Page 118 of Mortdale

Henry cleared his throat. “A week or so before his passing. I remember. I found him.” And killed him, was what he’d left unspoken.

She looked at me, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “You told me I’d be buried next to you.”

“Willow—”

“Why is your brother-in-law not buried next to your sister?”

When I didn’t state the obvious answer, her eyes widened.

“Were they in love?” she asked, running her fingers over Cassandra’s grave. “Did he love your sister?”

“More than anything in the world.”

She looked around the rest of the graveyard, growing paler, looking weaker as she brought a hand to cover her mouth “Where are the burial registers kept?”

“The local parish.” Henry glanced at me before adding, “Why?”

Willow got up on shaky feet, pale and shivering. “Take me there.”

The head of the parish sat at the corner of the small, musty room, holding a burning lantern on his lap while my wife searched through the dozens of registers.

Her legs gave out under her when she got up to grab another register, and I lifted her, setting her back on the chair.

Pressing my lips to her cold, wet temple, I said, “I’ll find it. Just tell me what to look for.”

“Last name: Atwater.”

Her fingers shakily skimmed over the records. “Only three days after his wife died, he caught the Madness. Alfred’s report is attached to it. No indication of a bite mark or any other exterior wound, so he most probably caught the first strain. Every single report in the newspapers I read would state that the nobles were widowed only shortly before they died. Nobles married to witches.”

“Willow—”

“I need—” Her eyes fluttered shut. “Could you find me—”

“Honey, please,” I pleaded. “Let’s stop here tonight.”

She stared down at me with tears streaming down her already wet cheeks. “I have to do this. I need to. I don’t know how much longer I—” She sucked a sharp breath and sealed her lips shut, shaking her head. “It has to be tonight.”

Warm breaths slipped past her parted lips as I kissed her tears. “We will do it together. You’re not alone.”

“I wish I was,” she whispered. “This would have been so much easier.” She cried, her trembling fingers sinking into my skin as she held me tightly, almost as if I’d vanish if she let me go. “You’re making this so much more difficult.”

“I’m sorry.”

She put a hand over her mouth, drowning a cry. “You don’t know what you’re apologising for, lover,” she whispered, resting her forehead against mine.

“I’m still sorry.”

“Why did you never consider that the witches dying was related to the Madness?”

“Logically, it can’t be,” Henry said, frowning at the possibility. He glanced between us all. “How…why would they be?”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “The scabiosa had grown around the graves, same as the tunnels. And the honey scent coming from the infected—” She shook her head. “Scabiosa are known to be worn by widows. They’re a symbol of heartbreak, the loss of a loved one. Heartbreak and mourning,” she muttered to herself, bracing her hands against her eyes. “The suicides, the rage-induced sickness. Everything makes sense now.” Her shoulders shook. “They were in love. The catalyst is love. They died because they were in love. Sybil warned me that night that whatever I do, I cannot fall in love with you. She knew falling in love with a vampire would lead a witch to her death.” She tried to take a few calming breaths, and failed. “You couldn’t have done anything to save Cassandra. She was doomed the moment she fell in love with her husband. None of them could be saved. That’s how the poison works.”

She got up, swaying on her feet. Colour had leeched from her skin, her lips, only the dark of her eyes piercing through the weakness. “I need to find out what caused this. I need to see what is poisoning the water in the well. It has to be something dark…something—”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and I grabbed her before she fell. “Art! Call the doctor.”

“It’s useless,” she muttered, pressing her face to my chest and breathing out a sigh of relief.