Voices in the Snow Read online

  Clare looked over her shoulder a final time. No motion disturbed the gloom. She faced the stairs and tried to navigate them without breaking her neck.

  She was almost blind except for a pale white glow spreading across the staircase’s bottom steps. She used it to guide her path. One hand ran along a bannister to hold her balance. The carpet was thick enough to muffle her steps, even when she increased her speed.

  The ground floor was washed in light filtered through snow-crusted windows. It was simultaneously dim and harsh enough to hurt her eyes. Clare squinted as she examined the space.

  Antique furniture, just as decadent and outdated as the set in her bedroom, filled the space. Doors led to different parts of the house. The tiled floor was polished into a shine.

  There has to be a phone somewhere.

  She hesitated a second, torn between hope and fear of what would happen if she wasted more time. But she was horribly tired. If there was a phone within reach, she couldn’t afford to ignore it.

  She crossed the foyer, turning in a slow circle as she hunted through the furniture. Cabinets and bookcases were recessed into the walls. Side tables held items she couldn’t even name but were probably worth more than her car. Then a glimmer of bronze near the stairs caught her eye. Clare hurried to it. An old rotary phone sat on a small table, alongside a pen stand and stack of thick card paper.

  She picked up the receiver and listened for a dial tone. There wasn’t one. She tried entering Beth’s number, dragging the dial around like she’d seen in movies, without any success. Then, acutely aware that her time was running out, she tried the emergency helpline. There was no ringing and no answer. Dorran might have been telling the truth… or he might have deliberately disconnected the phone. She had no choice except to brave the snow.

  The house’s entrance stood at the opposite end of the foyer. Just like the one to her bedroom, the door was tall, dark, and seemed threatening. Clare had no time to waste on hesitation, though. She crossed the entryway in a dozen stumbling, unsteady steps, pulled the bolt free, and yanked on one of the oversized rings.

  The door opened smoothly. Its hinges didn’t creak, but the door’s weight made it unwieldy. Almost as soon as its seal was broken, freezing air hit Clare. She sucked in a pained breath and squeezed her eyes closed.

  It was horrendously, achingly cold, the kind of cold that slapped the breath out of her and made her double over. She didn’t know how low the temperatures had dropped, but it was significantly worse than it had been when she’d left her home.

  But she couldn’t turn back. She stepped over the threshold and stumbled on a drift of snow. That side of the house faced away from the wind, and the snowbanks hadn’t built up too high against the door. Even so, there was more than a foot of snow outside.

  Clare pulled on her strength reserves and leapt onto the pile of white. She staggered forwards, fighting against the chill spreading through her limbs. Walking was hard enough. Struggling through the snow was a thousand times worse.

  Still, it was her best chance to reach safety. Hell, it was her only chance. She focussed on the dark line visible through the driving snow: the forest’s edge. She thought Dorran might have told the truth about that at least. She was looking at Banksy Forest, and it was no more than ten minutes away. She could make it that far then find the road and her car. Her nightmare would be over.

  As she left the shelter of the house, the wind buffeted her, slamming into her and worming through the jacket and dressing gown. She clenched her teeth until they ached. Even though the boots were up to her knees, snow still managed to sneak into them and freeze her legs.

  The ground tended downwards. She guessed that must be the front steps. When she stepped in the drifts, the soft snow gave way. Already worn down, Clare couldn’t stay standing. She grunted as she hit the snow then tumbled, spreading her arms in an attempt to stop her descent. She came to rest on her back, gasping. Her face burned where the air cut at it, and her arm was on fire.

  Get up. Get up, you idiot!

  She rolled to her side, crawled forwards, and managed to gain her footing. The snow was thicker there. Every inch was a battle. She kept her eyes focussed on the forest ahead. Walking would be easier once she was inside. Just like while she was driving, the trees would protect her from the worst of the snow.

  The memory came back. Driving. Entering the forest. Finally being able to see. There had been lights. Not straight ahead, like a car’s beams, but coming from above her. And a noise. She couldn’t remember what, though.

  Her shoe jammed in something under the snow, and Clare had to wrench it free. She was walking between hedges. They were almost invisible, just gigantic white blocks on either side of her path, with sparse flecks of green peeking through. She had to be following the front path. That meant she would be clearly visible from all of the windows on that side of the house. She hoped her bedroom was on the building’s other side.

  Clare drew in whooping, wheezing breaths. Each inhalation scorched her lungs and made her convulse. But she couldn’t help it. She was starved for oxygen. No matter how deeply she breathed, it never seemed to be enough. Her body shook. Her mind was turning numb. One more step, then her knees buckled, and she landed in the snow.

  Get up! Keep moving! She tried. She got as far as placing one foot on the snow, but she couldn’t rise any farther.

  You have to! For Beth and for Marnie. She tried again and got upright. She took half a step then tumbled. This time, she didn’t even have the energy to get to her knees.

  Banksy Forest was straight ahead, fading in and out of sight as the storm tried to hide it. She thought she could see dark shapes darting around the forest’s edge. Clare guessed it was some kind of animal, probably frantic in the unseasonable snow.

  The cold had gotten inside of her. It ran through her veins, turning her heart to lead. It froze inside her mouth and her throat. She coughed, but each new breath only made it worse. Her eyes stung when she tried to keep them open, so she let them drift shut.

  Don’t do that. If you close your eyes, you’ll never open them again.

  But it was already too late. They were shut. Ice stung around the lids where tears escaped. She tried to reach forwards, to drag herself closer to the forest, but her arm wouldn’t move. She was so cold… so incredibly, horribly cold.

  The falling snow was coating her. Soon, she would be invisible, lost to the world, buried in a garden of white, her body perfectly preserved until the snow melted. The thought terrified her. She didn’t want to lie there all winter, unmoving and unchanging, forgotten. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even twitch a finger.

  Through the muffling effects of the snow, she heard a deep, steady pounding. She thought it might be her heartbeat. But strangely, it was growing louder, nearer. A voice called to her. She tried to open her lips to answer, but she couldn’t.

  The crunching noise was right on top of her. Hands pushed on her shoulder, rolling her, then picking her up. She was going back into the house. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Chapter Five

  Clare felt as though she had been frozen solid, as if trying to move her arms would make them break off like icicles. The only things reassuring her that she wasn’t dead were the steady thump of her heartbeat in her ears and the feeling of warmth across her skin. She was lying in front of a fire. She could hear the wood crackling, even see the light dancing on the backs of her eyelids.

  Someone was carefully untying the boots and pulling them off. Her feet were somehow aching and numb at once. Clare gasped as a warm blanket was wrapped around them.

  One hand went under her head and lifted. A pillow slipped underneath, then the hand laid her head back down. Clare cracked her eyes open. She was back in the bedroom.

  Dorran knelt over her, his eyebrows pulled low, and his mouth tight. “Do you have a death wish?” He didn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounded frightened.

  Clare tried to answer, but it came ou
t as a mumble.

  Dorran rose and disappeared from her field of vision. Clare tilted her head towards the fire. She wished she could move closer to it, even though the nearest bits of skin were already turning pink. She felt like she might never be properly warm again.

  “Here.” Dorran knelt at her side then eased an arm under her back. He lifted her until she was sitting then let her rest against his shoulder. He was very close, closer than Clare would have liked. She could hear his breathing and even hear when he swallowed. His body heat spread across her back, cutting through the chill. He tossed a blanket over her lap, placed a bowl on it, and held a spoon out to her. “Eat. It is only tinned soup, nothing special, but you will feel better for it.”

  She tried to take the spoon. Her fingers were too cold and stiff to bend right. Dorran dipped the spoon into the soup and lifted it to her lips.

  Being fed by a stranger was one of the most surreal experiences of Clare’s life. But Dorran was patient. He didn’t complain about how long it took her to eat. When she dared glance up at his face, he looked almost serene.

  Finally, when the bowl was empty, he laid her back down on the fireside rug and draped the blanket over her. Clare heard him moving through the room, carrying the bowl away and cleaning out the boots.

  She no longer knew what to think. When she’d first woken up in Dorran’s house, it had been all too easy to imagine he was some kind of monster. But if he were a cruel man, he’d had plenty of chances to hurt her. He hadn’t taken advantage of any of them.

  Bethany would have wanted her to keep her guard up. Beth had always been the cautious, nervous one out of them. She wouldn’t let Clare go swimming unless a lifeguard was on duty. She never stayed out past ten at night. Every single one of Clare’s childhood fevers and stomach bugs had sent them to the hospital waiting room.

  Beth would want Clare to be careful, to be reserved about what she said around the man, to reject any friendliness, and to keep looking for a chance to escape. But that was Beth’s way of thinking.

  Clare tried to clear it from her mind and reassess the situation. She was frightened. That was probably unavoidable, considering where she’d woken up. She tried to ground herself, to find some kind of rational bearing. The man had been kind to her so far. Except for the cuts, which she still couldn’t explain, there was no sign that she’d been abused.

  And as long as she was trapped in the house, she was wholly reliant on the stranger. For food, for water, for everything. She had to take a chance and trust him. With the storm as bad as it was, she didn’t have much of a choice.

  The fire’s heat gradually worked through her cold external layers and dried the dampness on her dressing gown. The soup warmed her from the inside. Her aches returned as the numbness faded, but Clare was almost grateful for them. They made her feel human.

  She rolled over to warm her back and startled. Dorran sat in one of the two wingback chairs by the fire, within arm’s reach, watching her. She hadn’t expected him to be so close. Before she could moderate the words, they’d already left her. “Have you been staring at me this whole time?”

  He looked taken aback. “I can face the other way if you prefer.”

  “No… sorry.” She attempted to sit and groaned from the effort.

  “Try not to move too much.” He continued to watch her, but at least he was keeping his distance. “You lost enough blood to need a transfusion. You should rest until we can get you to a hospital.”

  He was talking about a hospital. That was a positive sign. Still, Clare didn’t like lying on the floor. It made her feel vulnerable, as though she were something less than human. She eyed the second wingback chair. It was covered in an elegant green fabric, and the cushions looked soft. It was only a few feet away, and she would feel like more of an equal in it.

  She lurched up, staggered, and would have fallen if Dorran hadn’t caught her arm.

  “What did I just say?” He sounded frustrated, and Clare flinched. Even so, he helped carry her weight as he eased her into the chair.

  Clare collapsed back, breathing more heavily than the task warranted, and checked that the dressing gown was still wrapped tightly around her. It was. “You don’t have to stay here,” she said. “I don’t need to be watched all the time.”

  “You walked into a blizzard.” He slid back into his own chair then sighed and used his thumbs to rub the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry. I do not mean to snap.”

  The apology surprised her. Clare wrapped her arms around herself, watching him carefully. He looked tired. His black hair was dishevelled from the melted snow.

  Is he a sadist who kidnapped you? Or a man who saved your life?

  He’d told the truth about the phones being dead. He’d also told the truth about the house being inside Banksy Forest—as far as she could tell, at least. So maybe he’d told the truth about the crash. Her arm tightened over the bandages on her stomach. She swallowed and took a risk. “Thank you.”

  He blinked at her, and she broke eye contact. “For saving me. And helping me. Both times.”

  “You’re… welcome.” Dorran sounded surprised. He stood and crossed the room. When he returned, he carried a glass of water and two tablets. He placed them on the small round table between their chairs. “For the pain.”

  The tablets were unmarked. The cautious voice inside Clare’s head—the voice that sounded like Bethany—told her not to touch them. But Clare was trying to make a conscious effort not to be so brittle. She tipped the tablets into her mouth and washed them down.

  Dorran picked up his mug and returned his attention to the fireplace. Bright embers lay scattered around the wood being consumed. It must have been burning for hours. The heat rolling off it was delicious, and Clare found herself leaning forwards in her chair. But she also couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the man sitting opposite her. His face was full of strong angles, as though he had been carved out of stone. She still couldn’t get a read on him.

  It felt surreal. They were sitting together, enjoying the fire’s heat as though it were something they did every night, as though they had known each other for years. It left her feeling unsteady. She couldn’t stand the silence. “Do you own this house?”

  “No. My family, the Morthornes, do.” His eyebrows twitched down very slightly when he said the word family.

  Clare kept her guard up for any kind of negative reaction. “It’s a big place. Very… uh…”

  “Pretentious?” He made a faint noise in the back of his throat, something that might have been a laugh. “Don’t worry. I will not argue on that count.”

  Clare would have used more generous language, but Dorran was giving her a glimpse of his personality, and she followed it. “It must be an old building.”

  “Yes. Winterbourne has not changed much in the past century. My family…” He hesitated. “They are fond of tradition.”

  “But you aren’t?”

  “Some of it is just inconvenient, such as my name, Dorran, after a forebearer. It is constantly misspelled.”

  Clare clutched at the common ground. “People keep trying to put an i into my name.”

  “What is it?”

  She blinked, not comprehending.

  He stared back. “Your name. You never told me.”

  “Oh! Uh, Clare.”

  “Clare without an i.”

  “That’s it.”

  This time, when he smiled, it looked real, and it didn’t immediately vanish.

  Clare matched his grin and pulled her unhurt leg up to tuck under herself. “You were telling me about your family. How many are in it?”

  He tilted his head back. “My mother, Madeline, two aunts and an uncle, six cousins, three second cousins, two nieces, and two nephews. We are not a small family.”

  “So many…” Clare’s own clan was restricted to her sister and her aunt. She tried to imagine a family reunion with that many people attending. She didn’t think she could physically fit them into her house without t
hem standing on each other. “How do you remember all of their names?”

  Dorran laughed. The noise was so unexpected that Clare jolted. It was deep and sharp, and even though it ended quickly, it left her feeling warmer.

  “It is not that many,” he said.

  “All right. I guess not. Especially in this house. How large is it?”

  “Inconveniently large.” He shrugged. “It does not only house our family, but the servants as well.”

  Clare’s eyebrows rose. “Servants?”

  “Staff,” he corrected quickly. Clare thought she saw a flicker of embarrassment, but it was hidden almost immediately. “My apologies. That is another part of tradition that is well outdated. My mother wishes for the staff to be referred to as servants.”

  “They must work hard to look after the house.” The room was glamorous enough that Clare could easily imagine needing help to maintain it. It wasn’t hard to picture the estate run like a Victorian-era mansion.

  “Sixty of them,” he confirmed. “Maids, a butler—not that we ever have guests—footmen, cooks, gardeners, and my mother’s personal maids.”

  “You said she wanted to call them servants.” Clare took a stab in the dark. “Is she the head of the family?”

  He glanced aside, giving Clare the impression that he didn’t like the question. “Yes. She inherited Winterbourne and has control over how it is run.”

  Clare sensed there was something more to it, something Dorran was avoiding. His posture had grown tense. She steered the conversation back to safer ground. “You said you were here alone, though, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Every winter, my family travels south, to our estate in Gould. Once the snow sets in here, it is impossible to leave.”

  A second estate, like some kind of aristocracy. I counted myself lucky just to have a cottage. “Why didn’t you leave with them?”

  “I did, initially, but we changed plans early into the trip. I left them and came back, intending to spend the winter here alone. That was when I found you. The snow came in earlier than normal, and now, I’m afraid, we are trapped here until the storm clears and the roads are passable again.”