Sanditon: A Sisterhood Forms

67

Her hand shot out, grasping at the neatly trimmed foliage that made up the hedgerow, seeking out a branch—something larger to hold on to—to give her some reprieve. The weight was almost unbearable.

The landscape had changed in the transition from night to day; the absence of light created a void that seemed vast as the universe, itself. The gardens revealed more as the light crept in, once unknown and imposing figures taking shape as hedges and topiaries before her eyes. Georgiana, drawn one way, feeling the pull of another, her will split in two.

It had been a mere moment; a fleeting connection before she had turned on her heel and run for the cover of the hedges, praying that the fog would be dense enough. And yet, with every step, she found that her mind was drawn away.

For she had just left Otis behind, thrown him to the wolves to trace her steps back to the house—back to the white noise of water trickling down, an angelic figure dark against the sky. Otis in the mist, arms pulled behind his back, soundlessly pleading... his eyes connecting with her in a way that made her heart slow.

A message so clear to her that he might have spoken. Go.

Her heart slowed a fraction more at the thought. For in the earliest moments of her escape, she had intended to continue on their path. Intended to leave this wretched place. But there was another who needed her, just now.

The distant lights of the house did not seem so distant now, though they were fading fast as she shook her head, reaching through the hedge for anything of substance to support her as she took another determined step, anticipating the pang that would follow it.

Those eyes. The expression on his face.

She knew now why it haunted her so.

As if he were committing her to memory.

As if he would never see her again.

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Further Afield — Hemlock Hall

How impossible a feat it seemed, to open her eyes. To the sight that awaited them. A sight she would carry with her, always.

It had happened so quickly, Charlotte had only just grasped the series of events that led up to it. How Linton ran towards the guardsman on horseback, charging with what seemed like equal momentum as the horse had also sprung to life. They were mirrors of one another, Linton filled with such life, such determination upon his face, as if there were no other option but to stop the horse himself with all he had left, the words falling in his wake:

No. No. No.

There hadn't been time to do anything but watch—no hope to intervene as the horse's hooves came down again.

She nearly cried out from the shock of it. The wanting, so desperate, for a cry in return. A cry of pain. Fear, even. Some sound to assure her that the very worst thing imaginable had not just occurred. That Linton had not been sacrificed in such a way.

His words still rang in her ears:

No. No. No.

Rang until they were tamped out by the silence.

For there was silence, after. In the wind, in the waves; his words left to dust.

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The seraphic figure appeared to float freely over the rising mist. Were it not for the sound of the water, Georgiana might have believed it had broken free.

She hopped closer to the fountain's pool, the once merry bubbling turning her stomach, though the sound had grown faint, now.

Her eyes were fixed on the very spot where Arthur's hair had spilt over the stone just moments—or had it been hours?—earlier; and she found herself unable to look away. She stood unsteadily, hovering at the fountain's edge, the mist pooling at her hip, then rising, the chill of it at her waist, her lungs, cinching and circling until she could take it no more.

She sank down into the cloud, the cold stone of the fountain breaking her fall, and not a sound emitted from her lips.

The damp invaded her body, spreading through until her fingertips turned to ice.

She had returned too late.