Barnabus wanted to object more, but Fletcher had a knack for these things. And he felt certain Fletcher would consult with the Dread Master, whoever that might be.
“I’ll head first to the Donnellys on the off chance she goes there,” Fletcher said. “And I can send Brogan out to start getting word to the Dreadfuls. We won’t give up, Doc. I swear to you.”
He still wasn’t entirely convinced that he shouldn’t be out pleading for the support of the Dreadfuls himself. But there was some wisdom in Fletcher’s strategy.
Barnabus reluctantly took another hackney back home and let himself in. The empty silence didn’t usually bother him, but it struck him forcefully just then. There was a heaviness to the stillness.
He walked into the sitting room. The table near the window was still in disarray. The memory of the terror in Gemma’s eyes remained fresh in his mind. He had brought this danger here. He had led her family right to her. He didn’t know when he would have a chance to apologize for that.
If they could only find her, if he could only be certain she was safe, some of the pain in his heart might ease.
He sat at his desk, leaned his elbows on the top, and rested his head against his hands. Maybe if he made a list of the places she’d lived that might help them find her. He pulled open the drawer, meaning to snatch out a piece of parchment. An envelope sat inside; one he didn’t recognize.
He broke the seal and opened it. Inside was a single sheet ofpaper—the forged letter declaring that Gemma had died. Had she left it here for him? Likely. She couldn’t, after all, file the letter of death herself.
Did she have the other paper with her, the letter of recommendation identifying her as Kate Mitchell?
If she managed to escape Arlo—No. Since shehadmanaged to escape Arlo, she might simply flee London altogether. A few days remained yet before this letter was supposed to have been written.
If he didn’t find her by then, he’d have to make an impossible decision: keep looking for her for the rest of his life or grant her this escape.
theBachelor
and theBride
by Mr. King
Installment VI
in which our brave Duo’s destination proves quite unexpected!
Aching and sore after the terrifying ride they’d had on the back of the kelpie, Duncan and Sorcha pulled themselves up off the ground. Night had, indeed, fallen. They were at the end of their second day of traveling, and they had only two days to make the journey back home. There was no time for setbacks.
They kept their hands clasped as they walked along the road toward Carrifran. Only the moon in the clear evening sky lit the scene. No lights emanated from inside any home or building. No fires appeared to be burning in any hearths. The town was completely and utterly quiet.
Their steps took them down a street to the remains of a market cross. All was still. The buildings were in disrepair.
“Carrifran appears to be abandoned,” Duncan said, unsure what that meant for their current endeavor.
In the distance, he could see the spire of the church. The road they were on would take them directly there. Sorcha kept near his side, but her steps were slow. He didn’t know if she was weary from the journey or wary about what they might encounter next. He himself felt a great deal of both.
They arrived at the outer gate of the churchyard. It too appeared abandoned.
There was no way to tell how long it had been since anyone had lived in this town or worshiped in this chapel, but the eerie emptiness of it filled him with misgivings. And, yet, he could clearly see on the corner of the dilapidated chapel a stone rainspout carved to look like a gargoyle. This was their destination. This was where they needed to be.
“I do not imagine it will be as easy as it appears,” Sorcha said. “More needs to be done, I’m certain. Something else must be waiting for us here.”
He wished he didn’t agree with her assessment. After all they had encountered, this seemingly clear path proved terribly unsettling.
Holding tight to Sorcha’s hand, he took a single step forward. She did as well. The moment their feet touched the churchyard soil, a flash of lightning cracked the cloudless sky.
Without warning, without sound, without pause, a woman appeared before them. A ghost.
She hovered in the air, her feet not touching the ground, her green dress wafting as if in a breeze. She was impossible to miss, and yet her form was not entirely solid. Duncan could still see the church behind her, through her, obscured by her.
She stared at them, watching them with a look that clearly foretold danger. But she said not a word.
“What is your assessment?” he asked Sorcha.