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I shook my head. “The girl? My mother? I cannot decide. Perhaps he doesn’t know she’s dead?” I toyed with a loose thread on my jacket and shook my head. “The only problem is … you know of my dreams … Of how I see things before they happen. I saw my father and sister die in my dreams. If my mother is truly dead, why haven’t I seen it?”

Ruan’s breath hitched. For a half moment I thought he would argue but he remained silent.

“What do you think it means?”

The seconds ticked on between us as we stood there and I waited on him to answer. To say something to ease the tumult inside my chest. The wind riffled the rolling fields of winter barley on the far bank of the river. Several small birds took off from behind and soared up into the cloudless blue sky before he finally whispered. “I don’t know.” Ruan laid his hand over mine. “I’m sorry.”

I drew my brows up. “For what?”

“For being an arse. For not trusting you. Gods know no ill wish could harm you.”

A warmth bubbled up in me at his words, not certain whether it was a compliment or a barb. I was taking it as the former. Thank you.

He grunted an acknowledgment.

I glanced down, toying with the doll’s ruined dress when I noticed something odd about it. A flash of faint color on the underside beneath the delicate beaded flowers that my bloodstain had disguised. I lifted the fabric, revealing a message stitched in the most meticulous needlepoint I’d ever seen.

My gaze shot to Ruan’s. Perhaps he was right to be wary of it. A doll was one thing—a doll with words disguised within the clothing was another matter altogether.

“It’s not French,” he murmured.

“No. It’s not…” But I recognized the language—at least I thought I did. I stared at the delicately sewn letters there, struggling to place it. I’d seen it a time or two in old literature Mr. Owen had procured from the continent. “I believe it’s a dialect of Walloon—the language of these parts. And luckily for us, we know someone who speaks it.”

The downstairs room of the boardinghouse was empty when we entered. Dark and stale with the windows shut and curtains drawn tight. There was no sign of Mrs. Wauters at all. I poked my head into the kitchen in search of our landlady.

Not there either, though the basket of mushrooms she’d foraged this morning sat on the worktable in the center.

“Mrs. Wauters?”

Silence.

A pot of hearty stew bubbled out of control upon the old cast-iron stove. I took the spoon lying beside it and gave it a stir. It was sticking on the bottom, which meant she’d left it alone a while ago. I could not imagine her willingly allowing supper to burn. I moved the stew from the heat before pushing open the back door leading to the rickety lean-to where Ruan had been communing with the chickens this very morning.

Mrs. Wauters stared at the back wall of her home—her hand clasped at her throat as she remained immobile, like Lot’s wife, transformed into a pillar of salt.

For a moment I thought I’d caused her surprise—but the horror on her expression stopped me in my tracks. Slowly, I turned back to see what transfixed her.

LEAVE.

The word was written in English, scrawled across the back of the home in brownish-red letters that looked an awful lot like drying blood. My mind flashed from the stains upon the nurse’s apron to Narcisse’s freshly scrubbed hands. A list of possibilities, one after another, came to mind. Was this a warning or a threat?

Argument over the poppet long forgotten, I turned to our stricken landlady. “Mrs. Wauters, what has happened?”

She shook her head, unable to form the words. The tumbled-over basket of freshly done laundry lay at her feet—white linens scattered on the ground, blown by the wind.

Ruan touched the letters gently, the substance coming away on his fingers. Still wet.

“Blood,” Ruan said softly, echoing my own thoughts. He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Mrs. Wauters, let me clean this for you—” he called to her, before dropping his voice low. “Take her inside. Make her tea. I will handle this.”

“Threat or warning?” I whispered back.

He lifted a shoulder.

I supposed he was right. What did it matter? It was bad either way.

“She’s in shock, poor woman. I’ll see what I can find out here. You talk to her.”

I rushed across the grass to our landlady and dropped to my knees, scooping her laundry into the basket. “Let me help you. Let’s have a nice cup of tea, mmm?”