The batteries would be invaluable, and she set the packs on the side table where they would be within easy reach. The box also included two books she’d grabbed off the shelf as a last-minute bid for entertainment. One was a thriller she’d already read twice. The other was a dusty, never-used reference book. It wasn’t the best selection, but that didn’t matter. Winterbourne had vast libraries. The books were all from the nineteenth century or earlier, but she didn’t mind classic fiction.
“That’s pretty,” Dorran said.
Clare looked down at the gauzy, floral print top she held. She felt herself turning pink as she folded it back into the bag. “Not much use here.”
“Keep it. We don’t know when the weather will warm up again.”
The house was so cold that it was hard to imagine spring would ever come, but Clare tucked the lighter clothes away neatly. Even if she couldn’t wear them, it felt good to have some of her own possessions, even just a handful.
It feels as though we’re clawing back our lives an inch at a time. We have shelter. We have food. Soon, once the passages are sealed, we’ll have safety. And maybe even transport…
Beth’s warning echoed in the back of her mind. The heroes are dying. If you want to survive, don’t take risks. She frowned and pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t as though they wanted to drive across the country; they were just going to retrieve Beth. And for Clare, that counted as a necessity.
Chapter Thirteen
They went through their routine of strapping on layers of clothes. Dorran promised the walk to the shed would take less than a minute, but he didn’t let her skimp on her protection. “The shed doors have remained shut, so I expect it to be empty,” he said as he checked her gloves were tucked in place, “but I still want to err towards caution.”
They picked up the snowshoes and fencing masks. Clare used her elbow to knock out the dents in hers. It left the mesh’s once-smooth curves wavy, but it was better than nothing.
Instead of opening the front door, Dorran led Clare deeper into the building. They followed a route she hadn’t seen before, and the narrowing passages and bare stone walls told her they had entered the staff’s quarters. A minute later, they stepped into a near-empty storage room with a thick metal door. Frost spread out from the door’s edges, crusting over parts of the rough stone and freezing the hinges. Dorran nodded to Clare. She tucked the radio into one of the folds of her jacket then pulled on the mask. He undid the door’s bolt and leaned back to use his weight to wrench it open.
The door shuddered as rusted hinges were forced to move. Specks of snow shot through the entrance and swirled over the benches and floor. The snowdrifts hadn’t grown so high at the house’s back, and Dorran used a shovel to beat them down to something they could climb over.
Through the opening, Clare could make out large blocky buildings hunched in the field of white. Beyond them, the dark ribbon that marked the forest’s edge stretched into the distance. Snow fell, but at least it wasn’t a storm.
They latched their snowshoes into place. Dorran offered his hand, and Clare held it to stay steady as she scrambled over the waist-high snowbank. Dorran followed, shutting the door behind them, and they began the march through the snow.
The dark shapes resolved into two large wooden buildings. Both had sharply peaked roofs that had still managed to collect snow. Dorran led her to the largest one, the building on the left. As he’d promised, it was close to the house. Clare kept watch for movement among the trees, but as far as she could tell, they were alone.
Dorran led her to the door, a massive square that was designed to slide to the side, rather than swing. Whoever had built the doors hadn’t intended them to be opened in deep snow. Both Dorran and Clare had to put their shoulders to the wood and strain to get it to open even enough to slip inside.
The ceaseless, wailing wind faded as Clare entered the barn. The space was vast but dark. Its few narrow windows were crusted with ice. She stopped in the entryway and strained to see through the area. Metal glinted. Something tall stood near the back wall. Then Dorran slammed the door behind them, cutting out almost all of the light.
A shudder ran through Clare. The darkness seemed to press around her. The sound of every movement echoed through the space, and she wasn’t sure if all of the noises were from her and Dorran or whether they might not be alone. An unpleasant musty smell surrounded her. She wished he hadn’t closed the door.
Then a match scratched against its striker, and the spark illuminated Dorran’s face. He’d removed his mask, and his features were placid as he bent to light a lamp sitting on the table by the door. At first, the glow was barely enough to light his arm. But it grew, creating a little circle of illumination and pressing back the smothering blackness.
“Here. You can keep this one.” He passed her the lamp, and Clare gripped the metal ring tightly. “We are safe. The seal on the door hadn’t been disturbed since my family left, so the creatures will not have gained access to the shed.”
As Dorran lit a second lamp, Clare cautiously removed her own mask and unbuckled her snowshoes. Then she lifted her lamp, and the area came into relief.
She could tell it had once been busy. Tool sets were spread across benches and hung on the walls. Spare mechanical parts littered the shelves and were held in old crates. The floor was stained from innumerable oil spills. Partitioning walls stopped her from seeing the whole floorplan. Like everything in Winterbourne, it felt uncomfortably large.
A loft waited overhead, taking up half of the space above them. An old staircase braced on the left-hand wall led up to it. Clare craned her neck, straining to glimpse what might be up there, but she couldn’t see more than the ceiling.
“The stable hands used to sleep in the loft,” Dorran said. He was already moving deeper into the space, his keen eyes glinting in the light as he scanned the tools. “You might have seen the second building we passed. That was the stables. All of the horses are at Gould with the family—”
His voice caught. Clare bit her lip. His family had been on the way to Gould; they had never reached it. She wondered how far the caravan had gotten. Not a huge distance, she guessed. Madeline and her maids had returned to the house within days.
What happened to the rest of the family and the other staff members? Are they dead? Out there, deformed, wandering the countryside? Or like Madeline, do they remember the house? Do they want to return to it?
Dorran’s shoulders were hunched, but his voice remained steady. “I will find the motor. Could you look for something to make it easier to carry? A wheelbarrow or a sled, perhaps?”
“Right.” Clare left her mask and radio on the table by the door. Even under the layers, she was shaking, and she didn’t think it was all cold. Her eyes kept drifting towards the loft. Shadows thrown from her lamp darted across the ceiling. She hated not knowing what was up there.
She stepped around the partitions carefully, not touching anything but her eyes always moving. The shed had been used not only to store cars, but to repair them, as well. A host of spare parts littered the place, and in some areas, they were piled up into rusty heaps.
A board flexed above her. She looked up, staring at the loft’s underside, her heart in her throat. Just the wind. It’s a wooden building. It’s going to groan occasionally.