by Darcy Coates
She wouldn’t have any regrets if she never saw Winterbourne again. But she was surprised to realise she would miss Dorran.
They talked about the garden—a safe, neutral topic—and about what plants they wanted to grow and how many. As she’d suspected, Dorran had spent a lot of time there while his family occupied the house. His mother refused to visit what she called “the servants’ quarters.” And while she disapproved of Dorran’s hobby, she didn’t disturb him when he worked there.
“In late spring and summer, it is warm enough to grow some hardy plants outside,” he said. “I enjoy that. Being out of the house. Merri would join me on most days, though she complained when the frost set in.”
“Is Merri one of your nieces?”
He laughed. “No. My dog. She is gone, sadly, spending the winter in Gould with my family. If I’d been able to bring her back with me, our incarceration would be a lot more entertaining.” His smile faded, the way it did when he talked about his family.
Clare watched him curiously. “Your mother wouldn’t let you take Merri with you?”
“No.”
He placed his empty bowl to one side and stretched his legs towards the fire. All humour had left his face. Clare could tell he wanted to say more. But he was hesitating, standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure of whether it was safe to jump.
She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “What is it? You can tell me.”
“This is not a healthy family,” he said at last, the words halting and hesitant. The wood in the fire popped and fizzed. He stared at it, his face tense and his thick eyebrows pulled tight. “Everything we do is to maintain a pretence. The pretence that we are still the wealthiest estate in the area. The pretence that we are revered, adored, above reproach. The pretence that time never moved past our glory days.”
Dorran had been guarded about what he said, but Clare had read between the lines enough to guess who was responsible. “That’s what your mother wants, isn’t it? To stay locked in that bubble of time?”
“Yes. And she is fanatical about it. Any staff who question her values are dismissed harshly. Those who remain have absorbed her obsession. They became swept up in it—almost like a cult. They treat her word like law, and she will not accept anything less. Time away from the house is heavily restricted.” He pressed his eyes closed. “Disobedience is punished, sometimes harshly. Withholding food for minor infractions. Caning for more serious lapses.”
Clare’s throat was tight. “But that’s illegal.”
“It is. But no one will report her. Some are too loyal. Others are afraid of the consequences. Our family’s influence is diminished compared to what it once was, but not gone. And my mother does not forget grudges.”
Anyone who kept her staff on such a tight leash could not have been an easy mother to live under. Clare spoke carefully. “Does she control what you do too?”
His smile was tense. “She does. I cannot leave the estate.”
“Never?”
“I see the world twice a year, through the windows of our car, as we travel between Winterbourne and Gould.”
Anger, cold and sharp, bloomed in Clare’s stomach. What sort of mother would lock her own child up like that? It was quickly followed by a different question. Why does he put up with it?
Dorran adjusted his posture, folding one leg under the other. “It is not so bad. I had a good education through tutors. And the house is large, which makes it easy to avoid my family and easy to keep busy. I spend much of my time with the staff. Many of them are good company.”
Clare shook her head. “Even so, don’t you want to leave?”
He chuckled and glanced aside. “I do. But that is not why I am telling you this. I want to explain, and to apologise.”
“Apologise for what?”
“Sometimes it is hard to know what is right, what is normal. When you spend your whole life trapped inside a family with an unhealthy view of the world, what is bizarre becomes your every day. What should be abhorrent becomes your reality.”
Dorran ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. His eyes moved, darting over the flames as he tried to piece together his thoughts. Clare waited, knowing he would need a minute.
“I am not used to speaking with people outside my family,” he said at last. “I know I have not been the best of company. I did not know how to talk to you, especially at first. I made you uncomfortable, and I am sorry for it.”
“You don’t have to apologise for that.”
He met her eyes. It only lasted a second, but the sincerity in his gaze was arresting. “I hope you will pardon me for any lapses in manners. They are not intentional. And…” He paused again as he chose his words. “I know trust is not something I can expect to come easily. But you should not be afraid to ask for anything you want or need while you stay here. I want you to be comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Clare wanted to say more, to tell him she was sorry for the family he’d been trapped with, to say how much she appreciated what he’d done for her. The words were crowding onto her tongue, too jumbled to come out, but she didn’t want to let the silence hang. She rested her hand on his forearm.
He glanced at it, and his smile grew warmer, almost fond. It held more real joy than Clare had seen in him before. His other hand came up to cover hers, the fingers heavy and careful. He only held it there for a second before he stood, moving away from her touch.
“Your cuts need redressing. I should not have left them this long. I will return soon.”
Clare waited until his footsteps had faded, then she released a held breath. Something was still bothering him. She wished she could look inside his mind, even just for a moment.
When Dorran returned, he looked serene again. He carried a pot of water, which he set on the coals to heat, and an old metal kit full of bandages, equipment, and surprisingly modern-looking plastic bottles. He took one, checked the label, then tipped out two pills, which he handed to Clare. She swallowed them.
“Because our family was so large, and because contact with the outside world was so unreliable, we had a doctor on staff. He worked in the kitchen when his medical skills weren’t needed. In his spare time, he taught me a little.”
Dorran placed surgical scissors and a needle driver into the pot of water, their handles poking above the steam, to boil. He then laid out a towel and indicated for Clare to give him her arm. Using gloves, he fished the scissors out of the pot, waited for them to cool, then began cutting away the bandages.
It was the first time she’d seen her arm since the crash. Nausea rushed through her, and she turned away as she tried not to panic. Her arm was red and covered in mottled bruising. Gashes ran along it like lightning marks. Dorran had stitched them. Black thread wound through the red flesh like a nightmarish tapestry.
“It is all right.” Dorran spoke softly. “It looks worse than it is. The cuts are shallow, near the surface. No broken bones. Even the muscles are mostly intact.”
Clare took a deep, gulping breath. She still didn’t trust herself to speak.
“I was as careful as I could be. Scarring should not be significant. It will only take a moment to clean this, and then we will bandage it again.”
“Okay,” she managed.
Dorran bent close as he worked on dabbing away caked blood. He was gentle, but even with the pain tablets, Clare had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep silent.
Several of the stitches had torn—probably during one of her falls—and he had to cut them free and restitch them. Clare tried not to look. She’d never been very good with blood. It wasn’t a full-blown phobia, but it left her feeling queasy. Trying to distract herself, she grabbed on to the topic that had been on her mind all evening. “The storm’s over.”
“Yes. It looks much clearer.”
“I want to try to go to my car tomorrow and get the radio.”
“Hm.” He kept his head low as he focussed on stitching one of the cuts. “The snow is
deep, and the air is still frigid. It will be risky to go tomorrow, especially if there is a chance that the storm will return.”
She hissed as the needle punctured her skin, then she closed her eyes to clear her thoughts. “I don’t want to wait any longer. Beth will be frantic. And maybe, if we can contact her, we can find a way out of here. A helicopter, maybe.”
“All right. I can’t promise I will be able to reach the car, but I will try.”
She cracked her eyes open. Dorran had finished stitching, and he set the needle aside before pouring clear liquid from a bottle onto a cotton ball.
“I’ll be going with you,” Clare said.
“This will sting.”
She kicked her foot out and swallowed a cry as the antiseptic touched the cuts.
Dorran looked apologetic. “It will be over in a moment. Hold on.”
Clare was sweating and shaking by the time he’d finished. He pulled fresh bandages out of the kit and began wrapping them around her arm. He didn’t speak until he was nearly done. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to accompany me. It is a long walk, and in harsh conditions. Better if I go alone.”
“Safety in numbers,” she countered.
He gave her a quick look.
She lifted her chin. “I can do it. I know I can.”
“You probably could.” Dorran finished tying off the bandages. “But remember what I said earlier about minimising risk. About not relying on the best-possible scenario, no matter how likely it seems. You could probably make the trip to the car and back. But while you live in this house, I am responsible for your well-being. And I will not risk it when I can do the job myself.”
Clare wanted to argue. Whenever she thought about the radio, she pictured getting it herself. Sending someone else in her place felt wrong. But Dorran was already making a concession by travelling there before he thought it was safe.
Leave it for tonight. You can ask again tomorrow. The weather might have improved by then.
“Leg next,” Dorran said, and Clare tried not to cringe. The arm had been such a challenge that she’d forgotten about the other patches of bandages scattered about her body. Reluctantly, she extended her leg and braced herself.
The other cuts turned out to be minor compared to the damage to her arm. She’d lost a strip of skin on her leg—it had probably scraped against the road—but the injury wasn’t severe enough to need stitches. It still stung like a nightmare when Dorran cleaned it, though. She had a nick in her neck and three cuts across her abdomen. Like her arm, they had needed stitches, but Dorran said the cuts hadn’t gone deep enough to be a serious risk.
Clare lay on her back, holding a blanket over her chest for modesty, while Dorran cleaned the stitches on her stomach. She was surprised by how comfortable she was with it. She’d always been shy about showing too much skin—something Beth’s caution had reinforced—and if she’d imagined the experience before arriving at Winterbourne Hall, she would have thought it would be embarrassing at best, horrible at worst. But she didn’t feel any of that with Dorran. She felt safe.
“There, finished.” He pressed along the edges of the gauze to ensure it stuck to her then rocked back on his heels. “You’ve done well.”
A sharp gust of wind rattled the windows, and Clare startled. A door farther down the hallway banged open.
“Just the wind,” Dorran said. He packed away the kit and shut the lid. “I’ll make sure it’s closed. But don’t let it alarm you. This house likes to complain.”
He left, walking smoothly. He was confident, unafraid of what was lurking in the hallway. As Clare pulled her coat around her shoulders, she wished she could feel as secure as he did.
Chapter Eleven
They ended up sleeping on the rug, bundled in blankets and pillows, taking advantage of the fire’s warmth. Clare was secretly glad. She didn’t want to be left alone in the house. The wind beat at the windows, and the floorboards in the attic groaned, but human company made it easier to tune them out.
The wind grew worse during the night, and as Clare drifted in and out of sleep, she began to imagine the sound of fingers scrabbling at the tiles above them, so much like the noise from the wine cellar. In the early hours of the morning, she thought she heard a scream. She shot upright, breathing too quickly, her heart galloping. The noise had already faded, though, until she couldn’t tell if it had been the wind or part of a dream. Clare brushed loose hair behind her ear and pulled her knees up close to her chest.
Dorran lay near her on the rug, one arm under his head as he slept. The fire’s glow softened his face. She’d never noticed before, but he had long eyelashes. They brushed his cheeks and twitched as he dreamed.
The fire was growing low, so Clare crawled to it and fed it a fresh log. It crackled as the wood crushed the embers.
She felt cold despite the room’s warmth. When she lay back down, she moved a little closer to Dorran’s side. His forearm had slipped out from under the blanket. She tugged the quilt back over it then pulled her own blanket up around her throat and tried to relax.
She’d nearly fallen asleep when a heavy thud broke through the daze. Clare opened her eyes. Dorran still slept, his features relaxed and his breathing deep and slow. Clare twisted to see the window. It was hard to be sure with the curtains blocking the view, but she thought pale, ghastly daylight was starting to replace the moonlight.
Something’s wrong. A sense of dread passed over Clare. It started in her shoulders, tightening the muscles, then wormed its way down her back. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.
She held still, wrapped in blankets, as the dread filled her stomach and turned her cold. Light from the fire and light from the windows mixed uneasily, cold and hot, neither strong enough to remove the gloom. The wallpaper’s twisting pattern felt more insane than ever. The cornices and edging hoarded shadows jealously.
Something’s wrong. But what?
An exhale came from near the door. It floated out of the shadows, weary and rasping, and Clare’s heart skipped a beat. She slowly turned her head.
Dark furniture blended into the gloom, becoming nothing but a jagged row of menacing shapes. One shadow stood out from the others. It was moving.
The woman swayed by the open door. A dirty white nightdress clung to her emaciated body. Greasy brown hair brushed gaunt cheeks. The eyes bulged, glassy and too intense. One arm was crossed over her torso, and her bony fingers clutched at a hole in her dress. A hole in her skin. White bone poked out of dark-red flesh. The woman twitched as she swayed, unsteady on her feet, and every breath made the bones rise and fall in their sockets.
Clare opened her mouth to scream, but only a whine escaped. She felt frozen. The woman peeled back her lips, revealing cracked teeth and bleeding gums. She took a rocking step towards Clare. The trance broke.
“Dorran. Dorran! Dorran! Dorran!”
He jolted as he woke. Clare clutched at him, shaking him as she screamed. The woman flinched at the noise. The smile widened, becoming an insane grimace, as she stepped back through the open door and disappeared into the hallway.
“What?” Dorran, half-asleep, gripped Clare’s hand too tightly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“The woman! She’s real. She was there. Right there!”
Slow and ponderous, the bedroom door drifted shut. Dorran stared at it then looked at Clare. His face hardened. “Stay here.” He rose out of their makeshift bed and grabbed the poker from beside the fire.
Clare scrambled to her feet and stayed close to him, afraid to be left alone. “I’m coming.”
Dorran narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t argue. He held the poker ahead as he leaned through the doorway, looking first left, then right. Clare rested one hand on his arm to keep herself grounded. They held that position for a moment, and all Clare could hear was their breathing and heartbeats.
“Did you see which way she went?” Dorran asked.
The moment had been so frantic that Clare wasn’t
sure. “I think… I think left.”
Dorran turned in that direction. He moved smoothly, keeping his centre of gravity low. His eyes were constantly roving. He reminded Clare of a stalking cat. She followed and watched their backs. The hallway seemed empty. When Dorran reached each door, he slowly, silently twisted the handle then shoved it open with his shoulder. A quick scan was all he needed to check that they were empty. They passed bedroom after bedroom, all neatly made and vacant. Then he checked a sitting room and a nursery.
At last, Dorran stopped at the end of the hallway, beside the window Clare had looked out of the day before. He lowered the poker, but the intensity didn’t leave his face. He looked at her, asking a silent question.
“I’m sure I saw her,” was all Clare could say.
“Go back to the bedroom. Lock the door. I will search the rest of the house.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
“Do not argue.” His voice was quiet, but his dark eyes held a warning.
She hadn’t seen him look so focussed and dangerous before. She let him lead her back to her room.
Dorran kept his eyes on the hallway. “I will be back soon, and I will call before opening the door. If anything else tries to come in, scream. I will hear you.”
“Okay.”
He shut the door. A moment later, she heard a click as he locked it.
Clare crossed to the fireplace and sank onto the layers of blankets and pillows. She was shaking. When she closed her eyes, she could see the woman again. The blotchy, discoloured skin. Broken teeth and bleeding gums. Long hair that had thinned into straggly clumps. The hole in her side…
Clare bent over and pulled her knees up under her chin. The hairs on her arms all stood up. She’d never seen an injury like that before. She had no idea what might have caused it… or how the woman had still been standing.
