“I’m not sure if I can!” It was a cry of despair. Her body was rigid. She really was very slight, almost thin. She looked tight and tense, every muscle in her was knotted. One would have thought physical pain racked through her.
“Yes, you can,” Charlotte assured her. “It may be dreadful, but whatever it is, if you don’t, you will ever afterwards wish you had. Even if you have nothing else left, have courage.”
Justine laughed abruptly, a bitter sound close to hysteria.
“You say that so easily. But it isn’t you facing the only man you’ve ever loved, perhaps the only person, apart from my mother, and she’s dead now, and telling him you are a whore, and a murderess at heart—but not in fact only because some mad Irishman got there first.”
“Do you prefer the alternative?” Charlotte said gently. “That is that someone else tells him. I will, if you want, but only if you make me believe you can’t.”
Justine sat still, staring back at her.
“What do you want?” Charlotte repeated. “Time? It isn’t going to alter what must be done, but I’ll wait here if you like.”
“It isn’t going to change, is it?” Justine said after a moment or two. “I am not going to wake up and find you were only a nightmare?”
Charlotte smiled. “Perhaps I’ll wake up, and it will be Kezia or one of the maids who hit him.” She shrugged. “Or perhaps the Red King will wake up and we’ll all disappear.”
“What?”
“Then can’t you waken him?”
“No.”
“Then I had better go and tell Piers,” Justine replied.
Charlotte smiled very slightly without saying anything.
Justine climbed out of the bed, hesitated, as if debating whether to dress or not, then put on her robe. She went to the dressing table and picked up the brush. She stood with it in her hand, looking at her reflection in the glass. She was tired, pale with shock and strain; her hair was twisted and had come out of the braid she had placed it in on going to bed.
“I wouldn’t,” Charlotte said, before she realized it was not her place, now of all times, to try to influence such a decision.
Justine put the brush down and looked back at her. “You’re right. It is hardly the time for vanity, or anything that looks like forethought.” She bit her lip. Her hands were not quite steady. “Will you come with me?”
Charlotte was surprised. “Are you sure that’s what you want? This is about the most private thing you will ever do.”
“No, I’m not sure. If I could think of any other way, I’d take it. But someone else there will help to keep it rational and … and honest. It is not a time for trying to use the emotions. It will stop either of us from saying things we might later wish we had said differently, or not at all.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. Please, let us go before I lose my courage.”
Charlotte did not argue any further but stood up and followed Justine out into the passage and the short distance to Piers’s room. Justine stopped, drew in her breath and knocked.
The door opened and Piers looked out. He had obviously only just got into bed and had not yet fallen asleep, which, considering what the evening had already held for him, was not surprising. He saw Justine first.
“Is something wrong?” he said in immediate alarm. “Are you ill?” His face in the dim light from the landing was full of concern.
“Yes,” Justine answered with irony. “I must speak with you. I’m sorry it is so late. But tomorrow there will be other things … perhaps.”
“I’ll get dressed.” He was about to retreat when he saw Charlotte. “Mrs. Pitt!”
“I think it would be as well if we came in,” Charlotte said decisively. “We can sit in the dressing room—”
“It’s quite small … there are not three chairs ….”
“In the circumstances it hardly matters,” she murmured, leading the way through the door and inside. “We do not wish to awaken anyone else by speaking outside in the corridor,” she went on. “Or by walking around more than we have to.”
“Why?” He was trying not to look alarmed now. He was very pale and tired. There were heavy shadows like bruises around his eyes, his hair falling forward over his brow at the front and standing up in spikes at the crown. “What has happened, Mrs. Pitt? No one else is … dead … are they?”
“No,” she assured him quickly. Although, considering what Justine was about to tell him, he might prefer someone were. “Please sit down. I can stand.”
Now thoroughly fearful, he obeyed, turning from Charlotte to Justine.
Justine sat on the other chair and Charlotte stood in the shadows by the wall. There was a single lamp burning. Piers must have lit it before he answered the door.
Justine glanced at Charlotte once, then she began.
“Piers, we don’t know who killed your father by breaking his neck. I imagine it was one of the Irishmen, but I
