Matthew fell to the ground, choking as a tendril squeezed his throat closed. He put out his hand to Evelyn, his eyes bulging.
Finding strength from somewhere, Evelyn tore herself out of the clutches of the weeds binding her. She went to him and tugged desperately at the weed noose around his neck. It felt tough, rubbery.
Claire watched, a look of amusement on her face. The rain had not touched her, as if she was in some sort of protective cocoon.
Desperation filled Evelyn to the core. “Help him. For pity’s sake. You can’t do this to him. To me.”
Claire said nothing. Dakraska weaved its way closer to Matthew and Evelyn. The overlapping scales were clearly visible, the translucent skin bubbled and spines stood up on its back.
“I will live,” Claire said. “But you cannot.”
“Why? Claire, why would you do this?”
Matthew fell limp at Evelyn’s feet.
Claire sneered. “Your professor was right. You did create me, but I have a life of my own now. I don’t need you. There can only be one of us, and it shall be me.”
* * *
It seemed a veil had parted. The rain and wind died down. Matthew and Evelyn were off the moor and in a beautiful garden. The sun shone, birds of every hue fluttered and sang and purple butterflies darted from flower to flower. The scent of honeysuckle and jasmine mingled with roses, and a magnificent house awaited them.
Matthew stood beside Evelyn, apparently unharmed. She felt healed. No trace of the scratches, bruises, soaking wet clothes, strangling weeds.
Matthew took her arm. “Shall we go in?”
Evelyn had nowhere else to go. She knew now. Just as she knew that beyond the garden, in the wood, Dakraska waited. If she and Matthew tried to leave, it would kill them. At least Claire was nowhere to be seen.
The door opened for them, and they entered. “Which room?” Matthew asked.
The sound of the piano echoed through the hall.
“The drawing room.”
Arm in arm, they crossed the threshold.
“Oh, Matthew. Look!” Evelyn stared down in dismay at her body, clothed for an instant in a flowing, yellow silk evening dress, only for it to change. No longer silk, just as she had become no longer flesh and blood, bone and sinew. She looked at Matthew. The same thing was happening to him. A short distance across the room, Mr. Skelton gazed sightlessly ahead.
The same as every figure in that room.
Made of cardboard.
Their expressions frozen in time.
Epilogue
2020
“Go and play upstairs, Lucy. I can’t help it if it’s raining.” The exasperated mother unpacked shopping and put it away in unfamiliar cupboards.
“But it always rains here. Why couldn’t we have gone to Spain for our holidays? Carrie’s family always goes to Spain.”
“Yes,” said her father, “and Carrie’s family have a Lexus and a six-bedroomed detached house. Now, do as your mother says. Go upstairs and play. There are some board games up there. Under your bed.”
Lucy knew when she was beaten. She tightened her ponytail and ran up the stairs of the cottage. Thornton Wensley. Whoever came to Thornton Wensley for their holidays?
She fished out the small pile of games from under the bed and went through them, tossing aside Monopoly and Scrabble before coming across an unfamiliar one. It didn’t look like a game at all. More like a toy you put together yourself.
‘The Garden of Bewitchment,’ she read. Sighing, she tossed that one aside as well. But…how strange. She couldn’t have heard tiny cries coming from inside it, could she? As if she had hurt someone when she threw the toy away.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she lifted the lid. Such an amazing assortment of pieces. She took them out one by one, placing them randomly on the bed, until she came to the model of a house. She peered in through the windows, saw a woman seated at a piano and an audience listening to her performance. By the door, a couple stood, their arms linked. The cardboard woman wore a sumptuous yellow dress. Something glittered at the bottom of the box. She picked it up and held it, feeling an unfamiliar surge of energy.
Lucy put the house and the jewel down and picked up the folded board. She opened it up and began to assemble the garden.
In her toy cupboard, a strange book slowly turned its pages and began a new chapter.
Acknowledgements
Julia Kavan, my friend and fellow writer, read an earlier draft and I am indebted to her for steering me on the right course, as always.
Don D’Auria was, as always, a pleasure to work with as well as everyone at Flame Tree Press who work so hard for us all.
The Brontës, without whom this story wouldn’t exist. I just hope they will forgive me! Of the places mentioned in this story, Haworth is, of course, real although I have changed the names of the various hostelries. Of the other locations mentioned, Sugden Heath and Thornton Wensley are products of my imagination, borne of my youth growing up in Halifax in the West Riding of Yorkshire amid the remnants of the ‘dark, satanic mills’ and the wild, majestic moorland where curlews cried overhead and wind whipped through the heather…
And you, for reading this. Thank you for your support. It means such a lot to me. I hope to entertain you for many more years to come.
About this book
This is a FLAME TREE PRESS BOOK
Text copyright © 2020 Catherine Cavendish
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
FLAME TREE PRESS, 6 Melbray Mews, London, SW6 3NS, UK, flametreepress.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Thanks to the Flame Tree Press team, including: Taylor Bentley, Frances Bodiam, Federica Ciaravella, Don D’Auria, Chris Herbert, Josie Karani, Molly Rosevear, Will Rough, Mike Spender, Cat Taylor, Maria Tissot, Nick Wells, Gillian Whitaker. The cover is created by Flame Tree Studio with thanks to Nik Keevil and Shutterstock.com.
FLAME TREE PRESS is an imprint of Flame Tree Publishing Ltd. flametreepublishing.com. A copy of the CIP data for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
HB ISBN: 978-1-78758-341-2, PB ISBN: 978-1-78758-339-9, ebook ISBN: 978-1-78758-342-9 | Created in London and New York
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