Delaney whipped her head around.
Genevieve was lying on the other side of the cabin. She was pinned. A piece of the carriage door—a sharp, jagged plank of wood—had shattered inward.
It had impaled her leg, pinning her to the wreckage. The blood was dark and flowing fast, pooling on the velvet cushions.
Delaney gasped. She rushed to her mother’s side.
"Mama!" Delaney sobbed. "Mama, you’re hurt!"
Genevieve’s face was gray. Her breathing was shallow and ragged, a wet rasping sound. She looked at Delaney, her eyes struggling to focus.
"Don’t worry, Mama," Delaney said frantically. She grabbed her mother’s hand. "I’ll find help. I’ll find help for you and Papa."
She looked at the door above them. It was broken, hanging by one hinge.
Delaney stood on a suitcase. She pushed the door open.
The rain beat her instantly. It was freezing.
"Help!" Delaney scread into the night. Her voice was tiny against the roar of the wind.
"Soone please help us!"
There was no answer. Just the thunder.
She climbed halfway out. She reached down.
"Give your hand, Mama," Delaney cried. "I will pull you out."
She grabbed her mother’s hand to drag her out of the carriage. She pulled with all her seven-year-old strength.
Genevieve gasped in pain. "Ahhh!"
"No," Genevieve whispered. She squeezed Delaney’s hand weakly. "No. I’m fine here."
She knew she wasn’t fine. She knew the wood had hit an artery. She could feel the cold creeping up her legs, numbing the pain.
She looked at her daughter. Her beautiful, brave little girl.
Genevieve reached up. Her hand, stained with her own blood, caressed Delaney’s face. She sared a streak of red on Delaney’s pale cheek.
Genevieve spoke, crying soft, silent tears. "Je suis désolé ma fille." ( I’m sorry, my daughter.)
"Mama, get up!" Delaney begged.
"S’il te plaît, pardonne-moi de t’avoir laissé derrière" (Please forgive for leaving you behind.) Genevieve whispered. Her eyes were drifting shut. "Je t’ai. Sois courageux, Delaney. Sois courageux." (I love you. Be brave, Delaney. Be brave.)
"Mama?" Delaney asked.
Genevieve took one last, shuddering breath.
And her hand went limp. It slipped from Delaney’s cheek and fell onto the floor of the carriage.
Delaney froze.
She stared at her mother. She stared at her father.
"Mama!" Delaney scread. "Papa! Please help us!"
But there was no reply.
Delaney climbed out of the wreckage. She fell into the mud.
The slope was steep. It was a wall of slick, wet earth.
She tried to climb. She dug her fingernails into the mud. She pulled herself up a few feet. She slip.
The rain and mud sent her sliding back down. She hit the carriage with a thud.
She tried again. She clawed at the grass. She kicked her feet. She slipped again.
She slid down again. She was dirty and bloody. Her dress was torn. Her back was burning with pain.
She sat down near the carriage. She realized she couldn’t get out. She was trapped in the ravine with the dead.
The rain poured down. It washed the blood off her face. It washed the tears from her cheeks. It soaked her to the bone, making her teeth chatter violently.
She sat there. She looked through the broken window at her parents.
They looked like they were sleeping. If not for the blood, and the angle of Arthur’s neck, they could have been resting.
Delaney stayed for hours.
She climbed back inside the broken carriage to escape the wind. She sat between their bodies. She held Arthur’s cold hand in her left hand. She held Genevieve’s limp hand in her right hand.
She waited.
She waited for her papa to wake up and tell her it was a joke. She waited for the promise to be kept.
But the only thing that kept her company was the cold.
Eventually, the rain stopped. The gray light of dawn began to creep into the ravine.
Voices.
"Down here! I see the tracks!"
"Good God, look at the wreckage!"
The authorities ca. n in uniforms with lanterns and ropes climbed down the slope.
They found the carriage. They found the driver dead against the tree.
And they found the little girl holding hands with corpses.
"Easy, little one," a man said, reaching for her.
Delaney didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She was shivering, but it wasn’t just from the cold. All the life had drained out of her hazel eyes. She looked like a doll that had been broken and put back together wrong.
She had stopped crying hours ago. She had run out of tears.
Her uncle ca to carry her.
Baron Kingsley’s brother. He was a tall man, but he didn’t have Arthur’s warm eyes. He climbed down the slope, his boots sinking in the mud.
"Arthur?" the uncle asked the constable.
The constable shook his head grimly. "Both dead, sir. Only the girl made it."
The uncle looked at Delaney. He didn’t hug her. He picked her up awkwardly, holding her away from his coat so her muddy dress wouldn’t stain him.
He carried her up the slope.
Delaney looked up. She saw the grey sky. It looked empty. God wasn’t there.
They reached the top of the road. A new carriage was waiting.
Her uncle set her down on the bench of the carriage, wrapping a blanket around her.
"Delaney," her uncle asked, looking at her with a strange intensity. "Are you alright? Did your father... did he give you anything? A paper? A letter?"
Delaney looked at him.
"I am fine," she was about to say.
She opened her mouth. She ford the words.
But no sound ca out.
She tried to force the air through her throat. She tried to scream. She tried to whisper.
Nothing.
The trauma had clamped a hand around her voice box and crushed it. She had scread for help in the rain for hours, and now, the silence had claid her.
She tried to speak, to answer, but couldn’t. Her mouth moved, but she was a ghost.
She felt weak and feverish. The world began to spin. Black spots danced in her vision.
She fell forward.
Her uncle caught her.
"She’s in shock," the constable said nearby.
Just then, another carriage pulled up. A man stepped out.
He walked with an elegant cane, though he moved with the grace of a predator. He wore a fine black coat and a hat pulled low over his eyes.
Lord Hawksley appeared behind Delaney’s uncle.
He looked down at the unconscious girl, then at the uncle. He didn’t look sad. He looked calculating.
Delaney’s eyes were fluttering shut. The darkness was coming to take her, to give her peace.
But before her eyes were closed, she heard them.
"Is he dead?" Hawksley asked. His voice was smooth, like gravel in honey.
"Yes," the uncle replied.
"And the evidence?"
"Lost in the wreckage, surely or destroyed by the rain."
Hawksley placed a hand on the uncle’s shoulder.
"The Oakridge estate is ours," Hawksley said. "And the townhos. We will divide the assets as discussed."
"And the girl?" the uncle asked.
"She is your niece, right," Hawksley dismissed. "Handle her yourself."
Delaney heard it. She heard them carving up her father’s life before his body was even cold.
Oakridge. Property. Assets.
She wanted to scream.
But the darkness swallowed her whole, and Delaney Kingsley fell into a mory loop that would last for a long ti.
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