Wherever that was.
She prayed whoever had left her for dead was not waiting when she returned.
Coming here seemed wrong.
He was used to Meg walking next to him, tucking her arm in his, despite the waggling brows. He never entered a church without her. Sometimes it still felt wrong, even when shewasbeside him. Like a slap in the face of God.
If there was a God.
Tom’s footsteps echoed in the spacious nave, bigger than the village church back in Juleshead. The vaulted ceiling, decorated with faded gold swirls and panels of the life of Christ, speared him with painted eyes. He walked faster. The air bothered him, that stagnant scent of incense and burning wax and age. “Excuse me.”
The rector—an older man, already graying at his side whiskers—glanced up from behind his pulpit. “Oh.” His expression fell. “Deed. I thought you were the doctor, come to see about this leg of mine.” Shutting a large Bible, he gimped his way down from the three-decker pulpit. “Help you, can I? Just about to head back to the vicarage for the night.”
“I will only be a moment. I am looking for someone.”
“God is the one who looks for lost sheep.” The man grinned. “I stay busy keeping up with sermon notes and tithes, if you know what I mean.”
“She is young. Brown hair.”
“A runaway?”
“No. Kidnapped.”
“Then it is the constable you should be speaking to.”
“Already done. He knows nothing. I was hoping ye—”
“I sit in meetings with grumbly church wardens, my fine fellow, and I sort the fruit, barley, and eggs the good people of Sunderlin Downs pay to their Maker. I do not trifle in other affairs. Least of all those involving work or danger.” The rector limped past Tom. “Your conundrum sounds as if it involves both.”
“I am not asking much.” Tom hustled back in front of the rector. “Perhaps an inquiry Sunday … if anyone has seen her.”
“I imagine the ones who have would not be here.”
“It is worth a chance.”
“As I said”—the rector rubbed his leg with an irritated sigh—“a matter for the constable. I am only a … eh, there you are.” He waved to a man who entered, then flicked a dismissing hand to Tom. “Excuse me, fellow. There is nothing more I can do. I am sorry I could not be of help.”
Tom bit his lip before something unholy came out.
He had respect, if not faith.
Sometimes.
“Thank ye.”For nothing.Grinding his teeth, he barreled back the way he’d come, brushing shoulders with the lean newcomer in a gray frock coat and pantaloons.
“Been troubling me all day again. Every time I put weight on it … yes, I took the tonic … gout, indeed … thank you, Dr. Bagot …”
Tom slammed his way from the church before he could hear more. Darkness crept across Sunderlin Downs like an inky infection. Like a doom.
Like a demon whisper that he would never find Meg at all.
The second her legs dangled over the window ledge, sweat dampened her grip.Do not look down.Cool, nighttime air breezed through her, rustling the white dress about her legs. She breathed in the scent of freshly trimmed grass.
I cannot.She pulled her legs back into the bedchamber, but her heart pattered in protest. She had to do this. Slipping back out, she reached for the gnarled tree branch. An oak, she was certain. How, she did not know.
Securing both hands around the branch, she breathed faster.One, two, three.On ten she would jump.Nine, ten.Perhaps twenty.Eighteen, nineteen.Before she could reason out of it, she propelled herself forward. Her body whooshed back and forth in the air.
Help.
