The Death of Jane Lawrence(67)

“That’s right next to Maerbeck’s farm,” Augustine said, frowning. He swayed on his feet. “I was just there.”

“Augustine, you must come. How much laudanum did you take?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. He did not sound fine. “If it’s the same sickness, he needs help immediately.” He turned to her with fervent solemnity. But his eyes were having trouble focusing. “Where is Mr. Lowell?”

It was enough, that he was upright and talking. She led him into the hallway, down the stairs. Above them, the light wavered. Flickered. Threatened to extinguish.

“Out with family, I gave him the evening. He’s to be back soon, and the boy’s mother is waiting for him, but we will need you.”

Shadows moved across the walls at the third-floor landing. Twisting, she saw more behind them, on the stairs. No figures yet, but they would come soon.

The door. They had to get to the door. Augustine might sicken in the carriage, to be drawn away from them so abruptly and in such a state, but she could still get him to the Thorndell farm in time. She could be his hands, if only she had his mind.

But the front door was locked, and the lock refused to budge, not for her, not for Augustine.

“It was open when I arrived,” Jane said.

“I don’t know—it’s never done this—”

A shadow fell over them, its root stretching in the direction of the cellar, and Jane fell back half a step with a whimper of fear, her bravery faltering at last.

It was Augustine who steadied her.

“We must reach the kitchen,” he said, urgent and low. His hand shifted in her grip, and then it was him leading her, through the door under the stairs that led to the sitting room, the dining room. “I will—I will work a protective circle, give us time to think. Come quickly.”

“Magic? You would work magic?”

“What other option do I have to keep you safe? I can endure their taunts, but if they fall upon you again … Please, Jane.”

They ran together.

The kitchen was dark and empty and the shadows of it were unfamiliar, drying herbs hanging from the ceiling reaching for her head. “Chalk and salt,” Augustine muttered. “Chalk and salt.” He let go of her to pull open drawers, searching frantically. Jane retreated farther into the kitchen, then froze.

Sitting on the central table was a black doctor’s bag, cracked from heat.

“Where is the damned salt!” cried Augustine, slamming another drawer. They were running out of time; out in the hall, the lights began to blink out, one by one. Augustine hauled open another drawer, then stopped, going very still.

“Jane,” he whispered, turning to face the door. “Jane, do you hear that?”

Jane heard nothing at all.

“Mr. Renton,” Augustine whispered, taking a step back. “Can’t you hear him? I hear his screams, his begging. Jane. Jane.”

She took hold of Augustine’s hand, pulling him close to her, back toward the center of the room. She heard nothing from the hallway, but she gasped as the first figure appeared, a solid silhouette, an unnatural shape. Its carved crescent head filled the doorway.

Augustine let out a low moan, and though he tried to stand strong in the face of the creature, she could feel him trembling.

Two more figures appeared in the threshold, all inhumanly tall with distorted proportions and malformed heads, featureless faces. They approached no closer, simply watching. Waiting.

“Mr. Renton,” Augustine whispered. “Mr. Renton, and the Maerbeck boy, and Mr. Aethridge. All of them, here. Please, please, I’m so sorry—”

Jane kept hold of his wrist, keeping him upright when he tried to sink to the floor. “No, Augustine,” she whispered. “It isn’t them.”

“Look!”

“Augustine, this is not what you think. Those aren’t your patients. They’re something else, something else entirely.”

He turned to look at her, frantic, and then he froze.

The light in his eyes changed. He swore and took her head in both his hands. She jerked back, but he held fast, peering into her eyes.

“Jane, look at me,” he said.

She strained against his grasp. “One of us needs to keep an eye on them.”

He moved one of his hands to her throat, pressing his thumb against her pulse point and counting, numbers whispering over his lips. She began to feel light-headed from the pressure, and she tried to jerk away. Elodie had held her that way. And then, as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he pulled away. He left her, reaching for the table behind her. She heard the click of something opening.

The medical bag.

She spun around, eyes widening. The burned medical bag that Mrs. Luthbright had surely disposed of. But now, open beneath his hands, the insides gleamed, clean and new and whole. Or was it Vingh’s bag, lost to the house just two days before? Either way, Augustine now wore the look he had when he performed surgeries: focused, cold, analytical. He held a polished lancet in his hand.

“Put that down,” she said, taking a step back and glancing toward the creatures. “Augustine?”

“Why didn’t you tell me? About the headaches? The fatigue and nausea? I know I haven’t given you reason to trust me in most things, but this—you should have told me, Jane.” He had something else in his hands, but in the gloom, she couldn’t make it out. The lancet and the statue-like figures took all of her attention that wasn’t focused on his face.