Chapter 43

It is like the sea: the rushing and roaring in my ears, the undulating lines obscuring my vision. I open my mouth, but the words have run dry.

‘Please don’t be afraid, Miss Why. It is me.’

As my eyes adjust to the lighting, I see a dusty greatcoat and red hair tangled with straw. Breath returns to my lungs.

‘Mr Trengrouse? What are you doing here?’

He surveys my eccentric clothing as if he might ask the same question. A strange pair we make, shivering in the lamplight with chickens scratching around our feet.

‘Did Mrs Quinn not tell you? The snow was too thick for me to ride home. Since there are no spare beds in the house, I was sleeping in the hayloft, but then I heard—’ He stops and chuckles, struck by the absurdity of the situation.

I think I might cry. Suddenly the last few hours are a burden too great to bear. Shall I tell him of Miss Pinecroft’s death? He should probably be in the house, helping. But now I have found him, I do not want to let him go.

‘You can ride a horse?’ I demand.

All his amusement fades. ‘Well . . . yes, Miss Why.’

‘You could saddle it up right now?’

His grey mare snorts from her stall, as if in protest.

‘I do not understand . . .’ he begins, brushing off his coat.

‘Mr Trengrouse, Rosewyn is missing. I have searched all over the house. She must be somewhere outside, in the snow.’

‘Great God.’

In a moment he has retrieved the bridle from its peg. The mare tosses her head as he darts into the stall and slides the bit between her teeth. I too feel as if I have something cold and metallic in my mouth.

‘What direction has she taken?’ Mr Trengrouse asks urgently.

‘I do not know . . .’

‘There should still be footprints. Only Mr Tyack and I have been about outside Morvoren House today. The snow will hold her tracks.’

‘The snow is beginning to melt,’ I fret.

He heaves the cloth and saddle onto the mare’s back, starts to tighten the girth. ‘She will not have got far. Heat some blankets, start to make tea. I will have her back before you have finished—’

‘But I am coming with you!’

My cry is so sharp that the mare flattens her ears.

‘Coming with me?’ Mr Trengrouse drops the saddle flap. ‘Absolutely not. You will catch cold, Miss Why, it is not the weather for a lady—’

‘Rosewyn is out there!’ I cut him off again. ‘If she can survive, so will I.’

He shakes his head.

He may be a man and my superior, but he is younger than me. I will not let him dictate. If he thinks I am going back inside Morvoren House to tell Mrs Quinn that I have lost my charge, he is mistaken. I cannot fail another mistress. This is my last chance.

‘You saw me on the Mail coach, sir. You know I am no milk-and-water miss.’ He opens his mouth, but I do not give him the chance to speak. ‘Suppose Miss Rosewyn is hurt? If she needs medical attention and you cannot move her? What shall you do then?’

He flounders. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to return here and—’

‘Wasting precious time! And even if, God willing, no harm has befallen her, what makes you think she will agree to come with you? She knows me, she trusts me.’

His shoulders slump and I know that I have won.

Dawn is a crimson slash on the horizon. Morvoren House appears innocent and beautiful. Snow on the rooftop, ice laced around the pebbles. A mansion cradled like a jewel between the bare branches of the ash trees.

You would never dream of what goes on behind those walls.

The mare is warm and sweet-smelling. Her back is wider than I expected; it feels curiously alarming to jog along, astride, clutching Mr Trengrouse around the waist for all I am worth.

We have just gained the top of the slope when he reins back. ‘Look. There, at the rear of the house.’

I peek over his shoulder. Putting the reins in one hand, he points at the window to the china room.

Someone has closed the sash. Beneath it, the snow is pocked, dotted, like a trail of freckles over the bridge of a nose. The marks straggle around the side of the house and away, off into the distance.

Did Rosewyn climb out of that window?

Mr Trengrouse nudges the mare on and follows the tracks.

I rest my cheek against his back and try to make sense of what I have seen. In my panic, I’d assumed Rosewyn had been taken. Spirited away, without a trace. But that was not how Creeda described it. Pixy-led, she said. Just as that orb led me to Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom.

The mare inhales and snorts. I feel it run the length of her body.

If Rosewyn was in the china room . . . She must have seen what happened to Creeda. Panicked, and fled through the only available exit. The poor thing will be terrified.

Diamonds of moisture bead the mare’s mane as it flutters in the wind. Though I will never admit it to Mr Trengrouse, I am thoroughly chilled. This winter has lasted an eternity. It feels like a spell that started with the poisoned cup in Hanover Square and will never, never break. I try to imagine the spring: the flowers, the birds, the whole world coming up for air. I cannot. It seems like an impossible dream.

The mare’s hooves fall silent in the snow. Without my noticing, the sun has edged further across the horizon, setting the sea aglitter. It does not look so far away now. If I reach out my hand, I think I could touch it.

‘Great God.’

The words run up Mr Trengrouse’s spine. My own grows rigid.

The mare comes to a halt.

A figure stands on the cliff edge, looking out to sea. Her unbound hair and the white skirts of her nightgown yearn towards the waves. One step forward would send her into the abyss, but she is perfectly balanced, halfway between life and death.

Rosewyn.

‘She will fall!’ Mr Trengrouse cries as he throws down the reins.

I am ahead of him, already slithering off the mare and stumbling through the snow. My throat aches to call her name, but I know I must not startle her.

The ground is slick and icy near the edge. Slowly, I make my way towards Rosewyn, marvelling at how she managed to do this in bare feet. The tips of her toes have turned blue.

‘Rosewyn,’ I whisper softly.

When she turns, her face is serene. As if she expected me, all this while. ‘I found her,’ she says.

‘Whatever do you mean?’

She points down.

Cautiously, I peer. Her doll is spreadeagled on an outcrop of rock, its china face reduced to powder.

This must be where the caves are. For now, the beach is swallowed by the tide, as if it had never been. Should Rosewyn fall, she will plunge straight into the ocean – providing she does not hit the rock first.

‘Never mind. Come away from there. We will get you another doll,’ I promise.

Rosewyn shakes her head. There is a terrible rattle as pebbles fall down the cliff. ‘Creeda told me never to go this far. But she can’t stop me now. I’m going home.’

‘I will take you home. Get on the pony and—’

‘No.’ She gestures to the chasm below. ‘My other home.’

Her words chill my very bones. ‘Fairy land?’

‘You get there through the water.’

My eyes are fixed on her outstretched hand. If I could grab it, quickly, I might pull her back. I take a breath, muster my courage. And then I notice her fingernails.

They are broken. Bloodied and torn.

Rosewyn closes her eyes. ‘She’ll never lock me up again.’

Forty years of captivity. Four decades of being kept as a child. Anyone might snap, smash their captor’s beloved china and flee.

But Creeda is still alive. Holding the estate in trust.

She will claim she was attacked by fairies. And if I contradict her with my own suspicion . . . Rosewyn will be branded worse than simple: she will be dangerous. I would be dooming her to another life of imprisonment elsewhere.

Gently, I pull her a step back from the edge. ‘What would it take, Rosewyn? To stop Creeda from locking you away?’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. She doesn’t . . . It’s the fairies! We have to please the fairies. They’ve got men. Now they need a girl. A girl to make their babies.’

Lady Rose’s stained dress flashes across my mind.

I push her back another step. ‘But that does not mean it must be you, Rosewyn.’

Her lower lip wobbles. ‘Can’t you hear them calling me?’

I listen, but I do not hear fairies. I hear something else.

Non lo dirò col labbro. Lady Rose’s aria, her pure voice.

My eyes drift from Rosewyn to the waves.

A humbling sight. That vast power and expanse, able to give life, able to take it. I have seen the ocean grey, ink black, once green as a mossy tree. This morning it sparkles blue. Spray leaps, playful and teasing, where once it was hostile.

‘Your friends would be sorry to lose you, Rosewyn. You may not care for Creeda, but what about Mrs Quinn? Merryn?’

She hesitates. ‘They can’t stop the fairies.’

Mr Trengrouse is wading uncertainly towards us through the snow.

I turn back to Rosewyn and seem to see clearly for the first time.

The two of us, side by side. I am wearing her dress. It is not turned inside-out.

‘What if someone went in your place?’

‘Who?’

‘Answer me. If the fairies got their woman, would Creeda stop?’

She sighs. ‘It would all stop.’

I guide her further away from the edge. The waves beckon with their clean white foam. Surely it could not hurt, to fall into their embrace. One might slumber, peaceful, in the untroubled deep.

Snow crunches behind us. There is a cry of ‘Miss Rosewyn!’ and then Mr Trengrouse engulfs her, clasps her arms to her sides.

Rosewyn wails. ‘Please don’t lock me up again!’ She writhes, but he is strong.

‘I have hold of her, Miss Why! We will . . .’

He keeps speaking, but I can no longer make out his face. The world is turning to water around me; ice beginning to thaw.

At last, at last. I can let go.

‘Miss Why?’

I will drown out the past, I will make amends. Rosewyn will live free at Morvoren House and I . . . I will no longer hear my lady. No voices of the dead; only bubbles.

‘Miss Why, come away from the edge!’

The sun is rising.

I look over my shoulder and smile. Strands of my hair fly upon the breeze to wave farewell.

Rosewyn stares in wonder, safe within her saviour’s embrace.

‘They need me,’ I say.

And then I take the step.