Page 18 of On Edge

The other paper is an old, yellowed newspaper clipping, folded over. It feels like my heart is thudding in my throat as I smooth it open.

It’s about Grayfleet.

Only it’s not called Grayfleet in the article—it’s Swanley Hall. I recognise the turrets. There are two of them in the picture, though only one remains now. The second image in the article shows a teenage boy, but the face is scratched out. Underneath, the caption reads:Young Swanley, 16 years old.

The article is from three years ago. I’m not sure what to make of it, but suddenly I feel cold all over.

Noises in the hallway snap me back to the present.

Theysoundcloser.

Chest squeezing like it might burst, I crumple the newspaper in my pocket, scramble off the floor, and slide the invoices back into place in the stack on the desk.Then hurry back to the library.

Grabbing a book, I drop onto the armchair, pretending to read. But the words won’t settle. They dance and blur on the page, making no sense.

But no one comes.

Still, all I hear is the thump, thump, thump of my heart. And the rain hammering at the windows. I wait for my breath to slow and my nerves to settle, for the noises to fade in the other parts of the house before I close the book and place it on my lap.

Tentatively, I take out the newspaper clipping. I read it over and over, trying to make sense of why Severin would have it, and why the boy’s face has been violently erased.

Who did it? Severin?

If he did, why?

When I have more questions than answers, making my head hurt, I put the clipping away.

The wind howls down the hollow chimney, making me shiver. All of a sudden, I feel frozen to the core and bone-tired. This chair is as ridiculously comfortable as it looks, even with the barren fireplace. And the walls of books around me make it feel snug, almost safe, as if no one can sneak up on you here. Stifling a yawn, my throat still tender from last night, I ease myself back. The leather feels butter-soft against my skin. Maybe a quick catnap will stop the vein behind my eye from pulsing.

On the arm, there’s the sweater Mrs. Oakley gave me. Without stopping to think whose it is, because at the back of my mind, I know who it belongs to, and I’m too tired to care, I pull it over me. Immediately, I’m wrapped in a masculine scent—cedar, clean linen, and something faintly like woodsmoke. Unexpectedly, it’s nice…comforting.

I breathe it in.

And it soothes the part of me that feels lost in this place.

Kicking off my boots, I lie down, curling up, using the chair’s arm as a pillow. Then I pick up the book again, turning it over to try to read it. But all too soon, I’m enveloped by the scent of old pages and the warmth of the sweater, and exhaustion creeps over me to the point where I have to put it down.

You could die in this room,Nell whispers, amused.I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing her voice away.

Just for a few seconds.

5

TROY

The second time I lay eyes on Sage Lovett, she’s curled up on my chair…

Like she belongs here.

She doesn’t.

“You’re in my seat.” My voice is slow and deliberate.

She startles, eyes going wide, mouth parting slightly before she clamps it shut. She sits up fast, scrabbling to get away from me, utterly terrified. One of my books crashes to the floor. It’s an old one that hasn’t been repaired yet, brittle at the spine. It breaks when it lands, and a few of the pages scatter like leaves.

I glare at her.

She shrinks back.