The Shadow in the Glass by JJA Harwood (any book recommendations txt) 📕

teeth clearly in the light of the ballroom. Rows and rows of them, bone-yellow and thin as needles.

‘I believe you know what will happen then.’ She held out her hand. ‘Do we have a deal?’

Without hesitation, Eleanor shook her hand. The black-eyed woman vanished.

Church bells rang in the distance. Eleanor whirled around. Was it midnight? No – the bells were chiming the quarter hour, she still had time. She’d head inside and position herself by the ballroom doors. That would give her the best start when the first bell tolled. Then along the hall, down the front steps, along the street until the third turning on the left, past the barriers and down the road to the old churchyard. Would it still count as holy ground if it had been dug up? It had to.

‘There you are!’

Charles was striding across the courtyard, fury scrawled across his face. He faltered when he saw her.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘A quarter past eleven. Oh, darling. Have you been crying?’

Eleanor’s hand flew to her face. ‘Is it obvious?’

Charles took her hands and they sat down on the edge of the fountain. ‘Why are you hiding out here in the dark? You should’ve come straight to me.’

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t – you know what happened, then?’

He handed her a handkerchief, the muscle in his jaw twitching again. ‘Yes. I confess I lost my temper when I found out. But don’t fret. Lady Winstanleigh has asked him to leave; we shan’t be seeing him again.’

Eleanor crumpled the handkerchief into a ball. ‘You don’t … you don’t believe—’

‘Of course not! How could you even ask such a thing?’

Moonlight sharpened the lines on his face and turned his hair to silver. A lump swelled in Eleanor’s throat. Was this how he would look in twenty, thirty years? Even now, he did not look like his father. Would she live long enough to see his features shift, until a dead man was staring back at her?

‘We can leave, if you feel that would be best,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I … I’m sorry. You were so looking forward to tonight and I’ve completely disgraced you …’

Eleanor burst into tears. She buried her face in his handkerchief and sobbed. He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder.

‘Eleanor …’

She wished she had more time. She wished she’d been able to tell him the truth and know that he would accept it. She wished she’d never made the deal, never been to Granborough House, never remembered the foot of the iron bed when she woke, sweating, in the dead of night. But wishing would not save her. It never had.

Charles pulled her close. ‘Hush now, darling. I shall make it right, you’ll see.’

There was a part of her she was too afraid to touch, because its walls were eggshell-thin. Now, she could feel the cracks. Perhaps the black-eyed woman forced them open. Perhaps they’d always been there. Either way, Eleanor was terrified of what dark and nebulous thing would come slithering out.

She pulled off her gloves and pressed the heels of her hands under her eyes. It was going to be all right. All she had to do was survive the next forty-five minutes.

Charles still had his arm around her waist. ‘Let me take you home, Eleanor. You’ve had a shock; you need your rest.’

She blew her nose and dabbed cold water under her eyes. ‘No. No, I … I don’t want them to say the Inspector chased me away.’

‘You’re sure?’

She nodded, and pinched some colour into her cheeks. ‘Does it show?’

‘Only a little. Stay out here for a moment longer. The cool air will do you good.’

She leant forward and kissed him. When midnight came, she wanted to feel his kiss still on her lips.

Eleanor sat on a chaise longue in the ballroom, right beside the doors. Thirty-three minutes to midnight. The ballroom was beginning to empty. Those that were left were slumped in their chairs, dozing, or still whirling across the dance floor, cheeks too flushed and eyes too bright.

She drummed her heels against the floor and stared out of the window. Sodium-yellow streetlamps burned like fireflies suspended in amber. She could just make out the shape of the barriers blocking the road to the old churchyard. There was a flash of yellow out of the corner of her eye; she ignored it.

It wouldn’t take her long. Out of the ballroom doors, turn left in the hall and head for the front doors. Then down the stairs – would it be quicker if she vaulted straight over them? No, she didn’t want to risk a broken ankle. So, down the steps – the right set was closer – and then onto the street. Along for a good few yards, and then the third turning on the left, where the smell would be strongest. Over the barriers, and then—

A white shape moved outside the window.

Eleanor leant forward. Was it her reflection? No. This thing, whatever it was, was moving. She tried to put it out of her mind. It was probably just a child, or some drunk hoping to cadge scraps from the kitchen staff. Over the barriers, and then—

It lifted its head.

It was Lizzie. Her frizzy hair tangled. Thin face bloated and grey, lips blue. Hands still twisted up like snarled roots, and water dripping from her mouth.

Eleanor jerked backwards, gasping. It couldn’t be her. Lizzie was dead! Eleanor had seen her herself, face-down in the water and struggling. Struggling? No, she hadn’t been struggling, she’d been dead, and Eleanor hadn’t seen her hands freeze halfway through their scrabbling. She was imagining things. No. It was the black-eyed woman, putting thoughts in her head to try and frighten her away.

Eleanor looked back. Lizzie was gone. Eleanor remembered the flash of yellow and thought of the little canary, shuddering.

Twenty-nine minutes to midnight.

Twenty-one minutes to midnight. Eleanor sat ramrod-straight on the chaise longue, digging her toes deeper into her satin slippers. She’d complained of the heat to