Free Charlotte Markham and the House of Darkling by Michael Boccacino Page B

hand into his to keep me company, just as I knew that Paul could not bring himself to see me bedridden. I knew that I would die and that they would miss me, though death was a thing I craved more and more each day.
    â€œThe very act of breathing slowly drove me to the brink of insanity. Even in my delirium I found it ironic how a thing that gives one life could become the most unbearable part of living. The moments between each breath grew further and further apart, a series of contractions as I delivered my own end, until finally, I stopped.
    â€œI realized I had died when I opened my eyes and could see again. A man stood before me, as unremarkable and ordinary a person as I have ever encountered. He wore a black suit and a bowler hat, and he held out his hand. He said nothing, but he did not have to. I knew who he was, and what he expected me to do. Free from illness, I felt revitalized, elated even, and yet something whispered to me: a voice in the place between life and death. It spoke to me, whereas Death did not; it told me I was special, and that exceptions could be made for any rule. It told me the story of my life, one that did not end with a woman in her sickbed.
    â€œThe forgettable man in the ordinary black suit grew fainter and fainter, retreating down a corridor made of light until he was gone altogether. The voice grew more substantial, until there was a hand, and it took me someplace else . . . to a place for the Things That Do Not Die.”
    I felt a chill run through my body. I was near a window, and the darkness outside seemed to press against it, flexing the glass with an ominous groan.
    â€œAnd here you stand,” I whispered.
    â€œI do not know why it was different for me. Perhaps I was in the right place at the right time. Regardless of why the opportunity presented itself, I took it. Children need their mothers, little boys most of all.”
    I paused at that turn of phrase. The old nightmare of my mother’s death returned, as did the voice of the mysterious woman from my dream, who, it was now so obvious, sounded very much like Mrs. Darrow. My heart fluttered with a mixture of anger and fear. I approached the divan with the sleeping children, clutching the lip of the seat.
    â€œThe children can’t stay here. It isn’t safe.”
    â€œNothing on the estate would dare hurt the children.”
    â€œAnd their governess?”
    Mrs. Darrow, for by that point I could no longer pretend to think of her as anything else, stepped closer and put her hand over my own. She was warm to the touch, more so than any living person I had ever encountered. With the children between us, I relaxed for a moment.
    â€œI mean no one any harm,” she said.
    I looked her carefully in the eyes, their catlike quality replaced by something more somber and quiet. Suddenly her intrusion into my dream seemed more sad than threatening.
    â€œI’ve dreamt of you. You tricked us into coming here.”
    â€œI did what I had to do in order to see my children.”
    â€œWhat is it that you want from them?”
    â€œMore time.”
    â€œTo what end? You have passed on, and it can’t be healthy for them to meet you somewhere in between.”
    â€œIs it any worse than allowing them to grow up without me? You must have seen what happens to some children who lose their parents.”
    A barrage of heartless, foulmouthed little boys passed before my mind’s eye, hitting and shouting, stealing and spitting, raping scullery maids in the middle of the night.
    â€œThat can be avoided.”
    â€œYes, it can. That’s why I came here. They don’t have to be without me. I don’t have to be gone.”
    The woman moved her hand up, grasping my wrist. There was a desperation in her grip.
    â€œYou never were.”
    Mrs. Darrow dropped her hand away and turned back to the fireplace. The flames licked at the embers, which had stacked themselves into something like a