Herself.
“It is not true.” Her gaze flung to Tom, who lifted his head from the floor with hazy, squinted eyes. Then to Uncle, who bore no expression at all. “You could not have done that to me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Foxcroft.” Mrs. Musgrave scowled. “Do you truly think Elias would not tell me? Perhaps you do not remember. Fifteen years ago. Shortly after you brought little Meg home … you left her with a neighbor and visited Kingfisher’s Tavern.”
Uncle barred his teeth and stared up at the ceiling, face blanching.
“You were inebriated. Elias tucked your arm over his shoulder and walked you home.”
“Just kill me.”
“Then you do remember.” Mrs. Musgrave stood again. “You were crying and blubbering about the life you had taken. How you had alleviated his suffering, but his face was everywhere. In your coffee. The reflections in your shop. Your sleep.”
“Stop.”
“But that was not enough. You could not cease with killing one man. You had to kill another and another and another—but it was not until Elias was gone that I realized what you had done.”
Across the room, Tom elbowed himself up. His throat worked fast, as if he could not catch his breath, and his eyes stayed on Meg.
Something about their intensity, their strength, corded the parts of her that were crumbling. She breathed in time with him. She wished she were not breathing at all.
“I never wanted to become this.” Mrs. Musgrave approached Meg, reached around her, and backed away with the double-barrel pistol from Abraham’s pocket.
The circle was black.
All the faces, furniture, and candles blurred away. With slowing speed, she was aware of the herbal-sweet smell of chrysanthemum in a nearby vase, Abraham stepping aside, and Pippins scratching at the closed drawing room doors because there was no one about to stroke him.
He should be with Violet.
Upstairs.
Safe.
Her heartbeat whooshed in her ears, a humming rhythm, as a flash of movement tingled into her alertness.
The franticthump, thumpof footsteps.
Mrs. Musgrave weeping, shoulders withering, eyes closing.
Then Tom. With a shout of protest, he lunged between the gun and Meg, just as a sharp crack resounded throughout the room.
No.
His body whipped back.
Another shot, and fire pinched her shoulder, jerking her body. All her muscles wilted.
“Tommy!”
Meg didn’t know who croaked his name. She didn’t know anything. Except that the room flipped and no one was there to make her stand.Tom, Tom.Veins strained in her neck as her mouth opened and a soundless scream unleashed. Everything was flashing colors and flitting blackness, but she reached across the rug and groped for his still body—
“I did not want to do this.” Mrs. Musgrave’s dress swished as she edged closer to Mr. Foxcroft’s chair. “But youwillrelinquish your lies. The world will know the truth.”
Everything faded but Tom’s face.
His eyes were dazed.
