The Foxfire Lights by Elizabeth O'Connell

Author:Elizabeth O'Connell [O'Connell, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Unknown
Published: 2016-08-26T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

For a moment after Matthew disappeared, the room was perfectly still—no sound save the wind keening over the moors, no movement save the fluttering of the curtains before the still open window. My legs were trembling, and I sat down on the edge of the bed, still clutching my arm. Hal stood still as a statue, frowning at the place where Matthew had been.

Then there was a small, frightened whimper from the corner of the room, and I turned to see Nurse, kneeling upon the floor, her knitting discarded in a heap. She was white-faced and shaking, her hands covering her mouth.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice thin and quavering. “Oh God, save us from evil.”

A cold gust of wind billowed out the curtains, and Hal stepped forward, shutting the windows with a click. He turned around, his face in shadow against the moonlight, and directed Nurse to make up the fire. She stared at him, unmoving.

“The fire,” he repeated, his voice very calm. “Come now—we must have light, and the room is cold.”

Nurse blinked, and slowly gathered herself together, taking up her knitting. Hal helped her to her feet, and she stumbled over to the fireplace, poking at the coals. After a moment, the fire came up again, feeble and flickering. I shivered, thinking of the shadow, and wanted to move closer to the fireplace—but I could not make myself stand.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the passage, and the door was flung open. Lord Ransom stood framed in the doorway, breathing heavily, as though he had run up the stairs. He snapped his head over to the empty bed, his face going grey.

“Matthew . . .” he said hoarsely. “Then he is—it has . . .”

“Yes,” Hal said, with the same deliberately calm tone he had used on Nurse. “The spirit has been and gone—and Matthew is with him.”

There were more footsteps, and voices in the passage, and Mrs. Forsythe appeared in the doorway behind Lord Ransom, her dour-faced husband following. When she saw the empty bed, her hand flew to her mouth.

“No,” she said, her voice trembling. “No, not him—not Master Matthew . . .”

“Shall I make up a party, my Lord?” Forsythe said.

“A party?” Lord Ransom said blankly. He had moved into the room now, walking toward the bed like a man in a dream—as though he wasn’t quite aware that he was doing it. When he reached it, he stretched out a hand, smoothing over the quilt. “I don’t believe—no. We—we shall not find Matthew.”

His voice was shaking as he spoke, and he stood there, smoothing the quilt, with an empty expression, as though all feeling and thought had been drained from him. Mrs. Forsythe stepped forward, but he waved a hand at her.

“Go and see to my wife,” he said, without looking up. “She is—this has been very hard on her.”

Mrs. Forsythe’s mouth tightened into a frown, but she left, taking her husband with her. Silence fell over the room once more, and I shivered. Nurse had gotten the fire back into a respectable state, but I felt no warmth from it.

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