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Clara's eyes sprang open as her heart pounded. There was something wrong. And then she remembered that Wesley had been killed in the fire at the prison. The entire world seemed to come crashing around her ears as she remembered everything that had happened. The drugs the doctor had given her made the room seem fuzzy and strange.
It was dark outside and the room was filled with just enough moonlight that Clara could see the shapes of her furniture.
But there was something more, Clara realized. The wrongness was not just that Wesley had passed away. There was something wrong with the house. The energy practically thrummed.
She swung her legs out of her bed and shoved her feet into her slippers. She grabbed the lamp by her bed and lit its flame. There was nothing in the room. She walked over to the window.
The ghostly phantom she had seen the other night was standing once again beneath the flickering gas flame of the lamp post. His eyes snapped up to her face in the window. She could see completely through him. She wondered what had caused this creature to stalk her. But she did not cry out in fear. Instead, she felt it was very important for her to remain at the window and look at him, distract him.
Yes, that was the feeling, she realized. She needed to make sure his attention remained on her for whatever reason. She tied back the curtain of the window so that he could get as good a look at her as possible. She walked to and fro in front of the window, making sure that his eyes stayed on her.
And then, like a balloon popping, the tension of the house dissipated and was gone. Clara closed the curtains once again. She grabbed her house robe and wrapped it around herself. She had a sense of foreboding and panic did not leave, but this feeling was from her, not the house. Steeling her courage, she walked over to the door and opened it. She peered into the hallway. There was nothing there.
"Mrs. Nan?" she whispered loudly. "Mr. Willard?"
Neither of them came.
She swallowed, almost wishing for the cold chill of Minnie, just so that she wouldn't feel so desperately alone. She walked down the long and dark hallway until she stood at the top of the stairs. The front door was closed, and the lock was thrown, but there was a noise which came from the parlor, like a chair was being moved. Her hand began to tremble.
Frightened, she crept down the stairs. The sound in the parlor stopped. She placed her hand upon the doorframe, and then stepped into the opening to see who lurked inside.
"Wesley!" she cried.
He was standing by the fireplace, healthy and whole, but ragged and exhausted. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles and his face was gaunt from his time in the prison. "Oh, Clara!" he exclaimed.
She felt her knees go weak, but he ran forward and was there to catch her. She leaned upon his chest heavily, feeling his strong arms around her. He was real. Really, real. He was flesh and blood and alive. She felt the tears of relief prick in her eyes, but tried to push them down in case this was all just a cruel joke.
Her fingers ran over his face, feeling the careworn lines of his stubbly cheeks. She kissed him over and over again. "You were dead," she replied. "They told me that you were dead."
"What?" he asked.
"Marguerite told me that there was a fire. That you did not make it out. Oh, Wesley! I was sure you were dead!"
"Oh, Clara! If I were ever to die, I would haunt this house so that you would never be alone!" he said, his rueful laugh rumbling in his chest.
"You are not a ghost?" she asked seriously. "For often I cannot tell the difference."
"No, Clara," he replied, kissing her forehead. "I am flesh and blood and stand here as alive as you. No, somehow, Minnie knew of the coming fire and came to rescue me."
"She what?"
"I had a dream," Wesley replied, murmuring his words softly into her hair. His voice vibrated against Clara's bones. "I dreamed that Minnie came to me. The cell of my prison was so cold. The locks and barred windows were nothing to her. I dreamed she opened the door for me and beckoned me to follow her, then walked me all the way to my house and ushered me inside. She put me to bed and that was when I woke up to discover it was no dream. I have not known what to do! To turn myself in? To flee with this freedom? Oh, Clara! You must help me!"
"You cannot go back!" Clara stated vehemently. "I will not allow you to return to that place! There is no justice! Corruption runs rampant!"
Wesley squeezed her hands. "I know, Clara. But it is the right thing to do. Otherwise, I will be a fugitive the rest of my days!"
"Minnie knew. Minnie knew that if you stayed there, you would have been killed. Stay here with me, Wesley. Allow me to hide you. Help me to clear your name and to solve the mystery of Thomas's murder."
She could see he was relenting, so she did not cease her urging.
"I am powerless without you! I try as I might, but I need you beside me to learn what went so terribly wrong. Please, Wesley. There is nothing you can do to help if you are placed once more behind bars. Help me."
He finally sighed. "Very well. Instruct me as you will. I could never deny you. Say that which you would have of me and I shall do it."
"Just stay," she replied, clinging to him and vowing she would never let go, "and we shall determine the rest."