The house was dark. A tomb. They were all dead inside. Only her child lived, and would always, ever. Endless. She and her son would live forever, be together until the end of days while the rest rotted.
This was her vengeance. Her only task now.
She had given life. She had grown it inside her own body, had pushed it into the world with a pain akin to madness. It would not be stolen from her. It was hers to keep.
She would bide in that house with her son. And she would be the true mistress of Harper House.
After this night, she and James would never be parted again.
The rain drenched her as she walked, humming her tune as the hem of her soaked nightdress waded through mud.
They would play in the gardens in the bright spring. How he would laugh. Flowers blooming, birds singing, only for them. Tea and cakes, yes, tea and cakes
for her precious boy.
Soon, very soon now, an endless spring for them.
She walked through the rain, wading through the crawl of fog. Now and then she thought she heard some sound—voices, laughter, weeping, shouting.
Now and then, she thought she saw some movement out of the corner of her eye. Children playing, an old woman sleeping in a chair, a young man planting flowers.
But they were not of her world, not of the world she sought.
In her world, they would be the shadows.
She walked the paths, or trod over the winter beds, her feet bare and filthy. Her eyes mad moonbeams.
She saw the silhouette of the stables. What she needed would be there, but so would others. Servants, rutting stablehands, dirty grooms.
Instead, she tapped a finger on her lips, as if for silence, but a rolling laugh escaped. Maybe she should burn the stables, set a fire that would rise up in the sky. Oh, how the horses would scream and the men run.
A toasty blaze on an ice-cold night.
She felt that she could light fires with a thought. And thinking, whirled to face Harper House. She could burn it to ash with her mind. Every room bursting with heat. And he, the great Reginald Harper, and all who had betrayed her would perish in the hell she created.
But not the child. No, no, not the child. She pressed both hands to her mouth, banished the thought before the spark flew. It was not the way for her son.
He must come with her. Be with her.
She walked toward the carriage house. Her hair, tangled around her face, dripped into her eyes, but she walked unhurried.
No locks here, she thought at the wide doors. Who would dare trespass on Harper land?
She would.
The door creaked as she pulled it open. Even in the gloom, she could see the shine of the carriages. No dull wheels for the great master. Big, glossy carriages to carry him and his whore-wife, his mewling daughters, wherever they chose to go.
While the mother of his son, the creator of life, drove in a stolen wagon.
Oh, he would pay.
She stood in the open doorway, swaying as her mind rolled in circles, buzzing rings of rage and confusion and terrible love. She forgot where she was, what she was, why. Then the purpose looped around once more.
Could she risk a light? Dare she? She must, she must. She couldn’t see in the dark.
Not yet.
Though her fingers shook with cold as she lighted a lamp, she didn’t feel it. The heat still burned through her, and made her smile as she saw the hank of rope.