Though Gabriel Flint isn’t old enough to be on a petition made ten years back.
From the stage, the fiddlers’ reel bleeds out to become a waltz. Our steps slow.
“I didn’t get a chance to speak with Flint,” I say.
Jude bows his head. “We have the rest of the night.”
When the musicians break, Peter Atherton heads through the crowd in our direction. I’m ready to take up my violin again, but he sets his sights on Jude instead. His expression is pensive, worry knotted into his brow.
“Wick,” he says, “someone ought to tell you… You ought to know…”
Standing this close to him, I feel Jude tense. “What is it?”
Peter rests a hand on his shoulder. “There’s been another siren attack,” he murmurs. “I hear the body’s still on the beach.”
“Who?” asks Jude.
“Not sure. Police are down there now, I think. A couple more officers just left.”
I squeeze Jude’s fingers. He looks over, wide-eyed, the laughter dashed from his face. Setting his jaw, he turns to Peter. “I’ll see what’s going on.”
“Right.” Lifting his hand from Jude’s shoulder, Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you may need to write it in some report.”
I watch him edge his way back toward the stage. Jude’s hand tightens on my waist. “Moira,” he says.
I hiss out a breath. “I know.”
Another murder.
Without pause, without letting go of each other, we leave the light of the hall behind us, taking off into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DUNMORE’S SHADOWS PLAY tricks with my eyes. Every alley seems a gaping hole, every reflection off a shop window like the flash of a knife. A gust of wind sends leaves skittering across the cobbles, making Jude start horribly, and the adrenaline in my veins surges in response.
I feel watched.
“Moira,” says Jude. “God, Moira, it’s just… It’s just like…”
“I know.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“You are not.” I tug on his shirtsleeve. “We can still catch the police if you hurry up.”
Yet once we reach the pathway to the moors, brambles and low-hanging branches slow our progress even further. Jude says, “That’s two people now. Two. I mean—” He stumbles in the dark. As I throw out a hand to steady him, realization hits me.
“The killer wasn’t anyone at the dance.”
“That rules out Warren and Imogen.” Jude ticks them off on his fingers, then hesitates. “Flint?”
“I didn’t see him.” I bite my bottom lip, trying to think. “He was in the back room when I came in, but after… I thought he’d be onstage after me.”
Jude runs a hand over his mouth. We continue walking in silence, the unknown spooling out ahead of us. Clouds shift across the night sky, the moon shining through, casting its pale light onto the long grass and heather.
Softly, Jude asks, “Do you think it’s another child?”
I remember Connor—his body left in the wet sand, his throat stained red—and a shudder travels up my spine. The thought of finding something similar tonight pinches my stomach. “We oughtn’t assume anything,” I say.
Jude swallows. I hear the click in his throat.
We pass up and over hillsides until we reach the flat stretch leading to the cliffs. Picking up my dress, I dash forward, and Jude runs after. We both skid to a stop near the rocky edge.
The police are still there, all right. Five of them—two with lanterns in hand—stand over the crumpled body. They remind me of spirits, ghosts circling the dead, until one of the men lifts his lantern, shedding light onto the lines of his face.
Inspector Dale.
“Aye,” he calls. “Who’s there?”
I start down the wayward path, slow and careful. Jude answers before I can.
“Jude Osric,” he says, “and Miss Alexander. I heard there was an accident on the beach. Came as quick as I could.”
Another of the men, Detective Thackery, turns as we get to the shoreline. His white teeth flash in the darkness. “We’ll have the relevant information wired through to you, Mr. Osric.” He looks at the both of us, and his eyes linger over me, no doubt questioning my presence. “We’re waiting for the coroner. Nothing more to be done, I’m afraid.”
“Who is it?” I ask. From this angle, I can see only a tangle of long brown hair, the twisted fringe of her dress. Lantern light glints off the blood pooled around her body, shades of black and crimson.
An officer, fair-haired and young, replies, “Miss Nell Bracken.”
Beside me, Jude makes a soft oh sound. I set my gaze on Inspector Dale. “And you’ve already determined it was sirens? Were there witnesses?”
I see him look quite pointedly from me, to Jude, and back again. No doubt he’s expecting Jude to do something about me; when Jude remains both silent and unmoving, Dale heaves a sigh. “An anonymous message arrived at the station,” he says, “but that’s hardly any business of yours.”
I fist my hands at my sides. “I believe it’s every islander’s business, indeed, if—” A hand comes to rest on my arm, and I pause, glancing at Jude. He shakes his head slightly.
Inspector Dale clears his throat. “I’ll have to ask you to leave the area, Miss Alexander, Mr. Osric. The situation is in police hands, I assure you.” He touches the brim of his hat, his gaze steely as he regards us.
I spin on my heel, making my way back up the path even as Jude murmurs in reply. A moment later he follows after me. On the moors, a cool breeze tugs at my hair, brushes over my bare arms, and I hardly feel the chill. If I unclench my fists, they’ll start shaking; if I speak, my words will hitch. So I don’t do either.
“She’s dead,” Jude whispers finally. “Nell’s dead. I thought—” He stops, takes a breath. There’s a quiver in his voice when he asks, “What are we going to do?”
Something inside me breaks then, like a branch snapped underfoot. I stare down at my boots, dark and scuffed in the moonlight. “I can’t stand it, Jude.”
He says nothing, for which I am grateful. Wonderful, quiet Jude Osric, always the listener. The night is still, and I want to sink down beneath the soil, to sleep for a decade.
Jude’s hand reaches across the space between us, as if to take hold of mine, but he falters at the last moment, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.
“We should’ve kept an eye on her,” I say. “I should’ve known when she didn’t show up at the dance that something was wrong.”
“We’ll solve it,” he says.
“Will we?”
Suddenly I’m not so sure. The threads I’ve spent days lacing together unravel in my mind; loose connections held in fragile balance begin to slip.
Jude stops walking, and I look back around. His face is shadowed, his expression unreadable. “Don’t,” he says, and it’s a voice I’ve never heard him use before. “Don’t start doubting now, Moira. Not when…” He hesitates, only to ask, “Can I trust you?”