Sanditon: A Sisterhood Forms

59

Moonlight had pierced through the clouds, casting a silver sheen upon the cobblestones beneath their feet. Otis walked ahead of her, stepping out cautiously in the quiet, and as she followed his lead, Georgiana's eye moved upwards to the seraphic figure carved in stone. The rain had stopped, but the steady trickle of the fountain continued on, bubbling merrily downwards from one tier to the next, building as it flowed, pooling at its base. It took Georgiana a breath to look away; and still, she felt its eyes upon her.

Otis paused, blocking out the moonlight as his gaze travelled to the line of sash windows situated at the far side of the fountain court. Perhaps it was the eye of the seraphim upon them, but she felt a sudden urge to recoil.

His eyes flashed back to her, followed by a quick tilt of the head as he motioned for her to follow.

But the forbidding had returned.

Hours had passed since she had last seen Arthur Parker, but the horrible image had yet to leave her — of Arthur lit from behind at the window, desperately trying to convince her to leave this place. And perhaps a small part of her wished she had taken his advice — had run off into the night, unseen. For here she stood, frozen to the cobblestones beneath her, the sense of dread like poison in her veins.

It isn't easy, the discovery: and at that moment, she found herself clinging to uncertainty to avoid the inevitable pain of knowing.

It was Otis who brought her back. The stiff curve of his fingers, the brusque tug at her sleeve, brought the seraphim into focus. And she saw it, then. Followed the path of his gaze until it landed; a slam to the heart as her mind made sense of what lay before them.

A single white stocking, torn and blooming. The stark contrast of white and something else — a darker sheen that absorbed the moonlight like a black abyss, blending it into the stone around it.

And beyond it, a tousle of curls — so eerily still — spilled over the edge of the fountain.

"Arthur." The ledger slipped from her arms. It bounced off cobblestones, echoing as its pages broke open, revealing its secrets to the night.

It reverberated from the walls that surrounded them, snapping back like gunfire.

She heard the change: the sharp breaths that emerged from Otis. His hand gripped tighter to her arm as he looked around, eyeing the windows, the gardens behind them. "Quickly," he said, turning to her — and at last, she saw the blind panic in his eyes, "we won't have much time, now."

But she resisted his pull, her feet still rooted to the ground. The dread was coursing through her, now, overpowering body and mind, leaving a numbness in its wake. She had not reconciled with the idea that what she was about to see could be the lasting memory she had of Arthur Parker: a horrible end that overshadowed the light he exuded in every other memory she possessed. She realised, then, that she dreaded this lasting memory more than anything else. What might she be left with, in the end? Would she spend the years to come wishing she had acted differently — regretting each decision that had led to this?

She stared back at him, a sob at the back of her throat. "Georgiana," he said, and pulled her closer until she met his eyes, "we've got to try."

Her eyes travelled back to the shock of white that lay draped over cobblestones. She saw, now, that it had been torn to shreds, every detail illuminated as if for her eyes. The sight of it scraped away at the numbness, leaving her raw and scuffed at the edges; hardened at the prospect of what he had endured. She had been so certain that they would succeed, that they would come away unscathed. Never — not once — had she imagined he would meet his end.

Otis caught her at the waist as she stepped forward, their uneven footsteps progressed over the cobblestones as she willed Arthur to move, to shout out; to turn toward her with that innocent smile he so often wore. Even a cry of agony would be better than this unbearable silence.

Her hands caught on the stone rim of the fountain, a last-minute attempt to lessen the impact of her knees against the stones. The rim was rough beneath her hand, scraping her palm as it slid along it.

And then, he was there before her, his face inches away as she placed a hand at his shoulder, his neck, seeking some sign of life. "Please," she said, "Wake up."

The bile rose in her throat as a hand rose to grip her elbow, breaths so faint at first she hardly heard them. His eyes cracked open as if he had been blinded by the sun.

"Arthur, we're going to get you out of here." She forced herself to glance down at the damage, and felt her heart sink lower in her chest. His leg was bared, as torn open as the stocking that lay beyond.

He shuddered as he spoke, his face crumbling into a silent sob, "Why didn't you leave," he whispered, and she lost her breath at the sound of him.

"I couldn't go without you." Her hands moved silently, searching for other wounds, their path bringing Otis back into view as he knelt at Arthur's feet. He sensed her gaze, flicking his eyes up briefly. She saw the despair in them.

"No," Arthur had begun to pant, as if he could not receive enough air to speak, "No, no, no. Please, you must—"

"Shhh," Georgiana caught his forearm in her hand, holding in a sob as Otis gave her a slight shake of the head.

"Go," Arthur implored, "Please... you must." She caught the look in his eyes, so similar to their last encounter, the silent plea still present. And the fear, radiating in her direction.

She knew where to look — had already turned to the line of windows — her eyes drawn to the bobbing glow that passed from one to the next, growing ever closer to them.

Arthur's voice sounded in her ear, too late. "It's a trap."