Sparks of Light (Into the Dim #2)

I never had friends before coming to Scotland. My life had been a solitary existence of books and study and mind-deadening routine. I’d only recently learned about the very real existence of “best friend ESP.”

“Oh-h.” Phoebe’s eyes went soft with compassion. “Oh, I’m that sorry, Hope. The surprise isn’t . . . I mean . . . it isn’t Bran. He’s not here.”

Though I tried to hold it, I could feel the smile slipping from my face. “Oh. That’s okay.”

Phoebe leaned close, keeping the conversation private as she said, “Now you listen to me. That boy loves you, and no mistake. Don’t you worry a bit on that score. He wanted to be here, believe me. It’s only that some complications arose. But he’ll be meeting us, soon as he can.”

“You’ve seen him?” I asked, pulling back so I could look at her. “He’s okay?”

“Oh, aye,” she said. “Tell you all about it, later. But let’s get the hell out o’ this horror movie first.”

“You have no idea.”

From the doorway, Collum signaled for us to hurry. After ascertaining that the coast was clear, Phoebe dashed out. I started to follow, but Collum stayed my movement.

I turned to search the shadowy laundry room behind us. “What? You hear something?”

Collum’s steady hazel eyes searched my face as he shook his head. “No, no. I, uh, I’m just glad you still have all your nuts about you is all.” He smiled down at me, and the melancholic stab I’d felt at Phoebe’s news faded, a bit.

I felt like a piece of meat thrust through a grinder. Physically, emotionally, mentally. But I was back with my friends now. My family. And as Collum jerked his chin for me to precede him, I felt all the gummy little pieces of myself begin to mold back together.

“Me too,” I told him. “Me too.”





Chapter 34


CRISPY, FROST-TINGED GRASS BURNED THE SOLES OF MY FEET as I darted across the side yard toward the narrow servant’s gate.

“So . . . ?” I cocked my head at a guard slumped against a nearby tree.

“Just a wee doze,” Collum said. “Come on.”

The wrought-iron fence jutted skyward, spiked and imposing. I passed through the gate, then turned to look back. In the milky dawn, I could just make out the knots of people gathering on either side of the gilt-inlaid front gate. Carriages had begun to pull up on the street side. Enraged family members bundled out, shouting at the guards to open the damn gate.

The tall figure of Lila Jamesson appeared from behind the brick edifice, the others trailing behind her. Priscilla. Mrs. Langdon. Mrs. Forbes, only slightly bowed, tugged a wide-eyed Annabelle Allen along behind her. Lila approached the fence slowly. On the other side, a squat, balding man stepped forward. For a long moment he only stared at her. Then his mouth moved, and though I could not hear the words, Lila threw her head back and laughed. He reached a hand through the bars. After only a brief hesitation, she took it. The man nodded, let go, and moved to the gate.

He bellowed at the gatekeepers, “Open this gate immediately, I say!”

As if she felt my eyes on her, Lila turned. When she saw me standing at the rear gate, she smiled and dropped her chin in a graceful farewell.





On the cobbled street, a glossy black carriage waited to spirit us away. Harnesses jingling, two magnificent black horses stamped and huffed. They looked as anxious to get away from this hellhole as I was.

“Where’s Doug? And whose carriage is—?”

The door swung open, and it took me only an instant to process the identity of the man who stepped out.

“Ta da,” Phoebe sang quietly. “Listen. Be mindful what you say. He knows who we are and generally from where and when and all that. I’ll tell you later how it all happened. But for now, he’s made it very clear that he wants to know nothing of his own fate or that of his family, aye? Nothing. He made us swear.”

Our eyes met and I saw the sorrow and indecision that pinched her freckled features.

“But . . .” I began, then Collum stepped into my line of sight.

“Not a word,” he warned. “It’s not your place or mine. The decision was his to make, and he’s made it.”

Irritated, I nodded in acknowledgment. But this was not over. Based on Phoebe’s expression, I was pretty sure she didn’t think so, either.

In a speckled gray suit and greatcoat, the man whose portrait I had seen every day in the library at Christopher Manor approached. Top hat tucked under one arm, he dropped into a respectful bow. “Miss Walton. I am Jonathan Buchanan Carlyle, at your service. And if I may be so bold, I believe you and I are relations. Of a sort?”

In March of 1895, Jonathan Carlyle was close to thirty. He’d been married to Julia Alvarez for a few years now, and their only son, Henry, was due in late summer.

“How—?how do you do?”

In only three months, this kind, intelligent man would witness the gruesome, Dim-related death of his friend and brother-in-law. And in fourteen years, his precious little girls would die because of an innocent mistake made while on a voyage to his own past. A mistake that would forever cement the war between the families Carlyle and Alvarez.

He deserved to know.

Jonathan’s face crumpled with compassion. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a clean, folded handkerchief, and pressed it into my hand. “If you will forgive me, Miss Walton, you look as if you might weep. Of course, you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. One that would cause anyone to become undone. Please, allow my carriage to transport you to a place of safety.”

When Jonathan offered his arm, I took it gladly.

“You!” Three guards rounded the side of the building. “Stop right there!”

“Damn!” Collum hustled me into the carriage. He, Phoebe, and Mac jumped in after, slammed the door shut, and yelled at the driver to move it. We took off at a run, and in moments had left the nightmare of Greenwood Institute far behind.





The buggy was luxurious, if a bit tight. We crammed in, shoulder to shoulder on the creamy leather seats. Me, Phoebe, and Mac on one side. And opposite, Collum sat next to a smiling Jonathan Carlyle.

When we turned off the bumpy side road onto a main thoroughfare, the ride smoothed out and the carriage picked up speed on the macadam road. A row of three-and four-story brick townhouses lined the street in this quiet, wealthy neighborhood. Bundled against the morning chill, people hurried along the tree-lined sidewalks or popped in and out of the tidy shops. I hugged myself as wind whipped in through the open windows, blowing my loose hair everywhere.

Collum shrugged off his overcoat and handed it to me. “Here. You’re shivering.”

“Thanks.”

I thrust my arms backwards into the coat and nestled into the warmed wool. The homey scent of lanolin and soot and boot polish reminded me of Christopher Manor. I struggled not to burst out in hysterical sobs.

Mac squeezed the back of my hand. “Good to have you back, lass.”

Things had been so crazy up till now. Getting Doug out. Dupree. Getting caught and waking up on the surgery table. Eustace. Everything had happened so fast, I hadn’t had time to think. To process.

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