Page 81 of Ever After

The wicked little sneer seems to mock me, and my head reels. The floor seems to dip and wheel beneath my feet, and my mind fills with memories of a taunting voice, hands pulling me underwater. Then waking up rain-soaked on a cliff, with my husband staring at me as if I’m a stranger.

My knuckles whiten as I clutch the frame. My breath sounds wet and fast, like a dog panting. Voices swirl—angry mutterings, cruel whispering, and then Blue’s voice foremost—gentle and scared and lost.

As if I’ve summoned him, he strolls around the corner. “I thought I’d lost you and—” His eyes widen. “What is it?” he says, his voice sharp and protective. “What’s the matter?”

I try for words, and when they don’t come, I hold out the frame with shaking hands. He takes it, setting it on the glass display case without looking at it. He clasps my hands, his skin warm, and the noise and the shaking stops. I sway toward him.

“Levi?” Blue says, his face white and shaken. “What’s the matter, macushla?”

“I’m alright,” I mumble.

He strokes my hair back. “Well, that’s debatable. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

My eyes shift to the mannequin behind him. She’s still, as a mannequin should be. I frown. Has her position changed? Yes, she’s closer now. I’m not imagining it.

I grab Blue’s hand and tug. “Let’s get into the main part of the museum.”

He digs his heels in and studies me. “What’s happened?”

Plastic creaks from behind. This time I know I’m not imagining it. That’s her moving.

“Now,” I snap.

His eyes widen but he immediately says, “Okay,” grabs the picture, and lets me pull him away. This is a tiny part of what I love about him. He’s not one for a thousand questions. I spare a look back when we approach the door. The mannequin is still once more, her face dead. Then I see her hands—they’re outstretched and curled into claws.

Shuddering, I guide Blue into another room. I give a relieved sigh when I see the space is dedicated to author Daphne du Maurier, and it feels cool and calm. I stop in front of an exhibition of her writing desk, and point at the portrait Blue holds. “That’s him,” I say baldly.

“Pardon?”

“I’d recognise his face anywhere. He’s the one who gave me the stone.”

He looks down at the small portrait and goes very still. “Shit,” he whispers.

“What? What is it?”

He taps the glass. “I’ve met him too.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed. “How? When?”

“He was in my dream when I travelled. He was on the beach when I saw the wreckers the second time. He was the one who gave me the warning.”

I’m standing near a chair, and I lower myself into it. “Never.”

“Yeah.” He reads the label. “So, he was a vicar?”

“What?” Blue taps the small label attached to the frame that I’d missed at first glance. The Reverend Richard Boynton. “Apparently so.”

He hesitates. “Didn’t Branok mention one of his best friends was a vicar called Richard?”

“Oh my god,” I say in revelation. “He did. I just read that in Xander’s diary. He said he was one of the few men that Bran trusted.”

“We need to find out more about him,” Blue says. “Come on. We’ll ask Jim.”

I blink. “Jim? Jim who?”

“The old bloke I was just talking to. He works here.”

I follow him as he wends his way around the exhibitions like we’re on a learned yellow brick road. We finally find Jim polishing a glass cabinet. He looks up and smiles when he sees Blue. “Back again?” he calls as we near him. “Do you want to touch the blunderbuss again?”