I took Henry’s hand. “You look tired. Where have you been?”
He related how they had spent nearly an hour outside searching the grounds and what they had to show for it.
I frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
“Sherlock.” He strode by, hardly seeing me. He was circling the table where the wooden chessboard was still set up, hands behind his back, one grasping a bony wrist. I stepped before him. “Sherlock, do you understand any of this?”
His gray eyes glared furiously, and I thought briefly he might push me aside. He drew in his breath. “Yes.”
“But you told Donald Wheelwright you were baffled.”
His mouth formed an ironic smile. “I did not want to be cast out into the wilderness. Not yet.”
“You know who the gypsy is?”
“Yes.”
“And who has attacked Violet?”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.
I stared at him. Henry had sat up in the chair. “Please explain.”
“I shall tell you everything in the morning.” He stepped around me and started pacing again.
“Sherlock—please!”
He stopped and turned, placing one hand on the table. His face was pale, his eyes anguished. “Michelle, do not disturb me—not now of all times. I have it all, everything that matters. You will hear the truth in the morning. But for now, leave me be—leave me in peace!”
“Oh, very well.” I went past him to the door.
“Michelle!” Henry cried.
I started down the hall, my hand holding the candle before me. Henry caught up.
“Wait,” he said.
“He has never spoken to me that way before.” My voice was shaky.
“You are lucky—but he is not himself. He will be sorry in the morning.”
Abruptly I set down the candle and embraced Henry. I laid my head against his face and touched his cheek with my hand. The skin felt bristly from the stubble of his beard.
“Are they both mad? Whatever is the matter with them?”
“I do not know.” His voice was gentle. One hand was clasped high against my back, the other just below my waist. His breath felt warm.
“I wish we could just go to bed,” I said. “I am so tired.”
“Go to bed, then.”
“I promised Violet I would stay with her. She is most dreadfully upset.”
Henry sighed; I could feel the movement along my chest and abdomen. “And I must remain with Sherlock,” he said.
Neither of us moved for a while. The house was quiet and still, and we could not hear the wind or the snow there, where the outer and inner walls sheltered us.
“If he has figured it all out,” I said at last, “it does not seem to have made him very happy.”
Henry gave a muted laugh. “No.”
We stood holding each other until I felt the fatigue settling about me. So much of the day had been disastrous. The house was so cold, Henry so warm.
“I must get back to Violet.” I kissed him, briefly relaxing into his arms, letting him support me. At last, I stepped away and took up the candle.
Violet was still curled in the chair before the fireplace. With a yawn, Collins stood and was about to step into the hall. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You can have Daisy’s chair. She is ready for bed.” They both protested, but I would not hear them.
Violet glanced up at me, her dark eyes tormented. I put my hand over hers.
“How are you?” The question was a foolish one.
“I feel cold—so cold.”
“I hope you have not caught a fever.” I put my hand on her forehead, but she was not hot. “Please let me give you something. You really should sleep.”
She shook her head. “Not tonight.” I went to the bed, took an afghan throw and put it over her lap. “Thank you.”
My shoes still sat before the other chair where I had left them. Under my stockings, my toes were freezing; I sat and stretched my feet toward the fireplace, curling and uncurling my toes. Violet smiled weakly. I closed my eyes, opened them, and then fell fast asleep.
My dreams were restless. Henry and I wandered amidst the oak forest, but the sunlight kept turning to snow. I knew we needed to return to our house in London before the blizzard, but we had lost something—or someone—first Sherlock, but then he was beside me in his traveling cap, so it must have been Violet. But she was beside me wearing an evening gown and diamonds, a curious choice for the woods. Holmes must be missing... Then they were both there, but someone was chasing us. Donald Wheelwright? No, the gypsy. She was cackling in the midst of the dark green rhododendron leaves while the moon slowly rose, and now both Sherlock and Violet were lost again.
“Damn them both!” I cried. I thought Henry would admonish me for my language, but he only nodded. “We must find them,” I said. “They must not loiter here in the dark wood.”
We searched everywhere: beside the pond, the dark country house, the Wheelwrights’ London mansion, Henry’s and my home, the clinic for the poor, and even Simpson’s. I looked under the table where Violet and I had eaten our roast beef dinner.
We could not find them, but some black shadowy thing—it lurked just out of sight—was also pursuing them. When I held up the lantern, it quickly scuttled under the table.
“Come out—show yourself!” I cried. “Filthy thing.”
We were on the fourth floor of Violet’s house before the rickety stairway to the attic. I held up the lantern. “They are up there,” I told Henry. “Come.”
He smiled but shook his head. Something strange was happening to his face. I turned away and started up the stairs. The door hinges creaked as I opened it.
“Violet? Sherlock?”
I held up the light, but it grew dimmer. My heart felt peculiar, its beat desperate and arrhythmic. “Violet? Sherlock?” Their faces were so gray. They must be dead. I wanted to run but could not move. As my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, I could see more and more. They were bound in a gray, sticky substance—threads which cut more tightly even as they struggled and tried to escape. The web was in their mouths and noses; they could not possibly breathe. They must be dead, but still they writhed, two mummies in their suffocating bonds, every futile breath drawing the gray poison deeper into their lungs and their hearts.
Something laughed overhead—a woman’s voice. I did not want to raise my head, but something made me. It lurked in the corner, a part of the darkness, its form barely discernible: a spider—bigger than a man—bigger even than Donald Wheelwright. It had red eyes and wore golden earrings even though it had no ears. More dreadful laughter: I realized she was laughing at me.
It would get me and weave its deadly threads about me, but I could barely stir. The harder I tried, the slower I moved. It would get me—I could not escape.
“Michelle,” it said.
I tried to scream but nothing came out. I knew that voice.
“Michelle.”
It was Violet’s voice—it was Violet.
Someone shook me, and I bolted upright. Violet stood before me, her hand over her mouth, her dark eyes fixed on mine. I was breathing hard and my heart thudded against my ribs. My eyes took in the bedroom: the solid, well-built furniture, Collins sleeping in a chair, the clock on the mantel. It was one thirty in the morning.
“You had a nightmare,” Violet said. “You could not seem to move.”
I put my hand on my face. “Oh God, what a horrible dream.”
Violet hesitated, and then stepped closer. She gave my hand a squeeze. “Poor dear.”
I moistened my lips. My throat was dry. “Have you slept?”
She shook her head.
I stood slowly. “You really should. You feel warmer anyway. Sit down.” I covered her with the afghan. “What have you been doing?”