Lord of London Town

“No! I cried, feeling my heart crack down the centre into two broken parts.

“Cheska?” I snapped my head to the right and saw Arabella stumbling through a fog. She was searching for me, reaching out her hand for me to take. To guide her home.

“Arabella,” I said and reached out my hand. Her fingers had almost met mine when a knife came out of the fog and ploughed right through her chest. Her lips moved in a silent cry for help. But she dropped to the ground.

I screamed as she fell, as Freya’s body disappeared in a pool of her own blood. Then the fog cleared. It cleared, and there they all were. Freya, Arabella, Dad and Hugo.

They were gone … they were dead.

My throat was raw from screaming and my cheeks were sore from tears. I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t save their lives …

I heard the humming before I’d even opened my eyes. It would be Freya. She was always singing as she got ready. I smiled, relieved that it had only been a nightmare. My pounding heart calmed as I tried to push the awful dream from my mind. I opened my eyes, only to see an unfamiliar ceiling. The humming was billowing in the air, but it was deeper than Freya’s soft voice. It was smoother, and a little more off key.

Confused, I rolled my head to the side and caught sight of a woman I had never seen before. She had long brown hair that fell in loose waves to her shoulders. One side of her hair was pinned back, revealing porcelain skin and bright blue eyes. She was tall and slender, dressed in skinny black jeans with a white shirt tucked into the waistband. She was beautiful.

I frowned, wondering who it could be, then my memory took over and started laying recent events on me like bricks, the weight of which crushed my chest. Dad … Hugo … Freya … Arabella …

It hadn’t been a dream. It hadn’t been as simple as a nightmare. It was real. It was all real. A pained sob slipped from my lips. They throbbed as it did. I raised my hand to my mouth and felt that my lips were swollen, and I remembered being hit, being dragged to a van … running. The Sparrow Club. Arthur. Arthur …

“Arthur,” I whispered, my throat like cut glass.

“Shh.” The woman brought a glass of water to my mouth. I took the glass and tried to sit up. I had to do something. My friends … Dad … Hugo … “Let me help,” she said, her accent hitting me even though my head felt as though it was filled with fog. She was a cockney, like Arthur. She put her hands under my arms and lifted me until I was sitting up. I dropped the glass, soaking the side of the bed, as dizziness made me lose my balance. I held my hand to my head and breathed until the room righted and the wave of nausea ebbed.

“I’m sorry,” I said, opening my eyes and letting my hand drop to the damp bed.

“Don’t be sorry, darling,” the woman said and pulled back the sheets. I looked down; I was dressed in a nightgown. I had no memory of putting it on. I didn’t know what was happening. Everything felt too surreal.

As if reading my mind, she said, “I cleaned you up and dressed you after the doctor checked you over this morning.”

“This morning?” I asked, confusion rising as I looked around the room. There were old beams everywhere; the roof was angled, the walls white and uneven like many old buildings seemed to be. Vintage furniture decorated the minimal room.

Arthur’s house. His famed converted church.

The woman stopped beside me. I searched her face up close. She was so pretty, with a sprinkling of freckles dotted over her nose. “Darling, you’ve been asleep for about twenty-four hours.”

“I have?”

“You were knackered, girl. Your body needed time to rest after what you’ve been through.” She rolled back the sheets and pulled them from the bed. “Are you strong enough to sit on this chair if I help you up? I need to change the sheets.”

I moved my feet and, despite the pain in my side, was able to move them off the side of the bed. The woman held my arm and helped me stand. I gasped a little as the pain sliced through my stab wound. When it faded, I let her help me to the chair. It was the chair Arthur had sat in when he came to see me. At least I thought he had been to see me. Maybe I had imagined that too.

“I’m Betsy.” The woman gave me a devastatingly beautiful smile. “Betsy Adley.” My eyebrows must have risen as she spoke her last name, because she winked and said, “Arthur’s cousin.”