The acrid smoke burned her lungs and stung her nose, but Millie kept running. Her muscles screamed with every stride, but she pushed herself forward. She was almost there. Her house was in sight now. She could see the yellow door, and Olivia on the step waiting for her. Her sister Olivia was yelling for her to hurry while bombs and planes screamed overhead.

She was so close, so close...

There wasn't much time. Every second counted. Just a little further...

Her foot caught a crack in the sidewalk, and she went down hard. As she fell, she felt her ankle give a sickening crack. The wind had been knocked out of her, but she couldn't waste a second to recover. She tried to get up, to keep moving... but agony shot through her leg as she tried to put weight on it. Her ankle was sprained, or worse. It couldn't carry her.

She was doomed.

"MILLIE!"

Millie looked up to see her sister leap off their doorstep.

"Olivia, no! What are you doing?" Millie cried as her sister ran towards her. "Don't worry about me! You have to hurry, you have to get to shelter! We'll never make it if you're dragging me behind you..."

Olivia ignored her. As she reached her side, she looped Millie's arm around her neck and heaved her to her feet.

"And what, you think I'm just going to leave you here?" she said as she smiled her perfect smile, all red lipstick and pearly white teeth. "You're my sister, Millie. I'll never leave you."

Despite the madness all around them, Millie felt safe. She smiled back and tightened her grip on Olivia. She could face anything the war threw at them with her sister by her side.

The bomb landed with a boom and engulfed them both.

Millie's head was pounding when she finally awoke. The surface at her back was cool, and she rolled over to press her aching forehead to it. She wished she could sink into it, let the cold stone embrace her and lull her back into sleep. Her hands roamed its surface, trying to find a hold to push her up. They ran over the undulating ridges of the stone, the divots and grit between each one, before touching upon on a sharper edge, a deeper crevice...

Something that had been carved into the stone floor.

Her eyes snapped open as everything came flooding back. She pushed herself up to her elbows, her wandering fingers now probing at the tender spots of her face. There was a particularly painful spot on her forehead, surrounded by some residue that flaked away under her fingertips. Blood. Though it felt as though it had been long enough that the wound had scabbed over.

It took great effort to raise her head, and it didn't do much good. The room was too dark to see much of anything. There were small, narrow windows at the top of the wall, but their view was only the navy night against the black of the room. She didn't need light to know where she was.

This was the room beneath the chapel.

The same place from the photo...

She felt the lack of the photos, her shoulders sagging in defeat. They had surely been confiscated in the aftermath. Those photos had been her one hope, the only proof of the nefarious scheme was happening at Wickford.

Now she had nothing. Now she'd be lucky just to make it out of here alive.

Her hands returned to the stone beneath her, fanning out in a circle, trying to make sense of the space. Against the natural shape of the stones were those deep, ridged lines, and they came together in a clearly defined pattern. The pieces of them fit together in a perfect weave, bound together like they were elaborate braids and knots. She let her fingers follow the line, as it spread wide across the room—

Her hand hit on something soft, wrapped in a heavy tweed fabric. She went still and drew her hand back, waiting for some sort of reaction. When it didn't come, she reached out and took hold of it, feeling out its shape.

It was... a leg.

Matthew? she wondered. She leaned closer.

She couldn't see him, but she could tell it was him by the smell—that familiar smell of wood smoke, leather, and burnt matches. Something cold twisted in her stomach as she thought of their previous encounter, how quickly his demeanour had changed, how he'd charged at her, demanding she 'remember'...

Remember what?

She debated backing away and leaving him there but hesitated. Now she was imprisoned in this dark room, her options were limited. Each one weighed heavily on her mind. It was not an easy choice, to choose between waiting for whatever Sister Marion and the Order of St Bride had planned for her, and relying on Matthew, unhinged though he was. At least Matthew had attempted to help her, to get her free of this place, before he had gone mad. Whatever he wanted her to 'remember' was still lost on her, but perhaps she could play along with his delusions if it meant he'd help her again.

"Matthew?" Millie whispered in the darkness.

No response.

She gripped his leg tighter and gave it a shake.

He didn't move.

Millie swallowed and stirred her courage before moving closer. She crawled alongside him, brushing along the edge of his body to follow its shape. He was on his side, his back to her. She found his arm and grabbed his hand. It felt cold and rubbery. She squeezed it.

"Matthew!" she hissed.

Still, he didn't move.

Millie moved closer, letting go of his hand and letting her fingers trail up his arm until they found his face. She cupped his cheek. It felt grimy and... wet.

"Matthew?" Millie breathed.

Footsteps echoing over the stone pulled Millie's attention away. There was a warm light flickering in the corner of the room, coming from a small arch that led to a set of curving stairs. The light grew brighter as it came closer, shimmering over the dank stone walls.

Sister Marion appeared on the steps, carrying a large oil lantern in her one hand and the long staff in the other, its curled head still stained with blood. She paused at the threshold as she spied Millie hovering over Matthew, then turned back to the stairs.

"She's awake," Sister Marion announced, her voice carrying up the stairwell.

Then she marched into the room and swung the lantern wide, letting its light flood the room.

Millie recoiled from the old woman's hostile stare. They were running out of time. She gripped Matthew's shoulder, shaking it in desperation. This might be their last chance. If only he would wake up...

"Matthew. Matthew! Matthew, you have to wake up—"

With one last hard yank at his shoulder, Matthew flopped back into her lap.

Millie froze.

His once handsome face had been irrevocably marred. Where his left eye had once been, now was just a red, cavernous dent, its socket crushed to a pulp. No man could survive such a wound.

Matthew was dead.

A scream ripped up Millie's throat.