Eleanor
November 24th, 1847
A new morning has come, bringing with it his third letter, which arrived most promptly. Sir Wycliffe handed me the white envelope at the break of dawn, and without delay, I unfolded it and began to read at once.
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November 23rd, 1847
Receiving your reply has put my mind at ease. The outcome of the emergency meeting was unanimous: construction shall be temporarily suspended. My duties here are nearly complete, so I expect to return to you before the full two weeks are out—perhaps even sooner. Once I know the exact date, I shall inform you in advance.
Yours,
Alexander Cavendish
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I hope with all my heart that what he wrote is true. If he returns before the end of this month, then the two of us will be able to meet once more—before we must part for eternity...
Liliana
The shrill whistle of the kettle boiling on the iron stove behind me snapped me back to my senses, pulling my mind away from reckless decisions I was about to make. Both my arms pressed firmly against the thick wooden table in the kitchen. In front of me lay a packet of herbs and roots, received from Dr. Connolly not long ago, ground into a fine powder to be brewed as a tonic.
I shook my head, banishing all dangerous thoughts. Returning to the stove, I slipped on thick cloth mitts to protect my hands, picked up the boiling kettle, and poured the steaming water into a fine ceramic cup decorated with leaf motifs. I stirred the powder into the hot water until it dissolved, ready to bring this concoction to my ailing mistress to help nourish her frail body. For a moment, I noticed drops of water falling onto the wood of the table. I set the kettle aside on the iron rack, then raised a hand to my face, realizing the clear liquid was my own tears—tears of utter despair at being unable to help her recover.
The events of last night only deepened my hopelessness. The image of what happened clung to my mind, impossible to erase. I still couldn't understand why Sir Wycliffe would attack my delicate mistress like that. Even though she tried to explain to me and Miss Atherton that he hadn't meant to hurt her, the scene we'd witnessed was hard to deny. If Lady Eleanor hadn't pleaded for us to keep quiet, I would have already reported everything to her father. And then there was what she blurted out—
'A demon.'
Such words sounded like the ramblings of a madwoman, yet my mistress still seemed perfectly lucid, not the least bit delusional like Leo had once warned. Even if her symptoms did line up perfectly with everything he had described…
'Are these side effects of poison causing her to hallucinate? Or has her mind been so disturbed that she sees Sir Wycliffe as a demon?'
That was the only hypothesis I could come up with.
'But why was he the one left unconscious on the floor? How could my frail lady, whose body is wasting away, possibly have fought off a knight and left him insensible? And all she had beside her was that old book. Could such a thing be used as a weapon strong enough to knock someone out?'
Confusion churned in my head as I stirred the tonic in the cup again and again. I wiped away the last of my tears, then used the apron tied at my waist to dry my face thoroughly.
'I must speak with Leo!'
Since the day my mistress came to live in this manor, nothing but trouble had followed. I had no idea how they managed to poison her, or why they wanted to harm her, but it was clear now she would not survive if she stayed here any longer. I wanted desperately to take her back to our home at Wexford House.
I put the lid on the tea cup, placed it on a polished silver tray, and brought it up to her room. Even if it might not cure her, at least it was better than doing nothing while she lay in bed.
When I entered, I saw her: my young mistress, frail and thin, her face sunken and bloodless, her eyes ringed with bruised hollows. She was curled under thick covers, not having left her bed all day. She hadn't eaten anything in days—not because she didn't want to, but because every time she tried to swallow food, she vomited everything up along with blood, leaving her terrified of even trying again.
I could no longer bear to see her like this. The pain was unbearable. Now I finally understood what Leo had been trying to warn me about—even Sir Wycliffe's warnings about my brother, which had made me doubt Leo for so long, now seemed hollow. The truth was before my very eyes: Leo was right. My mistress was dying, in exactly the same way as Lady Chelsea had in the past.
The once-bright brown eyes now looked at me with nothing but a faint, tired smile.
"Lillian…" Her voice, once clear and sweet, was now hoarse and frail.
'I've made up my mind!'
"Drink this first, please, my lady. It will help your blood circulate," I urged her gently.
"All right." She struggled to sit up and took the tonic from me, drinking it all at once and grimacing at the bitter taste.
"My lady… I want to take you home to recover. Let's return to London, please," I pleaded as openly as I could.
She looked back at me, her face full of gentle defiance.
"No, Lillian. I will wait for Lord Alexander here."
I clenched my fists. I knew how much she loved him, but wasn't he the very reason she was dying?
"I must report your condition to your father. Surely he won't allow you to stay here any longer."
She flung off her covers and sat up, her voice suddenly urgent.
"No! You mustn't tell Father, not under any circumstances!"
Tears welled in her eyes as her expression grew increasingly troubled. My own heart twisted with guilt. I sank to my knees at her bedside, clasping her small hands in mine, just as I had done so many times before.
"Why are you so stubborn, my lady? Don't you see how close you are to death?"
"This is the fate I must face, Lillian. Don't blame anyone. My condition isn't caused by anyone in this house. It's fate, set by powers beyond us."
"But, you—"
Creeeeak!
The door suddenly swung open, interrupting us. In came the elderly man with cropped white hair and beard, bearing an envelope from his master to present to his bedridden betrothed.
"A letter from his grace, my lady."
"Thank you."
"I have something I must discuss with you privately, Lady Eleanor."
Lady Eleanor glanced at me, giving me a look to signal I should leave. I curtsied and left the room, heading to the servants' quarters next door to find Leo. I had him hiding in the women's wing, entering and exiting through my window by climbing the old tree outside.
"Leo!"
I opened the door to find my twin brother lounging on the bed with a book. He'd vanished for days without telling me—a habit of his. He looked up at me, confused by my anxious expression. I quickly closed and bolted the door, dragged a chair over to sit before him, and got straight to the point.
"I've thought this through. I'm going to sneak our mistress out of here."
"Is her condition that bad? You told me her symptoms only started a week ago."
"She vomits blood whenever she eats. She hasn't kept anything down in days. She's like a walking corpse. And…"
I hesitated, torn about telling him what she'd forbidden me to reveal. But I knew I had to be honest with my brother.
"Last night, some of the staff and I found her being attacked by Sir Wycliffe in the library. It was clear he was the one hurting her, but she insisted it was a demon."
Leo sprang up.
"I knew it! They're trying to kill her. And now she's having hallucinations—just like Lady Chelsea before her. Haven't you checked all her food?"
"Of course I have. Lately, I'm the only one preparing it. I never let anyone help. But still, this happened."
He bit his thumb, frowning deeply, thinking through the possibilities.
"This is bad. If her condition is even worse than Lady Chelsea's at this stage… It took Lady Chelsea three or four weeks to reach this point, and Lady Eleanor is here after only one. I suppose her constitution is just weaker."
"You have to help me get her out, Leo!"
"I want to help, but you know you'll be targeted like me if you do. Are you sure you want to abduct a noblewoman? You know who her fiancé is."
"I'll do anything if it means saving her life. I'll take her back to London, at least she'll be safe there."
Though I knew the plan I was about to set in motion could ruin my life, I was certain of my decision. I let my determination show in my eyes until Leo sighed and turned to look out the window, as if he sensed something ominous approaching.
Suddenly, the sky darkened, thunder crashed, and lightning split the old tree outside. Rain poured down, as if God himself was raging in heaven.
I returned to my mistress's room, assuming Sir Wycliffe had already left. As I reached for the door, I heard the most heart-wrenching sound—sobs of utter heartbreak, mixed with the rumble of the storm, echoing through the hall and straight into my soul.
"Huu… Huu… Huu…"
My Lady Eleanor was curled up, her face buried in her blankets, clutching her latest letter in both hands until it was crumpled and torn. She howled with grief as if she had lost everything. The sound sliced right through my heart.
"He's left me, Lillian… Huu… He's left me…"
"What happened, my lady?!"
Eleanor
"Before you read this letter, my lady, I have something to inform you. I carry an urgent message from my master, which he wished not to put in writing but instructed me to deliver to you directly."
I held the envelope tightly, sitting perfectly still as I prepared myself to receive whatever urgent news Sir Wycliffe would deliver. For some reason, my heart was pounding, as if I already sensed what was coming. Sir Wycliffe lifted his gaze to the empty wall for a brief moment before turning back to relay the message.
"My master has asked me to inform you, my lady, that he wishes to break off your engagement, and requests that you return to London before the end of the month."
CRACK—BOOM!
A violent thunderclap rang out, and rain began to pour down as if a storm were battering a leaky roof overhead. My mind could not process what I had just heard—shocked, speechless, not even sad, for my feelings could not keep up with the meaning of his words.
"What do you mean by this?!"
"I apologize, my lady. My master instructed me only to say these words. Any further explanation can be found in this letter. I beg your leave."
He delivered his message and left at once, leaving me frozen in disbelief, unable to accept what I'd just been told. Only yesterday Lord Alexander had written that he would return within the week—how could he now suddenly wish to end our engagement? I hastily tore open the letter for answers.
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23 November, 1847
To Lady Eleanor Barnett
I trust that Theodore has already delivered in person what I wished to say myself. I have been thinking over this matter for some time, and I believe it is time I stopped resisting the inevitable.
I wish to secure an heir for my family, and in your present state of health, you cannot bear me a child. Therefore, I have decided to marry Lady Beatrice Sophia Hervey in your stead. Our wedding will take place at the All Saints Church in Derby at the end of this month.
Her Majesty the Queen approves of my new decision, and I have already informed Lord Barnett, your father, of this news as well.
From,
Alexander Cavendish
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The letter slipped from my grasp, tears bursting forth as though a dam had been shattered.
'What is this? Why has he changed so suddenly? What was all that we shared until now? How long has he hidden these feelings from me? In the end, he could not accept me as I am—he could not accept that I am but a foreign soul in another's body. So, all those words that he would never abandon me, were they nothing but lies?'
Confusion, anger, and heartbreak washed over me all at once. Everything was happening too quickly, leaving my heart pounding not from shock, but from a sorrow deeper than I could express. No matter how dire my circumstances had been before, I endured them for the sake of having him by my side. But now, he had chosen to abandon me, to save himself and leave me to die.
'He will betray you.'
The warning of the spirits who had suffered the same fate echoed in my mind.
'He has truly betrayed me.'
A torrent of pain and fury overwhelmed me; tears streamed down my face. I seized the letter and crushed it in my trembling hands.
CREEAAK!
At that moment, Lillian burst through the door. On seeing my wretched state, she rushed to my side, gathering me in her arms to offer comfort as she always did. Perhaps she alone would never abandon me.
"He's left me, Lillian… He's left me!"
"What has happened, my lady?!"
"What do you mean, my lady? What has become of His Grace?"
"He has broken off our engagement and chosen to marry Lady Beatrice instead, claiming it is because I cannot give him an heir."
"How can that be? And what of the vows he made to you, my lady?"
I did not answer, continuing to sob uncontrollably, gasping for breath, thrusting the crumpled letter into her hands so she could see for herself.
Lillian's face grew grave as she finished reading.
"We should return to London at once, my lady. I will prepare everything by tonight."
"No, Lillian. I will remain here until I see him one last time."
The end of the month would be his wedding day—and the first of December, the day after, would be the day of my death. At the very least, let me witness that hateful scene before I go, so I may curse him to my heart's content before I depart this world. In this moment, my heart held nothing but burning hatred; I had no sense of right or wrong left. All I wanted now was to witness the face of the man who betrayed me, and of the woman who stole everything from me—my love, for which I would have given my life. All that remained was the urge to curse them both to ruin and death.
November 27th, 1847
The sound of carriage wheels rolled across the cobblestone drive before the manor in the late afternoon, mingling with the steady rainfall drumming the grass and the faint scent of damp earth that lingered in the air. The sun had not broken through the shroud of clouds for days.
Today was the day of his return. For the first time in days, I forced myself to rise from my bed—after having lain curled beneath the covers, waiting for death with nothing but despair and a shattered heart to keep me company. My legs trembled from weakness, muscles wasted away, but I managed to support myself with the old cane I had once been given, hobbling across the floor. I had sent Lillian to help the kitchen maids prepare an important supper—one fit to welcome the return of His Grace and his special guest.
The soon-to-be Duchess of Devonshire.
I found myself peering out from the wide balcony on the second floor, furtively watching the familiar couple step from the carriage below—arms entwined, close as lovers can be. The assembled staff, including those I once held close—Sir Wycliffe, Miss Atherton, and the rest—stood ready in neat rows to greet their master and his new lady. That woman's face shone with happiness, for she had returned to this place as the new mistress of the house, just as she once declared she would.
My heart shrank in my chest, aching at the sight of that warm, perfect tableau. Once, that place at his side had been mine—now all was changed, all because of his twisted heart, and the fire of vengeance blazed inside me, undimmed by tears.
They lingered at the entrance, speaking cheerfully as though there were no wretched soul left to wither in the shadows of the house. Then, Lord Alexander's gaze swept up, meeting mine as I hovered foolishly in the shadows, unable to bring myself to leave for London. I tried to shrink behind the wall, but it was too late—he had seen me. What he did next finally extinguished the last flicker of hope I'd nursed. No matter how much I wanted to believe there was some misunderstanding, some cruel trick, the scene before me was proof that this was his own will.
He took Lady Beatrice's chin in his hand and pressed a passionate kiss to her lips—deliberately, so I would see, so I would know she was now his chosen one. I bit down hard on my lower lip, forcing back tears and fury until blood welled from the torn skin. Unsteadily, I retreated to my room, collapsing at the bedside—the very place where he had once drunkenly lost himself—and let my grief pour out at last.
"Hhh—ahh—ahhhh—!"
It was the most excruciating pain I had ever known. To have sacrificed so much, only for him to save himself and leave me to my fate—it was more than I could bear.
I should never have been so foolish as to trust him. If he could betray his past love, why not me as well? Why did I ever believe he would not do the same again? How could I have trusted the words of a man without honor? That witch's curse was the truth, after all.
As evening fell, the once somber manor became lively with the noise of celebration. Ladies and lords from the neighboring estates had been invited for a splendid dinner, a festivity surely orchestrated by Lady Beatrice herself. I knew Lord Alexander would never have planned such an event—he disliked company, preferring solitude, and avoided social gatherings whenever possible.
Though I still dwelled beneath this roof, I had received no invitation. I felt nothing at being so overlooked; all I wanted was to speak with him once, just once more, to see the look on his face as he admitted this was truly the path he had chosen. My heart was numb with pain, but not numb enough to forget.
I had Lillian discreetly inquire whether Lord Alexander was attending his fiancée's lavish celebration, and, as expected, he did not stay long. After greeting all the guests, he slipped away to his study. I decided to seize the moment before he could steel himself against me.
Now I stood, steadying my breath before his study door. I happened to overhear the muffled voices of two people from within—indistinct, impossible to make out, but certainly in conversation. I presumed it to be Sir Wycliffe with Lord Alexander, as was often the case.
I reached out my frail hand, grasped the handle, and pushed open the door—only to find a scene I had not anticipated. The two people inside were not Sir Wycliffe and Lord Alexander, but Lady Beatrice, perched upon his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, their faces close, their bodies pressed together on the velvet settee at the center of the room.
Both turned to stare at me in surprise as I entered unannounced. The tableau needed no explanation.
So this is what he does with every woman. How doubly foolish of me to have hoped for anything different, for any ray of hope to remain.
"Is there something you need, Lady Eleanor?" Lady Beatrice greeted me with a smug, victorious smile.
"I... I wish to speak with Lord Alexander," I managed, voice trembling.
said nothing, only regarding me with that cold, unfeeling gaze I remembered from our very first meeting. Lady Beatrice pressed a kiss to his cheek, then gracefully rose from his lap and approached me where I stood frozen in the doorway. She looked me up and down, arms folded, lips curled in a sneer.
"My fiancé and I are discussing something important. If you have any manners at all, would you kindly excuse yourself and leave us in peace?"
She leaned in close, her voice a whisper at my ear.
"Take a look at yourself, Lady Eleanor. You're in no state to be wandering the halls like this. We're about to enjoy a little... game of our own, so do not disturb us again. He belongs to me now."
I clenched my fists, glaring at him with all the pain and hatred inside me, but he only averted his gaze, not even a glimmer of sympathy to be found.
Enough, Ellie. Enough.
I reminded myself, again and again, no more excuses, no more desperate hope that he might change his mind. Was this not clear enough?
"If you will not grant me a moment of your time, then I shall take my leave."
Still, he remained silent, cold and remote as ever. Lady Beatrice glanced back at him out of the corner of her eye, then fixed me with another sly, mocking smile.
"It seems my fiancé has no wish to waste words on you. You may go now, Lady Eleanor."
Lowering my gaze to the floor, heart aching, I turned and left them to their pleasures.
November 29th, 1847
Two more days have slipped away. I spend my hours watching the pair as they stroll through the garden, glimpsed through the window of my bedroom. Sometimes I see them sitting together for tea in the very pavilion that once belonged to us alone. Other times they wander hand in hand, admiring the birds and the flowers blooming in riotous color—as if determined to flaunt the happiness of their new love before my eyes, while I remain cloaked in darkness, unseen.
For the past three days, I have not gone out to see a soul. I've kept myself hidden away, unwilling to let anyone witness what I have become.
Only two days remain before the day I am meant to die.
"We must leave tomorrow, my lady."
Lillian's voice rises from the corner of the room. She is folding clothes and packing them into the large traveling bag, carefully preparing everything for our return to Wexford House, as Lord Alexander commanded. He wishes me gone from here before the month's end.
"…"
I keep silent, letting her handle all the preparations as she wishes. The carriage and train tickets for London tomorrow have been arranged by Sir Wycliffe, set to depart at precisely one o'clock in the afternoon, after the wedding ceremony at the church in the morning. I have not resisted; I have nothing left to fight for, nothing to hold onto anymore.
November 30th, 1847
The late autumn wind swept through the treetops, sending dried maple leaves swirling in front of the old grey stone church. The sound of the bell rang out amidst the cold morning air of a gloomy Tuesday. Inside, the church was aglow with candlelight and the faint fragrance of dried lavender and pine, the atmosphere thick with silence and sanctity. There were perhaps a hundred guests— not many— for the groom wished for a simple ceremony, only family and close friends as witnesses.
Burgundy velvet curtains contrasted with the pale sunlight filtering through stained glass windows, revealing images of Saint John the Apostle and winter flowers in bright colors. Rows of wooden chairs, packed with guests in long, dark, fur-lined coats, faced forward, all sitting in quiet reverence as the organ played a gentle prelude for the beginning.
As the great doors slowly opened, the sound of small heels tapping against stone echoed through the church. The bride appeared in her ivory wedding gown, made of thick satin befitting the wintry season, her veil trailing to the floor, swaying gently with each breath— as if she were drifting from winter's shadow into the arms of the waiting candlelight.
He stood waiting for her at the end of the aisle, still and clear in his purpose. Their eyes met in that instant, surrounded by the scent of dried leaves, soft hymnals, and the vows that would soon be spoken.
I was among the witnesses, hidden in the shadows. I did not dress as I once might have— I wore only a long black velvet cloak trimmed with silver and embroidered with golden roses, hood drawn up from head to toe, as if to mourn my own lost love in defiance. But it seemed to make no difference to anyone. Lord Alexander ignored my presence entirely from the moment I returned, even though my black cloak stood out so starkly. No one gave a second thought to the discarded lady left behind.
I wore the cloak and matching gloves not just to grieve, but to conceal the horror of my hands— now nothing more than skin stretched over bone— to hide the pitiful remains of my body beneath. I sat in the very back row, only to bear witness to their vows at the altar where once I had prayed so many times.
My hands clenched tightly in my lap, trembling with pain and fury— at fate, at God, who had taken everything from me.
I hate You. Why would You do this to me? Why give me such a dark ending and let him go on to happiness with another?
My eyes caught those of Vicar Michael standing at the altar before the bride and groom, gazing back with a calm, steady look. The words of my confession that day echoed in my mind.
It means nothing, Vicar. I am far too angry to forgive him now, I thought, almost as if he could hear me. His brow furrowed, as if to warn me, "Do not think that way." For a moment, I wondered if he could truly hear my heart, but perhaps it was simply written on my face.
I reached out to touch Lillian's lap beside me, signaling that I wished her to help me return to the manor. I could not bear to watch the rest— the bride and groom sealing their vows with a kiss. In three hours, we too would have to leave for London.
11:04 a.m.
After returning to the manor, Lillian excused herself to summon the footmen to carry our luggage out to the waiting carriage. I asked for a few moments alone, wishing to visit the library one last time. The rubble that had once littered the floor was now cleared, and the room restored to its former order—save that the statue of the young woman had been replaced by a rearing stallion in its old spot.
The wooden box that had once held His Grace William the Third's journals had been hidden away by Sir Wycliffe, who promised me he would never reveal to Lord Alexander the true terms for breaking the curse.
But even if he did, what use would it be? Even if he knew, he would never sacrifice anything for anyone. I am nothing to him now.
A surge of bitter anger welled up in me. I seized a blank sheet of paper from the desk and began to write a farewell letter—a last message to him, telling the whole truth, pouring out all my anguish and ending with a curse.
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To Lord Alexander,
This is the last letter I shall ever write to you. I know, in my heart, that you will scarcely care to read it. I am nothing more than a victim of your family's selfishness. Was this your plan all along? To beguile me, to let me fall in love with you, so you might foist this curse upon me, and then cast me aside for a woman of greater advantage?
Did you ever know what I endured—how I fought, day after day, with the demon inside me, clinging to life just to see you for one more day? But what does it matter now? Whether I live or die is no longer any concern of yours, is it?
The bitterness you have planted in my heart will never fade. Remember that. I curse you, and all those who took everything from me. May you know no happiness. May the consequences of your betrayal return to you a hundredfold, a thousandfold. Even if my soul is dragged down to hell, my wrath will never forgive.
I shall join the curse, and I will watch the ruin that is sure to come for you.
From,
Eleanor Barnett
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When the letter was finished, I read over every word again, making sure all my pain was there, that he would understand the wound he had left—and that there was nothing I could do to fight back, powerless as I was. Tears of rage overflowed once more. I bit down hard on my lip, desperate to hold in the sobs threatening to break from my trembling heart. I pounded a fist on the table, covering my eyes with the other hand, curling up in agony as I wept, my cries echoing through the room. I lifted my gaze, taking in the library one last time.
Memories swarmed me, haunting and sharp. I glanced toward the left-hand door—where once he had come to me, shy and uncertain, for the first time. All those moments with him came flooding back: his dazzling smile, his laughter, the tenderness of his embrace, the words when he first confessed his love, the necklace he had so carefully clasped around my neck, the look of pain in his eyes whenever he gazed at me.
I touched the necklace at my throat and collapsed, pressing my face against the desk.
I cannot believe those were the eyes of someone who never truly loved me.
I let myself sob, pouring out every tangled feeling for the last time. Sunlight slanted through the window, painting the walls with golden squares. Dust floated in the beam, sparkling like a faint memory of butterflies that once drifted through this library, long ago. Somehow, in that light, a sense of peace crept in—gentle and unexpected. My heart, so torn, began to calm.
I sat up straight, crushed the letter in my hand, and threw it to the floor.
No. I do not want this. I will not let the demon win. I will not let my soul rot away like hers.
Something—God, fate, memory—called me back to myself in that moment.
1:21 p.m.
All the luggage had been brought to the manor's front steps. Lillian busied herself, checking every detail before our scheduled departure. Meanwhile, I slipped out quietly through the back door, draping myself in an old, ragged cloak as a disguise. I had changed my mind. I could not return to London, to die there.
I needed it to seem that I had run away—disappeared—to protect Lord Alexander from any accusation that he had poisoned the sister of his former fiancée. I wanted everyone to believe I had vanished, lost to heartbreak. Which, in truth, I had.
Once outside, I chanced upon three horses tied to a tree—likely belonging to some guests at the manor. I stole one and rode off for Derby, keeping to the old lanes I knew well, searching for an inn where I might spend my final night. I wanted to die alone, peacefully, with no one by my side. Midnight was my appointed hour. There was little time left.
I lay down on a narrow bed in a tiny, nameless room, turning over my decision one last time.
In the end, I could not bring myself to curse him.
No matter how much it hurt to see him with another, tears would always come. The love I bore him was true, and so, even if I could not possess him in the last moment of my life, leaving quietly seemed best.
11:21 p.m.
I awoke in pain as the curse began to burn again. Glancing at the bedside clock, I saw that only half an hour remained until midnight. I do not know when I fell asleep.
"Oh, God! Someone help—ahhh!"
My body seized, twisting and writhing, hands clutching my chest, alone, untended. The curse raged, spreading its mark across my body, up to my jaw and face. I knew I was to die, and I was afraid—afraid to die alone. My fit subsided after a time, and I gathered the last of my strength to look at the clock.
11:35 p.m.
Fifteen minutes left. I forced myself up, mounted the horse, and rode to the place that still called to my heart. I did not wish to die alone, after all. Hiding from the police searching the town—Lillian must have told Lord Alexander I had vanished, and surely, by now, they were all looking for me—I reached All Saints Church in Derby. I wanted to confess, to beg God's forgiveness one last time.
I clung to the stone wall, dragging myself to the altar steps. Kneeling, hands clasped, I looked up at the figure of Christ above the altar—his gaze full of mercy, or so it seemed, even if it was only a statue.
"My God, forgive me for ever having spoken ill of You. My time is nearly up. Please, let me die in peace. I forgive all who have wronged me. I forgive Lord Alexander, who betrayed me. I ask nothing more, only that he may find happiness in the life he has chosen."
As I finished, I saw Vicar Michael step out from behind the right-hand door of the altar. My vision blurred, the world fading.
"It is your time," a cold voice sneered. "Beg all you like, but your soul is mine by pact. Ha ha ha!"
Dorothea's shrieks echoed through the church as black smoke billowed from my chest and eyes, lashing around my body until I could barely breathe. Crawling, desperate, I reached for the vicar who stood calmly before me, one knee bent, utterly unafraid of the supernatural terror. He gently placed a hand upon my head.
"Don't interfere!" Dorothea screamed, her voice shrill. "This bond is sealed! Her soul is mine!"
But the vicar, serene, looked up at the witch, now looming at my feet in her monstrous form, ready to strike. He lifted his hand, palm outward, and as Dorothea lunged, transformed into a monstrous spider, a brilliant white light blazed from his palm, flooding the church and striking her down. She vanished, dispersed on the light.
12:00 a.m.
I had no strength left to hold myself up. My head fell, but the vicar caught me gently, cradling me, his hand stroking my hair. The brilliant light remained, yet did not sting my eyes. He looked down at me, his face now only a vague blur.
"Sleep in peace," he whispered.
With those words, my heavy eyelids drifted shut, and at last, I slipped quietly from this world.