Wildthorn by Jane England

Author:Jane England [England, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0547370172
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2009-02-06T06:00:00+00:00

Eliza is hurrying me back to the gallery. My legs don't seem to belong to me, but they are carrying me along. My breath rasps, my ears ring, my heart hammers to the beat of one question: Why? Why?

Suddenly Eliza stops and I cannon into her. She thrusts her face close to mine. "Did you tell him?"

I blink at her, dazed. What's she talking about?

"Did you tell him it were me that posted your letter?"

With a struggle I focus on her question. "No. He asked but I didn't tell."

She lets out a great breath. "Thank the blazing heavens."

With a stab I realise. "You knew Mr. Sneed wanted to see me about the letter?"

Eliza shrugs. "I guessed. Matron told us it'd come back and she's been on at us—asking if we took it for you."

I look at her. Her guileless blue eyes, the pink of her cheeks under their dusting of freckles. I've begun to think of her as a friend. And yet—

"You didn't tell me. About the letter coming back."

She looks away. "I didn't know how you'd take it, Miss. Thought you might have thrown a fit."

Of course. As far as Eliza knows I'm a mad girl who doesn't even know her own name. Every time I've objected to their calling me Lucy Childs, the madder I've seemed. Clever. Was this part of the plan?

She moves on and I follow automatically, the march of questions across my brain beginning again. Why has this been done to me? Why? Why?

Beneath the questions, a dark thought is forming. I try to squash it down but it persists until I can't think of anything else.

I stop dead.

Dread has seized hold of me, is spreading through my body. I start to tremble and the thought flies out in a whisper. "I'm not going to be able to get out of here."

Eliza has stopped too. "Miss?"

I can't help moaning.

"Miss, are you all right?"

I try to stop it but it won't be stopped. A wail that starts from the bottom of my stomach and rips its way out of my throat. "I'm not going to be able to get out of here! I'm not going to get out!"

My legs give way and I sink to my knees on the flags, burying my face in my hands.

All I can see, as if it's still in front of me, is that signature in bold black ink: Thomas Childs.

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