39

Hand

WHEN THE NOISES come, the room grows so cold that Kat shivers even under all her blankets. If only she had her great-aunt’s chatelaine. She lit a fire in her fireplace before climbing into bed, but it goes out with a snuff as the shadows begin to descend. The only light comes from the waxing moon.

She’s pinned to the bed, her legs and arms useless dead weights, her right arm trapped outside her blanket. The smell of cold steel rubbing against cold steel fills her nostrils.

She has a hard time keeping the tears from filling her tightly closed eyes.

She imagines Rob, in a separate room, alone. And Amelie and Isabelle, oblivious. Keep calm.

Something scrapes along her cheek, something smooth and sharp, so sharp she doesn’t dare move for fear of slicing her cheek open, her eyes shut tight. And then it scrapes down her right arm to her hand, where it stops.

Her right hand makes an involuntary fist, and she can hear wheels turning and gears meshing, and she realizes with a shock that those noises come from her.

And then she hears an intake of breath, as if whatever is hovering over her has seen her hand and expressed surprise. She cannot open her eyes.

The monster hovers, and then cold steel presses on her right hand, and then with a hiss and growl the monster moves off and leaves Kat alone with her fear and her spinning mind.

Kat flexes her fingers without opening her eyes and hears it again. Feels the strength of her hand, an unnatural strength.

What is inside her hand that sounds so much like the monster itself? She opens her fist, and there it is yet again, the faintest sound of cogs and gears.

Is this something growing inside her, a disease? What has she become?

And then anger surges. This is Father’s fault. If he hadn’t gone, they never would have had to leave London, despite the Blitz. If he hadn’t suggested Rookskill Castle, they would not be here. How can she protect her brother and sister from something that might eat them away from the inside? That may already be working inside her like a poison?

Is she, Kat, turning into a monster?

The tears stream down her face as she chokes back sobs. What should she—what can she—do? Her chatelaine . . . If only she hadn’t lost her chatelaine.

“One must be prepared,” Great-Aunt Margaret had said, “with appropriate countermeasures.”

What countermeasures can I take now, without the chatelaine?

Sleep comes over her suddenly and without her will, like a drug.