by Darcy Coates
Clare looked out the window. The sky beyond was still a map of white. “It’s too early in the season for the snow to be very thick.”
“I would think so too. But it has been snowing for two days now without respite.” He sipped his drink and frowned. “This is unnatural weather. It came out of nowhere and refuses to stop.”
Another memory hit Clare. Blowing past her like a cold wind, the thought was there and gone before she could do more than shiver at it. She’d been driving through a snowstorm, a bad one. There had been a car on the side of the road, abandoned.
“Now my priority is to get you back to civilisation as quickly as possible.” Dorran put his mug aside. “I cleaned and stitched your wounds, and we have antibiotics, but you will probably fare better in the hands of a proper doctor.”
She cleared her throat. “And my sister will be worried. She might even be looking for me. I need to tell her I’m all right.”
“I’m afraid we are cut off until the phones are restored.”
She hesitated, a last thread of cautious doubt clinging to her and warning her not to share her secret. Be careful, Beth’s voice said. Trust, her heart whispered. “I have a shortwave radio.”
His eyebrows rose. “Where?”
“In my car. My sister bought it for me. She keeps another set tuned to the same frequency so that we can contact each other in emergencies.” She shrugged and pulled the dressing gown a little tighter. “Because my house is rural, I’m usually the last to get services reconnected when something goes down. Once, I was snowed in for almost a week with no power to charge my mobile. I was fine, of course. I had food and water and everything. But Beth was frantic.”
“And she will be listening for contact from you?”
“I’m sure she will. My call was disconnected shortly before…” She blinked and saw Banksy Forest’s massive trunks passing either side of her car then saw herself glance towards the phone. “Before the crash, I guess. She’ll be worried sick. She might even be looking for me.”
“Your car should still be out there.” He stood and crossed to the window, running one hand through his hair. “It was off the side of the road. I almost didn’t see it. As long as no one has passed through and towed it, and I doubt they would in this snow, we should be able to retrieve the radio and signal for help.”
“How bad was the crash? Do you think the car might still work?”
“I wouldn’t expect so. The damage looked widespread. And even if it did run, the roads would be too heavily covered for you to get far.” He turned back to her. “But the radio is within reach. We can aim for that if nothing else.”
Chapter Six
“How quickly can we go?” Clare tried to rise out of her chair but had to sink back down as her legs shook.
“You will not be going anywhere for a while.” Dorran passed behind her as he paced the room. “The weather is too vicious.”
“I’m used to it.” Clare knew she sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help it. Moving to Winthrop had been an important moment for her. It was one of the first significant changes she’d made under her own power. Beth loved her, but she’d sheltered Clare, sometimes too much. Clare had handled every aspect of the move, though, from finding the house and hiring removalists to having to pay for repairs on her car after spinning into a ditch on her first winter there. Three years later, she felt as though she’d made the region her own. She loved the winters. She was a competent driver once snow set in. She’d endured hours outside in sleet to set up protection for her garden. Dorran’s questioning felt a little too close to Beth’s endless fretting.
Dorran tilted his head. “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t. But you are injured, plus you will have less resilience to the cold with the blood loss. This type of weather isn’t something to be taken lightly.”
“I’ve seen snowstorms before.”
“Yes. But the temperatures are abnormally low for this area. I have lived here my whole life, and I wouldn’t risk the trip without precautions.”
Clare chewed her lip. As much as she wanted to reach her car, she had to concede the point. She hadn’t made it far when she’d tried leaving the house. “What kinds of precautions would you need?”
“Your car is perhaps an hour’s walk away. I won’t try until the storm lets up.”
“And you don’t know how long that will take?”
“I am sorry, no. But hopefully not long. I would have expected it to have subsided already.”
Clare watched the blizzard beat at the window. “You don’t have a snowmobile or something like it?”
His smile was grim. “My mother would never allow it. She believes that too much technology erodes our minds, makes us soft.”
“Yikes,” Clare whispered. “You must have had a fun childhood.”
Dorran laughed. “Oh yes, I did.”
Clare looked around, absorbing the room’s details—the thick wallpaper and elaborate cornices. Every surface was polished until its dark wood shone. It felt stifling. She tried to visualise the family who lived there. Are they all as odd as Dorran? “So we can’t do anything except wait?”
“I am afraid so. We are at the weather’s mercy today.” He stopped by her chair. “You will be tired. Let me help you to bed.”
“I can get there myself,” Clare retorted. She glanced at the four-poster bed on the opposite side of the room. She’d never in her life imagined that going to bed would be a hard task, but the ten paces separating her from it could have been a mile.
Dorran silently extended a hand. Clare sighed, swallowed her pride, and took it. His fingers dwarfed hers, but they were surprisingly gentle as he supported her.
The fire had done its job of warming her, and as Clare curled up in the bed, still wearing the dressing gown, she relished the extra-thick quilts.
Dorran stayed by the fireplace, reading an old cloth-bound novel and feeding new logs into the fire when it burnt low. Clare was too exhausted to complain. And as she drifted under, she realised she was at least a little grateful for the company. The house, despite being caked in opulence, felt hostile, as though she were unworthy of staying in it. As if it barely tolerated her. The judgement seeped out of the walls and rose through the floorboards. It bled resentment.
Clare slept poorly. Her dreams were spotted with memories from her last day of normal life. But they were distorted, unnerving, and bordering on nightmarish. She thought there had been something on the TV that had worried Beth—something that a lot of people were upset about. That was the reason she had been driving to Marnie’s.
When she startled awake, the light’s angle told her it was early morning. She’d rolled onto her bad arm, and a line of fire erupted along its length. Clare groaned and pried it free.
“Here,” a familiar voice said. Dorran stood at her side, wearing a beige knit top and offering a glass of water and painkillers. She gratefully swallowed the tablets and drained the water.
As she passed the glass back, she asked, “How’s the weather?”
“Hm.” A grim smile was all the answer Clare needed, but she still turned towards the window. The panes rattled as a burst of wind buffeted them. Snow caked the metal.
She dragged a hand over her face. “Okay.”
Dorran chuckled. “Do not give up hope. It might clear later today.”
Clare nodded. All through the night, any time she’d come close to waking, her thoughts had always turned to the little black radio hidden in the back of her car. Knowing it was so close but so unattainable was agonising.
Enough complaining. You have shelter. There’s a fire to keep you warm. And Dorran didn’t murder you in the middle of the night. Things could be a lot worse, all considered.
She reached her feet over the edge of the bed, but Dorran held out a hand to stop her. “You should rest. I can bring you food if you would like to stay in bed.”
“Thanks, but I think I might go stir-crazy if I do nothing today.” She rubbed the back of her neck. Lit
tle bits of grime stuck to the skin. “And, um, I’d really love to clean up a bit.”
“Of course. But don’t push yourself.” Dorran lifted a bundle off a nearby bench and held it out to her. “Your old clothes were unsalvageable, I’m afraid. But I found these in one of the maids’ belongings. I’m sure she would not mind your having them.”
Clare took the dress and underwear he offered. The dress was made of a thick fabric and had a gentle floral print, and like a lot of things in the house, it hinted at an older era. It was clean, though, and looked like it would fit her better than the too-large dressing gown.
“Thank you.” Clare held the clothes close. “Do you have showers here by any chance?”
“Yes. We have showers. But I’m sorry—it would be best if you washed with a cloth today. We can’t risk infection entering the cuts while they’re still healing.”
“Right.”
He nodded towards the bathroom. “I’ll fetch some warm water for you. Wash anything that isn’t covered by a bandage. I’ll help you with your hair.”
As Dorran disappeared into the bathroom, Clare put the clothes aside and slipped out of bed. Her legs were working better. Everything was stiff, though. She had to put effort into straightening her back.
The hallway door was just barely ajar. Clare approached it. She’d seen outside her room the day before, but that had been part of a desperate ploy for freedom, and she’d barely paid any attention to her surroundings.
The hallway was colder than her room. Goose bumps rose over her exposed skin as she looked through the open door, and Clare hunched her shoulders defensively.
To her right, buried in the shadows that smothered the lightless hallway, a door creaked open. She frowned and leaned forwards, trying to see through the gloom. The creaking sound dragged out then finally fell silent. Clare could have sworn she heard something that sounded like a sigh.
She stepped back inside her room, her heart beating furiously, and shut the door. Behind her, she could hear splashing noises coming from the bathroom. She crossed to it and stopped in the doorway.
Dorran knelt by the bathtub as he poured a bucket of water into a basin. He gave her a wry smile. “The water heater is broken. I suspect the system froze, ironically. I’ll warm this over the fire.”
“You don’t need to do that. I don’t mind cold water.”
He chuckled as he lifted the basin and stepped past her. “It will only take a moment. And your morning will be so much better for it.” He moved back into her bedroom, knelt in front of the fire, and scraped embers out of the dying flames.
Clare carefully lowered herself onto the rug beside him. “Dorran, are you sure we’re alone here?”
“Hmm? Yes. Everyone left.” He placed the metal basin on the embers and sat back on his haunches. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought I heard a door open earlier.”
“That will be the house. This abysmal thing creaks and complains constantly, and it’s worse on windy days like today.”
The high ceilings and ornate architraves seemed to have a way of always making their presence known, even when Clare wasn’t looking at them. She shuffled closer to the flames. “How old is it?”
“Old.” He rose and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he carried a stack of towels and a bar of soap. “I will prepare some breakfast. Take as much time as you need here. I will knock before I reenter.”
“Thanks.”
Tiny bubbles appeared in the base of the bowl as the coals heated the water. Clare dipped her fingers into the liquid and was surprised by how quickly it had warmed. Dorran gave her a brief smile then stepped into the hallway, closing the door neatly behind himself.
Clare waited a moment before undressing. Even though Dorran had left, she still didn’t feel fully alone. The house had a presence that seemed to loom around her, watching her and judging her. She didn’t belong among the antiques and heirlooms, and it didn’t want her to forget that.
She dipped a washcloth into the water then began scrubbing her face. It was a relief to get rid of the grime. Days of sweat and dirt had built up, leaving her feeling tacky.
A floorboard creaked above her, and Clare lifted her head. The wind really seemed to be trying to tear the building down. It whistled and rattled, seeking out every tiny hole and every loose tile.
Clare moved the washcloth lower to clean her chest. Dots of blood had stained her bra, and she carefully removed it. Now that she was paying attention to her body, she found a dozen little scrapes, mostly on her left side. They stung when the hot cloth touched them, but Clare was careful to clean them well. Courting an infection was a bad idea even under the best of circumstances, and Winterbourne was far from an optimal place to be sick. Dorran had said they had antibiotics, but she wasn’t sure she fully believed him when the building seemed to be living in the seventeenth century.
The rattling on the roof grew louder. It took on a rhythmic tone, almost like a force was beating its fists on the tiles. Clare rose, a towel clutched over her chest, and crept towards the window.
The storm was heavier, if that were possible. She could no longer see the forest in the distance. Even the shrubs below her window had vanished under a blanket of white. She looked up. Lightning arced through the sky. Reflected across a million snowflakes, it was blindingly bright. Clare pressed her hand over her eyes and waited for the specks to fade. The rattling noise fell silent. After a moment, it resumed.
A chill rolled off the window. Clare shuddered as she moved back to the dying fire. She rushed through the rest of her washing, more eager to be dressed again than to be clean.
Beth, I hope you’re not worried about me. I hope you stayed at home instead of coming to look for me. Because there’s no way you could get through the roads like this.
The basin of water was discoloured by the time she finished with it. Clare shook out the maid’s dress and changed into the new clothes. The dress had obviously been designed for the milder autumns, even though it had full sleeves and a high neckline. Clare supposed it made sense that the family didn’t own much cold-weather attire if they never stayed through winter. The outfit was a couple of sizes too large, but a cloth belt let her adjust the waist.
She folded the dirty towels into a stack then rubbed her chilled arms. A noise reverberated from the hallway. Clare tried to pinpoint its source. Something sharp being scraped across stone?
She crossed to the door. It barely made a noise as she opened it. Clare hesitated on the landing, staring into the gloom. Dorran hadn’t turned on any of the lights when he’d left. All Clare could see was a warm candlelit glow coming from the staircase to her right and thin slivers of cold white light glinting out from underneath innumerable doors.
The sound repeated on her left from the path that led deeper into the house. Clare frowned. It sounded close, but she couldn’t see anything.
The carpet muffled her steps. As she ventured farther from her room, the temperature plummeted. Clare hugged herself and breathed in staccato gasps. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she began to make out more of the hallway’s features.
Everything had been built with a high level of skill. The mouldings wove neatly around the support pillars that jutted out of the wall every ten feet or so. The wallpaper was flawless. Clare couldn’t see any gaps or any sign of where one sheet ended and another began. The design on the ceiling swirled above her, creating a bizarre pattern that seemed to beckon her farther into the house.
The hallway split into three paths. As Clare reached the intersection, the scraping sound broke off in a clatter. Clare held her breath as she peered around the corner. The new halls were shorter—they only went on for twenty meters before terminating in cloth-shrouded windows.
“Dorran?” A puff of condensation escaped when Clare spoke. There was no sign of her companion.
Clare’s toes were growing numb, and shivers were setting in. She couldn’t tell if Dorran was right that she was more susceptible to the
cold or if the temperature really was that much lower. She crept towards the window at the end of the hall.
The curtain was made of thick cloth that crumpled when she lifted it. The narrow window behind it was coated with frost. When Clare moved close to it, her breath clouded the glass. She rose up on her toes to see into the yard. The window faced the estate’s front. She could barely see an outline of the hedges she’d run between the day before.
A floorboard groaned behind her, and Clare turned sharply. Her shoulder hit the wall, and the cloth crumpled back into place as she stared down the hallway. A shape leaned against the wallpaper a dozen paces away, blending into the gloom.
Chapter Seven
“Dorran?” She reached behind herself for the curtain. The shadow didn’t move as Clare grasped the fabric and began to pull it up. Stark white light spread across the carpet as the window’s edge was uncovered. She kept lifting, exposing more and more of the floor, and the light began to seep up the nearest walls. The shape was just beyond the light’s edge. Her pulse jumped as she pulled the curtain higher.
A hellish scraping noise from above made her flinch. Something dropped past the window’s exterior, and she swivelled towards it, but the object was so fast that Clare only caught a flash of motion in her peripheral vision. She whipped back to the hallway. The shadowed figure was missing.
Clare was breathing too quickly. She pressed one hand to her throat, which had grown tight. She could have sworn a figure was standing in the hallway. But she’d looked away for only a second. There was nowhere it could have run to in that time. Even if it had slipped into one of the bedrooms, she should have seen the door closing.
I didn’t imagine it. She swallowed as she reluctantly turned her back to the hall and faced the window. I couldn’t have.
