‘Blackheath in a few minutes, m’lady,’ the driver shouts down from somewhere above us.
I glance out of the window again. The house is directly in front of us, and the stables down the road on our right. That’s where they keep the shotguns, and I’d have to be a fool to tackle the footman without one.
Unlocking the door, I leap from the carriage, landing in a painful heap on the wet cobbles. The ladies are shrieking, the coach driver yelling after me as I pick myself up and stagger towards the distant lights. The Plague Doctor told me the pattern of this day was dictated by the character of those living it. I can only hope that’s true and fate is in a charitable mood, because if it’s not I’ve damned both myself and Anna.
Within the glow of the braziers, stable boys are undoing the harnesses connecting the horses and carriages, leading the whinnying beasts to shelter. They’re working quickly, but they look done in, barely able to speak. I approach the nearest chap, who, despite the rain, is wearing only a cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
‘Where do you keep the shotguns?’ I ask.
He’s tightening a harness, gritting his teeth as he pulls the taut strap towards the last buckle. He peers at me suspiciously, his eyes narrowed beneath his flat cap.
‘Bit late for hunting, ain’t it?’ he says.
‘And far too early for impertinence,’ I snap, overwhelmed by my host’s upper-class disdain. ‘Where are the damn shotguns, or do I need to bring Lord Hardcastle down here to ask you himself?’
After looking me up and down, he gestures over his shoulder towards a small redbrick building, a dim light seeping through the window. The shotguns are arranged on a wooden rack, boxes of shells stored in a nearby drawer. I take one down and load it carefully, dropping a handful of spare shells into my pocket.
The gun is heavy, a cold slab of courage that propels me across the yard and up the road towards Blackheath. The stable hands exchange looks as I approach, standing aside to let me pass. Doubtless they think me some rich lunatic with a score to settle, a piece of gossip to add to the pile tomorrow morning. Certainly not somebody worth risking bodily harm for. I’m glad of that. If they were to creep closer, they might notice how crowded my eyes are, how all my previous hosts are jostling for a better view. In some way or another, the footman’s harmed every one of them and they’ve all turned up for his execution. I can barely think through their clamour.
Halfway along the road I notice a light bobbing towards me, and my grip tightens around the shotgun’s trigger.
‘It’s me,’ yells Daniel over the din of the storm.
There’s a storm lantern in his hand, the waxy light running down his face and upper body. He looks like a genie spilled out of a bottle.
‘We have to hurry, the footman’s in the graveyard,’ says Daniel. ‘He has Anna with him.’
He still thinks we’re fooled by his act.
My finger strokes the shotgun as I stare back towards Blackheath, trying to decide the best course of action. Michael could be in the Sun Room as we speak, but I’m certain Daniel knows where Anna’s being kept, and I won’t have a better opportunity to get the information from him. Two roads and two ends, and somehow I know one of them leads to failure.
‘This is our chance,’ yells Daniel, wiping the rain from his eyes. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for. He’s in there, right now, lying in wait. He doesn’t know we’ve found each other. We can spring his trap, we can finish this together.’
For so long I fought to change my future, to alter the day. Now I have, I’m undone, racked with the futility of my choices. I saved Evelyn and thwarted Michael, two things which only matter if Anna and I live long enough to tell the Plague Doctor at 11 p.m. Past this point, I’m making every decision blind, and with only one host left after today, every decision matters.
‘What if we fail?’ I shout back, my words barely making it to his ears. The clatter of rain on stone is almost deafening, the wind ripping and tearing at the forest, screaming through the trees like some feral creature slipped loose of its cage.
‘What choice do we have?’ Daniel yells, clutching the back of my neck. ‘We have a plan, which means for the first time we have the advantage over him. We must pursue it.’
I remember the first time I met this man, how calm he seemed, how patient and reasonable. None of that is in him now. It’s all been washed away in Blackheath’s endless storms. He has the eyes of a fanatic, eager and imploring, wild and desperate. He has as much riding on the outcome of this moment as I do.
He’s right. We need to put an end to this.
‘What time is it?’ I ask.
He frowns. ‘Why does that matter?’
‘I never know until afterwards,’ I say. ‘The time? Please.’
He checks his watch, impatiently. ‘It’s 9:46,’ he says. ‘Can we go now?’
Nodding, I follow him across the lawn.
The stars are cowards, closing their eyes as we creep closer to the graveyard, and by the time Daniel pushes open the gate, our only light’s the flickering glow of his storm lantern. We’re shielded by the trees back here, muting the storm which makes its way through to us in sharp gusts, daggers of wind slipping through the cracks in the armour of the forest.
‘We should hide out of sight,’ whispers Daniel, hanging the lantern on the angel’s arm. ‘We’ll call to Anna when she arrives.’
Lifting the shotgun to my shoulder, I press both barrels to the back of his head.
‘You can drop the act, Daniel, I know we’re not the same man,’ I say, my eyes flicking across the woods, searching for some sign of the footman. Unfortunately, the lantern’s so bright it obscures much of what it should reveal.
‘Hands in the air, turn around,’ I say.