Murder by Twilight Page 14

  Still, it was a glimmer of hope in what had otherwise been a situation dark as pitch.

  “Catherine is Hazel’s mother,” I said gently. “Of course, Charles trusts her.”

  Camellia turned back to me with a vengeance, her teeth bared like she was a large cat, wild and starving. “Being a mother doesn’t make you deserving. Giving birth to someone doesn’t mean you won’t hurt them.”

  “Catherine has never hurt Hazel, though.”

  “Hasn’t she? Hazel nearly died.”

  “During childbirth,” I said with a start. “Catherine nearly died, too. It was an accident, but they both survived.”

  Camellia was halfway around the bog now, her steps growing larger as she advanced on me. I could see the intention in her eyes. She’d hoped to kill me without me knowing, but my consciousness wouldn’t stop her now. She would carry out her plan to the bitter, deadly end.

  “Hazel thrived at my breast,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “She first smiled at me. When she cried in the night, I could comfort her. She wants me.”

  All at once, I understood everything.

  “You tried to kill Catherine.”

  Catherine hadn’t seen who’d struck her in the back of the head, and she’d been found half in a bog. Had she crawled out just as I had, but without the energy to make it all the way?

  Camellia didn’t try to hide her smile. She shrugged. “I nearly did. I would have if those Wilds sisters hadn’t found her. Charles wanted to come and look for her, but I assured him she would be back soon. I waited long enough that she should have slipped into the water and drowned. When we did finally go looking, it would appear to be a horrible accident. Something no one could have stopped. But then, we heard the shouts of those elderly witches next door. How two old women could carry a grown woman’s body, I’ll never know.”

  Her eyes were glazed, distant as she considered the failings of her first plan. Then, she smiled and turned back to me. “They saved your sister, but no one is coming to save you.”

  I took another step backward and my back hit a tree. There was nowhere else to go unless I wanted to start running through the trees, and I still didn’t feel capable of that. Feeling was slowly leaking back into my feet, but my joints were stiff with chill and my skirt and blouse were crisp and partially frozen around me. It wouldn’t take more than a few steps for Camellia to outpace me.

  “Think of your own little Grace.” I said the words before I could consider their impact, but when I saw Camellia’s steps slow, I kept going. “And your husband. What would they think of this, Camellia? What would they say about what you are doing?”

  She blinked, dazed like I’d hit her over the head, and then shook her head. “They aren’t here.”

  “Yes, they are,” I insisted, pointing to her. “They are with you all the time. You carry them in your heart, and I know they wouldn’t want you to hurt anyone. Because hurting me won’t change anything. It won’t change the fact that Grace is gone. Killing me won’t make Hazel your daughter.”

  Pain contorted Camellia’s face into a mask I didn’t recognize, and then, before I could think, she was charging at me, hands extended into claws.

  My hesitation cost me precious seconds, but I pushed away from the tree and fumbled towards the trail head.

  For a moment, I wondered whether I could make it. The path was clear, and if I kept my head and continued moving, maybe I could make it back to the house. I could call out and get someone’s attention, and they could save me. It wouldn’t have to end this way.

  Then, Camellia’s hands clamped down on my shoulder.

  Her weight crashed into my back, and I screamed, throwing my head back, hurling the sound as far as I could before we slammed into the ground and the breath was knocked from my lungs.

  I rolled to one side, tossing Camellia off of me long enough to inhale, but then her weight slammed into me again, shoving my face into the dirt.

  I kicked my limbs trying to connect with her, but it felt like fighting a ghost. No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to get a hold on her. But during my fighting, I felt a sharp point in my thigh. That was when I remembered the blade strapped to my leg.

  I didn’t know how it hadn’t fallen off while I was in the water, but it had stayed in place, and now I just needed to get to it.

  My arms were pinned underneath my chest, and Camellia was straddling my back, both of her hands slamming my face into the dirt.

  “Stay down,” she gritted out between attacks. “Stop fighting.”

  I wouldn’t on either account. Never. I would fight her until my very last breath if it came to that.

  Finding the energy somewhere inside of myself, I took as deep a breath as was possible and then threw my weight back as hard as I could. It didn’t earn me much mobility, but it was enough movement to knock Camellia back for a second and free my arms. And once that was done, I twisted so I was resting painfully on one hip against the cold ground.

  Camellia was still straddling my lower body, but I realized she was reaching for something, her arms extended over my head. When I looked up, I saw a rock half-buried in the dirt.

  Her weapon.

  We were both searching for a weapon, and now, life and death depended on who reached their weapon first. I determined it would be me.

  While her weight was shifted forward, I tucked my legs up and reached under my skirts. It was difficult to manipulate the frozen fabric, but I shoved it up until I felt the sopping wet leather straps of the belt around my leg.

  I tried to pull the knife free, but the belt was too tight and the blade was too wet. If I wanted it, I would have to undo the buckle first. It wasn’t until my fingers were needed for this delicate task that I realized how cold they were. I fussed with the belt buckle, willing my finger joints to loosen and cooperate.

  I tried not to focus on Camellia for a moment. Her knee was driving into my stomach while she dug in the dirt to free the rock, but I kept my mind on the task: loosening the knife.

  I nearly gasped with relief when the belt unbuckled and the knife slipped free. The blade clattered against the metal buckle and then fell to the dirt. For one agonizing second, I thought I’d lost it in the dirt, but then my hand wrapped around the wooden handle, and I allowed myself to hope.

  Just as I brought the knife up, Camellia sat up.

  There was only a brief second for me to take in the large rock held above her head and the dirt still falling from it, washing over me like a dirty rain.

  There was only a flash of awareness that she planned to bring it down on my head and end my life before I lifted my arm and slashed out at her.

  Camellia screamed sharp and strong, louder than I ever could have screamed, and I prayed the wind would be on my side. I prayed someone in the house would hear her and come to find me because, despite it all, I did not want to kill Camellia Cresswell.

  She was clearly insane. Heartbroken and lost, and I did not want to be the person who ended her life.

  Blood poured from a cut across her nose and cheek, and Camellia dabbed at it with one hand before she gritted her teeth and lifted the rock again. Her arms came down, and I twisted hard to the side, barely dodging the blow.

  I felt the impact of the rock in the dirt next to me and, twisted the way I was, I couldn’t see where I was aiming when I brought the blade around a second time. But I could feel the grating of bone against the metal.

  Camellia gasped and screamed again, but this time, she fell backwards.

  I scrambled away from her, rising to sit up so I could see her holding a growing spot of red just above her heart.

  “Stop, please,” I said, breathless. “No one has to die.”

  She seemed stunned by her wound, but my words awoke something in her. The coldness I’d seen in her eyes before returned, and she lowered her hands, no longer worried about her wound and how she would explain her cuts and scrapes to everyone inside the house. Camellia didn’t seem to care about anything at all
except for killing me.

  She flipped onto her knees and crawled towards me with malice on her face, her vision so red and murderous she didn’t notice when I picked up the rock she’d been wielding only a moment before.

  It was only when she was within arm’s reach and I began to swing down that Camellia’s eyes widened with panic.

  Then, the rock connected with her forehead, and her eyes closed.

  She fell flat in the dirt with a limp thud and didn’t move again.

  16

  I was still staring at Camellia’s limp body in the dirt when I heard footsteps.

  Adrenaline still pumping through me, I jumped to my feet and braced myself for another attack, unsure if Camellia had recruited help or not.

  I didn’t think I had it in me to fight anymore, but whatever was coming for me, I wouldn’t meet it lying down.

  “Who is it?” I shouted, voice raspy and dry with thirst.

  “Alice?”

  I recognized the voice as Margaret Wilds’ immediately. A second later, she walked through the trees to confirm it, Abigail just behind her. When she saw me, her eyes went wide.

  “Dear girl, what has happened?” She looked at the rock in my hand and then down at Camellia on the ground. Her brow furrowed. “I assume you had a good reason for attacking her?”

  “She tried to kill me,” I said flatly. “And nearly succeeded.”

  This must have been a good enough explanation because Margaret nodded and then walked into the clearing, waving a hand at me. “Put down that rock. No one will hurt you now.”

  “How can I be sure you won’t?”

  I knew what strange business they’d been doing tonight, and I knew they’d been doing it much too far away to have heard Camellia’s or my screams.

  “Because we came to help you,” Abigail said sharply, having no patience for my questions. “A cloud covered the full moon during our ritual, and my sister and I both felt a shift in the air. We didn’t know what we would find when we got here, but we knew someone was in trouble.”

  I lowered my arms slightly, the rock resting against my hip. Clearly, the women were not shy about their activities out on the moors. If they were, they wouldn’t have admitted them so freely.

  Before anyone could say anything else, more footsteps sounded from behind me. I spun around and backed towards the older women, deciding all at once that I trusted them. I had the rock in my hands again when Charles’ voice echoed through the trees.

  “Camellia?” he called. “Alice?”

  I looked down at Camellia lying on the ground, and my voice lodged in my throat. Would Charles be as willing to accept my version of events as the Wilds had? Or would he think I’d instigated the fight and tried to hurt his sister?

  “Over here,” Margaret called, stepping forward to lay a hand on my arm. As soon as she did, she flinched. “My goodness, you’re freezing.”

  As though her words broke whatever spell I was under, my teeth began to chatter and my body shivered uncontrollably. Margaret wrapped an arm fully around me, bringing me into what little warmth she could offer.

  A moment later, Charles walked into the clearing, as well. Just as Margaret had done, he surveyed the scene—me with the rock and Camellia on the ground. Then, he dropped to his knees next to his sister, cradling her head in his hands.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Your sister attacked…your sister,” Margaret said, realizing the confusion of her words. “Camellia attacked Alice. We came upon them just as Alice managed to overpower her.”

  “She attacked me and she is the one who attacked Catherine, as well,” I said.

  Charles blinked, overwhelmed by the information being hurled at him. “How can you know that?”

  “She told me.” I wanted to keep talking, but my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, and all at once, my legs gave out. I crumpled to the ground.

  “We have to get her inside,” Abigail said. “Both of them.”

  Charles hefted his sister into his arms, and the elderly women, despite my weak protests, bore my weight between them.

  As we walked, I faded in and out of consciousness. My head bobbed on my shoulders and it took every bit of strength in me to keep my arms around the Wilds. But sooner than seemed possible, we made it into the house.

  Nurse Gray set to work at once, her thin mouth pursed and determined. She moved from my room to Camellia’s and back again several times, telling Margaret and Abigail how best to help tend to both of us until, suddenly, she didn’t come to my room anymore.

  “Camellia is worse off than you are,” Margaret said with a small touch of pride in her voice. “You fought well.”

  I wanted to join her and be proud of myself, but I just felt ill instead. “Will Camellia make it?”

  “I think so,” she said. “The wound to her shoulder isn’t as deep as it could have been, and you missed her heart. She should survive to frown upon us all another day.”

  I was relieved, but also, terrified. Camellia was not well. I didn’t know if it was grief or jealousy or a deadly mixture of them both, but she had gone mad. She couldn’t be allowed to stay in this house any longer. Not with my sister and niece. Not even with Charles. She couldn’t be trusted not to hurt someone else or herself.

  Concern for my family and myself filled my mind until the exhaustion that had been looming over me since I’d pulled myself from the bog began to creep in at the edges of my vision. Every blink became more difficult. The laborious task of lifting my lids sounded less and less worthwhile, and eventually, I slipped beneath the surface of my fatigue and allowed myself to be carried away.

  When I awoke, it was to bright light streaming in through the windows and birds chirping nearby. It was morning, but as far as my body was concerned, it was still the middle of the night.

  I had never been less excited about the start of a new day. I wanted to bury my face back into my pillow and sleep for a lifetime. Two lifetimes if possible. Exhaustion filled my limbs with a heavy weight.

  My head throbbed, my muscles protested at the smallest movement, and the morning light that was meant to be cheerful and calming felt like spotlights in each eye, blinding me.

  “Alice?”

  The sound of my sister’s voice made me open my eyes, and once I saw her, I couldn’t close them again.

  Catherine was poised at the edge of my bed in the rocking chair that, last I knew, had been in her own room. She had a book in her hands, though it looked like she was still on the first page, and she wore her dressing gown. More worrisome than that, when I looked up into her eyes, they were rimmed with red.

  There were swollen bags beneath them and tracks down her cheeks.

  Catherine had been crying a great deal, it seemed.

  I tried to sit up in bed, but the effort made me wince, and Catherine stood from her chair, setting her book aside, and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t, Alice. Stay put.”

  “Why are you crying?” I asked. My voice was little more than a croak, and Catherine grabbed the water from my nightstand and handed it to me. I took a small sip and repeated the question. “Why are you crying? Is Camellia all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of the hallway. “The old wench is fine.”

  My eyebrows raised, and despite it all, I smiled. “I assume you believe my version of events, then?”

  “I should have believed you the moment you arrived,” she said, grabbing my hand from where it rested on top of the blankets. Catherine curled her fingers around mine and squeezed. “You were right about everything, Alice, and I’m so sorry I didn’t listen. I’m so sorry this happened to you. It is all my—”

  A sob broke through her lips, choking out the last word, but I didn’t need to hear it to know what she’d intended to say.

  “None of it is your fault,” I said, squeezing her fingers right back. “Nothing. You had so much going on, Catherine.”

  “But I asked you to come here an
d then ignored your help when you offered it. You tried to tell me you believed my story, and I refused to listen.”

  Clearly, there was nothing I could say to convince Catherine this wasn’t her fault, so instead, I opted for distraction.

  “You know the night I ran screaming through the moors, fleeing ghosts?” I asked.

  Catherine frowned and nodded, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

  “Margaret and Abigail Wilds.”

  “Really?” she asked. “They were out there in robes dancing around a fire?”

  I nodded.

  Catherine’s blue eyes went wide, and her mouth split into a grin. “Don’t tell lies like that, Alice. It isn’t right.”

  I lifted my right hand. “I swear it. I saw those old women dancing around a fire under the full moon.”

  It felt good to laugh with Catherine—to laugh about anything—even if it was at the expense of the Wilds. I had a feeling they wouldn’t mind too much.

  Catherine asked questions and laughed until there were tears in her eyes for another reason entirely, and then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

  “I’m so glad you are all right, Alice.” She tilted her head down, eyes probing. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

  “Me?” I asked with a grin. “Believe me, I’ve been through worse. I’ll be just fine. I promise.”

  I’d been telling the truth when I told Catherine I would be just fine. I knew I would be, though when I would be was another question entirely.

  I’d had nightmares every night. Of the moors and the bog. Of shadows chasing me through the trees. I’d wake up crying and sweating and desperate for the sun to rise.

  Physically, I wasn’t much better. I’d never been so banged up before.

  Nurse Gray told me several days later that she’d had to slide my kneecap back into place, rub color back into my numb toes and legs, and clean and bandage too many cuts and scrapes to count. She told me that any longer out in the woods, and I may have lost toes due to the cold.