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

wondered which one of them was the police cart, come to take Mrs Cleary away.

Someone forced a hot mug into her hands. She wasn’t quick enough; it spilled all down her skirts. A tawny stain seeped across her legs. Brandy. The smell made her stomach lurch. She’d been given the same drink after she’d found Lizzie. How alike the two days were, Eleanor thought. Her dress was even damp, now, as it had been on the morning after Lizzie had been drowned.

The constable squatted in front of her.

‘Think back, miss.’

What did he want her to remember? There were so many gaps. The feel of cobbles under her boots, the fingerprint bruises on her arms, the press and noise of the crowd – these things were real. She could still feel every line of the cobblestones on her bruised feet, still smell the hot, close mix of sweat and drying blood. But could she give him the date that she had last seen Mrs Cleary alive? She couldn’t remember.

‘When did you last—’

The black-eyed woman.

She’d killed Mrs Cleary. She had done it.

It wasn’t fair. Eleanor had worked out how to solve two problems with one wish, so the black-eyed woman had killed Mrs Cleary to spite her, and let her see the body. This teeming, stinking city was filled with people. Why couldn’t she have chosen someone else?

Eleanor put her head in her hands.

‘Miss?’

When would it ever stop? She’d thought that facing death would become easier as she got older. Instead, it was like returning to a vast ocean, at a different place every time. No matter how often she saw it, she would never understand its depths. All she could do was stand on the shore and scream.

She wanted them back. She wanted them all back; not just Mrs Cleary, but all the people at the accident, even Lizzie. Mrs Pembroke. Her mother. She would have waded into the water and pulled them all out, one by one, if it had only been that simple.

‘Sarge, could you …’

‘Miss? Come now, miss, listen to me …’

Something aged her every time she saw another body, but she still felt like a child. She wanted Charles to come back and find her, she wanted the policemen to stand guard outside her door; she wanted open skies, empty fields, to shout and scream where no one could hear her. Cold, hot, old, young, lonely and desperate to be alone. She was untethered. Bobbing aimlessly in dark waters, where the creature that wore the black-eyed woman’s face was stirring beneath her.

The sergeant crouched in front of her and took her hands. A row of silver buttons sparkled down his chest, winking like shined shillings. Her father had had buttons like that, once. He’d let her play with them when they’d fallen off his jacket.

‘Now, miss, I know you’re upset, but we do need to talk to you. Is there someone who could come and calm you down?’

Her eyes were hot with tears. ‘I want Papa.’

‘Now that’s better. Constable, run and fetch the young lady’s father. Miss, could you give us his address?’

‘He’s dead,’ she sobbed, ‘he’s dead.’

Eventually, Eleanor told the police about her last dinner with Mrs Cleary, leaving out the details of their estrangement. She wanted her last memories of her to be happy.

For once, Bessie had acted like a proper maid and put Eleanor to bed, dosing her with Godfrey’s cordial as if she were a baby. The sickly-sweet syrup, heavy with laudanum, had sent Eleanor dreams full of claws, hacking and slashing and tearing, and she had awoken in a cold sweat.

Dressing and coming downstairs had made her feel better, even though she still ached. Eleanor went through her letters in the drawing room. When she found a thick, creamy envelope her busy hands stilled.

The paper was thick and weighty. She could feel the delicate warp and weft beneath her fingers. A legal address was written on the back flap. Condolences came on black-edged paper. The workhouses could never afford paper like this. The realization sank through her, dragging her down. There was only one thing it could be. For a moment, the black-eyed woman’s face wavered in her inkwell. It was, as ever, smiling.

She opened the letter.

Miss Hartley, she read, it is my duty to inform you that you are the sole beneficiary of the estate of Mrs Flora Cleary. Please find enclosed a full list of property and accounts, which will pass to you as heir to the estate …

She pulled out another wad of paper. It fluttered as she read.

Mrs Cleary had left her everything. Property in London, Manchester and Liverpool. A stake in her husband’s old shipping business. Deeds, stocks, bonds, shares. She could travel the world with money like that, and, unbidden, the words of the wish came back to her.

Tears stung the corners of Eleanor’s eyes. This was her salvation – and not just hers. She could find Leah, she could rescue Aoife, she could marry Charles. It had been a high price to pay – Mrs Cleary had been her only friend – but now there were no more obstacles in her way.

She read the letter again, to make sure.

… which will pass to you as heir to the estate. Owing to your tender years, the estate shall be held in trust until your marriage or until you reach the age of twenty-one; until such time it shall be administered by your legal guardian, Mr Frederick Pembroke …

The paper crumpled under Eleanor’s hands.

No. He had to be dead! She’d wished for money, and it couldn’t be hers until Mr Pembroke was out of the way. She tore through the pile of letters, looking for something with a black border. Bills, a reply from the workhouse, a sympathetic note from the reverend – nothing bringing news of Mr Pembroke’s death.

Eleanor stormed upstairs and slammed her bedroom door behind her.

‘I need to talk to you.’

The black-eyed woman did not appear from the shadows this time. Eleanor blinked and