Anne actually slept, waking just at dawn. Sheer exhaustion had claimed her. She'd had no dreams, had just closed her eyes and woken what seemed a moment later. Light was building outside the window and Anne sat up and looked around the room. The only thing out of place was the broken inkwell on the floor next to the desk. It had been the pen that rolled around the floor in the dark. But all was calm.
She still felt drained, as if she had exhausted her reservoir of fear last night. At this point, she couldn't feel anything. What was certain was that she had been attacked last night. Panic crept around the edges of her consciousness, but it kept at bay—probably because she knew dawn was here and the house, and its unwanted inhabitants, behaved during the day.
They had to leave—today. It was easy to bandy around saying they had nowhere to go, because she truly didn't. She could perhaps seek her aunt, but she would only be allowed to stay a few days. She would be utterly destitute, likely finishing the week in the workhouse. The question was if the workhouse would kill her faster than these spirits would. She imagined the fear entering the workhouse, a place of permanent desolation.
Her life had devolved to the point where she had to consider whether staying would be better than the workhouse. She was not in an enviable position. A snort turned into a laugh, relieving some of the frantic tension she felt. Then she cried, wracking sobs that hurt her ribs.
She felt calm when she walked downstairs, finding Lisle working in the kitchen. Everything seemed so normal during the day. The house was quiet and still, and work was required. Anne passed through the kitchen and went into the yard, where the cow was waiting patiently in the stable, eager to get out. Maybe she'd just let the beast roam and seek it when it was time to return. How far could it go?
Actually, they wouldn't be returning, most likely. The hard reality that they had to leave resurfaced. She could imagine them walking out to the road, along the road hardened by frost, carrying what they had to and trying to find a ride somewhere, having no destination, and no means. They'd be like vagabonds, begging for food and shelter.
It seemed an impossible choice, particularly now that everything was calm. But every moment, night crept closer and closer. Would it be possible to find peace in one of the outbuildings? Would they be out of reach there? Could they exist that way—occupy the house during the day and leave at night? It would be a much better prospect than leaving. But was she too terrified to stay one more night? This spirit had tried to kill her, had pushed her down the stairs. She doubted it was an accident. What else could it do? Throw a knife to stab her, bring the ceiling down on her head?
Looking out across the moor, Anne sighed deeply. There really was a wild beauty to the moors, the distance fading into the mist’s swirls. She wasn't feeling the cold so harshly today. Perhaps it was warmer, or else, she was too preoccupied to feel it.
Resolutely, she knew some form of action was required. Turning back to the house, Anne entered the kitchen, still feeling calm and almost languid. Lisle was baking.
"The house attacked me last night," she said as Lisle looked up.
"You're being ridiculous."
"You know there are spirits in this house. They attacked me and it was terrifying. The whole house shook with their rage. They tried to murder me."
"It is all in your imagination," Lisle said.
"It is not!" Anne replied, finally growing angry. "One grabbed me by the ankle and pulled me from underneath my bed."
"You're hiding under the bed now? The doctor said this might happen."
"What might happen?"
"An adverse response to death. It happens sometimes, he said. People become fanciful and imagine things. Become paranoid."
"The house shook as if the earth was undulating!"
"Well, there is nothing out of place, is there? Not a plate has fallen off the shelf," Lisle said, pointing at the plates that stood on their edges on their shelf behind her. Simply bumping the shelf would have them fall, but they were all still there. "It is all in your imagination."
Anne couldn't argue the logic, but it had seemed so real. She had been terrified.
Lisle moved over to a drawer and pulled out a flask, pouring two capfuls into a glass and giving it to her. "What is this?" Anne asked.
"Laudanum. The doctor said to take some if nerves were fraying."
"Fraying?"
"I'm sure his advice would stand in the case of a person becoming completely unhinged."
"I am not unhinged. You ran out into the cold night intent on digging Alfie out of his grave."
"A reaction to death, just as the doctor had said. Now take it," Lisle said, waiting for her to take the laudanum.
"Have you been taking this?"
"Yes."
Mad people never believed they were mad. Maybe this was all just her imagination taking a terrifying turn, a reflection of the stress she felt—her inner demons finding an external projection.
"This will calm your nerves," Lisle said and looked down at the glass then back to her, waiting for her to take it.
Tentatively, Anne picked it up and held it to her lips, swinging the contents into her mouth. Bitterness made her stomach revolt, but she swallowed it.
"See, it will all be fine," Lisle said with a tight smile then returned to her baking.
Anne wasn't sure which she wanted to be true, madness or ghosts. What a choice. She laughed again and Lisle gave her a suspicious look.
The laudanum took effect and Anne started to feel as if she was walking on clouds. Her whole body felt as if it had heaved a huge sigh of relief. Her mind wandered to the time she had taken Harry ice skating on the Thames. He must have been eight at the time. She had watched from the Embankment as he skated out with the other boys—seemingly every boy in London. She had laughed when he'd fallen on his bottom, growing angry with himself as he didn't master this skill as quickly as he would like.
She sat in the parlor and Lisle brought her apple cake. It tasted exquisite. She remembered eating apples when she was young, remembered the crisp flesh breaking in her mouth. She could almost taste that first bite, the liquid of the apple suffusing her tongue.
And then it was growing dark. Lisle gave her another glass of the bitter liquid, but she didn't argue, instead ate more. A pie of some sort, before Lisle led her upstairs to bed.
Anne's mind was trying to say she should take care, but the thoughts never quite formed. Closing her eyes and disappearing into her dreams seemed like an excellent idea. Her body felt as if it was wrapped in cotton, cradled in sheer softness.
Dreams and dreams, sweet dreams, memories. Then a face. She didn't know this face. A girl, pretty. Maybe sixteen.
"Who are you?"
"Elizabeth."
"I don't know you."
The girl sat on her bed. There was something not right about her. Her clothes were old, very old. She had dark hair, was pretty. "I have been here."
"Have you been watching over me?"
"Yes."
"You've been trying to hurt me."
"No, not I. Someone else."
"A man."
"Yes."
"He is not here now?" Something in her mind said she should worry, but she couldn't bring herself to. Actually, she just wanted the girl to leave her alone, so she could return to her dreams. "He wants to hurt me."
"Yes," the girl said.
"You died. You were so young," Anne said, sadness washing over her at the girl's fate. She felt like crying. "That man hates me."
"Yes."
"I have done nothing to him. Why does he hate me?"
"He sees someone else. Someone who seeks to harm us."
Anne watched her, her mind wanting to disappear into another dream. "I just live here."
"He only sees an enemy."
A vision of Harry as a toddler returned, standing at her skirts looking up at her with his large eyes. It was possibly the loveliest thing she could ever remember seeing. She smiled. The softness of her pillow embraced her cheek. She wanted to be with Harry, when everything had been so good. The little boy for whom she was the brightest jewel in the world. She wanted to live in that moment forever.