Read Chapter 24: The Face at the Window

The lock clicked with a sound like a bone snapping. Elowen threw herself against the door, her palms flat on the cold wood, but it didn't budge. Behind her, Lillian let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.

"William," she said quietly. "Of course. He's been waiting for the right moment."

Elowen turned, pressing her back to the door. Her sister stood in the middle of the room, still wrapped in the dark cloak she'd worn to slip through the manor unseen. In the low lamplight, she looked older than her thirty-four years—thinner, too, with hollows beneath her cheekbones that photographs never showed.

"You said he was tracking you," Elowen said. "You didn't say he'd lock us in together."

"Because I didn't think he'd move this fast." Lillian crossed to the window, parting the curtain with two fingers. "He's careful. Methodical. He's been watching you since you arrived—probably since before you arrived, when you first wrote to Merrick about renting the manor."

The wave of cold that moved through Elowen had nothing to do with the draft. "He read my letters?"

"He read everything. That's what William does." Lillian let the curtain fall. "He collects information the way other men collect coins. And now he has us both in one room, which means he has something planned."

Elowen pushed off from the door and went to the window herself. The glass was cold against her forehead. Outside, the moon hung low over the cliffs, painting the garden in silver and shadow. The wind had picked up, and the rose bushes below thrashed like something drowning.

That was when she saw it.

A figure, moving along the edge of the garden where the lawn gave way to the cliff path. Small beneath the moon, but unmistakably female—the same slight build as the woman beside her, the same way of moving with chin tucked and arms close to the body.

"Illumination," she said.

Lillian came to stand beside her. "What?"

"Down there. In the garden." Elowen pointed. "There's someone—she looks like you. She's heading toward the cliff."

Lillian's reflection in the glass went very still. "That's not possible. I'm here."

But the figure kept walking, unhurried, as if she knew she was being watched. She paused at the edge of the garden and turned. Even at that distance, even in the dark, Elowen could see the pale oval of a face looking up at the window directly at them. Then she turned and broke into a run toward the cliff path.

Elowen was at the door before she'd made the conscious decision to move. She fumbled with the lock—old brass, stiff with salt air—but it wouldn't give.

"Elowen, stop." Lillian's hand closed over her wrist. "It could be a trap. William knows you're here. He could have anyone out there."

"Or it could be someone who knows the truth." Elowen pulled free. "You said yourself you didn't write all the letters. Someone else has been writing to me. Someone who knows about the cave, about Tomas's journals, about all of it. And that woman out there knows we're locked in this room."

The window. The thought arrived fully formed, and she was already moving toward it before Lillian could argue. The sash lifted with a groan of old wood, and the night air rushed in, cold and salt-bitter.

"Elowen, no—"

But she was already through the window, dropping the short distance to the narrow ledge below, then to the wet grass. Her ankle turned on impact, sending a spike of pain up her leg, but she didn't stop. The figure had a head start, but the cliff path was narrow and dangerous in the dark, and anyone running it would have to slow eventually.

Elowen ran.

The grass was slick with dew, and her boots slid more than once as she cut across the lawn. The path to the cliffs was a pale ribbon in the moonlight, winding through gorse and heather toward the drop. She could hear the sea below, a constant roar that made the night feel alive and hungry.

The figure was ahead of her, still running. She wore a dress that caught the wind and streamed behind her like the sail of a ship. Her hair was loose, dark, indistinguishable from Lillian's in this light—perhaps that was the point.

"Wait!" Elowen called, but the wind tore the word from her mouth and scattered it.

The figure didn't slow. If anything, she seemed to quicken her pace, moving along the cliff edge with a surefootedness that spoke of long familiarity with the terrain. She was heading toward the place where the cliffs curved inward, where the rock face dropped straight to the sea below.

Elowen pushed harder. Her lungs burned. The letter she'd found in the cave—the one that had confirmed everything—was tucked inside her dress, a weight against her heart. She couldn't lose this woman. Not when she was so close.

The figure reached the curve of the cliff and, without hesitation, stepped sideways into what appeared to be solid rock.

Elowen stopped so fast she nearly went over the edge. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stared at the spot where the woman had vanished. Rock. Nothing but rock and shadow and the endless dark of the sea below.

But no—there. A seam in the cliff face, barely visible in the moonlight. A narrow opening, no wider than her shoulders, hidden by an outcrop of stone that made it invisible from the path unless you knew exactly where to look.

She moved forward, heart hammering. The opening led into darkness so complete it seemed to swallow the moonlight. She hesitated, thinking of Tomas's journals, of the cave she'd found earlier, of the letters hidden there for over a decade.

This was different. Tomas's cave had been a place of hiding. This felt like something else entirely.

She stepped through.

The passage was short, no more than ten feet, and it opened into a small chamber carved into the cliff itself. The air was still and close, carrying the faint scent of salt and old paper. Moonlight filtered through a narrow slit in the rock, just enough to see by.

A bed stood against the far wall, neatly made with grey blankets. A washstand held a chipped basin and pitcher. A writing desk sat beneath the window slit, and on it sat a black typewriter, dustless and recently used.

And on a hook beside the bed hung a long dark dress—the same dress the figure had worn. Beside it, a shawl. A pair of worn leather boots.

Elowen walked to the desk on legs that felt disconnected from her body. A stack of paper sat beside the typewriter, covered in neat, familiar handwriting.

Her own handwriting.

She picked up the top sheet. It was a draft of a letter—the first letter she'd received, the one that had brought her here. The one that had mentioned the sea, the manor, the feeling of being watched. The one that had said: *Your sister is not dead. She is waiting for you.*

Below it was another sheet, and another. Draft after draft of the same letter, amended and corrected, as if someone had labored over each word.

And at the bottom of the pile, a photograph.

Elowen picked it up with trembling fingers. Two women stood on a beach in Cornwall, arms around each other, laughing at some private joke. One was Lillian, young and bright-eyed.

The other was Clara Polwhele.

Elowen looked from the photograph to the bed, to the typewriter, to the dress on the hook. And then, slowly, she understood.

No. No, it couldn't be.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, the photograph still clutched in her hands. Clara was dead. Had been dead for years. Lillian had said so. Mrs. Polwhele had said so.

But someone had been sleeping in this bed. Someone had been typing at this desk. Someone had been watching her from this hidden room, slipping out at night to follow her through the dark.

A sound came from the far wall—a scrape, like something being dragged across stone. Elowen's head snapped up.

Beyond the typewriter, where the rock wall met the floor, a narrow gap had opened in the stone. Through it came a voice, thin and cracked with disuse, whispering into the dark.

"Help me."