“You are not.” His expression was full of mirth, but as it subsided, adoration took its place. He stared up at her, unguarded, happy, and loving. “But thank you.”
Beautiful Dorran. She kept that one in her mind but returned his smile as she traced her fingertips across the edge of his jaw. Not long ago, every smile and every laugh had been guarded. Very slowly, he was shedding that cautiousness. And it made her so happy, it almost hurt.
Her hand drifted to the collar of his shirt. A hint of blue peeked out from under it. Clare’s smile faded. She undid the top button to see the bruise across his collarbone, and her stomach dropped as a rush of fresh guilt hit her. “Oh…”
“Clare.”
“I’m so sorry. I—”
He took her hand, still smiling. “No. That wasn’t from you.”
“But—”
“My darling, I say this with the greatest affection and respect possible. You do not hit hard enough to leave bruises.”
Clare bit her lip, sceptical, afraid he was making more excuses for her.
Dorran’s eyebrows rose as his heavy-lidded eyes smiled up at her. “I wouldn’t lie to you. This was from yesterday, in the snow with the hollows. They put some force behind their strikes. Again, I say that with no intent to offend.”
“None taken.” The tension fell from her shoulders. She let her hand move lower and undid another button. The bruise looked painful, so she kept her fingers featherlight as she traced around it. “Are you scared?”
“About tomorrow?” He rested his hand over hers. His heart was below her fingers. The pulse felt strong, steady, and horribly fragile all at once. “Of course I am. I do not think I would be human if I wasn’t.” A pause, then, “… Are you?”
“Yes.” The word, as simple as it was, cracked when she tried to say it. Moisture blurred her eyes.
Dorran tightened his fingers over hers. “Do you still want to go?”
This time, she answered with more conviction. “Yes.”
“Then there is nothing to help by worrying. Come. Lie down at my side. I will keep you warm and safe tonight, and for as many more nights as I can.”
He lifted himself off her lap so that she could settle down next to him. She lay on her side, one arm wrapped around Dorran, and he kissed her forehead before tucking it into the space below his chin. She closed her eyes and listened to the patter of rain beyond the fire’s crackle.
Chapter Eighteen
Four hours to reach Beth’s if the roads are good. More if they’re bad.
Clare’s dreams revolved around the map she and Dorran had created. Her mind traced the route again and again. Four hours. We can survive four hours.
She saw her hand running over the paper, following their path. A red X marked Beth’s house. Her fingers touched it and came away wet. Not ink, but blood, dripping from the bunker, saturating their map.
Clare gasped as she woke. The room was dark. The fire had been allowed to die into embers, but for the first time since she’d arrived at Winterbourne, the room hadn’t turned cold.
Dorran’s hand rested on her shoulder. He was already dressed, and his eyes were bright as he leaned close. “Time to wake, my darling. We are almost ready.”
Beth. She sat up, her pulse leaping, and looked at the window. The black was deep, but in the distance, she saw the first hint of dawn.
Dorran shook a jacket out for her and helped her into it. He kept his voice quiet, almost as though reverent of the early morning’s thrall. “Breakfast is ready downstairs. I have set up the garden. Now, all we need is the motor, and I did not see any sign of the creatures around the shed.”
“You did all of that alone?”
“Yes. You needed sleep.”
She frowned at him but bit her tongue. It wasn’t a morning for arguing. If they were going to get to Beth’s, they needed to be united.
They hurried down the stairs together, letting the gloom caress them as they worked their way towards the kitchens. For once, the dark didn’t bother Clare. She couldn’t hear the scratching noises. In fact, the whole house felt strangely calm, as though it were sleeping, waiting patiently for sunrise.
Dorran had laid out plates of porridge and dried fruit on the table, along with steaming cups of tea. The kitchens were cold, and Clare was grateful for the jacket and the drink. They ate in silence.
Four hours to get to Beth’s if the roads are good.
Her internal clock counted down. It was ceaseless as it pressed Clare to run, but it refused to show how long she had left. Hours? A day? Or has the deadline already passed?
She drained her cup, and Dorran took the plates to wash up. Clare fought her impatience and picked up a dish towel to dry at his side. It only took them two minutes. Dorran emptied the sink and stood there, palms resting on the edge of the metal basin. Thin-lipped, he stared at the suds disappearing down the drain.
“Dorran?”
He pushed away from the sink. “Let’s go.”
They were becoming so used to the ritual of donning winter clothes that they completed the task before the sun breached the skyline. Dorran stood at the house’s open front doors, staring at the gradually lightening cobalt grazing the tops of the trees. Clare balled her gloved hands into fists as she stared at the sunrise, urging it on.
Four hours to get to Beth’s.
As the field gradually lightened, Clare was able to see the gardens clearly for the first time. The snow was gone. A stone courtyard spread ahead of them, before four shallow stairs led down to the dirt road that twisted towards the forest. The grass was dead, but the shrubs lining the first part of the driveway were green. Everywhere were the remnants of their winter: water collected in huge puddles in every available dip, sparkling in the brown grass and trickling between the cobblestones.
“Okay,” Dorran said.
They pulled their masks into place and each took one handle of the sled. Their equipment was stacked on the structure and tied down with rope. Clare couldn’t stop herself from glancing at their supplies as they dragged it down the stairs. The fear that they might have forgotten something—something important, something they would need—weighed on her. But it was too late; the time for preparing was over. They would have to survive with what they had.
The sled’s runners scraped over the courtyard stones. Instead of going towards the forest, they turned left, circling around the building. It was surreal to be able to walk outside Winterbourne without wading through snow. The sheds appeared through the mist. Dorran gave a brief nod, and they dropped the rope as they approached the largest building.
Even from outside, Clare could hear the radio’s static. It still blared through the building. Dorran slowed as they neared the door, one hand held out to keep Clare behind himself and the other holding the axe as he approached the sliding door. It had been left ajar.
“Watch the field,” he whispered.
Clare stepped back to check the ground surrounding them. She turned in a slow circle, scanning the forest’s edge, the stretch of dead grass, and the manor’s closest walls. She hunted for movement. She didn’t see any.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the hollows melted with the snow?
The idea made her smile. She’d become so used to associating the deformed creatures with the cold that this new, wet, dripping world somehow didn’t seem as threatening.