CHAPTER 61

DEAD AWAY

Sara moaned in her sleep and tried to get up. She managed to raise herself onto her elbows, but then hung there, exhausted, staring at the guttering fire at the end of her bed. Then she dropped back into the pillows and stared at the shapes and shadows the flames were casting across the ceiling, exhausted by the effort.

“Thought I heard music,” she muttered.

A hand reached out from the chair and patted her hand reassuringly.

“Mr Sharp?” she said, tilting her head towards the figure sitting patiently in the dark.

It was Emmet.

She stared at him, her face slack against the pillow. And then a growing horror began to widen her eyes.

“What has he done?”

Emmet pointed at her dressing table.

“What?” she said, voice catching. “Emmet! What has he done?”

Emmet got to his feet and crossed to the table. He tapped the mirror.

Cook heard the frenzied jangling and looked up to the bell-board on reflex although she was already on her feet, knowing it was the bell from Sara’s room that had roused her from her doze.

She burst out of the door and took the stairs three at a time, like a girl half her age and size. She opened the door to see Sara sitting bolt upright in her bed, staring at Emmet in horror.

“What—?” began Cook.

“What is Emmet trying to say?” said Sara.

Emmet tapped the mirror helpfully.

“What has happened to Mr Sharp?”

Cook scowled at Emmet.

“You talk too much,” she said.

“WHAT?” said Sara.

Cook came and sat on the bed. She took Sara’s hand.

“He’s gone to look for your hand.”

Sara shook her head, first slower, then faster,

“No,” she said. “No no no no no NO!”

Cook tried to stop her but she shrugged out of her grip and threw herself on her side, nose to the wall.

“Not into the mirrors,” she said in a voice that was so small that Cook could have been sitting beside a ten-year-old Sara.

“Was no stopping him,” she said.

Sara began to bang her head slowly on the wall.

“No, Sara,” said Cook, holding her back. “That won’t help. That won’t—”

Sara pushed her violently away and carried on banging.

“No,” she said as she carried on banging her head. “No. No. No.”

Emmet stepped over Cook’s shoulder and gently but firmly held her head still. Then he reached a hand back to help Cook to her feet.

Cook pulled herself upright with difficulty and looked at him.

“Sometimes I think Mr Sharp might have been right about you,” she puffed. “Keep her still if you can. I shall go and get something to help her sleep.”

Emmet might have nodded. The movement, if movement there was, was so slight as to be almost unnoticeable. His attention was focused on Sara, who lay there, eyes screwed shut, tears leaking from them, face twisted in mute despair.

Cook looked back from the door. Sara’s back curved away towards the wall, face hidden, Emmet hanging over her like a flying buttress, a single candle barely piercing the darkness sending his shadow ominously arching across the ceiling.

This is it, she thought. This is what the end looks like.