Sarah’s fingers tightened around the matchbox. ‘Backwards? Why me?’
Elsie thumped her stick impatiently on the floor. ‘It will be hard enough for me going forwards.’
They stood, back to back. Thank heaven they were dressed simply, with no puffing crinolines. Elsie felt Sarah’s shoulders against hers, the damp sweat through her gown. ‘Ready?’
Sarah’s gasp of air. ‘Ready.’
She scooped her skirts into the hand that held the stick, the material giving grip to her slippery palm. ‘Come on, then.’
Her legs were shaking – not just the bad one. One step. Two. Slowly, slowly, Sarah’s heels bumping at hers. The lantern’s cloud of light careered around the stairwell, showing flashes of carpet and wallpaper. No companions.
‘Last one,’ Elsie whispered, and they stumbled onto a small landing. One flight down, another to go.
Hiss, hiss.
Sarah’s shoulders turned rigid. ‘I can’t see them any more. The gas lamp . . . it’s too far away.’
‘Light a match. It’s just a little farther.’
From above them came a slow scratch. Elsie pictured them, dragging their monstrous bases across the floorboards.
Exhaustion threatened to swamp her, but she couldn’t surrender to it. Thump, thump went her stick on the stairs, her leg nearly buckling. With each step Sarah bumped into her, sending pain spiralling through her chest. And all the while, shadows rolled up behind them.
Hiss, hiss.
Finally the lantern glinted on metal and flashed over the blue and gold Bainbridge coat of arms. The Great Hall was in sight. They were nearly there.
‘Elsie! Elsie, I feel something!’
They were on the last step. Elsie hurried to reach the safety of the floor, but she stumbled.
No, no. Her stick skidded, the lantern wavered. Fire shot up her bad leg. Sarah screamed. There it was: the floor, hard and level beneath her shoes. Elsie tottered and somehow managed to regain her balance.
They had made it into the Great Hall.
‘Dear me! Miss Sarah!’
Light, sneaking in from the far side of the Great Hall. Elsie’s heart leapt to her throat.
‘How could you?’
Gasping, squinting, she turned to face the voice. The green baize door to the servants’ side stood open. Mrs Holt outlined in fire, lit from behind. She fumbled, there was a pop, and then a lamp sprang to life.
‘Well, well.’ Mrs Holt’s footsteps sounded on the flags, clipped, judgemental. ‘Who would have thought? I might have expected it from you,’ she gave a sharp nod in Elsie’s direction. ‘But Miss Sarah! You ought to know better.’
Disorientated, Elsie let the lantern fall from her hand. Mrs Holt lit another lamp.
‘You!’ Sarah, shrill, behind her. ‘You’re meant to be . . . Why aren’t you asleep?’
‘God forgive you, girl, don’t you think I know poppy tea when I smell it? I knew you were up to something, but I never imagined you would try and take her out! Whatever possessed you?’
Where were the companions? The Great Hall materialised around her. Suits of armour, swords, the oriental rug. There were no companions. There was only Mrs Holt and the pant of the gas lamps.
‘You are trying to take her away from me!’ Sarah screeched. Her hand latched on Elsie’s arm. ‘I won’t let you. She is no lunatic! They were right here, did you not see them? Didn’t you hear them, you foolish old woman?’
The fight was still in Sarah. Not Elsie. Feeling had ebbed away, leaving her an empty shell. There went disappointment. Fear laid pooled at her feet. The last dregs remaining were something like relief. At least now, she would not leave Jolyon.
‘I heard nothing. There was nothing.’ Revulsion twisted Mrs Holt’s features. ‘Heaven above! You’re just as crazy as she is!’
Sarah’s jaw jutted. For a moment, it really looked as if she would strike Mrs Holt, but then furniture crashed upstairs and footsteps clopped, unsteady, until Jolyon appeared in the gallery. He looked like a man in his cups: flushed, his hair out at angles. ‘What is this?’ He blinked at them, wrestling words from his drugged sleep. ‘I heard a scream and – Elsie? Is that you?’
‘It is both the ladies, Mr Livingstone,’ Mrs Holt called up. ‘I caught them trying to escape.’
‘Escape!’
‘I’m afraid they drugged you, Mr Livingstone. They are cunning. Far more dangerous than we feared.’
Elsie would never forget the expression on his face: the blend of fear and wrath. For it was no longer Jolyon staring at her behind those red-rimmed, hazel eyes. Her dear boy spluttered out of existence with Mrs Holt’s words. In his place stood someone else, someone she’d prayed never to see again so long as she lived.
It was Pa.
‘Let me out!’ Elsie’s palm slammed into the wood again and again, rattling the door on its hinges. Each blow vibrated through her ribs with white-hot pain, yet she did not stop. She could not stop. ‘Jolyon, unlock the door this instant!’
‘I cannot do that.’
‘Please! Let me out! I have been in here all night!’ Her voice soared off pitch. Hysterical, crazed. Even to her own ears, it sounded like confirmation of his diagnosis. ‘Jolyon!’
‘You are not well. I should have known.’ She heard his shoulder shift against the door. ‘I should have suspected long ago.’
Her hand hovered an inch away from the wood. She was filling up with smoke; behind her eyes, her stomach, underneath her tongue. Bitter, choking smoke that was the past and the present, engulfing her with acrid fumes.
‘What are you talking about?’ How false it sounded. A line given to an actress in a play.
‘After Ma—’
‘No!’
‘I saw you, Elsie. I saw you put the pillow over her face—’
‘It wasn’t like that!’ she shrieked, jangling the handle again. ‘Listen to me, I can explain—’
‘I cannot believe a word you say!’
‘She was in too much pain. She was already on death’s door, it wasn’t a sin.’
‘Not a sin!’ he exploded. ‘Good God. Maybe poor Ma was right all along. Maybe she was not mad. The things she accused you of . . .’
‘All I ever did, I did for you.’
She heard a sob break from him. ‘You did not do that in my name. You did not kill my mother for my sake.’
‘Jolyon, look. There are things I never told you, things—’
‘Stop!’ His hand knocked back from the other side. ‘Please, do not make me listen to it. Your words will send me mad too. Help is coming. I just need to keep you safe until the men arrive.’
‘Men from St Joseph’s?’
‘Mrs Holt has gone with the telegram now. It is the best place for you. They might be able to . . .’ He trailed off.
Tears streaked down her face. How could this be happening?
Each day the impossible became a reality, but it was easier to believe in wooden assassins than it was to accept that Jolyon, her Jolyon, was against her.