Prologue
February 4,1814
London, England
Miss Susan Stanton muttered a most unladylike curse as yet more black snow slid down her ankle and into her already ruined boots. No matter.Faster.If Mother’s watchdogs discovered her absence before she had the merest glimpse of Freezeland Street, Susan’s great escape would be for nothing.
It was unfair enough to be confined to one’s quarters for months on end whilst living in the greatest city on earth, and quite another to be forced to do so during the most celebrated fête of the Season: the once-in-a-lifetime Frost Fair. (Technically twice in a lifetime, in her case, but as Susan was two years old the last time the Thames froze over, that occasion didn’t signify.)
Dirty snowflakes streaked her spectacles, but Susan didn’t bother to clean the lenses. Her gloves were too wet to do much good, and her muff would only leave bits of fur in its wake.
Susan glanced over her shoulder to make sure the driver waited for her as promised before she dashed across Blackfriars Bridge to what was left of the carnival below.
Running on snow-covered ice, however, involved a fair bit of sloshing and sliding, and Susan was forced to slow her pace or risk breaking her neck. Devil take it. How long before someone realized the caged bird had escaped? Thirty minutes? Twenty? Scarcely enough time to regain the town house before Mother arrived home, even if Susan gave up now and left posthaste.
But she wasso close.Off-key music trilled from the gaudy tents. The elephants she’d read about were long gone, as well as the donkey rides and skittles, but the sharp wind still carried the garish laughter of the common folk and the pungent scent of fresh-brewed ale.
Five minutes. She could spare five quick minutes, just to see.
She paused at the foot of Blackfriars Bridge and gazed at the tattered tents still dotting the frozen river.Rot.There was no possibility of walking all the way to the designated Freezeland Street entrance in under half an hour, so she’d have to cut diagonally across the ice toward the tents. No more dallying.
But the instant Susan’s boot touched the frozen river, her foot sank through the melting snow, touched the ice, and shot forward as if propelled by magnets, sending her lurching. After a few moments of windmilling her arms, she managed to transition from sliding on accident to sliding on purpose—that is, until the entire cacophony of colorful tents tilted drunkenly before her eyes.
Cold, wet air scraped down Susan’s throat as she gasped. Before her eyes, the ice broke apart in jagged chunks. A terrible thunder filled the air. The river unfurled, rippling beneath the fragmented fair like a washwoman shaking crumbs from an old carpet. Far ahead, pie-men and toymakers alike abandoned their wagons in their mad scramble for the shore. The stench of the river’s fetid breath blasted from its frozen cage. Susan whirled around to dash back to the safety of solid land.
The ice disintegrated beneath her feet.
Susan flailed her arms for purchase as her body plunged into the frigid Thames. A jagged hunk of thick ice intercepted her forearm with a sickening crack. Pain engulfed her. Susan’s head went under. Hungry river water swept through her clothes, weighing her down, dragging her below.
She kicked with all her might and shot upward. The top of her head slammed against a floating sheet of ice with enough force to knock the spectacles from her face. Her thoughts turned sluggish. Her vision blurred.
Where was the churning slush she’d fallen through? Had the current swept her so far already? Her fingernails bent backward as she clawed at the ice with one gloved hand. The other hand refused to respond to her commands, floating limp and heavy in the murk.
Her glove tore. Faster and faster, she scraped at the unforgiving ice until blood seeped from her raw fingers with every thudding heartbeat. Numbness, everywhere. Was she making progress? She couldn’t see. Her boots were leaden; her luxurious fur a smothering blanket, her string of pearls a noose.
Where were the peddlers, the barmaids, the fiddlers? So dark underwater. So cold. She beat at the ice, tried to scream for help, gagged when her aching lungs filled with frigid river water. Strange eyes peered at her from the darkest edges of her vision, then melted into shadow.
Her limbs began to fail. Even her fluttering heart beat slower and slower, until…Nothing.
The tumultuous river no longer tugged at her useless arm. Her lungs no longer struggled against the waves of foul water. The unrelenting cold no longer permeated her every pore.
Unfamiliar lips sucked at Susan’s mouth, drawing up putrid river water and forcing dry air into her lungs.
Her eyes flew open. People, everywhere. Not dozens, like before. Hundreds. Many of them stared down at her from pale, misshapen faces. Some of them in the water, oblivious to her. And dry. How could they be dry underwater? Her vision greyed as they faded before her.
The sensation of lips returned, cold and clammy. More foul air blew into her throat. Disgusting. She jerked her head to the side, stretched out her good arm, and reached for one of the oddly dry people. Her hand floated through his chest and he blinked out of sight. Susan gasped, choked, vomited saltwater and algae. Her spinning head fell back hard, splintering a patch of ice.
Blackness again.
Chapter 1
March 21, 1814.
The last of the plumed lords and ladies swooped into Town like crows feasting upon carrion. Susan had escaped both her splints and her bedchamber for the first time in six long, dark weeks—only to be bundled in the back of a black carriage and jettisoned into the vast void of nothingness beyond London’s borders.
To Bournemouth.Bournemouth.An infinitesimal “town” on a desolate stretch of coastline a million miles from home. Less than a hundred souls, the carriage driver had said. Spectacular. Thrice as many bodies had graced Susan’s London come-out party four years ago, not counting the servants. Being banished was the worst possible punishment Mother could’ve devised.
Nothing could deaden the soul quite like the prospect of Moonseed Manor.
