Somewhere in the darkness, coach wheels creak along a road, and I am home again, with my family, taking a trip into the countryside. As usual, Grace is complaining, shifting in her seat, eager to be out of the confines of this carriage. Mama ignores her and enjoys the view. Papa quizzes me on contractual law. It is a game we play, where we both pretend I might one day take over his practice, as if the world will miraculously change overnight and women will be allowed to practice law.
“What the bloody hell?” my father says, which is not something I have ever heard him say.
The coach shudders to a stop.
“There is a girl by the roadside,” my mother says.
“Yes, I can see that.” The voice that had been my father’s is now deeper, younger.
“She appears to be dead.” That voice had been my mother’s, but now sounds older.
The man sighs. “Perhaps we do not leap to the worst conclusion first?”
The thump of footsteps on packed earth. They come closer. Then a raven croaks, and the man gives a startled gasp before grumbling under his breath.
“Is this your doing?”
The raven croaks again, harsher.
“Yes, I see her. Yes, I am doing something about it. I do not suppose you have gained the power of speech and can tell me why she is here?”
Another croak.
“I take that as a no. Or something more profane.”
“Victor?” the woman calls. “Are you talking to the ravens again?”
“No, I am talking to this rock, Aunt.”
A deep sigh and then fingers touch my shoulder. They grip and shake it. I try to open my eyes, but I cannot move.
Am I dead?
“Not dead,” the man calls, as if in answer.
“Who is she? One of the village lasses?”
“I do not recognize her. I think she is not from here.”
“That is impossible.”
“Well, then it is late, and I am tired and mistaken.”
“Bring her into the coach, and we will take her to the house and then find her family come morning.”
The man grumbles under his breath. “I do not suppose you could summon some of your avian brethren and fly her into the coach?” he says, and I presume he speaks to the bird.
A croak.
More grumbling as hands slide under me, and the world goes dark again.
* * *
I wake in a bed, and I am certain I have died, for surely that will be the next time I am allowed to sleep in anything resembling a bed. Do they have feather mattresses in heaven? They might, but for my crime I am certain that where I end up, mine shall be made of flame.
I have thought on this many times. Where I will go after this life, now that I have broken the sixth commandment. Were I tried for my crime in the mortal realm, I could argue. Imperfectly argue, because it is not as if I attacked him while he was killing my sister. I would not be granted a reprieve, though a proper barrister would argue for incarceration in a mental asylum rather than the gallows.
I think I would prefer the gallows if not for the fear of what comes next, because whatever a mortal judge might decide, immortal ones will allow no extenuating circumstances. Murder is murder.
For my sin, I will be damned. I just did not realize that damnation would begin in this life, pursued relentlessly by my victim and tormenter.
I lift my head and blink open my eyes. The first rays of sunshine stream in through the gloom, and I turn to see the red glow of dawn. Seeing that, I could weep.
Dawn. The night has ended, and I am in a bed.
The events of the night before return. Pursued by ravens and then falling over an embankment and being rescued.
At the thought, terror slams through me. Not the very ordinary terror of a young woman realizing she is with strangers. I no longer care about that. This is the terror of knowing what happens to those who dare offer me sanctuary.
I am about to bolt up when I look to the window again. Dawn. It is dawn, and my pursuer does not come until nightfall. I have plenty of time. I fall back onto the bed and burrow into covers that smell of fresh soap. A breeze drifts in the open window, bringing the scent of heather. I was on the moors before we entered the woods, and I must be back there.
Out of the forest.
I exhale and close my eyes, letting myself drift—
A tap at the glass, quick and harsh. My eyes fly open to see a raven perched on the window ledge. It shuffles to one side and then the other, and I catch a glimpse of a white tail feather.
My heart speeds up. The window is open several inches. Can it get in? It shuffles left and then right and croaks.
“Away,” a voice says as the door swings open. “You are frightening the girl.”
The raven fires a baleful stare over my shoulder. Then it lazily flaps off. I turn to see a woman of at least sixty, my height and plump, with a white braid, sun-tanned skin and bright dark eyes.
“You are awake,” she says.
I nod and when I speak, my voice is as rusty as the bird’s. “May I close the window? I feared the bird would fly in.”
“Oh, you do not need to worry about that. She was only checking to be sure we had done right by you.”
Her smile tells me she is making light, and I remember the male voice from last night, haranguing a raven, the way my sister used to talk to her cat. Not that Grace mistook Duchess for a small, furry human—it is simply a thing people do.
The thought brings tears to my eyes. Grief for Grace and also shame that I fled before making certain Duchess was cared for. Yes, I had no choice, but it feels like one more terrible consequence of my actions.
If only I had accepted my tormenter’s suit and married him, Grace would be alive with her cat, and the only person suffering would be me. Instead, Grace is dead, I have no idea what became of Duchess, and I am still suffering.
Seeing my welling eyes, the woman rushes to the window and shuts it. “My apologies, child. I was only speaking in jest. Of course we will close the window if she alarms you.” She tugs the curtains together, pitching the room into darkness.
“No, please leave them open.” I wipe away my tears. “I was only thinking of how kind you were, bringing me here.”
“You took quite a tumble. How is your head?”
I reach up to find a bandage at my temple. “It seems well enough.”
“I shall have Victor take a look.”
“Please do not trouble yourself—”
She is already bustling off. I glance around, getting a better look at my surroundings. A spacious bedroom, with a four-poster bed and soft quilt, a wardrobe and a little desk beside the window.
I push from bed and pad to the window, where I open the curtains again. The view is truly spectacular, the rising sun wreathed in reds and oranges, lighting a field of grass.
We are out of the forest and back in the moors, and it is such a beautiful sight, the grass turning golden. When I move closer to the window, I can see forest beyond, but here it is all craggy rocks and purple heather and long grass.
I open the window and breathe in the smell. There is heather right under my window, nestled into the moss, the color so soft and yet vibrant. I do not remember seeing it bloom so late in the year, but I am certainly no horticultural expert and I am also certainly not complaining.
“I have brought—” the woman’s voice says behind me. “Oh dear, I did not even introduce myself.”
I turn to see a man in the doorway, the older woman behind. He is perhaps thirty, with her dark eyes. On him, those eyes are serious and piercing, where hers dance with good humor. A sweep of black hair touches his collar and he shares the woman’s prominent nose and sun-tanned skin.
I realize I am out of bed and dart back into it with a squeak of alarm. A glance down, though, tells me I am still in my dirt-streaked dress.
“You are dressed decently enough,” he says. “I wanted to get that thing off and have it washed, but my aunt feared frightening you if you woke up in your underthings. I am Victor Morant. This is my aunt, Alma Morant.”
I murmur a greeting.
That piercing gaze holds mine, and he waits. Then he prods. “And you are?”
When I hesitate, his brow creases in annoyance. “A name. Any name will do. Unless you wish to be called ‘the stranger’ for the remainder of your recovery. Which is fine with me, though it does seem rude.”
“Edie,” I say. “My name is Edith, but I use Edie.” I look around. “I am sorry to have intruded—”
“You fell down an embankment. You struck your head and were knocked senseless. Intruding would be climbing through the window and taking up residence in my guest room.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“I am not a sir. You may call me Victor.”
“Yes, Mr. Morant.”
“Are you being circumspect or rude, Edie? You provided a Christian name, and so if I call you that, then you will call me Victor.”
“Mr. Morant seems—”
“It would be Dr. Morant, but that is not what I asked to be called.”
The woman—Mrs. Morant—clears her throat. “Please ignore my nephew, child. I would say he can be testy, but he is always testy. He is a physician, and so you may trust him to tend to your injuries while you are at Raven’s Moor.”
“Raven’s Moor?”
“This house,” Dr. Morant says. “So named, in all wisdom and creativity, because it is on a moor and plagued by those infernal ravens. You have seen them?”
“They chased me. That is how I fell.”
He frowns and rocks back, eyeing me with suspicion. “They were chasing you out of Ravenswood?”
“Raven’s . . .”
“Ravenswood,” he says, with impatience, as if I am very dull. “The forest with ravens. Did I not say we are creative here?”
Mrs. Morant smiles. “Ask us what the village is called.”
“Ravensville? Ravenston?”
Her laugh rings out. “No, but they were likely on the list of possibilities. It is Moorsville.”
“You said the ravens tried to chase you from the woods?” says Dr. Morant, who has not cracked a smile during the exchange. His dark eyes bore into mine.
I shake my head. “I was trying to run out of it. They would not let me.”
“Ah, they were chasing you to Raven’s Moor.” Mrs. Morant nods. “And now you are here.”
Dr. Morant has relaxed, as if this not only makes sense but is acceptable. Had the ravens been trying to chase me out, it would have been a very different thing.
I tense, waiting for them to ask where I came from or why I was running. Dr. Morant only checks my head wound, peeling back the bandage while his aunt comes farther into the room.
The ravens brought me, and that is all that matters.
No, of course not. They do not ask because they are not interested. I am a temporary visitor, and the rest is of no consequence.
“Might I take that dress when my nephew is finished?” Mrs. Morant asks. “We have clothing that should fit you. It belonged to Victor’s sister. It may be out of fashion by now, but that dress really does need washing.”
“It all needs washing,” Dr. Morant says. “Including her.”
“Victor!” Mrs. Morant says. “You are being rude.”
“I am being honest.”
“He is, ma’am,” I say. “I have not been able to bathe in a while.”
Again, I brace for questions, but she only says, “Then we shall wash it all, including you. We have a tub, and I will tell Tillie to start filling it.”
“I can do that myself—”
“Tillie will do it,” Dr. Morant says. “She will be going home soon, and she has time yet.”
Going home? I look toward the sunrise and wonder whether this Tillie is Mrs. Morant’s nurse, someone to stay the night with her. While she hardly seems frail, I have known older people who become very different at night, prone to wandering and confusion.
“I would very much like both a bath and clean clothing,” I say. “I will not be able to stay long enough for my dress to be properly washed, but I will spot clean it, as best I can.”
The two exchange a look, which presumably means that my dress needs more than a few dabs with a damp cloth.
“How is my forehead?” I ask.
“Gashed,” Dr. Morant says. “With a bump large enough to mistake for an extra ear.”
“Is that the extent of it?”
“I will not know until I get you out of that dress.”
“I will fetch some of Clara’s clothing,” Mrs. Morant says. “And have Tillie begin filling the tub.”
Dr. Morant grunts, and she leaves us. Silence falls as he cleans the wound on my temple. With a soft curse, he backs up and lights a lamp, and I realize it has grown darker.
The day must be turning overcast. I turn to the window and see it is almost dark, only the faintest red across the horizon.
My insides spasm, terror washing over me.
“Wh—what direction does that window face?” I stammer.
Dr. Morant gives me a hard look for interrupting his work. “I believe the setting sun answers that question.”
“S-setting—” I hadn’t seen the sunrise out the window earlier; I’d seen the sunset. I swing my legs from the bed, making him fall back. “I must leave.”
“I am in the middle of—”
“I appreciate all that you have done for me,” I say as I stand. “You and your aunt. But I must leave before nightfall. I thought it was dawn. I did not mean to sleep so long.”
“You slept because you are exhausted. Dehydrated. Malnourished. And now injured.”
“I must go. Immediately. Or I—I will bring trouble. I am so sorry. If I had any idea it was sunset, I would have left immediately.” I look around. “Where are my boots?”
“Whatever trouble you flee, Edie, it will not follow you here. If you are running from a magistrate—”
I let out a bitter laugh as I keep looking for my boots. “I wish. One can outrun a magistrate. A magistrate does not punish those who are kind to me.”
I am babbling, saying too much, but he only regards me with a steady stare.
“My boots, sir? If I may have those, I will go. There is no time to explain.”
He glances at the hall. “If you really wish to leave—”
“I must.”
“I am no brute who imprisons maidens in his lair. However, my aunt will not let you leave in this state.” He looks at the door again, his voice lowered. “You truly wish to go?”
“Yes, and if you do not give me my boots, I will climb out that window and jump.”
“No need for theatrics. Allow me to drive you to the edge of the forest, though. You will get lost if you stray. The ravens wish you to remain, and they will not easily allow you to leave.”
I want to say it is not safe for him to accompany me. Just give me my boots and let me run. But the sun is dropping more with each moment we argue.
“Yes. Drive me to the forest’s edge. Please.”
“Come along then.”