My heart. My heart.

The room begins to spin again, and I wish I could reach out and grab it, hold it, and beg it to stop. How can one think when the world is turning so fast? How can one even begin to think when the world is about to end?

'Where are my father and brother?' I manage to say. 'I want to see them. If you are to kill me, then I think you at least owe me one last meeting with my family?'

Mrs. Hawkstone's dress of crows ripples with discontent, or with the thrill, I know not. When she laughs, I realise it is the latter. She enjoys my fear like honey on her tongue.

'Did you really think we would not allow them audience to your sacrifice, girl? The Master needs your heart to suffer, for He relishes your pain, and what greater pain than seeing the agony in your father's and brother's eyes as you all watch each other die?'

All at once, I am torn by her words. I want to see them both more than anything, but I do not wish to witness their suffering, nor do I wish to aid these monsters in their dark mission.

Footsteps and muffled protests echo along an unseen passageway, and I shift, trying to twist in my binds to see Papa and William as they are dragged into the room, by two men – both of whom I recognise from the Lutwyche serving staff. Both men seem unmoved by the situation, and I cannot help but wonder if they are bewitched or willing participants to this horror. The Hawkstone's web is wide it seems, including the new housekeeper at Wilderhope Manor. Who else is embroiled in this dark plan of theirs?

The joy I get from seeing the faces of Papa and William is bittersweet. Both are gagged and their wrists are bound. There is a wicked gash on William's temple that enrages and pains me to see that someone could have treated my brother in such a way. Papa looks exhausted and pale, but infuriated too, to see me laid out on the alter table, a lamb ready for slaughter. His eyes ask me questions his mouth cannot. I smile through the tears that now fall, the emotion of seeing them both overwhelming me.

The men pull their gags free, and William lets forth a torrent of curses that earns him an instant backhand to the face and no doubt a bruise to match the one on his forehead, and which leaves him glowering at his attacker with murder in his eyes.

'Come at me in an even-handed fight, you dogs,' my brother seethes. 'Let's see how well you fair then.'

'Ah, the famous Elmes' spirit.' Mrs. Hawkstone's words of praise do not match the derision in her face. 'You have raised two firebrands, I see, Mr. Elmes. I would say it is a pity they must be extinguished, but of course, I would be lying for their loss will be a great gift.'

My father looks at her then in the same way he looks in the portrait of him that sits at the centre point of the wall aligning our staircase at home. I must confess, I never much cared for it, particularly as a child, for it did not look like the Papa I knew. It was not until I was much older that I realised it really is not the Papa I know. It is the portrait of Admiral Richard Elmes, in full military regalia, and full military might. His face sits like stone, hardened, and chiselled along his jawline. His mouth is cruel and thin. His eyes, cold and unyielding. It is the face of someone who has witnessed the horrors of war and survived the trauma of battle. It is the face of a warrior who remains immovable in the presence of his enemy.

The man standing in the chamber now is that man from the painting.

'May God condemn you both for this unholy day,' he says, his voice calm, despite the thunder in his eyes.

'God, Mr. Elmes?' Mrs. Hawkstone laughs shrilly. 'Think your God cares for any of this? Trust me, He cares so little that he would let one of his own flock fall so very willingly.' She gestures towards the Rector, still cowering like a frightened hound against the wall. 'If your God cared, he would have helped you and my husband perform the blood rite all those years ago, instead you failed, and the blood you stole has now been returned to our possession. If your God cared, he would have sent someone to put a stop to this, but instead, he deserted you all as we enacted our revenge. Instead of coming to your aid, he left you defenceless and alone.'

'Foul witch!' my father replies. 'Alone? We are not alone. You might have sought to tear us apart by taking Rachel from us, but the Elmes family stand together now, just as we always have. What do you have?' He looks to Andrew. 'What of your wife and children, Captain? Where are your family?'

Andrew's eyes darken, something indiscernible in his glare. Pain, I think. A pain he does not wish us to see.

Papa's laughter is mocking. 'Gone, are they not? Fled? Your own wife and children. Of course, I was not sure Beatrice would believe me of your dark designs, but no matter, for she did believe me about Elizabeth, and it seems that was enough. In the end, it did not take much to convince her, such was the wrongs you had dealt her. While you focused your attention on each of your enemies that sought to thwart your evil doings, you paid little care to the wife and children you betrayed and now they are gone, fled far away from you and your wickedness as they can.'

Andrews hands clench into fists by his sides. 'You old fool. And to think I held even an ounce of admiration for you at one time. Your efforts were a waste of your time. I will find them.'

'Will you now?' Papa replies. 'Do you really think your mother cares for where they are? They are a distraction. An irritation. She cares only to bring her Master into this world and have the beast take control of her only son, and once he has you, everything you knew and cared for, will be irrelevant. Not even a memory of them will remain.'

'Liar!' hisses Mrs. Hawkstone. 'Deceiver!'

Papa studies her with scorn. 'You dare to call me a deceiver? You, who has lied and deceived your whole life. You who continues to lie and deceive even now? You care only for your own aims, Mrs. Hawkstone, and nothing more.'

'On the contrary, Mr. Elmes, I care for a great deal, particularly the destruction of your pathetic family. If you think your meddling is a victory, then you are truly mistaken. And if you believe that you stand together now in the face of death, then you are as foolish as I have always known you to be.'

Her skirts of black feathers undulate, a rippling of oily bodies that turn my stomach, and she plunges her free hand into the sea of crows that surround her and from it she pulls a vicious-looking weapon I have seen before.

The blade that Daniel had used to release Edith Smallman from her undead suffering is now in Mrs. Hawkstone's grasp, and the coldest dread grips me. This is the blade they will use to rip my heart from my chest. This is the blade that will bring me death and an eternity of endless torment.

I look to Daniel with alarm, and he mirrors my own horror, knowing that the knife of the Sin-Eaters, used to end the unnatural wanderings of the undead, will be used to end my life too.

'Yes, Abomination.' The old woman nods, noting the recognition on Daniel's face. 'You will watch as your own blade destroys that whom you love and when she is dead and you are enslaved by the Devil himself, her name will mean nothing to you. It will be like dust carried on the wind, just as she and her miserable family will be dust and nothing more.'

'You dare to call him an abomination after everything you have done? And everything you intend to do?' I snap, anger boiling, my gaze sliding to Andrew. 'And you who dares to stand there and talk to me of your evil work with pride, when you destroyed my friend and killed that which you put inside her. When you talk to me as if there could ever have been any union between us, knowing you have consumed the flesh of the dead. You repulse me, and when I am dead, I hope my heart rots inside your belly and poisons whatever is left of your soul once your Master is done with you.'

Andrew blinks, frowning, as if my words surprise him, but the smile returns, cruel and thin.

'And with your death, I will have the only union I need.' He takes the blade from his mother, turning it in his palm, admiring the workmanship and its cruel edge. 'Like it or not, Lillian, your heart will be mine and I will enjoy the taste of you on my tongue. I wonder though...'

He steps closer again, gently tracing the tip if the blade up my chest and resting it against my sternum. My heart beats furiously to feel the terrible weight of it there.

'I wonder if you will taste the same as your mother did when I feasted upon her flesh?'

My world falls away beneath me.

I am in an abyss, floundering in the dark, unable to gain purchase on anything as I tumble.

No. No. He did not. He lies.

He must be lying.

'Mama... No!' William's tormented cry rings out, as if Andrew has reached out and torn his heart from his chest and he might as well have, for the torture of seeing her – our mother – is like Death has crept in and gripped our throats in his bony grasp.

Mama walks into the chamber, with the slow, shuffling gait of the dead, her stiff form still wearing her black funeral finery. Her skin is mottled, her cheeks still caked in the rouge she wore in her casket. She walks seemingly without seeing, oblivious to her surroundings and all those gathered here. It is harrowing to behold – my mother, my dead mother, dragged back from her slumber and forced to walk again, her dead body animated by such evil.

It seems to see a corpse walk is enough for the two men assisting the Hawkstones, and with pale faces and wide, stricken eyes, they glance at each other and back away, fleeing from the room, their footsteps echoing behind them. With a gesture of Mrs. Hawkstone's hand, shadows flutter along the walls, dark wings outstretched, rushing out into the passageway. A furious screeching follows, and the men scream, as the sound of the crows overwhelms their voices, until all is silent.

Silent except for the sound of Mama's steps shuffling against the ground.

Papa, who had held himself with such strength and fortitude before, breaks before my eyes, his body crumpling like a wilted flower.

'Rachel, my love...' Tears stream down his face. 'No... no...' He falls to his knees, his breath wheezing and distressed.

'Monsters!' I gasp. 'You... how could you?'

Mrs. Hawkstone is smiling – if that old woman can sport a smile – but it fades quickly as she turns abruptly to her son. 'We must waste no more time, Andrew. Begin!'

The Captain nods and holds out his hand towards my mother. With a snap of his fingers, he bids her head to rise, and she does so, looking directly at him. Some form of recognition flickers in her milky gaze, but if she sees her daughter laying here on this cold slab, she appears not to notice.

'Mama?' I call out. 'Mama!'

Nothing. She elicits no response. Not one trace of knowing creeps into her eyes. It is as if she sees nothing but him – the necromancer who has enslaved her.

Another snap of his fingers and a sweeping gesture of his hand, and mother's head turns slowly, so slowly that I imagine I can almost hear the creak of post-mortem rigidity in her neck as she turns her attention to my father and brother.

Papa, who is now seemingly lost to his grief and pain, reaches out with is bound hands as if in prayer, beseeching. 'Rachel, please... I beg you... release yourself from his hold upon you. I know you can... please...'

Upon his words, Mama opens her mouth, and emits a scream of rage so utterly terrifying, that I scream in response, calling out for her over and over as she runs at Papa with an unnatural speed, her arms outstretched. On his knees, he can do nothing as she flies at him, wrapping her hands around his neck, still screeching that terrible high-pitched scream that reminds me of the cry of the crows.

'Stop this!' Daniel shouts above the melee. 'Stop it!'

But Mama does not stop, just presses her thumbs harder against Papa's throat as his eyes bulge and he desperately attempts to push her away, but to no avail. She is too strong, and he is bound. William, who has stumbled to the ground as Mama flew past him to get to Papa, attempts to stand again, sobbing wildly as he beats at Mama's back with his bound hands. His efforts seem but an annoyance to her, and with one hand released from Papa's neck, she backhands William's face, drawing blood from his nose. My brother staggers again, his face streaked with tears and blood, as he can scarce believe the mother he loves so very dearly would strike him in such a way.

Turning her attention back to Papa, she wraps her cold dead hands around his neck once more, digging her fingers deep into his throat, while Papa croaks and wheezes his pleas for her to stop.

'Let them go!' I beg Andrew, as William attempts again to struggle with Mama. 'Please... I implore you, leave them be and you can have me.'

Andrew touches his hand to my face, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger as if studying a specimen. 'But my love, I already have you. They are just a delightful gift.'

He moves to the other side of the altar, in between me and where Daniel stands, helpless. Mrs. Hawkstone glides to stand opposite her son, so they flank me on either side.

'Now, begin,' she demands, and he does, holding the blade aloft with both hands. They close their eyes and begin to recite words in a language I do not understand, nor have I ever heard before. It has a hard edge to it, the inflections on each syllable sounding sharp and cruel on their tongue and they chant over and over. As they keep chanting, the words seem to take shape around me, whispering into my ear and making me feel sluggish, my mind foggy with confusion.

'Lily...' Daniel cries. 'Lily, stay awake... please... you must fight it... Lily...'

Somewhere far away, I hear the struggles of my father and brother. I hear them sobbing, pleading. I hear the screams of my dead mother and I see her face in the darkness as she plunged from the trap on that country lane, her hands reaching for me as she fell. I see her attempting to pull her broken body from that ditch, her fingers clawing at sodden earth.

'Lily... remember... Lily...'

I see Daniel walking into the woodland lake, turning his head to look back at me, mischief in his eyes. I see him, his reflection in the window of his cottage, steam rising from his naked body in the bathtub. He looks up at me, meeting my gaze in the reflection of the window. 'Remember,' he says...

The whispers are inside my head now, growing in power with each terrible word that sinks into my flesh, invading my veins with its poison. A hand – hers I think – grabs roughly at the collar of my dress and I hear a ripping sound and the faint scratch of sharp metal on my throat. Cold air meets my exposed skin. They have ripped open my dress from the collar to my waist, but still the whispering tries to pull me under.

'Lily... remember, you have to remember...'

I hear Daniel's voice, but I know not what I am supposed to remember.

I remember him. Always him. I see him watching as Edith Smallman flies across the Wilderhope nursery at me, screeching as mother screeches now. 'Remember,' she says as her hands grab at me. I feel Rectory Wood all around me, its darkness insidious and blood-curdling as it seems to move, barring my escape. Daniel is pulling me roughly back from Mr. Hawkstone's dead grasp. Mr. Hawkstone, staring at me, not in horror, but beseechingly, imploring me to... to what?

Something tiny bats against the palm of my hand. I feel it, soft and yet forceful against my skin. Once, twice... incessantly now. Prising my eyelids open, I see Mrs. Hawkstone and Andrew, eyes closed as if in rapture, both gently swaying either side of where I lay, the knife held above me again.

The incessant tickle against my skin persists and I turn my clenched hand and slowly unfurl my fingers.

The scarlet moth spins in circles on my palm, its wings opening and closing.

Remember, Lillian. Remember.

The moth flutters into the air, its journey erratic and juddering as it rises, hovering over my body, weaving its way in between my killers, until it reaches my face. I feel it moving against my lips, my cheeks, brushing against my forehead.

I see flashes of Daniel in Mr. Hawkstone's study. I see the photograph on the old man's desk. The piece of paper that lies concealed behind it. I see hands I recognise - hands I cannot fail to recognise for I remember how they felt upon my skin, rough but beautiful - removing the back of the frame, carefully opening the folded piece of paper.

It is the scarlet moth. A beautiful, hand-painted drawing of the moth, its wings outstretched.

I am looking at Daniel through the crack in the doorway and he looks directly at me.

I pawn my own soul, we say together. I pawn my own soul.

He is a boy again, and I am a girl looking at the very thing I have been forbidden to look at.

'Don't look, Lillian,' Mrs. Hawkstone says. 'Don't look.'

But my curious mind cannot be subdued, and as I fall, the whispering boy says, 'I pawn my own soul.'

'I pawn my own soul,' I whisper. The moth flutters against my lips. 'I pawn my own soul.'

The moth rises into the air, as if my whispering is caught on a breeze and it follows it, gliding away from me and towards where Mama stands over Papa, her hands still squeezing and Papa's face now purple, mouthing the words 'my love, my love' over and over.

The moth dances at my mother's ear, and she jerks as if irritated by its touch. It retreats and then comes for her again, this time, settling on her earlobe, its wings opening and closing in that strange, juddery way.

'I pawn my own soul,' I whisper again.

Mama stops, her hands falling away from Papa's throat. She raises one as if to bat the moth away but freezes in mid-air.

'Don't stop, Lilian!' Daniel urges.

I pawn my own soul; I pawn my own soul.

Mama slowly turns to face us, her head tilting curiously, a flicker of something in her eyes.

I pawn my own soul. Mama, I love you. I will always love you. Help us. I pawn my own soul.

My mother looks at me then – looks directly at me as if she sees me for the first time. The moth dances at her ear, fluttering against her dead skin, its touch as gentle as dust rising in the moonlight. I know she can see me now, but most importantly; she also sees the man that stands with the blade in his hand and the woman with her dress full of crows.

Opening her mouth wide again, Mama screams, not to strike terror this time, but a scream full of pain and suffering, a scream of agony that speaks to me. This unnatural rebirth pains her terribly, but this evil work she has been commanded to do, pains her more.

Mrs. Hawkstone and Andrew both gasp and open their eyes in unison, just as Mama launches herself at the old woman, her arms outstretched, hands like claws. She reaches her, grasping at her hair and with a terrifying strength, she tears the woman away from the altar. I watch, horrified as she brings Mrs. Hawkstone to the ground, plunging her hands into the dress of crows that squawk and scream and peck and scratch. With one horrifying motion, she rips a crow free from the dress, tearing its wings from its body and flinging it to the ground.

Mrs. Hawkstone screams and tries to push Mama off, but in death, my mother holds a physical strength she never did in life. She plunges her hands inside again, and in a frenzy, tears more crows away. Feathers fly around her, blood smears her hands and face as she destroys them one by one. The crow that sits at Mrs. Hawkstone's shoulder flies up and launches itself at Mama, its wings beating furiously about her face as it pecks at her, gouging her cheeks. Reaching up, Mama grabs it by one of its legs, and smashes it body to the ground.

'No, no! You dare not!' Mrs. Hawkstone screeches. 'You will do as we command! You will stop this!'

But Mama does not do as they command, and she does not stop. The old woman is shrieking and sobbing, and Mama presses her hands to Mrs. Hawkstone's throat, just as she did Papa, and squeezes. Mrs. Hawkstone hits out ineffectually at her, her hands grasping at Mama's, but unable to prise them from her neck.

'You!' Andrew whirls around, glaring at Daniel who simply smiles at him from his pentagram prison. 'You are an abomination! You did this!'

With one sweeping arc of the blade, he slices Daniel across the face, who turns just in time for it to miss his eyes, instead taking a cut across his cheek which splits open instantly, spilling blood down to his chin.

I cry out, but instead, Daniel simply places his hand to his wound, wiping at the blood that flows too freely, and staring at it drenched upon his palm.

'Did you think me useless, aye?' he says, darkness creeping into his eyes. 'Think that I was not capable of learning what my uncle never taught me? I am well-read, Captain, and a well-read man needs no tutorage. A well-read man can teach himself anything.'

With that, he reaches down and smears his own blood on the inverted pentagram, a stark bloody stain across the white chalk. The ground sizzles where his hand touches, steam rising from the blood.

With another smile, even crueller than the first, he steps free from his unnatural binds.

Andrew's eyes bulge, his breath coming in short, shocked gasps.

'How...' he stutters. 'How can you...'

Daniel sniffs and rolls back each of his shoulders in turn. He gestures towards the blade in Andrew's hand. 'I think you will find that does not belong to you, sir. I would be very grateful to have you return it.'

Regaining his composure, the Captain's face twists into a furious sneer. 'Have it you will!'

He lunges for Daniel, who jumps out of the way, raising his elbow and slamming it into the side of Andrew's head. The Captain stumbles and swings again, but his rage and shock are too much, his jabs are too wild and he is far from his mark. Daniel aims a fist at his jaw, connecting with a sickening thud and then again. They circle each other, Daniel's hands bloody and Andrew looking more and more like a caged animal. He lashes out, this time, managing to slice at Daniel's shoulder, but Daniel just jumps back and presses a hand to it, continuing to circle his assailant. He grins and it is a Devilish grin, blood stains his teeth and drips down his chin to his throat.

'You were right, Captain Hawkstone. My uncle did beat me senseless almost every day of my childhood, but the one thing he did teach me, was how to fight. How to learn to dodge the fists. How to move quicker than my opponent. Where to hit where it would hurt the most.' He wipes at his bloody face and laughs. 'And most crucially, how to outwit a noble man who believes in his own importance far more than he should, for the noble man is nothing when you strip away his reputation and his medals. The noble man is just flesh and bone and blood, and his blood is nothing compared to the blood of a Sin-Eater.'

Charging at Andrew, he hits him again, and the Captain loses his footing on the ground, stumbling. The blade falls from his grasp, clattering against the side of the altar table. Daniel grabs him and presses his bloodied palm to the man's face. Steam rises from under his hand, a sizzling much the same as when he wiped his blood over the pentagram. Andrew's eyes widen and he screams, finally managing to push Daniel off him and clutching at his face where the flesh is now burnt and furiously red.

Staggering backwards, he looks to his mother, who now lays still and inert on the chamber floor, her dead eyes wide open but seeing nothing. Surrounded by the black and bloodied carcasses of her birds, she looks much smaller and weaker than when she stood triumphant in the hallway of Lutwyche, glaring down at us as we cowered from her shadows of crows.

The scarlet moth flutters down towards my mother, dancing about her face. Mama sits back, lifting one hand from about Mrs. Hawkstone's neck and looks almost in wonder at the small, winged insect which lands on her blood-drenched fingers. Rising again, it hovers in the air close to Mama's ear but what it whispers to her comes not from me this time.

Mama closes her eyes and smiles, rocking gently, and it is then that I hear it.

She hums, low and soft and melodic, and it breaks my heart to pieces and comforts me all at once.

It is the song she used to sing to me when I was a child. The one she would sing when she brushed out my hair before bedtime, the gentle sweep of the brush teasing out my curls as she smiled at me, intermittently stroking my cheek with her fingers as if she thought me the most precious thing she had ever seen. Tears stream down my cheeks, but I smile still, reliving what she now sees inside whatever is left of her mind. I wish so dearly I could keep this for a little longer. I wish I could keep her forever, but what I see now in front of me is not what I would wish for her. She does not deserve this prolonged agony. None of the dead do.

Bedtime now, Mama. It's time to rest.

Without another word, Mama falls silent and her body slumps to the ground.

'Mama!' William cries, sounding more like the tiny boy he once was and not the almost-grown man he is now. He collapses into sobs, as Papa wheezes and sobs with him.

The sound of the blade's edge scraping along stone, pulls me from the scene.

Daniel now stands, with the knife in his hand – the Sin-Eater's knife back in his possession, where it belongs.

'I am grateful for its safe return, sir,' he says, staring at the Captain, who is backing away, his hand still clutching at his singed flesh. 'It's a beauty, aye? Persian, I'm told. Forged with death magic, but intended only for dark priests such as myself, those who truly understand death and all its wonders and horrors. You see, Captain, you might think the Sin-Eaters are unworthy of the powers they possess, but the difference is that we respect death, and the necromancers do not. You seek to use it for your own dark means and there is no control in power such as that. I, on the other hand, see death for what it is. A pathway. A blessed journey. And I will do what is in my power to see the dead flourish on that journey, unburdened by sin. No one should have the power to raise the dead from their graves, especially a person who disrespects death as you do.'

'You are a fool, Sin-Eater,' Captain Hawkstone says, spitting out blood on the chamber floor. 'A weak-minded fool. What is power if you do not intend to use it? Your uncle should have ripped you free from your whore mother's belly before she could spew you from between her legs. I understand she was not long for this world once you ruined her. Birthing you, she opened her legs for the last time. Such a pity for all the men that made such good use of her.'

Daniel curls his hand tighter around the hilt of the blade. 'Liar,' he hisses. 'My mother left me in the care of my uncle. She was no whore, and she did not die. Changed forever from her ordeal, yes, but she did not die. And she never opened her legs willingly. They were forced open. By a noble man who thought he could take whatever he wished.'

The Captain laughs and brushes the dirt from his coat sleeves. 'Is that what Joseph told you? How commendable of him to spare your feelings, even if he never spared you the force of his boot. Trust me, Sin-Eater, stories of your mother begging for coin in return for offering the warmth between her thighs are famous in these parts, as is the story of her death. Torn open and destroyed by the birthing of her own bastard child.'

'You lie!' Daniel roars, charging at him, but the Captain is ready and shoves him to the ground, where the Rector grabs at Daniel's ankles, preventing him from getting to his feet.

Seizing his chance, the Captain flees, disappearing out into the passageway. The Rector laughs madly, but Daniel silences him with a blow to the face, climbing to his feet and ready to give chase.

'Daniel, wait!' I cry. 'Release me, quick!'

He returns, slicing through the ropes with ease, and pulling me up from the altar. My back aches with the coldness of the stone table, but there is no time if we are to catch Andrew from escaping.

'You should stay here with your family,' Daniel urges, but I wave off his concerns and grab his hand, pulling him towards the tunnel.

'We will come back for them. We cannot let that monster get away.'

We follow the Captain's route out of the chamber, our feet pounding along the passage, stepping over the dark shapes of the two Lutwyche men, their bodies now broken and bloodied at the base of a narrow stone staircase leading upwards.

At the top, a wide door stands half-open and the wind howls like a wolf through the opening. Its teeth bite as we break out into the night, the harsh cold snapping about our faces and me, with my dress torn right down the front. I try to pull it closed and seeing this, Daniel takes off his jacket, and helps me into it, wrapping it over my chest. A downpour lashes the air, dampening our hair and clothes and I squint through the wind and rain, desperate to see into the darkness.

'Where is he?'

Daniel points. 'There, look!'

Sure enough, I can see Andrew on horseback, close to the entrance to the gardens. The animal is unnerved by the vicious wind, its cries haunting the night, as Andrew desperately tries to get it under control. We begin to run towards him, but before we can reach him, he has steadied his mount and fled, hooves spraying stones up from the ground behind it.

'Quick!' I shout, gesturing to another horse tethered close-by. Daniel grabs the reins, doing his best to calm the horse before wedging his foot in the stirrup and climbing up into the saddle, pulling me up behind him. I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, locking my fingers together and with a snap of the reins, he urges the horse in pursuit of Captain Hawkstone.

At the fork, the Captain has taken the right turn, heading not towards town, but in the direction of Wilderhope and Wenlock Edge. The road here is a patchwork of bumpy earth and hollows, where the rainwater pools thick and black like oil. The horse races along the lane, strong and true, despite the mordacious wind and the way the trees seem to fold in on either side, drowning us in shadow.

'There!' Daniel shouts above the howl. 'We're gaining on him.'

Up ahead, Andrew is at the bend, his heels kicking at his steed, urging the poor animal to go faster. Daniel presses on, turning us into Blakeway Hollow, a narrow sunken packhorse route which leads all the way to Shrewsbury itself, but it is not towards Shrewsbury which Andrew heads, but instead veers left into the woodland. 

'Where on Earth is he going?' I cry out in Daniel's ear, shrieking as the low tree branches whip cruelly at our heads.

We are less exposed to the weather under the cover of the woods, a temporary reprieve it seems because it is not long before Andrew takes a sharp left into the field, heading towards the track that follows the narrow ridge running alongside the steep, wooded scarp slope of Wenlock Edge.

The Captain's horse struggles to navigate the treacherous path, and we gain some, until we cannot be much more than twenty yards behind. I am drenched through now, and practically breathless as the thrill and fear of the chase accelerates my heartbeats until my pulse roars in my head, almost as loud as the wind. 

Hearing our horse's hooves above the roar, Andrew glances back, his eyes wide as he spurs on his mount, the horse wildly galloping along the ridge. His hair is plastered to his head. The velocity of his escape and the gale lifts his coat behind him, making it look like he glides on black wings.

'We can't keep this pace!' Daniel warns. 'The horse is exhausted!'

Sadly, I can feel he is right, for the horse's pace is waning, and the distance between us and Andrew grows once more. He looks back again, and I swear I can see the mad monster grinning, even as the rain increases its efforts against us all.

'Oh, my goodness,' I say suddenly. 'Look! Up ahead! We have a chance!'

We surely do now, for up ahead, the pathway is blocked where the downpour has loosened the soft earth and an evergreen has tumbled over the track, the treetop overhanging the edge of the escarpment.

Instead of pulling up on the reins, however, the Captain just digs his heels in again, pushing the horse onwards even harder. Closer and closer he gets to the blockade, until just when we think he is going to hit it, he tugs sharply on the straps, aiming towards an open viewpoint on the edge of the ridge.

Through the break in the trees, I can see the Long Mynd in the distance, and Caer Caradoc, behind which sits the town of Church Stretton – my home. My home which will no doubt never feel quite like it did ever again, but it is the sight of the Mynd and the Caer that prompt me to remember exactly where we are.

Major's Leap.

The place where the Royalist Major, pursued by Roundhead soldiers, drove his horse over the edge, plunging them both into the steep drop below. I know then just what Andrew intends.

'He means to jump!' I cry out.

'Nay, he can't! He'll never make it!'

Daniel shakes his head, but sure enough, my prediction comes true, and we watch, in horror, as – with one final triumphant glance back – Captain Andrew Hawkstone runs his horse off the edge of the edge of the Leap. The horse screams as they fall, rearing up as if it hopes to stop their descent, but it is too late and the poor creature and the beast which commands it, both tumble into the dark abyss of Wenlock Edge.

Nearing the Leap, Daniel pulls hard on the reins, and the horse halts, steam rising from its flank. We slip from the saddle and keeping a tight hold so that it does not bolt, Daniel leads us as close as he dares and we peer over the edge, straining to see if anything moves in the sharp drop below.

Nothing moves except for the tree branches whipping violently around as the harsh elements batter the escarpment.

'He must have known...' Daniel says, after a while, his eyes scanning the shadows. His voice is steeped in disbelief and shock. 'Surely, he must have realised it was certain death to jump?'

I step back, afeared to be so close, whether that be from the sheer drop or the fear of something reaching out of the darkness and grabbing at my ankle, I am not certain.

The storm here is so violent and fierce, that it knocks the breath from my mouth, and I wrap my arms around Daniel, needing what little warmth we can leech from each other's bodies. He holds me to his chest, both of us shivering, until I think I can hear our bones shake.

'It is said the Major survived the leap,' I say, my voice numb with shock. 'Just hours after the Roundheads watched him plunge to his death, the King's Army attacked Cromwell's soldiers at Wilderhope. Captain Hawkstone would have known that. He grew up with the same stories as we all did. William would tease me mercilessly about the Major's ghost coming back here to haunt Wilderhope and the pathways of Wenlock Edge.'

Daniel says nothing for a moment and continues to stare out into the wild darkness below.

'Well, then let's hope another ghost lingers here now.'

'Do you think he truly is dead?' I say.

'Aye,' he says. 'Aye, I think so. A man with no respect for death, has no fear for it, and if you have no fear for it, you can't even begin to fathom the power death wields.' He presses his lips against my forehead. 'And if by some cruel twist of fate, he is not dead, then I will spend a lifetime searching for him to keep him from your door.'

Turning to me, he tilts my head to look at him, entwining his fingertips in my hair as his thumb gently brushes against my cheek.

'Tell me something, Miss Elmes. Do you wish you had heeded your mother's warning, all those years ago? Do you wish you had never set eyes upon me? For if you hadn't, then the Sin-Eater's Curse might never have befallen you and this darkness might never have been yours to contend with.'

I purse my lips, pondering. 'Well, I must admit, it was not until she passed that I realised Mama was right about a great many things.'

Daniel frowns, a deep line marring that beautiful forehead.

Because he is beautiful. Beautiful and gallant and scarred and strong, and everything a noble man, far above Daniel's standing, wishes he could be.

'But, to not ever look upon you?' I say, touching my fingertip gingerly to his wounded face. 'To not see the face I think about from the moment I open my eyes at daybreak to the moment I close them to dream? I would rather face a thousand necromancers than be blind to your presence, Mr. Carver.'

'A thousand necromancers?' He raises his brow, amusement dancing on the curve of his lips. 'Now that would be some adventure, would it not? You wouldn't mind if I rest a while before we do that?'

I laugh as he presses his mouth against mine, before I pull back, mock-gasping.

'Mr. Carver! You dare to kiss me in public where anyone could see us?'

Daniel looks out over the dark abyss of Major's Leap, his gaze drifting to the Long Mynd and Caer Craedoc in the distance. Something flickers in his gaze, something I cannot quite read, but he smiles to banish his thoughts and turns back to me, pulling me closer.

'There is no one here, Miss Elmes. No one and nothing but us, this horse... and the ghosts.'

'Oh well, apparently this lady is not frightened of ghosts, so in that case, I think you should just kiss me again.'

He does just that and instantly I push aside my doubts about that strange look in his eyes as I lose myself in the heat of his embrace. The Curse of the Sin-Eater might be steeped in icy darkness, but this man is like sunshine on my skin and warmth on my tongue. Whatever it is that troubles him still, I will discover it in time, for time is what we now have the fortune to possess.

The hand on the clock may lag a little for all I care, for however time chooses to pass, I know I will enjoy deciphering the mystery that is Mr. Daniel Carver and all that he is, very much indeed.