“Clare.” Dorran had the sheets spread out across the floor ahead of himself and beckoned for her. She knelt at his side and admired the sharp, intricate lines he’d drawn.
“Here we are,” he said, indicating their room on the third floor. “The kitchen is here. The foyer is here. These are the stairs.”
He’d drawn the hallways cleanly, but instead of butting the rooms up against each other, he’d left space between them. The hidden passageways could be anywhere; he intended to add them into the map when he found them.
Dorran took out a red pen and drew three short, thick lines. “Here are the passageway entrances I know about. There is also a doorway into the attic that will have to be dealt with.”
“There’s going to be another one here,” Clare said, pointing to the hallway a little farther on from their room. “That’s where I first saw one of the creatures.”
Dorran marked the paper. “All right. What will be the best way to handle it? Start at the top and work our way down, or go from the ground up?”
“Ground up, I think.” Clare chewed on the corner of her lip. “They came in through the holes in the roof. If it’s possible to chase them out—and I think it might be; that one we saw in the hallway earlier was nervous enough to run rather than confront us—then going up will herd them outside without making us more vulnerable by opening the main door.”
“I agree. It will also make it safer to reach the gardens, which still need water daily.” Dorran clipped the top back onto the pen. His jaw worked as he examined the maps. “I don’t know if it’s possible to eradicate the creatures from the house entirely. As long as there are holes in the roof—and that will not be a small project to fix—then they can get back in. But as long as we can seal all of the doorways, we can keep them contained. They will have the hidden passageways, but we will have the rest of the house.”
The idea of sharing her home with the monsters, no matter how contained they were, left her stomach squirming. But Dorran was right; there was no way to get rid of them completely.
She realised he was watching her and forced a smile. “Do you have nails?”
“Yes. In the basement. As well as boards. The house was constantly in need of repair during my mother’s rein; we will not be short of supplies.”
“Let’s get this done, then.”
He smiled at her, and the fondness in his expression was almost enough to melt the queasy sensation.
They collected the equipment they would need. Thick jackets to ward off the cold. Gloves and scarves for protection against bites. Dorran strapped a sheathed knife under his coat then fussed over Clare, making sure she had small blades tucked into pockets within easy reach. Then they both retrieved a main weapon: the poker for Clare and a hatchet for Dorran.
Clare carried the maps and a lamp as she followed Dorran. She sucked in a breath as they left the warmth of their bedroom and pulled her scarf up to cover her mouth and nose.
Getting from their room to the basement was a short hike. Clare watched the sun through the windows they passed. Small flakes of snow were snatched at and hurled around by the wind. Gradually, natural light was filtered out as they descended deeper into Winterbourne.
The staff’s areas were shabby and old compared to the rest of the house. Dust, which hadn’t been tolerated in any of the family’s many rooms, had gathered across a lot of the tools. Dorran picked out a can full of nails from the shelves behind their indoor garden and passed them to Clare. “Would you carry these?”
“Sure.” She took the hammer as well, then Dorran bent to reach a stack of wood piled underneath the shelves.
“I can help—” Clare reached towards Dorran as he hauled out eight of the planks.
“I have this.” His voice was a fraction tighter than usual, but he didn’t hesitate as he hefted the planks to carry them across his shoulder.
Clare pressed her lips together. Dorran never complained, but she worried for him. Neither of them were in peak shape. They had run out of meat, and the tinned soup—their only source of food left—wasn’t meeting their caloric needs. Both of them were trying to recover from injuries while simultaneously dealing with the cold, the stress, and the exertion that Winterbourne demanded. Sometimes, she had the sense that they were being held together by will alone. She didn’t know what would happen when their resilience finally failed.
Dorran, breathing heavily, stopped in the cathedral-like room that bridged the basement, the wine cellar, the garden, and the hallway back to the main parts of the house. He adjusted the boards on his shoulder and glanced at Clare. “Wine cellar?”
“Yep.” She knew why he was asking. Of all the rooms in the house, she hated the cellar the most. The cold stone space seemed to leak hostility, and her skin prickled whenever she neared it. But it needed to be dealt with first—it held an entryway to a hidden chamber the hollows had been living in.
Dorran hesitated, his dark eyes questioning. She made herself smile. He gave a brief smile in return then stepped towards the cellar stairs.
Clare shivered as she passed through the massive stone archway. The change in atmosphere was palpable. The hairs rose along her arms, and no matter how thick the jacket was, it never seemed enough to keep out the damp, frozen air. She held the lamp ahead of herself and kept close enough to Dorran to light his feet. As the steps led down, the grey stone created endless echoes that bounced across the walls. The candle’s light felt muted. It shone off Dorran’s back, shimmering in his dark
