The already fallen leaves rustled under the soles of his shoes. He pushed the unruly branches aside and searched the ground with his eyes for the cup, but it was already too dark to see anything. Especially here in the shadows. The bushes, which he couldn't name, bored their thorns and small branches into his trousers and shirt as if to prevent him from sliding in deeper.
After all, it didn't make sense, since he couldn't see anything. Except for the branches directly in front of him, which stood out against the dark blue sky, like a silhouette on a window. You couldn't even make out the small settlement of shelters from his place in the bushes, where there were always a few lanterns burning, as the back of the stables blocked his view.
In the dark, they looked like the skeleton of the burnt buildings in Sanditon. The memory gave Sidney goosebumps. The sight of what was left of Sanditon had burned deep into his soul. Even now, as he allowed the memory to sink in, he could still smell the burnt wood. The splintered glass on the deserted streets left crunching sounds, like the fallen leaves and branches now, beneath his every step.
The sky had been grey, as if the days of smoke had swallowed the colour of the sky. No seagull screeched and even the surf seemed aware of the fateful events and seemed only to whisper its hello softly. Like now a distant whisper of the wind making some door or shutter squeak.
Sidney turned around, was about to step out of the bush the same way he had come in, and heard the sound of tearing fabric. Sighing, he contorted himself to free himself from the embrace of the branches. In the process, he tore the skin on his side, which didn't bother him much, one injury more or less hadn't mattered for a long time. However, the thought of having to sew his shirt annoyed him. In the past, he would have had such a shirt sewn, if ever. One as worn as this one he was wearing, just thrown away.
But before he could lose himself in the whirlpool of regret again, he heard footsteps hurrying across the gravel from the other side of the bushes. He lifted his head and tried to make out something through the low-hanging branches of the trees. Perhaps it was one of the female workers, for he recognised a long robe. But why would one of them be at the stables? Although it was none of his business, he pushed his way through the bushes, ducked under a thick branch and squinted into the gathering night.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a small light flicker on. A candle or a small lantern. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it was her. That Miss Charlotte. Maybe it was because her hair was always loose. What was she doing here at this time? He immediately dismissed the idea that she was meeting someone in the neighbouring woods or in the stable for a shepherding session. Although he could not be sure, of course, he was convinced that the Heywoods would only hire a well-mannered girl to teach their children.
He heard a door slam softly. It reminded him of another slamming door. That of the carriage when Mary left with the others. That finality worried him, inexplicably quickened his heartbeat. And, as if of its own accord, so did his steps as he struggled through the copses. Suddenly there appeared in his mind the small coffin, built of sweet chestnut and decorated with small golden ornaments, with which a piece of himself had also been buried.
When Sidney finally broke free from the bushes and ran, words echoed loudly like lashes in his head.
A hay-laden barn. A fire, small as it was, was dangerous. Life-threatening!
The burnt-out houses on the coast, still smoking days after the disaster, flashed in his mind. There had been only one fatality then. A sleeping child. Choked on smoke before the fire spread and ate everything that burned. The ceiling, the cot and the wallpaper. The solid walls had saved the others from a greater disaster. But here were the workers and their families in the wooden huts, just a stone's throw away.
