable, downward, outward, toward the waiting sea.
And yet, she bore it, fingers clutching the burning pendant as with violent effort, she wrenched herself away, stumbling then righting herself, dizzy with fear and horror.
Behind her, from somewhere along the curving path, came the sound of running feet. Far, far away.
“Min!” Kitty’s arm came around her waist from the side.
Minerva felt ripped from herself, adrift and confused. She looked at her friend and whispered, “What is that?”
“Look at me, Min. Are you ill?” Kitty said.
The pendant gave a final, scalding throb, then went cold. The air eased. The pressure that had borne down on her thinned. She glanced up, searching for the thing of horror that had revealed itself to her… the figures, the struggle—
There was nothing there. Only the empty path and the long drop to the rocks and waves.
The strength went out of her all at once, like water draining from the scullery sink. She locked her knees to stay upright, her whole body suddenly hollow, wrung out, as though every reserve she possessed had been drawn off and poured away, leaving the vessel empty.
“No, not ill…” Minerva’s grip tight around the now cool pendant. Slowly, she forced her fingers to uncurl.
A few steps behind Kitty was Thom. He stood very still, his cap in his hands, his face the color of chalk. He glanced at the place the figure had been, then looked at Minerva, his lips compressing in a tight line.
“Are you having an attack of nerves?” Kitty rested her palm against Minerva’s cheek, her hazel eyes shadowed with worry.
She knew about them. Of course, she did.
Kitty knew when the fear crawled free of its cage and left Minerva gasping for breath and drenched in sweat.
What she did not know was that the fear was always there, lurking, that Minerva was forever engaged in battle with her secret terrors.
But what she had seen here, felt here, was not that. It was…something else entirely.
After her parents’ deaths, she had imagined she saw the broken bodies and the blood, that she had stared into the horses’ sightless eyes.
She had seen the coachman, sprawled unmoving on the ground.
She had seen her parents’ shattered limbs.
But she had been aware even in the depths of her horror that what she saw was not real.
She had understood that in her despondence and pain, she had imagined their lifeless bodies, created an image of what the scene might have looked like, dreamed of it at night and summoned it even by day.
But some part of her had always been aware of the line between her fears and reality. That was how she had learned to manage it.
What she had seen just now could not be managed. It had not been imagined. Whatever it was, it had been real.
She looked at Kitty’s worried face.
“Yes,” Minerva lied with a shiver. “An attack of nerves.”
“I had hoped they were gone. They seemed to come less frequently in recent weeks.” Kitty sighed. “Do you need a moment still?”
Minerva shook her head, refusing to look at the edge of the drop. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Kitty waved a dismissive hand.
Gathering her courage, Minerva turned her gaze to the place it had stood, the thing she had summoned.
Or had it summoned her? She thought of the prickling heat and recalled that she had felt it before, that day in the dress shop when she had seen the woman through the glass.
The day Mr. Granger had first given her Catherine’s pendant.
Her fingers went now to the base of her throat and toyed with the piece as she considered the outlandish possibility that it somehow summoned apparitions.
She gripped it tight and waited, breath suspended, but not so much as a shadow appeared.
The pendant sat cool in her grasp now. During the attack—she could call it nothing else—the piece had burned with a heat so fierce it had been her only anchor, the sensation belonging wholly to her and not the thing dragging her to the edge.
She could not assign that a meaning, but she knew it meant something.
Kitty looked toward the edge of the cliff then back at Minerva. She bent close and studied the purple gem at the center of the pendant. “Amethyst,” she said, nodding as if confirming something of great import.
“What of it?” Minerva asked.
“Mam used to say that some folks draw spirits like a lantern draws moths. And that certain stones dull the light.” Kitty paused, frowning as she tapped the pad of her index finger against her lips.
Her frown cleared and she held up her finger.
“I remember now… Smoky quartz can help reach tree spirits and fae. Gypsum can help with a spiritual connection. Lapis-Lazuli for unruly spirits…”
“And amethyst?” Minerva asked softly. She had always humored Kitty in such matters, indulging her fancies, but now she found herself wanting the answer, wondering if they were fancies at all.
“Protection, I think. For those who walk too close to the unseen.” Kitty tipped her head and met Minerva’s gaze. “What did you see, Min?”
“I—” She shook her head. “It was…nothing.” She forced a smile.
Kitty pressed her lips together, then said, “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
They stood on the path for a moment, Minerva and Kitty, heads bent close, and Thom a few feet away. Until Kitty turned to him.
“Thank you for the walk,” she said, her voice different than it had been in the village, quieter, the brightness set aside. She held his gaze and said, gently but without ambiguity, “You should go now, Thom.”
“Are you— That is—” He sighed and held out Kitty’s basket to her. “I’ll see you right.”
Minerva knew he was not speaking to her. He meant it as a promise to Kitty.
He turned back toward the village, pausing once to look back over his shoulder. Kitty watched him go until he rounded the bend and disappeared. Then, looping her arm through Minerva’s, she said, “Come along now. What you need is a good hot cup of tea.”
Thoughts spinning, Minerva let herself be led along the path.
The two of them walked on in silence. The wind had returned, ordinary now, and below, the waves struck the rocks with their usual rhythm. The world had reassembled itself in its normal shape and she did not trust it.
Her legs felt wrong, as though either they or the ground beneath them could not be relied upon. It was not fright; she had managed fright for years and it was a companion she knew well. This was different. A bone-deep exhaustion had siphoned the very life from her body and left her inert.
She concentrated on each step, the hard earth, the coarse grass at the edge of the path, her fingers straying to the pendant.
Catherine had left her many things. The house. The income. And the pendant with instructions that she was to wear it always.
Always.
It seemed that Catherine had worn it always, until she had removed it deliberately, sent it to Mr. Granger for safekeeping, ensuring it would reach Minerva’s hands.
And then she had wandered out in the night and died.
Wandered out.
Had she? Or had something moved her feet against her will, dragging her to the edge of the cliff and beyond?
Pressing her thumb to the stone, Minerva tightened her grip on Kitty’s arm and walked on.