Free Unraveled by Courtney Milan Page B

going to keep juggling,” she said.
    “Huh?” Robbie asked ahead of her.
    She shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Chapter Six
    T HIS TIME, THE WATER in Smite’s dreams was boiling hot and there was nothing to hold—no ladder, no stairs: nothing but rough walls that tore at his fingers. When he opened his mouth to scream, water bubbled in, stifling his voice to nothingness. He clawed for the surface, but it had ceased to exist. There was nothing but liquid surrounding him, nothing but this hot, filthy effluent stretching in all directions. No matter how he fought, there was no end to it.
    It filled his lungs, caustic as lye soap, and he swallowed it, choking, burning—
    Smite woke, jerking upright, swallowing a shout on his lips. He could hear it ringing around him, and he felt that old sense of embarrassment. Not that it mattered; there was nobody else about. What servants he employed lived outside his home; he’d arranged matters that way for this very reason. He gulped breath and urged his heart to cease racing.
    There was a rustle in the dark, and then, against the palm of his hand, a cold nose.
    So maybe there was someone around.
    “Come on up.” Smite’s throat seemed sore. He had been shouting, then.
    The bed swayed as Ghost jumped on it. His fur was still slightly damp; Smite had washed him on his return home last night. He gathered the animal to him.
    Long, soft fur met his fingers. He breathed in and willed his heart to slow. He commanded the nauseating cramp in his stomach to relax. After a few minutes, his body obeyed.
    Just the usual evening specter, then, although the heat of the water was an interesting twist. There had been no smell. There were never smells in his dreams.
    When he was younger, his dreams had been a cause for consternation. He’d tried everything to rid himself of them. Hot milk. Exercise. Women. Laudanum.
    Some afflictions, he’d concluded, weren’t worth fighting. Not at that cost. He’d accepted the nightmares as a fact of his existence, no more debilitating than, say, a scar that restricted movement. Scars were manly. He’d won this one fair and square.
    Of course, as afflictions went, this one was rather more like the gout than a scar. Made worse by alcohol; brought on by rain. No point in deluding himself.
    He smiled into Ghost’s fur and felt the tension slowly ease from him.
    He’d long since stopped seeing the nightmares as a cause for complaint. They were more like a call to arms. They were a reminder of what had transpired. Of what it meant for him to do his job, to listen carefully to those who came before him. Of what might happen if he turned a blind eye.
    When he woke on odd nights, he lulled himself back to sleep by reciting names as another man might count sheep. Mrs. Wexforth. Jack Bloomsmith. Davy Duglett. On down a parade of people he had seen during his days as magistrate. Ghost leaned against him as their faces danced through his memory.
    His brother had obtained Ghost from a shepherd back in Shepton Mallet. Ghost had been the progeny of one of the most renowned sheepdogs in all of Somerset and some unknown stray. When they’d tested his instinct for herding as a small puppy, the little dog had shown an unsavory interest in the sheep’s leavings and no interest at all in the sheep. And so he’d been passed on to Smite—a tiny bundle of gray-and-white fur. Eight weeks old, and already marked a failure.
    In tonight’s darkness, Ghost leaned against him.
    He came to the end of his list.
    When they needed someone, I was there. I listened. I acted. What happened to me won’t happen to them. Not while I can prevent it.
    Then there was Miss Darling.
    God, what a conundrum she posed. Any pretense of impartiality had vanished when he’d seen her with Robbie. The boy reminded him all too much of what it had been like, taking charge of Mark, when they’d roamed Bristol’s streets. He wasn’t exactly thinking of her with the requisite disinterest.