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“I’m sorry if I talk about it too much,” Beatrice said. “I’m just a blushing bride.”
“You’re a gorgeous bride. And you can talk about it as much as you want.”
“How did I get so lucky?”
Wes and Beatrice went to bed around nine thirty every night. Sometimes Wes struggled to get to sleep immediately, but he always stayed still and stared through the darkness so as not to wake Beatrice. Gusts of wind flattened against the house and shook the windowpanes. He did his best to let go and fade into sleep. He flattened his palms across the mattress and breathed slowly.
But all at once, he was in the middle of a nightmare.
Violent images came to him, and terror ripped through his heart. He only woke up because he was painfully, horribly cold, and wet. That, and someone was shaking him by his shoulders.
“Wes! Wes!” An old woman held his shoulders. Winds smashed against his chest and through his hair as rain splattered his shirt. He was barefoot in the sand at the edge of a violent ocean. It could only be the sound.
And then Wes realized this wasn’t any old woman. This was his grandmother. She was here.
“Wes!” his grandmother cried. “Wake up! Come back inside!”
Wes blinked. “What are you doing here?” he croaked.
“Wes, you’re sleepwalking,” his grandmother said. “Come back in with me. We have to get you out of these wet clothes.”
Wes shuddered from the chill. He realized he was only steps away from the frothing waves. It was like the ocean was hungry for him and wanted to swallow him whole.
As his consciousness returned, he realized that the old woman wasn’t his grandmother at all.
“Beatrice?” Wes rasped.
Beatrice threw her arms around him and cradled him. She was crying but trying not to show it. Wes’s shame crashed into him. He held her gently, then took her hand and led her inside rather than the other way around.
“What happened?” Wes asked once they were in the foyer.
“You got up and walked into the hallway. I was awake and followed you, thinking you were getting a cup of tea or something. But you just walked outside. I realized you were asleep and wanted to gently guide you back to bed. But you just kept going toward the water. I panicked and shook you awake.” Beatrice tugged at her wet hair. “I know you’re not supposed to wake up sleepwalkers. But the water was right there, and I was just so scared.”
Wes ached with guilt. He slowly removed his wet pajamas and underwear and got in the shower. Beatrice remained close to him, waiting her turn. The way she looked at him terrified him. It was like she was waiting for him to have a complete mental break.
Wes had been doing so well lately. The ledger had worked for him. He’d hardly forgotten anything. He’d hardly been confused.
But wandering out into the night was the stuff of madmen.
When they were finally back in bed, Wes whispered into the darkness, “I’m sorry.”
Beatrice took his hand under the sheets and squeezed it. “You’re safe now. I won’t let you get anywhere too far.”
But Wes was too terrified to fall back asleep. Beatrice hadn’t been Beatrice in his waking nightmare. She’d been his grandmother. It had been clear as anything in his mind’s eye. Whatever had brought that on couldn’t be trusted.
Chapter Seven
From the Diary of Martha Smith
November 25, 1863
This is my first entry since everything happened. Since my baby came into the world and brought with her tremendous pain that made me hallucinate what it must be like in hell. She came into the world quiet and reserved as though she already knew the cruelty lurking above this basement's surface. But almost as soon as she was with us, I was not. I was sick with fever, murmuring nonsense to Virgil and Jane as they tried to tend to me and the baby without alerting anyone of our troubles.
It was only when Virgil broke down and told Mr. Sheridan how ill I was that things started to get better. I have to guess I might have died had he not confessed.
Every day, Mrs. Sheridan brings medicine, foods with herbs, and tea. In the dark shadows of the basement, she holds my baby and dotes on her as Jane, Virgil, and I get some much-needed rest. There is a kindness in Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes that I hardly recognize.
We’ve been here for nearly ten days. It’s far longer than we’ve ever stayed anywhere since we left Georgia. I keep expecting Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan to tell us it’s too dangerous; to throw us and the baby into the snow. The baby and I won’t survive out there. Maybe Jane and Virgil will. But even that idea makes my blood boil: my sister and my husband allowed a second chance together while me and the baby died. I have to fight. Maybe I will beg the Sheridans to keep us till spring. It’s unlikely to happen. But I am at their mercy.
