When I finally went back to bed as I’d promised, my busy mind wouldn’t let me sleep. I kept remembering the attack, and what stayed with me was not a nightmare of blood and pain—there had been no pain beyond the second it took for his teeth to pierce my skin. What my mind chose to dwell on instead was his arms crushing me against him. His hand cradling the back of my head. His hair tickling my throat and, most of all, his lips against me. I had never felt so alive as when I was dying in his arms.

  God help me.

  In the moments that I did manage to push all of this from my mind, I went back to wondering what Jack was up to. Sundays he usually drank at home and slept. Sometimes he would take care of things around the cottage that I couldn’t do for myself. I kept imagining him appearing at the chapel door to confront Mr. Tregarrick, and my stomach tied itself in knots. How would the master of Roche Rock respond to such a meeting? Again I worried that drinking my blood might have worsened the vampire’s cravings.

  At last, I got up and dressed. I was in no fit state to go searching for my twin, but I could at least have a look around outside before the light was gone. Sometimes he stood between our cottage and the Budges’ place smoking a pipe and jawing with Billy. Or he might be working on something in the shed out back.

  As I started for the door, someone knocked on it, and my heart skipped.

  I laid a hand against the wood and bent close. “Who’s there?”

  “Roger Carew, miss. Agent for Mr. Tregarrick. I have a letter for you.”

  Now my heart leaped into my throat. I drew back the bolt and opened the door.

  A smartly dressed gentleman stood outside, holding the reins of a sleek chestnut horse. His other hand gripped the basket I’d carried to Roche Rock. He held it out to me, and inside I saw a folded paper resting atop a book. The letter had flowing handwriting on the outside. Though I hadn’t read a great deal of handwriting, Mrs. Moyle sometimes wrote out lists and instructions, and I was able to make out my name—Miss Mina Penrose.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, taking the basket.

  “I’m to read it to you, if it’s needed,” said Mr. Carew. I studied him, but his face wore no expression.

  Lifting my chin slightly, I replied, “That won’t be necessary.”

  He touched his hat brim and got on his horse.

  “Mr. Carew,” I called, and he looked down.

  “You’ll let him know I’m all right?”

  The agent touched his hat again and then clucked to his horse.

  Gripping the basket handle, palms damp and shaking, I stepped out the front door. It was all I could do not to take up the letter at once, but I looked up and down the road as I’d intended, if for no other reason than it wouldn’t do for Jack to catch me reading it.

  A cart full of carrots and swedes rattled by, a boy in the back lifting a hand to wave as it passed. Other than that, the road was as deserted as I might expect on Sunday evening just after dinnertime.

  I wondered whether the whole village had heard about what happened to me. Mr. Hilliard had shown he wasn’t one to spread tales, but Mrs. Moyle said I’d been found in front of the tearoom.

  Most likely everyone knows. Afraid I might meet a neighbor, I quickly ducked back inside.

  I set the basket next to the door, slipped the letter into my pocket, and went to boil water for tea. A cool head would serve me best.

  Once I’d dosed a steaming cup with plenty of milk and sugar for courage, I stepped out the back door and called for Jack, in case he might be in the shed. No reply came, and I sat down on the old milking stool under the apple tree. The sun had set, but the sky behind Roche Rock was the color of a pearl. I had a little time yet.

  I drank my tea and watched a hare cross the downs with its long, rolling lope. I chatted absently at Jenny and the hens while the fresh air soothed my nerves.

  Finally, I took the letter from my pocket.

  Miss Penrose,

  Mr. Carew has been watching your cottage for a time when your brother and employer might both be away. He has assured me that you live, and that good Mrs. Moyle appears to be staying with you. I hope you will forgive me this trespass. I know you cannot forgive me for the other, nor would I wish you to. I will never forgive myself.

  I’ve instructed Mr. Carew to deliver this letter into your hands only, so if you are reading it, you are well enough to answer the door, and I thank heaven for it. Nay, I thank you for it. For granting my wish that you wear the cross, as well as for finding the strength to wield it against me. I ask that you grant me one last favor, though I have no right to. Please keep to your cottage, unless in the company of others, until I am able to secure the village of Roche against the present threat.

  Finally, though you don’t need my permission, I will give it: You are free to share what you now know—about myself and about the other—with anyone you see fit, if indeed you have not done so already.

  When the present threat has been removed, if I am still master of Roche Rock, and you feel secure enough to walk again on the heath, know that I will sense your passing and will be remembering what time we were given to become acquainted. Friends are a luxury my affliction has denied me.

  I wish you good health and a long life with all my heart.

  Sincerely,

  HT

  Was it some kind of spell he’d cast over me that, instead of feeling angry for what he’d done, my heart wrenched over the aching loneliness behind all his words?

  No. I couldn’t see how anyone who read such a letter could think him truly a monster.

  I folded the paper and put it away. Before going inside, I cast a last glance out at the gentle landscape—and froze. The mist had risen thick as twilight came on, but I was certain there was something moving on the heath.

  As if feeling my gaze, the thing halted—and seemed to watch me back.

  In the Leaves

  “Mina?”

  I jumped. Jack had come up behind me from around the side of the house. I had bolted the front door, and he’d probably been knocking.

  “What are you doing out here?” he said.

  “I . . .” I glanced back to the heath, straining to see as the mist drifted. The thing I’d glimpsed—or thought I’d glimpsed—hadn’t seemed to be a person. It had moved in a low, rolling way, almost like a hare, though it had been much larger.

  “Mina.”

  I turned to Jack, pressing a hand against the pocket where I’d tucked Mr. Tregarrick’s letter. “Just—just getting some air. Where have you been? Mrs. Moyle made dinner, but I didn’t know when you’d come back, so we ate already.”

  I was practiced at knowing how much he’d drunk by his eyes and his speech. He was more sober than I’d seen him in a while, if you didn’t count mornings, when he was peaked and ill-tempered from the previous night’s drinking.

  “At church,” he mumbled.

  I stared, thinking he must be joking. But he looked troubled. “What were you doing at church?”

  He frowned. “It’s the Sabbath, an’t it?”

  Now I knew he wasn’t serious. When our parents were alive, we went every Sunday. Since then, I’d made it to services only once or twice a month, and really only to visit our parents’ graves. But Jack never went. He said he “could sleep through the morning at home and be more comfortable, too, thank you very much.”

  “Fine,” I muttered, “don’t tell me.”

  Opening the back door, he said, “You come on in. It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

  His voice was gentle enough, but I felt the distance between us more keenly than ever.

  I followed him inside—with one glance back to the heath—and then went to reheat his supper. As I set it before him, he took a bottle of gin from his coat pocket. I knew he was sober because he actually poured it into a glass.

  After waking rested and stronger the next morning, I baked pasties for Jack’s lunch and for Mrs. Moyle, since she had promised a visit. When she came, she drank a cup of tea and stayed long enough to look me over. Declaring me much improved (“The color is back in your freckles”), she returned to open The Magpie.

  Once she’d left, I curled in a chair with the mending while my thoughts spun in circles. In bed last night, I had all but convinced myself the thing I’d seen on the heath had simply been a deer that the twilight, the fog, and my imagination had turned into something else. Yet this morning my mind kept returning to it. I’d read Mr. Tregarrick’s letter again and again. Until I am able to secure the village of Roche against the present threat, he’d said. He was still searching for the other vampire. Might that be what I had seen?

  With every passing moment, it became plainer that I wouldn’t be able to tolerate sitting quietly inside all day, as Jack had admonished. I could see through the window that the weather was fine. I could rest outdoors as well as in. And I could keep an eye out for the creature from last night. If I saw it again, I would find a way to get word to Mr. Tregarrick. Mrs. Moyle might know Roger Carew, and if she didn’t, she might be able to ask around.

  Just as I was putting away my sewing things, there came a knock at the door, and my heart bounced. Had Mr. Carew come back? I called through the door, but the voice that answered belonged to Mr. Hilliard.

  My da once told me that only people who had something to hide were afraid of the constable. I supposed I was one of those people now, because I had to wipe sweat from my palms before I opened the door.

  “Happy to see you so recovered, Miss Penrose,” he said, removing his hat. His gaze lowered to the bandage around my neck. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, stepping back to admit him.

  I invited him to sit at the table, and I put on the kettle for tea. Mainly to have something to do so he wouldn’t notice how nervous I was.

  “No need for that,” he said. “Come and sit down. I just have a few questions for you.”

  I took off the kettle and joined him.

  He set his diary on the table and took out a pencil. His brows lifted. “I hate that this has happened, lass. Especially when I told you I thought the danger had passed. I want to apologize for my mistake.”

  “You aren’t to blame, sir. It’s a strange case.”

  “That it is.” He studied me more closely, and I swallowed. “Jack tells me that when you woke, you couldn’t remember what happened to you. Have you remembered anything since then?”

  My fingers knotted in my lap. This was the moment. I could choose to tell him the truth, or from this point on, I’d be heaping lie on top of lie. I shuddered to think someone else might die because I didn’t speak when I had the chance. Yet unless I told the constable all of Mr. Tregarrick’s story, he wouldn’t understand. Even understanding, he wasn’t likely to believe.

  Flattening my palms on my skirt, I said, “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. “Are you able to tell me where you were when it happened? If not, the last place you do remember.”

  “Last I remember, I was walking to the village.” As something I did often, this seemed the least likely to raise an eyebrow.

  “On the road between Roche and Carbis, like Mr. Roscoe.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see anyone else on the road?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I recall.”

  He wrote in his diary, and I reached, absently, to touch the bandage at my neck.

  His gaze darted up. “Does it pain you?”

  “Hardly at all.”

  “The wound is very clean compared to Mr. Roscoe’s. It’s the damnedest thing.” He frowned. “Begging your pardon.”

  I nodded and held my tongue. More talking could only get me into trouble at this point.

  “We now think it most likely a man attacked both you and Mr. Roscoe.”

  “Yes, sir, Jack told me.”

  “What do you think, Miss Penrose?”

  Steady, now. “I guess that makes sense, though I can’t imagine why a man would do such a thing.”

  “Nor can I. I don’t think any sane man would. I think we’re looking for a man who’s not well. Maybe even a medical man, by the efficiency with which he went about his business.”

  I shifted in my chair. “And Mr. Roscoe?”

  The constable grunted. “That’s the question. Maybe our killer was in more of a hurry the first time.”

  “I wish there was more I could tell you, Mr. Hilliard.” That at least was not a lie, unlike almost everything else I’d said to him.

  “There is another question you might be able to shed some light on.” I nodded faintly, heart thumping. “I arrived here after you were brought home, while Mrs. Moyle and the surgeon were in with you. I tried to speak to Jack, but . . .” He hesitated. “Well, the truth of it is he smelled of gin and had his temper up. I had trouble following his reasoning, but he seemed to believe it was Mr. Tregarrick that attacked you. Do you know what would make him think that?”

  Heat blooming in my cheeks, I replied, “I’m not sure reasoning has much to do with it, sir. Jack has been listening to gossip at the tavern. Since Mr. Roscoe, people have been telling the old stories about a Wolf of Roche Rock.”

  The constable’s brow clouded. “I’ve heard some of that gossip myself. It’s the opposite of helpful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I took a slow breath as he made a few more notes, thinking we must surely be coming to the end of the interview. I was unprepared when he looked up and said, “You don’t seem very rattled, Miss Penrose.”

  “Rattled, sir?” I knew what he meant, but I gained a moment to think by pretending that I didn’t.

  “Someone tried to kill you. Aren’t you frightened?”

  “Yes, sir. I certainly am.” And that was no more or less than the truth. I was afraid of this other vampire, and I was afraid of Mr. Tregarrick being blamed for his crimes.

  “I also wonder about your coming and going as usual after finding a man murdered next to the road. Though I know it was likely due, in part, to my faulty counsel, I won’t lie to you—I find it surprising.”

  I sat a moment, considering my words. There were reasons that I could share with the constable.

  “Well, sir, I have a job, just as you do. Jack has been after me to give it up, but the cottage is lonely with my parents gone. And ever since the night I found Mr. Roscoe, unwelcome thoughts come into my head when I’m alone.”

  Mr. Hilliard’s features softened, and he nodded. “All right, Miss Penrose. One last question and I’ll let you rest.”

  He set down his pencil, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and drew out something that glittered in his fingers. Mum’s cross!

  Placing it on the table, he said, “You were holding this when they found you. The surgeon had to pry it from your fingers. Do you know where it came from?”

  “Aye, sir. It was my mother’s.”

  “I see.” He looked disappointed, if not surprised, and it occurred to me he might have hoped it belonged to my attacker. “I didn’t notice you wearing it the last two times we spoke.”

  My heart skipped. “I took to wearing it after . . . after Mr. Roscoe.”

  His brows knit. “For protection?”

  I began to feel Mr. Hilliard was rather good at his job, saving his trickiest questions until he was about to take his leave.

  “You’ll think me foolish.”

  “I think no such thing, Miss Penrose. It seems that it worked. The clasp is broken, as if you yanked at the chain. Do you remember doing that?”

  “I don’t, sir.”

  I recalled how Mr. Tregarrick had suddenly let me go, bounding back, hand flying to his neck where the cross had touched him. Did it mean a vampire was a kind of demon?

  Does a demon tell you his weakness and then thank you for using it?

  Whatever else he was, I didn’t believe for a moment Mr. Tregarrick was evil.

  Mr. Hilliard now closed his diary and slipped it back into his coat pocket. “I’ll leave you now. I thank you for your time.”

  I walked him to the door, and as he was going, he said, “I can’t help feeling there are things you aren’t telling me, Miss Penrose. I know Jack can be hotheaded, and maybe that’s the reason for your reticence. But if you do think of anything that might help us catch this killer, for everyone’s sake, I hope you will send for me. Jack needn’t know.”

  My hands were trembling, and I clasped them together. “I will, sir, thank you.”

  He studied me a moment longer, maybe hoping I’d say more. Then he put on his hat and went out to his waiting horse and gig.

  I closed the door and fell against it.

  I am completely useless. I couldn’t help Mr. Tregarrick. I couldn’t help Mr. Hilliard. I couldn’t go to my job. All I could do was sit here and wait, hoping no one else would be attacked.

  I might go mad.

  Breathing a heavy sigh, I straightened, then noticed my basket resting beside the door—with the book inside! Mr. Tregarrick’s letter had so taken up my notice that I had completely forgotten about it.

  In the Leaves: A Primer on Tasseography, by Jane Rochester.

  I snatched up the book and went to the stove to put the kettle on again. Flipping through the pages while I waited for the boil, I saw the book had many sketches of sample readings. Dear Mr. Tregarrick!

  I placed book, pot, and cup on a tray, carried them out back, and set them on the milking stool, shooing away the curious animals. After dragging over a rickety chair that Jack hadn’t gotten around to mending, I sat down in a sunny spot.

  While my tea steeped, I continued paging through the book. The author turned out to be the woman Mrs. Moyle had mentioned—the one who ran the school for young ladies in Yorkshire. Mrs. Rochester wrote that no special steps were required for reading tea leaves, but that “simple spells can amplify your efforts, focus your intention, and yield more accurate results.” I was sure Mum hadn’t learned from a book, but without her here, this was the next best thing.

  I poured tea into my cup without straining it, and following Mrs. Rochester’s instructions, I took hold of the handle and spun the cup three times, chanting, “Leaves of tea, reveal to me whatever I most need to see.”