24

‘On the table we have an animal, killed instantly by a single gunshot wound to the neck,’ said Miss Stine. Then, with a break in her voice, ‘I had planned to use rats for my experiments. This beauty, I hoped, would be brought back alive.’

‘But he escaped again, miss,’ Mr Cox said. ‘He was dangerous. We had to shoot.’

She didn’t reply.

‘He’s a fine specimen though, isn’t he?’ She sounded almost fond: it made me think of how I’d spoken to my geese. ‘We had two to begin with. We’d hoped to breed from them, but our female died so we had her preserved. She was a beauty too, you see, and we kept her in a glass case … well, we did, though she didn’t fare too well on the journey here.’

My face warmed at the memory of Peg clinging to that dead dog. But Miss Stine had already moved on.

‘Which,’ she said, ‘makes this creature lying before us here the last wolf in England.’

My hand covered my mouth.

Wolf.

She really did just say wolf.

Instinctively, I took a step back from the table. Mam had told us stories – thrilling, glittering stories – of wolves preying on sheep and goats and tiny children in their cribs. And heaven help you if you saw one coming towards you across the snow, all yellow-eyed and slavering. ‘Oh, Lizzie, they don’t live in England, not nowadays,’ she’d laughed, hugging me when I’d gone stiff with terror.

Yet one did live here at Eden Court. Numerous times it had escaped into our village, killing our livestock. I didn’t suppose the locals would believe the truth, not for one minute. The evidence was right in front of me, and I was struggling to believe it myself.

‘Come closer to the table, Lizzie,’ Miss Stine said, her hand pressing into the small of my back.

I took a shaky step forward. The animal smelt of blood and filth. But underneath was just enough of that earthy, woody scent to make me sure it was the same creature I’d heard in our hedge that night. Being this close to it now, I felt a strange mix of fear and awe.

‘If this goes to plan, you’ll witness something truly incredible,’ Miss Stine said. ‘But before you do, I’d like you to touch the wolf, to feel how dead it is.’

And suddenly, I didn’t know why, but I wanted to. I took a step even closer. My hand hovered, unsure where to start.

‘Begin at the head,’ said Miss Stine. ‘The wound is on the underside of its neck. Avoid it if you can, it’s rather bloody.’

The first things I felt were its ears. They were wet from the rain and surprisingly soft and small. And cold. Then on to the head, which felt as sleek as a house dog’s, and a muzzle, now shut, that made my heart skip faster. After the head, the neck and shoulder fur got coarser. My fingers sank into its thickness.

‘Is he grey?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ Miss Stine said. ‘He’s a male, caught in the Alps as a juvenile. Shipped over here for study. Canis lupus: the grey wolf. In appearance he’s dark grey on his upper body and cream-coloured on his underside. His eyes are yellow.’

I nodded. Moving on, I felt the wolf’s flanks, the ribs underneath, and the lean sinew of his long legs and the paws as big as a dancing bear’s. The sheer animalness took my breath away. I imagined him alive – running, panting, watching with those marigold eyes.

And then.

He ended in a sad tail, hanging limp off the end of the table. I blinked. I wouldn’t cry.

‘Very good,’ murmured Miss Stine beside me.

It didn’t seem good. By rights, I should be glad he was dead. Instead, I felt miserable. This was a wild animal. We didn’t understand it, and so we were meddling with it when it should have been left in peace, to roam about the mountains with his own kind.

The rain, still driving hard against the window, seemed to echo my bleak thoughts.

‘He’s dead. We should leave him be,’ I said.

‘Aye,’ Mr Cox agreed.

Mr Walton gave a smug, self-satisfied ‘hmmm’. ‘Do you hear that, Miss Stine?’ he said. ‘Your audience objects.’

‘That will change when they see what I’m planning for our dear, dead wolf,’ she replied.

She moved quickly across the room. From behind me came the sounds of jars being opened, of metal scraping metal. My stomach twisted with dread. Moments later, she was back beside me.

‘First,’ she said, ‘I’ll remove the shot from his neck.’

I gulped.

‘Oh heck.’ Mr Cox sounded terrified.

‘Mr Cox, you killed him,’ Miss Stine said. ‘Now I’m merely restoring him to life.’

I’d known it was coming. But I still couldn’t quite grasp what she was saying.

‘Mr Walton,’ she said. ‘Pass me that blade.’

A great flash of lightning made everything suddenly white then blackest black. Bit by bit the black turned to grey, and I saw people-shaped shadows again: one, nearest me, was hunched over the table, the other two opposite held lights aloft. There was no mistaking how those candle flames trembled.

The other details I couldn’t see. Didn’t want to, either. The sounds and smells were enough to make a person faint. I was beginning to wonder if Miss Stine was even human, the way she leant in close, cutting and slicing without so much as a shudder. We could have been witnessing her pulling a tooth for all the fuss she made.

Yet as the minutes passed, I grew less aware of that bloody smell. The squelching and the snipping and the tug of knife against flesh became noises almost like any other. Miss Stine’s actions were neat. Precise. It made me think of Da at work on a length of wood. At last, the shot came out, landing with a ping in a metal pail.

‘I’ll close the wound now,’ Miss Stine said, and in moments that was done too. I’d known petticoats take longer to mend.

The lightning came again. One flash, then two more. Just a few beats between and we heard thunder. The air around me seemed to fizz. My hair, crackling, lifted off my shoulders. I imagined how it must look – mad and stuck out like spun sugar. No one was watching me now, though. Miss Stine, snapping her fingers, barked out orders.

‘The wires! Quickly! And the cutthroat razor – is it sharp enough?’

I was aware of people rushing. Of heavy objects being lifted down off shelves and lids being prised open. In amongst the activity, the wolf lay very still. I reached out to touch it again. My fingers found a forepaw, already cool and stiffening. If Miss Stine was right, then the wolf’s life force had gone. Without it, he was no more alive than a piece of oak or beech.

‘Don’t touch him now!’ Miss Stine nudged me aside. ‘You’ll ruin his electricity. Stay where you are.’

I sensed myself only a short distance from the table. Close enough to still smell the wolf. To hear the frantic rubbing of skin against fur.

‘Why are you doing that?’ I asked.

‘To create static. It helps carry the electrical charge. Mr Walton,’ she clicked her fingers. ‘The connectors and the wires, please.’

As she leant over the table again, I could almost feel those little metal pieces pressed against my skin, as they’d been not an hour earlier.

‘You’ll get electricity from the pole on the roof?’ I asked.

‘Yes. If the lightning strikes, it’ll travel down through wires we’ve set up inside the house. The wolf is attached to those wires on his head, paws, chest.’

‘Just as you did with me in the drawing room.’

‘Yes. The wires run into that room, too.’ She said it like we were discussing wallpaper or carpets. But my teeth chattered with fear.

The wires fixed, Miss Stine straightened up. She took a deep breath. I hardly dared think what was going to happen next.

First came a hush.

All I heard was the rain. Lightning flickered around the edges of my eyes. My heart was beating very loud, very fast. Next to me, Miss Stine began to count:

‘Three … two … one … NOW!’

All at once, white light filled the room. There was a crackling, spitting sound. I felt heat surge through me, almost lifting me off my feet. Then came an almighty roar. It made my ears sing. I tasted metal. And I was sure the earth had split open, and we’d fallen inside.

Only then, the roar became a grumble, and I realised it was thunder. The crackling eased. Everything went back to grey.

Then silence.

Miss Stine stepped up to the table to inspect the wolf. She seemed to be picking up each of his legs, for as she moved round him, she’d go quiet then let something fall with a thud.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘No sign of life.’

On the opposite side of the table, Mr Walton gave a huge, relieved sigh. ‘That poor animal is better off dead,’ he said.

I looked up in surprise. He was the last person on earth I’d expected to say this.

‘Let me take it outside and bury it, miss,’ Mr Cox said.

‘Good gracious, men! Where’s your mettle?’ Miss Stine cried. ‘I’m not giving up after one attempt! Stand back. We’ll try again.’

She started counting. This time the lightning struck faster. The flash was dazzling. Again, I felt heat and heard strange, sizzling sounds.

Then the quiet.

Miss Stine inspected the wolf. ‘We’ll keep trying,’ she said, when it was clear it hadn’t worked. ‘More static, I think.’

She started rubbing his fur again. As she worked, I reached out – I couldn’t help myself. I felt a paw. A shoulder, warm to the touch. I dug my fingers deeper into the fur.

Miss Stine grabbed my wrist.

‘Lizzie! I’ve told you not to—’ Seeing my face, she froze. ‘What? What is it?’

‘Its shoulder twitched. I swear it just moved.’

A scrabbling of claws on the table top confirmed it.

Mr Cox said a prayer out loud.

‘Oh … my … goodness,’ Mr Walton said in total horror. ‘What on earth have you done?’

There was a grunt. A creaking of the table. The sound of an animal shaking itself. Then came a soft, low growl. The last wolf in England was alive and stood before us on its feet.