Page 14 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

“Fire?” Isabella asked, thinking of her dream, the roar of the flames she had heard but not seen.

“There was much death even before that. The curse taking all of them, one by one,” Pansy whispered.

“Gossip and hearsay,” Viola snapped.

“Then please tell me the facts,” Isabella said.

“She still screams, Viola,” Pansy said, her expression mulish. “When the wind is right. When the moon is full like it was that night. Her screams echo through the woods, but no one comes.” She leaned forward and patted Isabella’s hand. “I doubt you’ll last longer than a fortnight.”

“Pansy!” Viola sounded truly aghast now. “Enough. You should not say such things to Miss Barrett when she is on her way there. That is unkind.”

“It would be unkind not to warn her,” Pansy said and flounced back against the seat with a huff.

Viola made a dismissive sound and cast a quelling look at her sister. “Pansy enjoys a good tale.” Her expression grew somber. “But Harrowgate has long been a place of sadness and death.”

“It is cursed,” Pansy insisted.

“It is not,” Viola said, firm.

“I don’t believe in curses,” Isabella said. She didn’t want to believe in curses. They were the province of frightened children. But then, most people didn’t believe in ghosts either, did they.

Isabella glanced at Viola, who sat ramrod straight, staring out the window, jaw set.

Her gaze returned to Pansy, who stared at her with pale blue eyes wide and unblinking as she gave a tiny shake of her head.

And so, they sat in silence as night fell, leaving the sky so black it looked like spilled ink across the heavens.

The stars glittered sharp and bright, diamonds strewn with careless beauty.

Never had Isabella seen the like. She had not imagined that the sky was different in London than it was elsewhere, but now she could see that London’s sky was dull and closed.

Here, the heavens stretched, open and unguarded, vast enough to swallow her whole.

After a time, the wheels struck stone once more.

Marlow’s streets wound narrow between low brick buildings and shuttered shops.

The chaise entered the town square and drew to a halt.

A sign for The Crown Inn hung above the door of a nearby public house, creaking in the wind.

Oil lamps guttered on their brackets, sending an amber glow pooling on the cobblestones.

Just beyond, the slender spires of a church pierced the darkened sky.

The coach rocked to a stop and after a moment the driver opened the door. “Marlow.”

The sisters descended from the chaise first, their cloaks fluttering like dark wings. Isabella followed. A moment later, with a creak of wheels and the sharp jingle of harness, the chaise lurched forward and disappeared into the dark.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barrett,” Viola said with a gracious dip of her head. “Do remember that our door is always open.”

Pansy reached out and caught Isabella’s hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Keep your wits about you,” she said. “Harrowgate has a way of…taking things.”

Viola made a soft sound in her throat, one that might have indicated agreement or disbelief or anything in between.

“Be careful,” Pansy whispered and released Isabella’s hand.

With that, they turned and walked away. Isabella watched until they disappeared down a dark lane, their footsteps fading into the hush. Pansy’s warning hovered around her like mist, clinging to her skin.

The square was deserted, the last whispers of market day long faded. In the distance, a few windows flickered with hearthlight, but the shops around the square stood dark and silent.

A stray gust snatched at the hem of Isabella’s cloak. Flexing her fingers inside her gloves, she stamped her feet, feeling the chill seeping through her clothing and boots. The lamps sputtered and smoked.

There was no sign of a cart or carriage, no lantern bobbing in the distance, no sound of approaching wheels, only the faint clatter of hooves far away and the restless sigh of the wind through the empty streets.

She looked again at the lanes that led from the square. If no one came for her, she would need to find lodging for the night. She glanced back at the inn and wondered how long she should wait. A fat fly battered weakly against the wavy glass, its droning thin in the cold.

Standing here alone in the unfamiliar darkness sent an odd sensation digging between her shoulder blades, sharp and intrusive, like a splinter of ice digging beneath her skin.

Pansy’s voice seemed to whisper from the shadows. Keep your wits about you… Harrowgate has a way of taking things.

Cold scraped the back of her neck. She spun, her skirts twisting around her ankles, her pulse jumping.

No one was there.

She steadied herself, taking in a breath that did not settle easily in her lungs. She was tired, that was all. Tired and uncertain, the disquiet of too much change too quickly. Or perhaps it was the seed of Pansy’s warnings taking root, growing sharp-edged in the darkness.

From behind her came the creak of wooden wheels and the soft clop of hooves.

She turned to find a small donkey cart rattling into the square.

The driver, a stooped man in a patched coat, set her trunks down.

Then the cart rattled away, leaving her alone once more, the glow of the oil lamps a paltry sentry against the night.

Around her were dim lanes, darkened windows, and silent buildings.

With a sigh, Isabella eyed the door of the inn.

Almost did she go inside when hoofbeats carried through the night, slow, deliberate, followed by the metallic jingle of a bridle. A carriage emerged from the dark, its lanterns spilling wavering circles of light, the horses’ breath steaming in the cold air as the driver brought them to a halt.

A wiry man with a weathered face climbed down from the driver’s seat. His sharp eyes glinted in the lamplight.

His gaze landed on Isabella. “Miss Barrett?”

“Yes,” Isabella replied.

“Tom Grange,” he said, then he jutted his chin toward her trunks. “Yours?”

“Yes,” she said again, watching as he turned to assess her trunks.

Tom’s expression remained impassive as he hefted the smaller trunk and strapped it to the back of the carriage.

Then he eyed the larger as if it had once wronged him before dragging it toward the carriage with a determination that suggested he had handled worse.

With a combination of brute strength and calculated efficiency, he lashed it in place.

Tom handed her into the carriage and closed the door, leaving her alone as he clambered up top. A horse whinnied. The wheels creaked and they set out.