Page 3 of On Edge

My brow furrows. “What Swanley kid?”

His voice lowers. “You know, there was a fire?”

I shake my head. I know what everyone in history class learns around here. That Grayfleet was built during the 19th-century Gothic revival and was owned by the Swanley family until recently. That would explain why the locals still hold this monstrosity in high esteem. But I didn’t know about a fire.

“Is that why the stone is black?”

“Probably. I remember it. It raged for days. Took a storm to contain it in the end. It was the Swanley boy who started it. Set fire to his parents’ bedroom while they slept. He survived, the little bastard, and so did his sister, but then she disappeared not long after he was arrested.”

My ice-cold fingers grip the edge of the boat tightly. “She was the one who vanished?”

“Aye. Gone just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Only her blood was found on the walls.”

Something twists in my gut. I don’t know if it’s fear or just the creeps, but it settles in, tight over my bones, and refuses to leave.

The boat driver laughs, as though he’s told a funny joke.

“Now you really have seen a ghost,” he cackles, shifting his eyes forward.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

He gives me a look as though he doesn’t quitebelieve me. Then he shifts the throttle, guiding the boat into a slow arc as he turns it the right way around.

Finally, the boat slows, the engine whines, and then stops. The fog blankets around us like wispy clouds, making the dock barely visible. Only the sound of the wind shushing the trees and the occasional caw of a crow can be heard. One settles on thedock ahead like a bad omen. There’s something in its beak, but I can’t make it out.

It looks like a worm.

Or a dead rat’s tail.

Nausea rises in my gut, my barren stomach threatening to empty itself further. I almost let it. What a lovely sight that would be for my fiancé if he were watching me, me retching green bile over the side of his boat.

The driver gives a low hiss and makes a sign to ward off the bad luck. Then he makes a shooing motion. “Go on, get out of it.” Thankfully, the crow flies off, though the bad feeling lingers, refusing to disappear along with it.

When we were wealthy, my family scoffed at curses and local superstitions. But after everything that happened, Mother spent weeks wringing her hands over unfinished vows and the misfortune they might invite. Only in Wychshire wouldDon’t waste a wedding dresspass for wisdom, and not just another excuse to pinch pennies.

Though she never once shed a tear over Nell. And Father seemed to care only about losing his deal, not his daughter. Local superstition now makes my skin crawl. It reminds me too much of Mother’s frantic prayers, especially when I fell ill, so much that I can’t stop shivering when we pull up alongside the riverbank.

No one is waiting on the wooden planks ahead.

I stare at the island like it might rear up and bite me, unsure what to do. Getting out means no turning back, and I’m not entirely convinced I’m ready for that just yet. The dock is dark and slick with rain; its wood is warped and worn with age. The state of it is a prelude to just how abandoned this place is. And the story of the Swanley kids has me thoroughly spooked.

I want to go home.

But it’s too late. The shadows stretching long across the water remind me how far I’ve come. I’m cold and damp, and another boat ride back through the water park is not what I need right now.

Drawing my cardigan around me to block the chill, slowly, I struggle to my feet. The boatman steadies the vessel while I attempt to climb out of it, screaming inside when the boat rocks. Actually, I’m ready to get off this horrid boat. Dry land never looked so good…until I’m standing there, getting soaked through.

The whole island is wrapped in a mist-like rain. Its icy, wraith-like fingers brush my face, or at least, that’s what it feels like. And then the wind picks up, billowing the ends of my silk scarf over my face, howling through the trees beyond the estate wall like something starved.

I drag my scarf down and glance back at the driver, feeling like a drowned rat. There’s a slight smirk on his lips if I ever did see one. “Are you sure you’re okay, love?”

“Yes,” I say brightly, blinking at him through the drizzle. Maybe too bright.

“I was only joking about the ghosts.”

“I know.” I sound strained.

I feel strained.