“Maybe you didn’t.” She tightened her arms around him. His heart thundered under her ears. She steeled herself then said, “I keep hearing things around the house. And that woman I saw… Maybe the bottles weren’t your fault.”
“Clare.” He sounded sad. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“When you fell ill—after I brought you back here—I considered every possible cause. I went through the house again. From the attic to the basement, methodically. I left no square foot of ground uncovered and no hiding holes ignored. I made certain. The fault is my own. I must take responsibility.”
He pulled back but ran one hand over her hair, as though he were reluctant to let her go. “I think we stopped it fast enough. With rest and time, I think it will be all right. But we must be careful. I cannot take any more risks with you, Clare.”
There was something intense and desperate in his expression. Then he stepped back, and it was gone. “You need food. Try to rest. I will be back momentarily.”
Clare waited until the door was closed behind him before pressing her hands over her face. So many emotions were swarming through her, overwhelming her. Hope. Despair. Fear.
There has to be a way to help him. She slipped her legs out of the bed then tested her balance. It was wobbly but not too bad. She followed the wall along the room, holding on to it to keep steady as she made her way to the bathroom. He needs to be saved from this house and this family.
As she washed her hands, Clare heard the bedroom door creak open. She turned off the tap and shuffled back to the bathroom door. “It’s okay, Dorran. I just…”
She stopped. The bedroom door was open, but no one stood on the other side.
Chapter Seventeen
Clare shivered despite the fire. Her senses heightened, she moved towards the doorway. As she passed the fire, she took up the poker and held it tightly.
Cold air rolled through the open door. Clare was wearing only the dress, without shoes or a jacket, and she hated how quickly the cold eroded her sense of comfort. She stopped in the doorway. Her hands shook as she flexed them around the poker. The window at the hallway’s end was covered, leaving the space nothing but a mess of shadows.
Someone exhaled, and Clare twisted towards the noise. There was an exceptionally dark patch to her left, where the intersecting hallways created a little nook. Clare squinted at it. Is that a person? Or just the furniture?
The longer she stared, the more convinced she became that she was imagining it… and the more her paranoia began to scream. The dark mound wasn’t quite as tall as a human, and it wasn’t formed quite like one either. But the shape didn’t seem natural. She stared, not even allowing herself to blink, as she waited to see if it moved. It didn’t. But it wasn’t resolving itself into something explainable either.
Curiosity wanted her to step into the hallway, to find the light switch and unveil the shape. Prudence, wearing Beth’s voice, begged her to retreat into her room and lock the door. They warred for a second. Then Clare took a step into the hallway.
“Clare?”
She jolted and swivelled, holding up the poker. Dorran stood at the other end of the hall, at the top of the stairs, carrying a tray. She opened her mouth then closed it and turned back to where she’d seen the figure.
The space was empty except for shadows and the twisting, insane wallpaper.
“Clare, you shouldn’t be out of bed.” When he reached her, Dorran placed the tray on the ground and touched her shoulder. “You’re freezing.”
“I…” She swallowed, her voice failing.
He glanced past her, towards the empty hallway, and his eyebrows pulled together. “Did you hear something again?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to search?”
She hesitated then shook her head. Dorran pulled her closer, and his arm slipped around her shoulder as he guided her back inside the room. She let him take the poker, and he placed it back beside the fireplace.
“I’ll stay with you the rest of today,” he said as she sat on the edge of the bed. His smile was reassuring, but his eyes were worried. “You won’t have to be frightened.”
He was true to his promise. After they had lunch, Clare fell asleep again. Distorted, confusing dreams plagued her, but whenever she stirred, she found Dorran was still beside her. Sometimes he napped, with his arm bent under his head in a pose that couldn’t have been comfortable. Sometimes he stared into the distance, and the fire’s glow played across his features. Sometimes he watched her. He always smiled when he caught her looking, and she smiled back.
When Clare couldn’t sleep any longer, he read to her. The mansion had a well-stocked library, though none of the books had been published within the last century. Clare was starting to understand why Dorran’s language was so formal, bordering on archaic. He’d had no TV or radio and very little contact with people outside his family. Since she’d arrived, he seemed to have been making an effort to talk more casually and match her tone, but he kept slipping back into the more old-fashioned style of speaking, especially when he was stressed.
She loved listening to him read. He had a good voice. It was deep and full of conviction. Sometimes she let the plot threads escape her and just listened to the way he pronounced each word.
He brought her servings of the soup four times that day. As afternoon aged into evening, they argued about whether Clare was well enough to sit by the fire. She eventually won. He wrapped her in blankets and watched over her as she stretched her feet towards the flames.
She compulsively looked to the windows, but the curtains had been drawn. “What’s the weather like?”
“Just a lot of snow, I’m afraid.” He folded one leg over the other and rested his hands on his knee. “It is nearly back up to its original height.”
Clare shook her head. “How many days is this? Seven?”
“Eight.”
“Yikes. It’s starting to feel like it will never melt.”
He gave her a grim smile. “We may have to consider the possibility that we will be trapped here for the remainder of the winter. I’m afraid that each passing day makes that possibility more likely.”
Clare chewed on the corner of her thumb. She tried to imagine spending four more months in the house. She liked Dorran—a lot. He was kind and made for good company. But Beth would be beside herself. There was no way she could sit and do nothing without at least speaking to her sister. “How’s our resource situation looking?”
Dorran hesitated before answering. “Firewood is fine. We’re in no risk of running out of it. I’m using petrol to keep the garden lights running but trying to be careful how much I use the generator.”
Clare glanced up at the lights. She hadn’t given it any thought before, but Dorran had left them on almost all day. “We should turn those off.”
“No. I like them on.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “No chance, Mr. Skulks-Around-in-the-Gloom. You turned them on for me, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t coddle me. I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“Of course you’re not.” He took up his cup of tea and blew on it. “I already told you I enjoy having the lights on. It is completely selfish, I promise.”