Page 64

Twenty. Twenty-one. Just a little longer.

The door split from the barrage coming from the other side. “Ruby, we’re coming!”

The voices outside grew even more frenzied for they smelled it too. Shouts of fire. I struggled to stay awake. Father Crawford smacked at his robes as the flames licked up around him, powered by whatever chemicals he’d knocked off from von Keller’s kit.

Forty-two … forty-three.

My heartbeat slowed. Light broke through the door. I’d done it. The girl would be safe. I’d bought her time. My nostrils filled with smoke as the numbers gave way to the sweetest oblivion.

“A witch … just like your mother.” Father Crawford’s words sliced through the air but they did not hit me. Did not hurt. My side no longer burnt. The pain was gone. I knew what it meant. I’d seen others succumb to violence before.

Death was here.

At last.

The door broke fully in two. Splinters of wood rained down over me. An answering rush of flames flared up to the ceiling, taking the priest with it. The outside air fueled his personal pyre. I did not feel the heat, only the sea of ice swallowing me whole.

The very last thing I saw before closing my eyes was the beautiful face of Ruan Kivell climbing through the broken door with Félix Thys behind him. For some reason Félix was not dressed in his patient’s clothes. No. Today he wore a soldier’s uniform. He climbed up and over the top of the battered shelf behind Ruan. It made no sense. The priest’s pained screams fell silent, replaced by the crackle of fire, and I could have sworn in the darkness of death, I felt Félix smile.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOURHalf Cat

I awoke hours later, in an unfamiliar bed, to the soft sound of grinding herbs. Perhaps I wasn’t dead after all. The sheets beneath me were crisp and smelled of sunlight. I blinked once, then twice, staring up at the ancient beams above. A plain crucifix was affixed to the stone wall behind the bed. I winced, rolling over onto my tender stomach, searching for the source of the sound. I was dressed in one of Ruan’s spare shirts and little else. The owner of said article of clothing sat on the floor in a corner of the room, a small mortar and pestle balanced in one hand as he dug into his British Expeditionary Force haversack with the other before adding something to the bowl.

I propped my chin on my fist and watched him, the dim lamplight illuminating his dear face. A face I feared I might never see again. The little chick he’d saved was also curious as to what he was doing. She cheeped merrily, hopping around the makeshift crate he’d set up for her.

“She needs a name,” I said hoarsely, my voice cracking as I watched the sweet creature shuffle about.

Ruan shot to his feet, muttering in Cornish. He’d been so focused upon his task he’d not even realized I’d awoken. Ruan placed his herbs upon the table, before pouring me a glass of water and pressing it into my unbandaged hand. A clean cloth wound around the palm I’d burnt with the iron shovel. It still hurt like the very devil, far more than the wound to my belly.

I took the cup gratefully and swilled it down before wiping my face with the sleeve of my—well, his—shirt. My cracked and painful lips had been coated with something slick and medicinal. I sat up, tucking my legs beneath me, still struggling to make sense of where exactly I was.

“The children’s home,” Ruan answered, running his hand over my brow, making certain I hadn’t run a fever.

“The girl … Manon. Is she safe? He was after her, Father Crawford. He killed her mother. He killed them all.”

“I know…” Ruan settled himself on the edge of the bed. The relief stark in his expression. “She’s fine. Sister Agathe and Sister Marie-Thérèse are looking after her. She told us what happened.”

I nodded, half to myself. At least she was safe with her cousin. I swallowed hard, looking up at Ruan. There was something else there, something bothering him. I might not be able to hear his thoughts as he did mine, but I knew him to his very core and that look meant only one thing.

“What else happened?”

His gaze drifted to my belly. “I thought maybe you could tell me, for the girl certainly didn’t know.”

“You … you saved me, didn’t you?” It wouldn’t be the first time. Ruan had stitched me up more times than I could count.

He shook his head slowly, that dear divot of worry between his brows. “There was nothing to mend.”

How could that be? I’d been stabbed. I distinctly recalled the blood pouring out from my side. The fear in the girl’s face. I’d not imagined it. Carefully, I sat up in the bed, inching the white shirt up and over my hips, searching for the wound. Yet my skin was unbroken with only a fresh pink scar where the blade had entered. A wound that ought to have killed me outright.

I sucked in a sharp breath, recalling the electricity in the air in those final moments. The coldness going through my body. The pain. Manon’s small hand upon my wound as I lay there bleeding out in von Keller’s office. The maniacal laughter of the priest, as he burnt before us both, feeling vindicated. Do you not see?

And suddenly I knew. Knew deep in the pit of my soul.

“You didn’t do it…” I whispered, as if to remind myself the impossible had happened.

He shook his head, fingers reverentially tracing the fresh scar at my belly. What was worth killing over? It was answered in one word.

Manon.