Page 39 of Blackwicket (Dark Hall #1)

His hand fell to my collarbone, his body, which had been convulsing from the effort to draw in breath, stilled, and the white, gossamer threads of his magic rose from the wound as his body released it, no use for it any longer.

My vision grew grey, head woolly and light, as I grasped his hand in mine for what would never be long enough, even as strangers pulled at my arms, dragging me from my father’s body and the horrible sight of my careless wish come true.

I sat in the hallway covered in my father’s blood.

Bodies moved around me, passing feet, rushing one way and another as time marched ever forward, leaving me floating in a strange, lonely world, trying to understand what had happened.

A woman spoke to me, her soft hands brushing the hair from my brow, rubbing the gore from my fingers with a damp cloth, but I couldn’t hear anything beyond the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Every beat brought to mind the torrent of life that had slipped through my fingers.

I was lost in all the moments of my childhood I’d long forgotten or ignored.

The rosy days when Darren had shown, unannounced, with flowers for my mother and more sweets than Fiona and I could ever hope to eat.

He’d come inside the house back then, when Isolde Blackwicket was in control of her mind.

Sometimes he’d lingered for weeks, and in those sunny stretches, my life resembled one that was normal and easy.

He’d disappeared for the longest stretch when Isolde had started deteriorating, staying locked in her room for days, leaving Fiona and me alone to fend for ourselves more and more, barely registering our presence when we were right in front of her.

I love the sea . She’d said the last night she was alive, sitting at her favorite window in the parlor. It sounds like home . I want to go home .

“Eleanora.” My name reached me from a world away. A firm touch lifted my chin. My vision focused, hazy colors bleeding together to form solid shapes, at last registering the eyes looking into mine, searching for a sign I was still there.

Inspector Harrow.

Though there was no concern etched on his brow, there was something softer about him, less feral and strained. Harrow was not a vision of comfort, but he’d become a familiar presence, and of all the people who’d ever threatened me, so far, he’d been the one who hadn’t followed through.

I sniffed, moved from the touch, not with disgust or petty disdain, but because he’d returned me to my body, where heartache dug its sharp edges. He couldn’t be my guide in this storm.

He redirected his attention to a young man who’d approached to ask about transport for the body.

Harrow answered, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

As a high-ranking member of the Authority, of course, he’d been called to the scene.

I expected the next steps would be interrogation.

My father and I had fought, loudly, and I’d been the last to see him alive.

I was covered in his blood. I was the most obvious suspect, and with my prior history, it seemed likely this would be the thing that got me out of Nightglass and straight into an Authority prison where I’d be annulled.

“Get up.” Inspector Harrow’s voice was sturdy, giving me something to hold on to. “I’m taking you home.”

Surprised, I searched his face for signs of a trick, manipulation, or cruelty. There was only his steady attention, stoic and unflappable.

“You’re not taking me into custody?”

“Should I?”

I sat there, staring at him, blood drying on my coat, my hands, my cheek where my father’s fingers had touched.

“No,” I replied, my sincere plea of innocence .

“Then let’s go.” He didn’t reach for me, didn’t offer his hand to help me stand, perhaps knowing I wouldn’t, couldn’t , take it. As I stood, he divested himself of his suit jacket.

“Take off your coat,” he said. “Leave it here, I can’t walk you down the halls looking like the goddess of death.”

I numbly attempted to unfasten the buttons, fingers fumbling, Harrow made a motion, and the woman who’d consoled me earlier appeared. It was Cora. She looked tired, but much improved from her ordeal, the gauntness of her face reduced, her green eyes keen.

“You…” I began, but she shushed me gently as she helped me with the buttons.

“It’s alright, Ms. Blackwicket,” she said, her way of telling me she was well. She took the coat from me, and it looked like the grisly skin of a beast. “You’re in safe hands. But, look, don’t tell Thea you saw me here. She doesn’t know yet.”

“That you’re Authority?” I said flatly.

The woman offered a self deprecating smile, shrugged one shoulder.

“A girl’s gotta make a living.”

The Inspector draped his jacket across my shoulders, instructing me to keep my red-stained sleeves out of view. I drew the lapel tight, fingers tucked inside. It smelled of Inspector Harrow.

“Cora, when the undertaker arrives, tell him the Authority will be demanding a full inquest, then make yourself scarce.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, whisking herself and the bloodstained coat away.

With a firm hand at my back, Inspector Harrow guided me from the scene of my father’s death and towards the place I’d never thought I’d be eager to return to. Blackwicket House.