Free The Dark Between by Sonia Gensler Page A

museum. She’d save herself a shilling, and her path lay through residentialneighborhoods. Yet she dreaded the prospect of appearing to him as a sooty and bedraggled mess, so instead she joined the queue for the next hansom cab. Once seated, bag and camera case clutched in her lap, she shouted the destination to the driver through the trapdoor. The driver’s whip cracked, and she steeled herself as the horse leapt into a brisk trot. She hardly noticed the scenery as the cab sped along Euston Road. Rather, she passed the time imagining his expression when he recognized her.
    When they turned the corner onto Great Russell Street, the grand columns of the British Museum rose up before her. The cab jerked to a halt. Elsie helped herself down and paid the shilling, stepping carefully around the clumps of manure. She took the steps quickly and breezed through the vestibule with little thought for propriety. Ignoring the manuscript room to her right—he would not care for that—she turned left into the Roman Gallery and paused to scan the room.
    He was not there.
    She glanced all around, panic tightening her throat until her gaze moved beyond the gallery to the Graeco-Roman room, where a young man stood before an easel. It was him , she was certain. She recognized the auburn waves of his hair, too long for fashion but lovely to run her hands through when she cradled his head in her lap. Elsie looked down at her hands, willing them to stop their silly shaking, and lurched forward to greet him.
    She gasped when she crashed into the very solid form of a gentleman rushing in the opposite direction through the gallery.
    “I do beg your pardon, miss.”
    She reared back to look up at him, shaken by the sudden contact. He was a handsome young man with dark hair, but that wasn’t what made her stare. No, it was the light thatsuddenly shimmered around his head that mesmerized her. She stared stupidly as the tremors began.
    He peered at her. “Miss, are you well?”
    Never had it come upon her this quickly. The orb about his head shimmered and danced, and her own head began to throb. She tore her gaze away and fumbled in her bag for the dose, afraid it was already too late.
    “My medicine,” she cried. “I’m going to be … very ill.”
    The brown bottle was not there.
    The young man grasped her upper arms as she staggered against him. She vaguely heard him calling for help as the darkness began to pull at her, sucking her through a ghastly tunnel. She closed her eyes and prayed for calm.
    Finally the dreadful pulling sensation ceased. A sudden cold chilled her. She opened her eyes to find a woman walking toward her from the darkness, her pale face drooping with sorrow.
    Elsie moaned, for she knew the woman was dead.

    Asher had kept his eyes on the grey feathers of Miss Atherton’s hat as he followed the other passengers off the train. But when he passed her seat, the bright yellow of her folded parasol caught his eye. In her haste, she’d left it behind. As he retrieved it, he saw the white label against the dark fabric of the seat. Her medicine lay there—the bottle of Chlorodyne that had soothed her convulsions the first day he’d met her.
    He stared … until he felt an impatient shoulder pressing into him. He plucked the bottle from the seat, ignoring the grumbling behind him.
    On the platform he watched from a safe distance as Miss Atherton spoke with a cheerful young porter. Once she moved on, he offered the porter several coins to share the details of theconversation. It was easy enough to watch as she hired a cab and then to do the same himself. Clearly she was preoccupied, for she never turned to look behind her.
    Once he reached the museum he followed only a few paces behind. He had no choice, for she was nearly running up the steps. He didn’t want to lose her in the building’s labyrinthine galleries.
    What did she mean to do? Whom did she wish to see? He quickened his pace, determined to confront her. Just