Free Dawn at Emberwilde by Sarah E Ladd Page A

she was in a room fit for a lady.
    But she was not a lady, not compared to her aunt’s elevated diction or her cousin’s effortless elegance. She looked at her rough nightdress and ran her finger over the uneven hem. She doubted she would ever be.
    A creaking sound behind her drew her attention, and she turned.
    Footsteps sounded near the door that adjoined her room to Lizzie’s.
    A sudden jump in her pulse brought her to her feet, and she looked toward the door.
    There it was again. The scrape—a mournful sound, like the cry of wood against wood—sounded again from the gilded chamber.
    The door was beginning to move.
    The hour was late. No one else should be awake.
    She chided herself. The talk of ghosts and folklore made her jumpy, in a ridiculous sense.
    “Who’s there?” Isabel called, her voice thin.
    Her imagination half expected a monster, or at the very least a mysterious stranger.
    Instead, it was a small hand that gripped the edge of a door.
    Relief rushed from Isabel in the form of a sigh.
    Lizzie’s voice was small compared to the roar of the angry wind. “Isabel?”
    Isabel placed the letter on the bureau. “Lizzie! You gave me a fright. What is the matter?”
    Lizzie rubbed her face as she spoke. “I can’t sleep.”
    Isabel reached her arm out to the child, bidding her to come closer. Lizzie closed the door and ran over to the chair, her bare feet padding the wooden floor.
    She should send the child back to her own room. It was important to set a boundary, for they were in a large house now and probably would be for some time. Lizzie needed to be able to sleep alone.
    But how could she fault the child when she herself struggled to find solace?
    Isabel sat and pulled her sister onto her lap. The girl’s small feet were cold against Isabel’s legs.
    Once Lizzie was settled and the popping of the fire and the roar of the wind the only sounds that remained, Isabel whispered, “And why can’t you sleep?”
    Lizzie wiggled. “The wind is scary.”
    “Scary?” Isabel paused. The panes shivered in their leading, and then a blast of rain pelted the surface. “No, it isn’t scary. ’Tis only noisy. The same wind blows during the day.”
    Lizzie shivered against her. “It sounds like an animal. A mean animal.”
    Not so long ago, such sounds used to give Isabel a fright. But now her duty as caretaker prevailed. “I promise you, there are no animals in here. You are quite safe. Tomorrow, if the weather is fine, we shall take a walk around the grounds and you will be able to see for yourself how lovely Emberwilde is.”
    Lizzie made no response; her silence on the matter was evidence of disbelief. The child dropped her head to Isabel’s shoulder, and for several moments they were silent. Isabel thought her sister had drifted off, so still and quiet was she, but after several minutes of slow, steady breaths, Lizzie whispered, “I want to go home.”
    The words, tiny and quiet in the stillness, tugged at Isabel. The concept of home had always been an abstract one. Even though her father lived in London and had a home there, Isabel had never returned to it after leaving for Fellsworth. The demands of his occupation prevented him from seeing her, and after he married Lizzie’s mother, her stepmother was very clear that Isabel was not welcome in the home. Isabel often felt as if she were an orphan, alone and forgotten. When Lizzie’s mother died, their father sent Lizzie to Fellsworth as well, and Isabel welcomed Lizzie, eager for even a bit of family to call her own. By the time her father died, she’d grown to consider Fellsworth home, and clearly Lizzie did as well.
    Isabel stroked the child’s wayward locks. “It is different here than at the school, is it not?”
    Lizzie only sniffed.
    “But do you not think it will be lovely to have a family around us? To have an aunt and uncle? And cousins?”
    Again, no response passed Lizzie’s lips.
    Uneasiness crept over Isabel and frightened her much