Clare had guessed Dorran’s plan when he’d suggested they postpone making any decisions until the morning. He’d sensed that she wasn’t going to give ground, and he had let her fall asleep and tried to leave before she woke so that she couldn’t stop him. He probably hoped she would still be asleep when he returned from searching the house. The door was locked, sealing her in the room, just in case.
And Clare had let him go. She didn’t want to argue with him again. It would be easier to ask forgiveness later. She pressed her lips together as she crossed to her dressing gown draped over the wingback chair. It was a good try, Dorran. But you forgot something.
Inside the gown’s pocket were the housekeeper’s keys Dorran had given her for safekeeping the previous day. The heavy metal ring was slightly rusted and held at least forty keys—some large and ornate, others tiny.
Clare sorted through the tangle of keys as she returned to the door, looking for one that would match the bronze handle. The fourth key she tried slid neatly into the slot, and a quiet clicking noise told her it had worked. She opened the door a fraction and peered into the hallway.
Dorran had already removed the curtain at the end of the hall, and stark white light flooded the space. As far as Clare could tell, the halls were empty. She slipped back into the room and changed hurriedly, rushing to put on clothes that would keep her warm in the freezing building and protect her at least somewhat from bites and scratching claws. Winterbourne’s clothing options for her size were limited to dresses, but she wore sturdy boots under the skirt and pulled on a heavy jacket with thick sleeves and a set of leather gloves. A knit scarf would protect her throat. Then she knelt by the crate. Dorran had already taken weapons from it, but he’d left a paring knife, which she tucked into her pocket. Then she picked up the fire poker and gave it an experimental swing. It was hefty and solid. Though not sharp enough to work as a sword, it would still do some damage in a pinch.
She returned to the door and hesitated at the opening as she listened for signs that she might not be alone. Everything was quiet. Clare took a moment to focus, sucking in a deep breath, and stepped through.
Dorran had said he would start on the highest levels and see if he could push the creatures downstairs. Clare didn’t know the house’s layout well, but Dorran had planned to funnel the creatures down and outside, so she guessed he would have started in the rooms farthest from the stairs. She followed the hallway, treading lightly, her senses on high alert.
The intersection split her path into three options. Clare stopped and turned in a slow circle. Everywhere she looked was a confusing mesh of high walls, dark wallpaper, and clusters of expensive furniture. The left passageway was still shrouded in shadows. Sunlight spilled through the window straight ahead, but none of that passageway’s doors were open. Clare didn’t think Dorran would lock himself in a room he was searching so she looked to the right. The tall hollow one had broken the hall’s lightbulbs the night before. Shards of glass were scattered over the carpet, glittering like diamonds. And at the end of the hallway was an elongated, dark shape.
Clare took half a step back. Her heart missed a beat then thudded too hard, making her shudder. She wasn’t looking at the stretched woman. She was looking at a ladder.
The house has an attic.
She flexed sweaty fingers over the poker and marched down the hallway. Glass shards crackled under her boots as she stepped over them. The light coming through the window at the end of the hall wrapped around the stairs and slipped through the slats, making Clare squint. She tried to listen for noises above her, but the wind was sharp that day, and if any subtle sounds permeated the air, she couldn’t hear them.
She stopped at the base of the ladder and looked up. Through the square opening in the ceiling, she could see a light flicker over wooden beams high above. Her angle was too low to see into the room, so she cast one final wary glance about herself then began to climb.
The rungs, rarely used, creaked. Clare paused partway up the ladder with the top of her head peeking through the hole. The attic was immense. Temporary walls had been constructed at odd intervals. Some sections looked like they might have been modest bedrooms, though the furniture was nowhere near as grand as the rest of the house. Cheap metal bed frames held old mattresses and simple sheets, and wardrobes that looked like castoffs stood beside them. In other areas, the attic seemed to have been turned into storage. Crates, building material, old furniture, and dozens of thick cardboard boxes were scattered about. She couldn’t see Dorran from her angle, but the light—a soft gold rather than the harsh white of outside—came from behind one of the walls twenty feet away.
She climbed off the stairs and followed the edge of the attic, close enough to touch the slanting roof. Insulating material had been placed in the ceiling to conserve heat, but she could tell where the wind had torn away tiles. The padding was sagging and discoloured and had even split in some places, spilling piles of snow into the attic. The house’s highest level was too cold for the frost to melt, and the wind nipped through the holes to ruffle Clare’s hair and make her bundle her scarf around the lower half of her face.
She moved silently as she crossed the area. She couldn’t risk making noise in case she and Dorran weren’t alone in the attic. Instead, she kept her feet light and skirted around furniture and stacks of storage, giving any shadowed areas a wide berth. She approached the closest wall and peered around it.
Dorran was on the other side, facing away from her. She felt a swell of pride while watching him. He’d brought a lantern, which he held high. His movements were steady and assured. An overcoat’s collar had been lifted so that it curled around his chin to protect him.
He was scoping around a set of dilapidated wardrobes. One at a time, he bumped the doors open, stepping back in the same motion. He waited just long enough to check that the insides were empty before moving on to the next set.
He’s gorgeous. Clare took a step closer, and a board creaked under her foot. Dorran swung at the noise, eyes blazing and teeth bared as he lifted a crowbar.
“Sorry! It’s just me. Sorry.” Clare raised one hand and risked an apologetic smile.
Dorran’s expression morphed into a mix of horror, frustration, and incredulity. He crossed to her in two long paces and grasped her arm. “You can’t be here.”
Clare took advantage of his coat’s high collar and tugged on it to pull Dorran closer until their eyes were at the same level. “Remember how you promised to let me win our arguments?”
His shoulders slumped, and even though his eyes stayed tight and worried, a smile creased the corners of his mouth. “Incorrigible.”
“I am. You can take me back to my room, but I promise I’ll find a way to get out again and again and again. It’s going to be safer to keep me with you than to let me wander the house alone.” She narrowed her eyes, daring him to argue with her. “I don’t even know what half of this place looks like. I could get lost out there and starve in some long-forgotten third parlour.”
“It is not that big.” He chuckled then sighed, resting his forehead against hers. “Very well. I am not too proud to admit I’ve lost this battle. But please, you must be careful.”
“I will be.”
“Stay behind me when we move into a new area. Don’t try to explore alone. And if anything becomes too dangerous, you must promise me you will run. There is no shame in retreating if it means surviving to fight another day. Yes?”