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The next morning, Clara and Wesley were taking their breakfast in the dining room when Marguerite entered.
"Did you sleep at all?" asked Clara worriedly.
"Don't you fret your pretty little shoe-polished head about that," said Marguerite, motioning to Clara's still stained hair.
Clara smoothed her dark hair nervously, but Wesley smiled. "I think you look lovely."
"Red took me home straight away last night," continued Marguerite sitting down, "and I was ready for him when he arrived this morning."
Clara looked around. "Where is he?"
"Out back tending to Daisy," said Marguerite, smearing a bit of toast with orange marmalade.
Clara picked up a box and pushed it across the table towards Marguerite. It was the one filled with scarabs. "I went and visited Dr. Van Flemming—" But Clara did not finish her sentence. Instead, she gasped. A tingling pain shot down her left arm. She gasped again. It felt as if someone had thrust their foot into her chest. She gasped again, all air knocked out of her. The clattering cup and saucer in her hand fell to the floor with a crash.
"My dear, are you well?"
She clutched her chest. Her heart felt as if someone had closed their hand around it and held it tight, putting its rhythmic beat out of sync. It didn't match the breaths she was taking. It seemed like it was going sideways instead of pumping blood through her veins. Her lips felt cold. She tore at her collar, desperate for air. The world was going black.
"Give her air!" Wesley shouted. She felt him lower her to the ground. She did not have the air in her lungs to speak. The little that remained passed over her vocal cords in a whisper.
She pounded her hand upon her heart, hoping he would understand.
"Her heart..." Wesley said. "It is her heart!"
"I shall send for the doctor!" Marguerite cried, fleeing from the room to find Mrs. Nan or Mr. Willard.
"Oh, Clara, stay with me!" he begged.
How could she communicate to him that this was not natural. That she was being attacked by the same force that killed Thomas. That killed Alastair Beltza.
How did one shield oneself from a supernatural foe?
Her wild eyes fell upon the box of scarabs Dr. Van Flemming had given to her. What was that story that Phineas had told her? That they were placed upon the heart so that it could speak in the afterlife of the good the owner had done? That they held the heart in place so that it would not wander off?
Clara clawed her way towards the box. The sweet call of gentle slumber lulled her eyes to half mast. The divine call of unconsciousness tugged at her, whispering its comfort. The pain in her heart could stop if she would just let go.
"What can I do to help you?" Wesley asked, unsure of Clara's flailing.
Her hand fell, unable to fight anymore. Eyes open, she stared at the box, so close, and yet, a lifetime away.
"The scarabs!" Wesley shouted, leaping to his feet. In his haste, he knocked the box off the table and the contents scattered.
She would miss him, Clara thought as the warmth overtook her. He was a good man and she was grateful for him. Clara could see a scarab beside the leg of the table, almost hidden beside the chair legs. Her eyes closed.
Wesley scrambled on his hands and knees looking for the carved bit of red rock. "Do not close your eyes on me, Clara! You will not!"
Her pallor had turned to grey, her lips to blue. He ripped open her shirt. He did not see a pulse beating in her neck. "Oh, Clara! We have been through too much! You are not allowed to die!"
He placed the scarab on her quiet heart. Nothing happened for a moment. Then another. And then suddenly she sat straight up, gasping for breath.
"My god!" she exclaimed. "I just died!"
"Clara!" Wesley cried, gathering her up. He covered her face with kisses, tears of relief threatening to spill from his eyes.
"I do say. This is quite a sight for the eyes," said Marguerite from the doorway.
Clara realized her shirt hung open as she clung to Wesley. She clutched it closed. "I apologize," said Clara. "My heart was giving me terrible pains. But I feel well now."
Marguerite laughed. "Well. I can see it is certainly not your modesty binding your heart too tight."
In a gentlemanly fashion, Wesley tried to help Clara button her shirt, but she waved him away. "I am afraid it has come to my attention that we need more of these," Clara said, showing the scarab to Marguerite.
"What happened?"
"I fear we may be under supernatural attack."
Marguerite gave a low whistle. "So, what happens if you put it down?"
Steeling her courage, Clara placed it on the table and let go. The terrible vise around her heart struck once again with its grip. Immediately she picked it up and the pressure faded. "I am afraid I have grown quite attached to it." Clara suddenly looked around, realizing there was someone else who might be in danger. "Where is Red?"
Wesley and Marguerite realized that he had not come in yet. Suddenly, Mr. Willard came running.
"Red has been captured," the butler panted. "The specter who was watching the house! He took Red!"
Clara looked at Wesley and Marguerite. "I fear that Trevor Beltza has discovered our deception."