Chapter Text
Cold. Cold like an icicle in her chest, arresting the action of her heart and lungs. Cold seeping into her skin through sodden clothing, delivered by the driving rain. Cold of bare feet in muddy earth, fingers and toes losing feeling, too long in the elements, soaked through and not at all dressed for the weather. Above all, cold were the rays of moonlight that peered through gaps in the clouds, seeming to wrap her in an icy grip that delivered frost into her very blood and bones. Clara had never imagined it was possible to feel so cold.
Shivering uncontrollably, Clara took one shaky step. Then another. At every movement, she thought her legs would surely give out underneath her, but the very cold seemed to brace her, giving her strength.
Her mind felt numb. Thoughts came sluggishly, prying themselves from the mists of her awareness with great difficulty. The pain in her chest was fading— what pain? Why was she hurting?— to be replaced by that creeping cold. She was…hungry, thirsty, tired. And cold, so cold. She had to find…home, that was it. Home was where warmth was, food and family and a place to rest. Her feet seemed to know the way, even if she little recognized her surroundings.
She walked on, all but oblivious to the state she was in.
It seemed an eternity before she saw the lights of home in the distance, and another eternity more before she reached the door. Her feet hurt terribly, at least in the places that hadn’t gone completely numb. Clouds drifted over the moon, and her strength seemed to wane whenever its light was obscured. Now its face was hidden behind the shadow of her family’s estate, and it took every ounce of effort she could muster to raise her hand to the bell.
A maid answered the door. The sight of a living person revived Clara’s spirits immensely; but no sooner had the girl caught sight of Clara than she uttered a piercing shriek and ran back into the house. Clara followed, rather more slowly. She had scarcely enough of her wits about her to be puzzled by the maid’s reaction. Sounds of a disturbance reached her ears; she recognized her brothers’ voices, and her father’s. Hurried footsteps approached, and she paused, shrinking into the shadows without really knowing why.
All at once, her father burst into the room. Years of carefully practiced etiquette deserted her in an instant; in that moment, she was a child again, lost and scared and calling out for—
“Papa!”
He stopped. He stared. His mouth fell open.
“Clara?”
Clara stumbled out into the candlelight, into her father’s arms. He was so warm, his arms so strong and soft, his heartbeat comforting and familiar. She buried her face in his chest, soaking in the sensation of being held. The cold she carried seemed to drain away a little bit.
“You’re alive.” Her father’s voice sounded choked. “My daughter is alive—by the grace of God, a miracle has occurred!”
He pulled out of the embrace, holding her by the arms so he could gaze into her face. His lip wobbled and there were tears in his eyes, but his expression was one of unrestrained joy. She felt her own lips curl into a smile in response—slight, but her father reacted with delight, wrapping her once more in a tight hug.
“Praise the Lord!” he said in a hushed tone. “You came back. Oh, thanks be to He who has returned you to us!”
Her father began to laugh and cry all at once. Clara hugged him back silently, basking in her father’s vivacity and warmth.
Someone cleared their throat next to them. It was the maid.
“Er…perhaps Miss Crofton would like a hot bath and a change of clothes?”
Clara and her father looked up at the maid. Then her father looked down at her, and she saw his face go ashen. She followed his gaze.
She was dressed in white and black and red. No, that wasn’t quite right. Her dress was white, or it had been. Now it was stained black with mud and red with…
Blood, said her pounding heart. Blood, blood, blood.
There was a hole in her bodice, right over her heart, its ragged edges the reddest of all. She picked at the hole. Beneath it, her skin was smooth and unmarked.
“I’d like a bath,” she said softly. “I’m cold.”
The doctor was waiting for Clara when she finally left the bath.
“Miss Crofton,” he said, nodding his head curtly at her. “How do you feel?”
“I am still cold,” she replied. “And I should very much like something to eat.”
“I have asked the servants to bring a tray to your room. Come; with all that you have been through, you ought to be resting.”
“What have I been through?” asked Clara, as Dr. North led her down the hall. “How did I come to be out of doors in such a state?”
“An instance of sleepwalking,” said Dr. North briskly. “It is nothing at all to worry about, except that you may be at risk of catching a chill.”
This didn’t sound at all right to Clara.
“My clothes were all bloody,” she said.
“And are you injured?”
“No,” said Clara. “But I feel as if…I ought to be. Something feels wrong…”
“Nerves,” said the doctor. “Quite to be expected. This contemplation of morbid fancies will only exacerbate it. Your clothes were only very muddy, nothing more.”
“I am sure it was blood,” said Clara.
“Yet you are unhurt.”
“Perhaps it was someone else’s,” Clara pressed.
“That’s quite enough,” said Dr. North. “Miss Crofton, banish all such thoughts from your mind. No good can come of such ghastly ruminations.”
They had reached Clara’s bedroom now. At the doctor’s instruction, she climbed into her bed. He insisted on taking her pulse and temperature before letting her have the tray of supper which had been brought in; he frowned at the results, but did not let on what he was thinking.
While Clara ate, Dr. North questioned her.
“If you can recall it without upset, Miss Crofton, what do you remember of your little…episode?”
Clara pondered this as she mopped gravy from her plate with a piece of bread. The food tasted like ash in her mouth, and made her feel slightly nauseous, but the gnawing hunger inside her propelled her past these sensations.
“It is all very fuzzy,” she said. “I remember walking through the rain. I cannot recall how I came to be walking. I think I was very far from the house, but perhaps the torments of cold and wet made the journey seem longer. Never in my life have I felt such cold.”
“And what is the last thing you can remember from before that? Think carefully, now.”
“I think it was…the news of Malcolm’s injury? No, that was earlier. We went to bed, and…”
Clara drew in a sharp breath as the memory hit her.
“Someone—some thing attacked me. It looked like a man—but I don’t think it was a man, its eyes were—”
“I recall the incident,” interrupted Dr. North. “You had a nightmare, which left you in a state of excitement.”
Clara recalled him telling her something similar at the time.
“It was not a nightmare, I am more certain than ever,” she said. “Something came into my room and bit me. That is the last thing I remember from before. The next thing I knew I was out on the road. And there was blood on my shift.”
“Enough, Miss Crofton, enough!” said Dr. North sternly. “There was no monster and no blood. You had a nightmare and walked in your sleep. Now, if you wish to have any hope of feeling better, you must rest, and not excite your mind with these ludicrous fantasies.”
The doctor rose and left the room, preventing further argument.
Clara set her tray aside. All of a sudden she felt terribly ill. She sank lower in the bed, her stomach churning unhappily. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on her nightgown, opening a small space into which she inserted her hand and felt at her chest. She had examined herself over and over in the bath, and still it felt wrong that her skin should be so unblemished. She pressed down harder, feeling the ribs underneath. They were solid and whole; she had no rational reason to expect otherwise. Yet there were fragmented impressions in her mind, fleeting recollections of sensations she could not possibly have experienced. Piercing pain in her chest. Struggling to breathe—tasting blood—bone shifting where bone shouldn’t—splinters in her hand as she tightened her grip and pulled —
Clara lurched forward as the taste of bile rose in her throat, and only barely managed to grab the basin from the nightstand in time. Her sick had traces of blood in it.
Doctor North is wrong, she thought. There is something very wrong with me.