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

get the footmen to leave the doors propped open. Opening them would take up valuable time.

Charles appeared out of the crowd carrying a plate of tarts. He pushed them into her hands.

‘I smuggled these out of the kitchens for you. You look terribly pale. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go home?’

Eleanor nodded and picked up an apricot tart. It was too sweet, and the pastry crumbled like ash in her mouth. She ate it anyway. She’d need her strength.

‘Will you join me for a dance?’ Charles asked.

Eleanor glanced at the clock. Nineteen minutes to midnight. She might have enough time, but she needed to be ready.

‘I’d rather sit here a little longer. Don’t you want to enjoy the spoils of war?’

She held out the plate. Charles took a tart, grinning guiltily. ‘This would be my third, I’m afraid. Oh, Ponsonby! Leaving so soon?’

A young man with receding hair was heading for the doors. Charles strode over and the two of them went into the hall, talking together. Eleanor watched them go, mechanically eating another tart. The young man’s carriage was already waiting outside.

He climbed inside and Charles waved him off from the steps. The driver snapped his whip and suddenly, the horse bolted. The carriage careened forward, the horse’s lips white with foam, and the screaming was—

Charles came back inside. ‘I do apologize, Eleanor. Ponsonby is a dear – good Lord. Are you all right?’

Eleanor glanced back at the window. The young man’s carriage was trundling off into the night, the horse serene and quiet. There hadn’t been an accident.

‘Perfectly, thank you.’

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Let me get you a glass of something.’

‘Charles, really, I’m—’

He was already gone. Eleanor ate another tart. Sixteen minutes left, and her stomach felt cavernous. Would she be able to run when she’d had nothing but champagne all night?

She reached down for another tart and saw a large red stain on her skirts. At first, she wondered if it was her monthly curse – in front of everyone, on tonight of all nights – but then she tasted turpentine.

Charles came back holding a glass of sherry. He didn’t appear to notice the blood across her skirts. It was the black-eyed woman, toying with her again.

Thirteen minutes to midnight. With shaking hands, Eleanor drained her glass.

Six minutes to midnight.

Champagne crackled down her throat, sherry burned across her tongue. The tarts were sitting in a leaden ball halfway down her chest. Out of the doors, left along the hall, through the front door. Down the right set of steps, along the street until she saw the barriers. Then left, then—

A hand closed over hers. ‘Eleanor?’

She flinched. It was only Charles.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said, gently. ‘I think we ought to say our farewells. Really, my dear, you do not look well.’

Eleanor pressed a hand to her cheek. She felt hot and cold all at once. She’d drunk too much. Would she have time to make herself sick? Would it help?

An empty chair sat across the ballroom. Eleanor knew what was coming next. She blinked, and out of the corner of her eyes saw a dark shape. Blood dripped onto the floor. She could hear it, even over the music and all the passing footsteps.

She wasn’t going to look at it. She knew what she was going to see. White sheets, red blood, or worse, the wound itself, ragged and weeping. Eleanor gave herself a shake. She hadn’t been there, she hadn’t seen what was under that sheet. The black-eyed woman was putting thoughts in her head. She didn’t need to show Eleanor the visions now. Her tendrils were coiled around Eleanor’s mind.

Charles was watching her. His eyes were kind and his touch was gentle. She loved him more than ever, but in this moment he would only get in her way.

‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘Will you give me ten minutes to compose myself?’

He let out a sigh of relief and kissed her hand. ‘Whatever you need, darling. Ten minutes, and then we can put this evening behind us.’

‘Will you make my apologies to Lady Winstanleigh? I don’t think I could face her.’

‘Of course. I shall take care of everything, don’t fret.’

Behind Charles, an old major sat slumped in a chair. His head lolled onto his chest and suddenly his hair was dark, his face was wasted and there was blood pouring all down his white shirt-front. A silver watch chain glistened in his pocket, and as he raised his head to look at her, she saw the dark red line where his throat had been opened.

Eleanor closed her eyes. It wasn’t real. When she opened them again, the major was back in his chair, snoring.

Charles got up. Eleanor didn’t let go of his hand.

She opened her mouth. What would she say? Should she ask him to remember her fondly? Should she warn him not to believe the things he would hear? This could be their last moment together. Or it could be the first moment of a life that was truly hers – free from secrets, free from hunger, free from a pair of flat black eyes that looked into all her thoughts. Where would she be, on the other side of this moment?

She could tell him the truth, or part of it. Lies were easier; she was good at them. She’d hacked his life apart and put the pieces back together in a way that suited her. It was kinder to let him believe that she’d saved him, and that he’d saved her.

If there was one thing she wanted, it was for Charles to remember her with kindness.

‘You know I love you, Charles.’

He smiled. ‘Of course I know. I love you too, Eleanor.’

She let go of his hand and he walked into the crowd.

The clock struck.

Midnight.

Eleanor sprang to her feet and sprinted for the doors. Whispers tugged at her like long grass.

‘Eleanor?’

She skidded into the hall and hurtled towards the front doors. Closed. A footman stumbled into the