by Darcy Coates
She kept one eye on the clock. The ceaseless noises in the house continued to hum around her. The scraping, unstable footsteps. The scratching fingers running across kilometres of wallpaper. The whispering chatters so unrelenting that she thought she might never be free from them.
How long will I be trapped here? Her eyes roved across the maddening patterned wall. The room was decadent enough to be called luxurious, but Clare had never sought luxury. She preferred cosy comfort. And her prison had very little of that.
Thunder crackled in the distance. Clare hoped the storm wouldn’t pass over Winterbourne. She was exhausted by the charged air, the noise, and the frenzy.
It seemed like such an obvious choice to return to Winterbourne when we were at the research institute. I imagined it would be like before we left. Working beside Dorran to seal the hidden passageways and running between the garden and the kitchens. I thought I could turn this place into our home. It was so stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Footsteps approached. Clare recognised them as Dorran’s before he even reached the door. She approached, one hand held over the lock, as she waited for his voice.
“It’s me,” he called, and Clare pulled open the door.
Dorran stepped in, the cloth bag full of vegetables slung over his shoulder. His hair was wet and flecked white with melting snow.
“You went outside,” Clare said, shocked.
“I did.” He locked the door behind himself, placed the bag on the ground, and ruffled the moisture out of his hair. “I had an idea while I was in the garden. Do you remember what I said about my mother and how she would be treating this as though it were a chess match? She will be expecting us to have a plan. If we stay in our room and don’t appear to be trying anything, she will grow anxious and may play her hand early.”
“Oh.” Clare nodded, her mind churning. “That makes sense. What did you do?”
“Not much. I didn’t want to leave you for long. I went outside and pretended to assess the wall. Then I found the sled from the foyer and dragged it to the space below our window.” He flashed her a smile. “That will give her something to wonder about… and to sabotage.”
“Was it nice outside?”
“It was cold.” He began lifting vegetables out of the bag. “I am already looking forward to spring. You will like it. Everything becomes so vibrant—even the forest.”
“Hah. Just as long as I’m allowed outside by then.” Clare had meant it as a joke, but her laughter was slightly too strained.
Dorran’s hands stilled, and he dropped a tomato back into the bag. Clare didn’t like the way he watched her, as though he was picking his words carefully, afraid of the response. “I know this is not easy for you. But, please—”
“Be patient! I know. I know! I won’t leave the room. Stop worrying.”
Clare turned aside, hating the way her voice cracked. She felt like her insides were under pressure, boiling, as angry words searched for an outlet. She folded her arms across her chest as she tried to get her emotions back under control.
“Clare…”
“Forget it. I’m tired right now. That’s all. Give me some space.”
Dorran stood by the fire, his back straight, his cheeks a shade paler than normal. The shutters had been drawn over his expression. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, but bowed his head in a formal nod. “Please excuse me.”
He crossed to the door in quick strides and, before Clare could say anything, slipped through it. His fading footsteps echoed in time with Clare’s thumping heart.
At least one of us can leave whenever they want. Clare pressed a hand to her mouth. She crossed to the table, carrying the radio, and slammed her fist against the surface. As her frustration and the anxiety converged, the radio’s quiet static hissed. Its erratic tempo felt as frantic as she did. She bit onto a groan, cutting it off before it could escape.
Get yourself together. This is hardly suffering. She took a breath, leaned over the table, then straightened her back as she fought with her racing heart. Dorran is the one shouldering all of the risk… and all of the work. Be kind to him. Heaven knows there’s precious little else you can do right now.
She turned to look at the door. The anger faded like a coal dropped into chilled water. Dorran was uncomfortable with volatile moods; he’d learned to fear them after a lifetime around his mother. Clare had tripped his natural defences, and it had driven him away, out into the house, the situation that was the most dangerous to him.
For a wild second, she imagined running after Dorran. He moved through the house so easily—it seemed insane that she couldn’t take even twenty steps in it. Clare struggled with the impulse before sinking into the seat facing the door. The risk was too great.
Her hands shook. Her mind felt scattered, and she struggled to pull it back together. A pit of guilt grew in her stomach. She owed Dorran everything. He was doing his best to keep her safe; he was tired, pushed beyond his comfort, hounded by stress and uncertainty. And Clare, the one person he was supposed to be able to rely on above everything else, had turned on him.
Clare swiped her hand across her eyes, which were growing wet. She prayed Dorran would keep his cool, that he wouldn’t take any risks or do anything dangerous.
How long until he comes back?
He didn’t seem to feel the danger as acutely as Clare did, not unless he was doing a good job of hiding it. He could easily spend the rest of the day away from her. There was an excess of space in Winterbourne and plenty of rooms with their own locking doors.
For that matter, he could decide to spend the night in a different room. It was possible he wouldn’t return for days. Clare doubled over, feeling queasy. But, almost as fast as the fear hit, it dissipated. Dorran wouldn’t do that.
She knew him too well. He hadn’t left her when she turned cold on him after stopping at Marnie’s house. He hadn’t left her when the phantoms in Winterbourne caused her to doubt her own mind. He hadn’t left when Beth tried to push him out of their group. He would be back before the day was over.
I don’t ever want him to dread returning here. This should be the one place he feels safest. She would be better. Warmer. She still had a lot to be grateful for. The captivity was grating on her, but she knew she still had a much, much better life compared to many others.
Three knocks rang from the door. “Clare, it’s me.”
She blinked, shocked. She’d been certain Dorran would return, but she still hadn’t expected it to be so soon. She crossed to the door as quickly as her leg would allow.
Dorran waited outside, a crate balanced under one arm. He met her eyes, and for a moment, they stood, wordless, silently trying to read each other.
Then Dorran jostled the box, half of a smile lifting his lips. “May I come in? I brought a peace offering.”
“Of course you can.” Clare grabbed his jacket’s lapel and pulled him inside, locking the door behind them. The words came so quickly that they nearly choked her. “I’m so sorry. There was no reason to snap at you like that. Please forget what I said. I didn’t mean it.”
“No, you did, and you’re entitled to. You’re trapped in this room with nothing to do except think.” He raised a hand to indicate to their surroundings. “There is no enjoyment here, nothing distracting or entertaining. Nothing pleasant.”
Clare shrugged. “It’s warm and comfortable and safe. It beats the alternative.”
“That is not enough. And I was remiss not to realise it earlier.” He placed the crate on one of the fireside chairs and began pulling the contents out. First was a stack of five cloth-bound books. “You already know how outdated our library is, but its contents are at your disposal. If you want a book on a particular topic, tell me, and I will do my best to find it for you.”
A lump had developed in Clare’s throat, forcing her to nod wordlessly as she took the books. Two names she recognised as Regency-era writers; she had never heard of the other three.
Dorran reached deeper into the box. To Clare’s shock, he had
managed to fit a ceramic pot into it, filled with dark soil and with a young tomato plant sprouting from the earth.
“You miss the garden,” he said, setting the pot onto the desk beside the radio. “I know how you love it. This is a poor substitute, but it will give a little life and brightness to the room.”
Filled with wonder, Clare traced her fingertips across its young leaves. Dorran must have transplanted it from the garden. Despite its small size, it was vibrant and filled with life, something that she’d been missing more than she’d realised.
“One more gift.” He lifted the final item out of the box. A bottle of red wine, its label dusty, rolled in his hand, and his lips quirked into a smile. “Normally, I would not recommend alcohol to cope with an unpleasant situation, but, well, these are abnormal circumstances. The garden has been tended to for today, so I propose we both get drunk.”
“Stop being so good.” Clare pressed her palms into her eyes, shaking with laughter and tears. “I feel guilty enough as it is.”
He placed the bottle aside, then his hand found her face. Clare shivered at his touch. “You have gone from being trapped in one situation to another for weeks now. Trapped in this house, in the research institute, in the bus, and finally, in this room. And you have no control over it. Choice is something we often don’t value until we lose it. And I’m sorry that your choice has been taken away from you.”
He would know that all too well. A life spent controlled by his mother, forced to abide her whims to protect his nieces and nephews, had left Dorran starved for freedom for years. It meant he could put Clare’s emotions into words far more clearly than she could.
“I wish I could give you your choice back,” he whispered. “But until then, I can try to make your situation a little more bearable. Heaven knows I would not like to trade places with you.”
Clare hugged him as tightly as she could. Her emotions felt too thick, like they were drowning her. “Let’s put on the kettle. You could probably do with something warm to drink.”
“Tea sounds wonderful.”
“And I wouldn’t say no to that wine, either.”
Dorran laughed, kissing the top of her head.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“What about snow peas?” Clare asked.
Dorran lounged beside her, legs extended towards the fire, a nearly empty cup of wine clasped in his hands. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as he laughed. “It will be horrible.”
“How do we know that, though?” Clare leaned against his shoulder. A buzz from the wine ran through her, making her feel warm, cosy, and a little dizzy. “I never believed chilli would taste good in chocolate until I tried it. Maybe it just takes an entrepreneurial soul to discover a new, magical form of food.”
He spoke through stifled laughter. “You can try.”
“All right!” Clare rifled through the bag of vegetables until she found a snow pea, then stabbed it onto the end of a fork.
She and Dorran had begun eating dinner cold—a salad, like the day before—until Dorran suggested cooking some of the tomatoes over the fire. That had led them on a path of experimenting with different charred vegetables. Some were unsurprising; neither of them could stomach the cooked lettuce, and they agreed the baby spinach needed some butter and salt. They were pleasantly surprised by how nice the radishes were.
Clare held the snow pea over the fire, then yelped as the green skin scorched black faster than she’d anticipated. She pulled it out, blowing on it until she thought it would be cool enough, then tore half off for Dorran and placed the other half in her mouth.
“Oh,” Clare said, frowning as she chewed. “It’s weird, but maybe it’s not so bad?”
“I think that’s the wine talking.” Dorran looked beautifully happy as he grinned at her. “It is truly awful, my darling.”
“That’s because you didn’t get enough of the char. Just wait, I’ll cook another one for you.”
Dorran hooked his arms around her waist, dragging her away from the vegetable bag. “No, no, you won’t ruin any more. It is an affront to nature, and I wish for no part in it.”
Clare ended up in his lap, laughing uncontrollably. Dorran joined in, nuzzling her neck, his chuckles rumbling through them as he began to kiss her throat.
She knew she had been unhappy earlier that day, but at that moment, Clare couldn’t remember why. She leaned into Dorran’s kisses, shivering, and ran her hands through his hair. As he murmured in response to her touch, she thought she would be perfectly happy if they never moved from that room.
“You smell like nature,” he said, between kisses. “No wonder you love the garden so much. You smell like… lavender and old forests and warm air that has travelled across fields.”
“I should get you drunk more often. You turn poetic.”
“Hah. And you turn pink.”
“Oh no.” Clare pressed her hands to her cheeks to hide them, but that only made Dorran laugh again before descending for more kisses. Then he abruptly stopped, raising his head, his expression darkening. Clare felt her stomach drop. “What is it?”
He lifted a finger to his lips. Clare held her breath as she listened.
Someone was speaking. The voice came from a long way away, distorted by distance, barely audible above the fire and whistling screams of the wind.
Dorran carefully reached for the nearby fire poker. Then something clicked in Clare’s mind, and she grabbed Dorran’s arm. “It’s the radio!”
He drew a sharp breath. Clare clambered to her feet and crossed to the table, hope rushing through her. A voice, faintly distorted, had replaced the ever-present static. Clare wound the volume up until the voice was clear.
“Unathi,” she breathed as she and Dorran bent over the radio.
“—be prepared. Ensure all wounds are treated appropriately and avoid unsafe situations. I repeat, the chemical keeping the hollow ones alive will be destroyed at noon in three days’ time. If successful, all hollows will be eliminated. The destruction of this chemical may impact your health and reduce your ability to recover from injuries. We encourage you to be prepared. Ensure all wounds are treated appropriately and avoid unsafe situations. Spread the word.”
She’s keeping it simple. Instead of trying to explain what the thanites are and how they work, she’s calling it a chemical. That’s smart. Less confusion, less room for people to doubt her.
The static held for a moment, then Unathi’s voice returned, this time losing its formality. “Clare—Dorran—I don’t know if you’re listening, but we’re doing well. Niall is beginning to walk again. He’ll probably have scars, but—well. This is almost over. We hope you’re healthy. We hope you’re in a safe place.”
After another pause, her voice resumed its earlier coolness. “This is an important announcement from an anonymous group of scientists working to eliminate the hollow ones. Please share to any communities you can. Any situational updates will be broadcast each hour on the hour; otherwise, this announcement will repeat on a loop. The chemical keeping the hollow ones alive will be destroyed at noon in three days’ time—”
Clare met Dorran’s gaze, hope and excitement exploding through her. His grin matched hers, and his eyes shone. They grabbed each other, laughing and crying in the same breath.
“Three days!” Dorran said. “Three days, and it will be over.”
“Three days,” Clare echoed. She had been desperate to hear the announcement, but until that moment, the cynical part of her had begun to fear that it would never come.
Dorran picked her up and twirled her, and Clare shrieked with laughter as she clung to him.
“Three days,” they said in unison, and Clare grabbed his collar and pulled him into a kiss.
His lips were good. His hands were good, too, tangling in her hair. She felt him melt against her, all warmth and love, and as Unathi’s voice repeated the recorded message in the background, Clare arched her back to taste more of Dorran.
A door slammed above t
hem. They broke apart, breathless, and Clare’s euphoria died. She shared an alarmed look with Dorran, then she lunged for the radio and turned the dial to mute Unathi’s voice.
They held still for a moment, listening to the house. Wood creaked. Hollows continued to move around the halls, feet scraping, nails digging. The windows rattled as the wind snagged at them. There were no other noises.
“Do you think she heard?” Clare whispered.
Dorran opened his mouth then closed it again, still staring at the ceiling.
I shouldn’t have had the radio so loud. What if she did hear? What if she knows her time is limited?
Dorran believed Madeline would bide her time… but only if she believed time was on her side. She was the kind of woman who would want to win, even if death was imminent. Clare shuddered and clung close to Dorran. He hugged her back, and she could feel how shallow his breathing was. He was worried, too.
Three days. That’s all we need to get through.
When she’d first heard Unathi’s announcement, it had felt like almost no time. Now, it seemed like an eternity.
“We will take additional precautions,” Dorran said. “I will ensure I’m never away from the room for more than five minutes, even if I have to make multiple trips. And we can barricade the door more securely.”
Clare shook her head. “You have to stay here. We can survive off the tinned food for three days.”
“My darling, I can’t. The temperature is dropping. The garden will die if I don’t keep the furnace running.”
Clare shook her head again. “Let Madeline worry about it. She kept it alive while we were away from Winterbourne.”
“I do not think she will tolerate it now that we are back. It would put her in a subservient role. And…”
“And there’s nothing she’d hate more.” Clare released a slow breath through clenched teeth.
Dorran turned his gaze from the door to the windows. When he spoke, he seemed to be fighting to keep his voice even. “It will be all right. We can come up with a way to distract her. Perhaps we can pretend we plan to walk to the nearest town in four days’ time and have her concentrate her energy on foiling that.”
