But he only held her closer. He shook as he burned.
She crammed her eyes shut and prayed the flames would take her too, that she would not have to bear his stillness.No, no, no.She smelled ash and perfumes and the unique scent that always clung to Simon’s shirts. Heat blasted her from every side, then crackled and popped and burst to life in her hair.
Sorry.His voice clung to her mind. Over and over, something sweet she could latch on to as the nightmare closed in.For leaving.
She wished he would leave now.
She wished she were burning alone.
Something cold and shocking splashed over her, drenching the heat in her tresses. Simon’s weight was ripped off. Flames must have already found her clothes, because hard whacks of fabric swatted them away, the motion so loud and blurring that her eyes rolled back into her head.
Noises roared.
Pounding.
The clinking and busting of chains, then a new pair of arms swept her up. “The stairs are gone! Get someone outside the window!”
Glass shattered, cutting into her awareness. She tried not to moan when her body was jostled, hoisted, more hands, then soft and cooling grass. She gasped the air into her lungs.Simon.She fought through the dimness. She lifted a hand toward the broken warehouse window and croaked out his name.
But all she heard was more crashing inside the room, as if the ceiling had caved.
Then a low voice, like a stab to her chest, “The Fancourt man is dead.”
CHAPTER 20
“Do not move.” The voice again, the same one that kept luring her from oblivion. She must have been thrashing, because two hands pinned down her arms. “Remain still, Miss Whitmore. All is well.”
Sickness sloshed in her stomach like waves beating the shore. All was not well. Nothing would ever be well again because Simon was dead and the children were gone.
“Here, rub this on the burns.” Something smooth eased over her neck, perhaps a poultice, and the overwhelming herbal scent increased her nausea. Then a cool cloth mopped her brow.
“She has lost a considerable amount of hair.”
“Hair will grow back.”
“And the burns?”
“Minimal.” More murmurs, all dismal and quiet, as if she could not hear. Maybe she couldn’t. She did not know. Everything was heavy, vague, and throbbing. She squinted her eyes open, but they sank closed again of their own will.
The next time she forced them open, only one shadow stood beside the bed. A window must have been open, because the low and lulling hums of night filled the room. The fresh air was cool. White curtains fluttered. A lamp glowed.
“The dead hath awakened.” Mr. Oswald tucked the soft bed linen under her chin. “Pray, how do you feel?”
Feel?
She moved a tongue over her dry lips.
He must have interpreted it for a sign of thirst, because he moved to a stand, poured a glass of water, then eased it to her lips.
The water cooled her sore throat.
But not her soul.
Like a heath in the desert, she was dry and parched and brittle and ready to break.Simon.She was not certain if she spoke the word or only mouthed it.
Mr. Oswald answered anyway, “You need only think of yourself.”
“Where—”
