A yawn took over my mouth. “And all that hiding from dancing has exhausted me.”
We clambered upstairs by the faint light of a nearly melted candle. Outside her bedroom, Rose came to an abrupt stop and enveloped me in a hug. “Thank you. Just talking about this makes me already feel better—freer even.”
“I shall declare your love to men at every ball, then.”
She snorted. “I look forward to it.”
“Good night,” I said, muffling the words into a kiss on her forehead. “Wake me up before you do anything tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
I started down the dim hall, and Rose’s voice followed me, soothing like a summer breeze.
“Ev, whatever you decide, I’ll help, too. Mother will be unable to refuse us both.”
Those simple words reassured me more than anything else could have. An involuntary smile crossed my face, and I felt a bit lighter myself. “Thank you, Rose.”
With a wave, she slipped into her room and closed the door behind her. For a moment, I stood in the dark, cozily silent hall—the candle flickering, my toes sinking into the soft rug—and I appreciated the present. No restlessness about the future bubbling up inside to keep me awake all night—just simple contentment.
The only lingering question in my mind was whether there had been some sort of mix-up with our births. Rose was far better at playing the older sister than I could ever hope to be. As I climbed into bed and drifted off, I promised myself that tomorrow I would be the best sister the world had ever seen.
I WAS FLOATING on the Nile River under madly swirling clouds obscuring the pale pink sky, when a familiar, female voice sputtered through my dream.
“Mis . . . Wyn . . . am!”
I turned in the bath-warm water, struggling to see who it was. No sign of life on the riverbank, besides the prowling lions.
“Miss Wyndham!” it shouted, and a wave of realization shuddered through me. That voice. That stern reprimand. I’d heard it countless times from my former teacher and governess, Miss Grey.
“Ca—yo—hear m—?” her voice called out. My head absently nodded to my disembodied teacher’s question. I stared around the dreamscape wildly, wondering why I was still asleep and not jolting awake with fear.
I endeavored to speak, but no matter how I tried, all that came out was a strangled moan. How—where, no—what was she?
“Yo—mus—list—” A pale face framed with wild hair formed in the clouds high above the river, her words sparking with urgency. Bewildered, I struggled to make sense of her mashed-together sentences, rearranging and testing out the sputtered half words. But even when the same sounds seemed to repeat in her desperate warnings, they remained impossible to fit together. Only one intelligible sentence stood out from the mess.
“Do not trust him—protect Rose.”
“Who? Who can’t I trust?” I tried to ask. But nothing came out. The river lapped against my shoulders as I shut my eyes and desperately tried to wake up, wake up, wake up!
But all I could do was lie rigid and paralyzed in the water, staring up at the rapidly changing clouds with her words resounding in my head.
“Do not trust him—protect Rose.”
“Do not trust him—protect Rose.”
I lay for ages in a horrible half-state, knowing I was dreaming but unable to wake from the horrid nightmare.
Until a scream, one not in my head, pierced the air.
I FLEW UP and awakened, senses adjusting to the diffused sunlight, the smell of burned tallow, the sounds echoing across the house. The cries had not stopped.
When I scrambled out of bed and stepped into the hallway, a folded sheet of paper rustled under my foot. I snatched it up, but another loud yell sent me running into Rose’s room, where Mother and two maids stood, hands clasped to their mouths in shock. Chills crawled down my back.
“What happened?” I asked.
No reply.
Rose was nowhere to be seen, and her room had the strange appearance of a hasty departure. Her bedsheets had spilled onto the floor, her dresser drawers were left open, and her wardrobe was half empty. A sizable number of her dresses were gone, but the selection made little sense. Her favorite green silk and other well-loved dresses were left behind, but some of the older, unfashionable ones were missing. Kneeling by her trunk, I flung open the lid. Her familiar medicine bag, meticulously packed away, stared up at me.
“Where is she?” No response again. My pulse jumped forward. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. “What is all of this?”
“I don’t know, Evelyn!” my mother finally erupted, pacing the room with her hand at her breast, as though trying to keep her heart in place. Her wide eyes scanned the floor. She bit her lip and cleared her throat. “No one has seen her this morning.”
“And in the night?”
“Please. I must think.”
My fists clenched, and the forgotten paper crinkled in my hand. A letter. The writing looked haphazard and rushed, but it was undoubtedly Rose’s hand:
Evie—