Page 86 of Lovesick

“Out,” she says. “Far enough that The Obsidian can’t reach you before dawn. And then you’ll have to run. And keep running.”

A flicker of hope sparks in my chest, and she squeezes my hands. “Come with me. Before anyone notices you’re gone.”

Anyone.

Billy.

I’ve run before; I could do it again. But I’m not alone this time. There’s more than just my life at stake. What will happen to Billy in my absence, will they punish him for my leave?

“Billy’s a big boy, he can take care of himself,” Dolly says as if reading my thoughts.

And then, without waiting for an answer, she leads me deeper into the dark.

Chapter 32

BILLY

All of the pieces started clicking into place at one-am.

And now, at three, my entire body running a cold sweat like I'm sick and infectious, I stand at the edge of the bed, watching my Pair’s breathing.

Slow.

Even.

Seven months pregnant now, the time going far too quickly and also far too slow. Desperation to meet our child, but to also hold onto Penelope just a little bit longer, as just my own, is a constant warring battle inside my head.

Her hand rests over her stomach without her knowing it, protective even in unconsciousness. I run my thumb along her knuckles, her veins a stark blue beneath her pale skin, ridged in the back of her hands as they dance up the length of her fingers.

“I’ll be back before you wake,” I whisper.

A promise I pray I can keep.

A promise I’m terrified to break.

Because if anything happened to her while I was gone, if anything happened to our child.

I’d burn the entire manor down to its bones.

No hesitation.

No mercy.

But this is important, and I wouldn’t leave her unless I absolutely had to.

I tuck the sheets around her one more time, memorising the sight of her in the moonlight, the moon painting her in a silvered rainbow through the stained glass, the shadows of the room brushing her cheeks like soft fingers. Then I turn and slip silently from the room.

I head straight to the library corner where Nellie spends most of her time, going to the fourth shelf along, two up from the bottom, my fingers curling over the lid of her small jewellery chest. This is the only thing she’s had for her whole life, everything in it is significant to her, even if it’s nothing special.

A smooth red-brown pebble, a tiny cone-shaped seashell with a hole cracked through it, a broken pin badge of a poppy. And at the very bottom of it all, is the small square of yellow-aged white fabric, torn on one edge, only half a symbol on it.

A moon over a burning torch.

The hallways are different at night. Still. Breathing in an unnatural way, as if the walls listen, as if the air waits for secrets to pass through.

The screwed up parchment burns a hole in my pocket. Opened and closed, opened and closed, so many times since it was sent to me all those many, many months ago, it’s a wonder how I can still read the words. But I’d remember them even if they were worn.

The message is short.