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

holding a knife to Mr Pembroke’s throat, watching the fear in his eyes, and every part of her shrank from the thought. She couldn’t do it. He’d already made her into so many things she didn’t want to be: a housemaid, a disgrace, a blackmailer, a keeper of shameful secrets. She would not let him add murderess to that list.

But it wasn’t as if she would be killing someone. The black-eyed woman did that, and she knew that Eleanor did not want her to. Eleanor only made the wishes because she had to. And she wasn’t even wishing for Mr Pembroke’s death, not really. She was only wishing for money, and thousands of people made that wish every day. She wasn’t asking the black-eyed woman to kill Mr Pembroke – that would simply be an unfortunate by-product of the wish.

It was not her fault.

‘I wish to have enough money to see the things I dreamed of and keep those I care for from harm.’

Dust hung in the air. Blood rushed in her ears; her own breathing was all she could hear. Something else was listening.

Eleanor woke up in her own bed. Her feet hurt. Her arms hurt. In fact, everything hurt. She heaved herself upright and felt immediately sick.

There was blood on her bedsheets.

Her hands shook, just as they did every time she awoke to find her bleed had come in the night. An old fear crept through her thoughts, and she hated herself for it. She was seventeen, she was old enough to know better. But every time she saw it she remembered the bitter sick-room smell, saw her mother pale as the sheets around her, blood bubbling up from between her lips and oozing down her chin …

Eleanor ripped off the covers. The bottoms of her feet were scratched and bloodied. Eleanor was surprised. Had she gone out last night? She must have done. There were bruises, too; purple marks across her arms and abdomen. Had she been fighting? She checked her face in the mirror. It looked pale, but unharmed. Her hands were fine, and her hair was tangled, but hadn’t been pulled. She must have gone out for some night air and stumbled into something.

She cleaned the cuts and covered the bloodstains before asking Bessie to help her dress for church. There was no need for Bessie to know what had happened. Eleanor tried to remember, and came up with nothing. The last thing she remembered was making the wish.

She went downstairs and checked her letters. No enormous postal order that would solve all her problems. No black-bordered letter informing her of the tragic death of her guardian. But then, it was Sunday. Perhaps she wouldn’t find out how Mr Pembroke had died until tomorrow, when the post came. How long would it take for the wish to come true? She put on her hat and shawl and tried not to think about how Charles would take the news of his father’s death. A ripple of guilt spread through her just thinking about it.

There was the shriek of a police whistle.

She stopped. Through the window Eleanor could see people running. She drifted closer, and heard screams. Across the street, the black-eyed woman stood perfectly still, smiling. No one else saw her.

Eleanor went to look.

The street was full of running people: tartan-clad churchgoers, children clutching nursemaids’ hands, workmen with caps in hands. Horses stamped and snorted, their eyes rolling. Eleanor followed the sound of the screaming.

It was coming from Mrs Cleary’s house.

There was a crowd clustered about the gates. A housemaid was hunched away from them, throwing up at the foot of the wrought-iron gates. A man with thick, dark whiskers tried to propel Eleanor back. ‘Best go home, miss.’

She shook him off. He grabbed her and now she could see the policemen, filing out of the house, holding up shaking servants. Eleanor caught a glimpse of Miss Hill, her face ashen.

Eleanor yanked her arm away. ‘Let me through!’

‘For God’s sake, miss, come away—’

She pushed forward. Someone caught her around the waist and tried to turn her back; she pushed him off. A hand closed around her arm. Another came down on her shoulder. She pulled away and stumbled forward. Mrs Cleary’s house was bone-white in the morning light.

‘Miss!’

Her cheeks were wet. Had a burglar been in the night? No. It was worse than that. She could feel it in every hand pushing her back, see it in every pair of hollow eyes. Then, the smell hit her. Blood. Reeking waves of it rolled over the crowd, forcing its way into her throat. Worse, there was something horribly sweet beneath it. Dread swelled around her. She knew that smell, had known it since she was nine years old.

She burst through the crowd, bruised and aching. The house loomed up ahead of her. She already knew what she would find inside. Grey faces, policemen, that smell – but it couldn’t be true. Any minute now Mrs Cleary would emerge from the shadowy hallway, ushering her inside, forgiven. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

A policeman stepped forward. ‘Go home now, miss.’

Through the open doorway, she saw the big, dark stain on the hall floor. Her stomach lurched.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, no, it can’t be true …’

A pair of hands came to rest on her shoulders. A man’s voice came from a long way off. At the other end of the darkened hall, a door opened. A policeman shuffled out, carrying one end of a large bundle, wrapped in cloth. The fabric was stained red.

The black-eyed woman flickered in and out of focus. Each time she appeared, her smile grew wider.

‘Come away now, miss. Don’t look.’

She had already seen.

Swaddled in her quilt, Eleanor sat in her drawing room and tried to listen to the police constable. There were footsteps in the hall, squeaking floorboards as policemen paced, creaking doors as Bessie cracked them open. People tapped on her windows, newspaper boys yelled in the street, carts rumbled past. Eleanor