FOR THE FIRST time in days I do not dream. When I come to with a thumping heart in the middle of the night, I’m not sure at first what’s woken me.
Then, far away, I hear a series of barks, followed by a terrible squeal. Thrusting my arms into the covers, I realize Stella is not beside me.
A moment later, I’m on the landing. I barely recall how I got there, how I threw on a robe and ran headlong into the black of the hall. A sleepy blonde maid is beside me, rubbing her eyes and staring down into the dark pit of the stairs. “Did you hear that sound?” she asks tremulously. Then, seeing to whom she’s speaking, she amends herself. “But I’m sure it was nothing, my lady.”
“May I?” I say. She hands me her lantern, then curtsies and melts back into the unlit hall. My bare feet are cold and careful against the marble steps; as I descend I hear voices below, and I see the wavering light of candles.
When I reach the bottom step, the housekeeper’s face swims into view, pale beneath her red hair. “You should be abed, my lady. The servants will locate the source of the noise.”
“It was my dog, Mrs. Whiting, I’m sure of it. I want to help them find her; she must be hurt.”
She shakes her head but lets me pass. I move softly in my circle of lamplight. Servants stir in the doorways along my path, though none speak to me. A draft teases my ankles, and instinctively I change course, heading toward the west wing.
Then a shout breaks the hush—sure enough, it comes from the west, where John’s body lies. The wing has become a mortuary.
The door in the temporary wall already hangs open, and I move swiftly past the sheeted furniture, following the low hum of voices to a small room at the house’s outer edge. When I enter, I see my cousin standing at the window looking down, his form outlined in moonlight. Elsie stands with a knot of other servants near the door, and attempts to catch my sleeve as I pass.
“Lady Katherine…” she breathes.
Henry turns swiftly, his face contorted. “Don’t look,” he says. I ignore him, pressing a hand to my mouth to gag the scream I feel gathering strength in my chest.
The window’s open, and an icy breeze ghosts around me, lifting tendrils of damp hair from my brow. I grip the sill and look down. There, below the window, lies Stella’s small body, still in the silvery light and matted with blood.
“This was not an accident,” I say immediately.
“Her neck is broken,” says Henry briefly. “Someone broke her neck,” he repeats, his voice filled with horror.
“Or something,” says Elsie, behind me.
Henry turns sharply, fists clenched. “For the last time, there is no Beast of Walthingham.” His eyes are black pools in the lamplight. “And the next person who implies otherwise will be removed from the estate at once, without back wages.”
“Please, someone get my dog,” I say. I can’t stop shivering, despite my robe. Henry takes my arm and forces me to a chair, where I sit helplessly, waiting for Stella’s body to be brought inside.
Long moments tick by, elastic and immeasurable in the wavering light, with everyone staring at me, waiting to see whether I’ll break. I make my hands into tight balls and refuse to meet their eyes. If John began this horror by killing my brother, what does it mean that his own death hasn’t stopped it? I think again of the letter he supposedly wrote—and the wavering words he produced in our lesson together.
Finally, the man Henry sent out returns. He looks vaguely familiar—I think he’s the estate’s smith. My dog is tiny in his arms. “She’s bloody, miss,” he says apologetically. “You don’t want to hold her with that nice dress.”
“It’s just a robe. Give her to me.”
I cradle the cool little body in my arms. She’s even smaller in death—a true runt. “Henry,” I say, “McAllister did this. He threatened her, and now he’s made good on it. That man killed my dog.”
“That’s not possible. He wouldn’t dare come closer in than that old lodge, and he certainly couldn’t get into the house.”
“I saw someone a few nights ago, standing at the tree line,” I say. “Who else could it be? Who else would be so cruel as to harm a helpless dog?”
“But that wouldn’t explain why the window was open.” Mrs. Whiting speaks from the doorway. “I personally check the windows each night, and I’m certain this one was latched and locked when I did my rounds. There’s no question but that it was opened from the inside.”
There’s a cool challenge in her voice, and I’m unsure at whom it’s directed. My own voice is steely in response. “Mrs. Whiting, I have no doubt that man could enter any room of this house if he wished to. This wing is the least secure part of the estate! Stella startled him, and now she’s paid the price.”
“Mr. McAllister is not a bogeyman, Lady Katherine, capable of popping in and out without consequence,” she responds tartly. “This house is well secured nightly, by myself.”
“Mrs. Whiting, Katherine is not disparaging your work,” says Henry. “All of us must be vigilant, but now, please return to your beds. I think I need not remind you that what happens at Walthingham Hall is not to be spoken of beyond the estate.”
As the servants file out, led by a quietly furious Mrs. Whiting, he kneels before me and attempts to ease Stella from my arms. “Katherine, please allow me to take her. I’ll bury her somewhere nice for you—beneath a flowering tree, perhaps. She was your friend; I think you’ll want to visit her sometimes.” His tone is kind but brisk. As with George’s death, Henry wishes to push Stella’s aside, to clean up after it and move on.
I’m holding her tight to me, still unwilling to give her up, when he grabs my hand tightly. “You don’t deserve this,” he says, his voice grim. “Let me do what I can to make it right.”
He mistakes my surprised stillness for surrender, and pulls my dog away. When he’s limped softly from the room, moving carefully with his little burden, Elsie moves to my side. “I can sleep in your room tonight, Lady Katherine,” she offers.
I nod wordlessly. I feel too numb to do anything but accept.