Page 24 of One Last Whisper

I sigh and pull the window shut. When I latch it, the sound is almost completely muted. It seems the castleiswell insulated.

I sit on one of the chairs near the window. It is already soaked from the open window, so I don’t mind that I’m staining the leather.

I look around and take more thorough stock of my surroundings. This room is clearly in regular use. It is clean, but not only clean. Other than the two chairs soaked by the rain, the furniture is oiled, and the carpet pristine. The shelves are impeccably organized, at least at a glance, and unless the first lord Blackwood had access to the 2010 edition of Encyclopedia Brittanica, it’s a safe bet that the current Lord Blackwood uses this room regularly.

I hear no more cries. It seems the sound truly was only the wind this time.

Finally, I sigh and trudge back to my room. Rather than glare at me, the armor and portraits on the walls seem to mock me. Look at the paranoid governess. Chased the wind all the way to an open window.

Well, at least I closed the window so the rain didn’t threaten his Lordship’s library. That would have been a terrible loss. Some of those books are hundreds of years old.

I hear the cry a final time as I return to my bed.

Help me!

Even knowing it’s not real, tears come to my eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Annie.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I sleep again after my ordeal, but I am far from rested when I trudge downstairs in the morning. Theresa, as usual, is in the kitchen. She looks just as haggard as I am.

“Morning, Mary,” she says. “Did the storm keep you up as well?”

I chuckle bitterly. “You could say that.”

"Aye. The North Sea is a cruel mistress. Whatever gods rule, it must delight in tormenting those who choose to live here." She sighs. "But we still live here."

“I don’t mind spiting the gods,” I say, helping myself to some of the tea she’s made.

She laughs. “I’ll drink to that. Spite the gods.”

We sip our tea, and I look pensively down at the cup. I need to talk to someone about my experiences last night. I’ve had poor luck finding friends in the past, but I suppose Theresa will have to do for now.

“I thought I heard Sarah screaming for help last night,” I tell her.

“Aye. So did I.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Did you?”

"Aye. Trick of the wind, of course, but it chilled me, nonetheless. Sometimes it's Sarah I hear, sometimes it's another. Sometimes, it's my own mother, screaming as she did before the illness took her."

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. "Better the illness takes her than that it tortures her for the rest of her life. Anyway, that was nineteen years ago. The point is that these storms find the deepest fears you have and rip them to the front of your mind whether you want them or not."

I scoff. “That’s true.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Was Sarah’s loss your biggest fear then?”

“No. Just the most recent.”

She waits, eyebrow still lifted. I sip more of my tea and try to think about the consequences of telling her more than I already have. Something tells me it would be better not to share anything about my personal life, but I'm so tired and so frustrated and so alone. All of the old memories that plagued me, the nightmares I thought I'd overcome, have all come back in force.

And there’s that need again, that compelling to solve mysteries, to uncover hidden truths, to seek justice for those to whom justice is denied. It won’t release me no matter how hard I try.

And I can’t bear this burden alone.

“I lost my sister,” I tell her. “Thirty years ago.”

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